Chapter 50

AT NIGHT, ABOUT TWO MILES off Key West, Florida, Smith stood at the deck rail. The freighter had chugged its way through the Panama Canal, across the Gulf of Mexico into the Caribbean and up to the southern tip of Florida. He could see the coast nearby lit up like a swarm of fireflies. Disney World, here I come, he thought. He decided not to risk saying goodbye to the scruffy-looking captain. It was time for Smith to swim.

He pulled down his goggles, adjusted his wet-suit seals, checked the weights on his belt. The gold-filled rucksack, waterproofed and flanked with slabs of cork, hung on his back. He was getting good at this spy business.

Smith climbed onto the rail, prepared to go over. Maybe he would get reassigned once he was back at Navy headquarters. He hoped Admiral Turner still remembered who he was.

Taking a deep breath and securing his mask and snorkel tube, he dived from the low deck of the battered freighter. Behind him, he couldn’t see the streams of green-yellow phosphorus that trickled from a surreptitious cartridge on his wet suit, following him as he moved through the water. . . .

The freighter captain sat at the radio, looking out the window. He saw Smith jump overboard, heard the loud splash. The redhead never suspected how his suit had been marked.

“He took the bait,” the captain said into the microphone. “Watch for him — he’s on his way.”

* * *

On the dock a group of military brass and civilian law enforcement waited nervously in the Coast Guard radio room. A young sailor manned the radio, feeling the expectant eyes on his back. “Exactly what was your position when he dived?” the radio man asked, reading the prepared message one of the Navy officers had written for him.

“Do I still get my reward if I tell you?” the freighter captain’s voice answered through a crackle of static.

A Coast Guard captain knocked the radio man to one side and grabbed the mike himself. “You’ll get it, you’ll get it! Just tell us where we can find that traitor, Smith. Your nation’s security depends on it.”

Army and Navy high-ranking brass waited beside this week’s director of the FBI, a dapper man with sunken cheeks and a gray mustache. The Coast Guard captain glared at the microphone, fuming and impatient. Everyone stared at the speaker in the ceiling, tense as cats.

“One-point-six miles south of Key West,” the freighter captain’s voice said. “He’ll be easy to spot. Look for the phosphorus tracer.”

Collectively, the gathered brass let out a sigh of relief.

* * *

A snorkel tube protruded from the surface of the water, moving swiftly along. Behind it floated the cork-lined backpack, making a larger wake. Smith swam toward shore, breathing regularly, pumping his flippers.

Soon he would be at Key West, back in the United State s again, back home. He wondered if anyone would plan some sort of party for him. It would be nice to see Joan again. . . .

* * *

A helicopter hovered over the water, facing out toward the sea. The side of the helicopter bore an enormous shield of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the words Director of the FBI (Special Parking Privileges Allowed).

The helicopter pilot snugged earphones over his head. “Looks like he’ll reach the landing stage in another minute, Mr. Director, sir.” The pilot pointed down at the swirling yellow-green line Smith unknowingly trailed behind him.

The FBI director scowled, brushing down his neat gray mustache. “I want to make this pinch myself. Think of all the publicity I’ll get! Good publicity for once! I’ll be a national hero.” The director leaned over to look out the helicopter’s side bubble window. “I’ll make millions on product endorsements.”

A barricade of bales and boxes surrounded a large cleared space on the dock area below, where Smith was expected to land. A railed stair led down to a landing stage on the calm, dark water. Everything appeared innocently empty.

However, behind the barricade crouched a company of Marines with leveled rifles and two dozen FBI agents — including the two banged-up and bandaged agents, Fats and Lefty, who had botched the capture of the spy at the roadhouse diner in Connecticut. Now they wanted a second chance. Nobody bothered to ask how Tom Smith could have gotten all the way down to South America in only a few hours.

Behind them, where they could watch without risking their skins, huddled the top brass. Even farther out of sight beyond the well-protected top brass, stood a cadre of television and newspaper reporters, cameras ready for a big story.

“I hope those other bastards down there don’t think they’re going to get any credit. Goddamned publicity hogs,” the FBI director snarled, scowling at the docks below. “The FBI runs this country, and don’t you forget it!” He shaded his eyes in the helicopter cockpit, scanning the water below and looking for Smith.

“Do you see the bastard yet?”

Smith popped up out of the water, removed his snorkel from his mouth, and paddled as he stared straight ahead, toward shore. Above the sloshing sounds of the waves at his ears, he could hear the sound of a chopper’s motor, but the helicopter was not in view. Everything seemed clear. He stroked harder. Of course, he should have nothing to fear once he was in his own country.

