Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,31

feeling.

Smith took that as encouragement. “That’s exactly why I’ve got a good vibe about this project—trust me, I’ve been on both ends of a camera. I don’t care what you’re shooting, you have to start with quality talent to end up with quality product in the can.”

Movie jargon, I guessed. Now in the rubber dinghy, Tomlinson and his friend were laughing, but possibly sober, while sumo-man bounced as if testing a trampoline—the Haitian drug dealer, perhaps. Kondo-something, I couldn’t remember—a “witch doctor.” I kept an eye on the two as I continued to listen.

“You’re respected in your field—I’ve even read some of your papers. And your friend Tomlinson’s book. And there’s not a marina in Florida that doesn’t know the name Dan Futch.”

I expected Smith to stress the point one more time and he did, adding, “But it all depends if you’ve actually found those missing planes.”

“We haven’t,” I replied, which only convinced the man we had. He raised his eyebrows and gave a knowing grin.

“Trust me, I understand you’ve got to be careful. But why not let me tag along in the early stages of the hunt? Start getting it in the can while we hammer out details.” He motioned toward the parking lot. “I never go anywhere without my gear.” When I failed to respond, the man added, “I’m willing to risk my time and money. What do you have to lose?”

I had been cheery, relaxed, and preoccupied, which is probably why I hadn’t noticed the alarm bells until they suddenly hit max volume. Luke Smith—if that was his name—knew our plans for the day. Had somehow found out that we were flying to the Everglades and possibly also knew we were to dive a remote creek where the Avenger throttle assembly had been found.

There is a creaky old maxim often repeated but seldom applicable, even more rarely workable: Keep friends close, enemies closer.

The maxim applied now.

“Are you staying on the island?” I asked.

“I can.”

I shook my head. “No need. This afternoon we’re just reconfirming landmarks. I’ll talk to my partners and see what they think. Can I call tonight?”

“Landmarks,” Smith echoed, fascinated. “Sure. My cell number’s on the card.”

“Just to be safe,” I smiled, “why not dial me now? That way, if your card gets soaked, I’ll have it in my contacts.”

Soaked. I watched the word register. My visitor translated the implication, then covered his tracks, saying, “Sure. Can’t tell you how many times my billfold’s gone through the washing machine.” But then hesitated, hand on a pocket that contained his mobile phone. I could see the outline.

“How ’bout I call from the car,” he suggested. “What’s your number?”

It was a long shot, but I’d guessed right—Smith had two phones. He didn’t want me to know his personal number. Enough Third World countries have cell towers that, in recent years, I had employed the same cloaking strategy while traveling on assignment.

My stilthouse has a tin roof. I gestured and used the roof as leverage. “Reception sucks in there.” Then pointed at his pocket to block any more excuses. “So why not call now?”

—

WHEN HE HAD GONE, I finally did what I should have done two days ago.

Alone in my lab, I went to a steel cabinet, dialed the padlock combination, and opened the door. Inside were the few Schedule III drugs used in my work, a couple of notebooks, and also a military SATCOM phone. It was a much smaller version of the iridium transceiver it had replaced.

I entered a security code, touched my thumb to the screen to verify user access, then told the thing, “Call Donald Cheng.” My vocal signature matched the voiceprint, so the connection was made.

Cheng works for an intelligence agency that operates worldwide, but is based in our nation’s largest unnamed city. I greeted my old friend. “It’s in the low eighties here. You still got snow in Maryland?”

Our conversation lasted all of two minutes while I provided the details necessary to preface the question I posed to Cheng: Was somebody gunning for me? Had a foreign agency or a terrorist cell issued orders to kill me?

As I signed off, the dog appeared at the screen door, his wolfish eyes mildly interested. Let him in, fine, or he could watch fish from the deck, no big deal. A dozen times already the dog had leaped over the railing in pursuit of a passing dolphin or a school of mullet. He was dry for the first time in an hour, so I let