Panting from exertion, Smith reached the landing stage at the water’s level. He clutched the edge to catch his breath, then, dripping, he hauled himself onto the wooden platform. He looked at the plank stairway that led to the dock above, where a barricade of bales and boxes blocked his view. The night seemed very quiet and peaceful.

Flopping in his swim flippers across the dock platform, Smith made his way to the sloping stairs, still wearing his goggles, still hauling his sopping rucksack filled with gold coins.

The two bandaged FBI agents huddled with a federal executive in back of the barricade. The executive held a walkie-talkie, whispering viciously to Fats, shooting a glance up toward the distant helicopter. “The director wants you to go out there alone and identify Smith, personally. We can’t afford to have any screw-ups on television.”

The bloated Fats quailed. “But he’ll recognize me. He just punched me out this afternoon.”

The federal executive shoved him forward viciously. “He won’t know you. That bandage covers half your face.”

Fats stumbled along behind the kneeling, rifle-holding Marines, worming his way forward until he could scramble over the barricade. From below, Smith climbed the last few stairs, his clumsy flippers slapping on the wet boards. He paused a moment to stuff the snorkel into his belt, then waddled out onto the flat dock. An FBI agent belched. Smith looked around cautiously. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

He peered through his goggles as he scanned the too-quiet area in front of him. With a sigh, he reached to fumble in his wet-suit key pouch.

The line of Marines and sailors behind the barricade instantly raised up a few inches higher. They slid their rifles out, ready for a firefight.

Fats emerged from behind the barricade, nervous. “Ah, here’s somebody.” Smith extended a gold coin to Fats and pulled the goggles up off his face. “My man, could you give me some change so I can phone for a taxi?”

Fats’ eyes were riveted on the gold coin. “Russian gold! He’s been paid off,” he shouted. He looked up at Smith’s face. “Identification positive — it’s Smith!”

Fats fumbled around his own girth to reach for his back belt holster. “Surrender now and you won’t be hurt, you miserable traitor.”

Marines and sailors popped up along the barricade, rifles leveled. Smith stared and took a step forward, hands outstretched. “Wait a minute, there must be some mistake. This is my own country —”

Fats finally managed to get his .357 Magnum out and poked it toward Smith hysterically, more to fend him off than to shoot him.

With a loud roar, the FBI chopper swooped down to the dock and landed ten feet away, its pontoon skids just touching the planks. Reacting quickly, using the skills he had reluctantly practiced in the past couple of weeks, Smith grabbed Fats’ gun wrist with one hand and with the other arm seized him around the wide body. He hustled the bloated agent sideways toward the helicopter, using him as a hostage. He switched the gun to his own hand as they moved.

“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” Fats wailed.

Smith covered himself with the agent’s large body as he stepped onto the pontoon with one drooping flipper. He wrapped his gun arm around a strut, pointing the Magnum upward.

“Take off!” Smith shouted to the helicopter pilot.

The federal executive scrambled to the top of the dock barricade as all the soldiers leveled their weapons to blast the helicopter out of the sky. The executive screamed frantically, “Don’t shoot! You’ll hit the director of the FBI!”

Smith and Fats both teetered on the helicopter’s pontoon. The dapper FBI director gawked down at them through the passenger-side window. Smith pointed the gun straight at his head, and the director flinched back into the cabin in terror.

The director’s aide leaned out the open door, aiming his own gun down at Smith. “This’ll teach you to betray your own country!”

The director grabbed the aide’s wrist. “Don’t shoot! He’s got me covered! Besides, look at all the TV cameras — the bureau can’t stand the publicity.”

Smith held the pontoon and bared his teeth as he cocked the .357 Magnum, jabbing it meaningfully at the director. The director ducked hastily back in, to whatever shelter the cockpit might offer. “He means it!” he yelled to the pilot. “Take off! Do as he says.”

Down on the dock, the federal executive and a Navy admiral stood on the barricade, hands on their hips. The Marines and sailors milled around in confusion. They had been spoiling for a more rigorous fight.

Back at a safe distance, the invited TV cameras and press photographers were getting it all, capturing every minute and broadcasting live. The federal executive looked at the TV cameras, thought of the publicity, and tore at his hair.

The bureau chopper lifted into the air and sped out to sea, carrying Smith and Fats precariously balanced outside.