Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,66
Dr. Ford.” To his left was a photo, and he spun it in front of me. An unseen lens had caught me studying his yacht’s security monitor while in search of unseen lenses. Stupid, that’s how he expected me to feel. I did.
“A filament camera,” Diemer explained, “self-contained in a memory stick. Remember moving it? Chiflado, you break into my vessel, that is a very sloppy thing to do. Now you’re surprised I’m here? Come on, man!”
His stilted English, no longer stilted, had a touch of the barrio now that he had me alone, a pistol within reach. No point in denying I’d been aboard, so I let the door close behind me, saying, “Breaking and entering usually isn’t a shooting offense. But maybe the laws are different in Brazil.”
The pistol—did he intend to use it? That’s what I had to know before I took another step. Behind me, the retriever made his grunting sound, and I thought, Now? Why not a mile ago!
Diemer, still reading, said, “I know something about these missing planes—is a hobby of mine, the European war. So I sit down expecting to read the same old stories, but no, man, instead I find some information that’s new to me. Interesting, some of this shit.”
He had picked up the folder on Flight 19, I realized. It contained Dan’s summary as well as photos of the tail section and other items we’d uncovered. Now I was wondering, Is that why he came to Dinkin’s Bay?
Or . . . maybe wrong yet again because the man looked at me for the first time, adjusted his wire glasses, and left the barrio behind. “Until tonight,” he said, “when my computer showed a security breach, I’d never heard of you. Thought you were just another American hick because of that dumb act you used yesterday. Christ, and I bought it! So I”—the man became more animated—“you know, made some calls to my people, asked around. After what I hear I’m, like, Wow! How could I be so wrong ’bout a guy might be a badass!”
Diemer was showing off, changing accents with the ease of an actor—a useful tool for a jet-set assassin but irritating. Nothing I could do but stare at the pistol and gauge my options as he dropped the act. “We have things in common, Dr. Ford. But no one mentioned your interest in aviation archaeology. Could be, though, your sources are better. The National Security Agency has a ton of money”—he motioned vaguely to indicate the lab’s construction—“but obviously doesn’t pay worth a damn. You ever get tired of being a poor working slob? Consulting work is something you might consider. The finest of everything, and a better class of people.”
The Brazilian had dark eyes, more Latin than German, but his superior demeanor added attentive sparks. The man who’d forgotten his fly case seldom missed a detail, and I got the impression he wanted me to know he was good at what he did. I looked from him to the pistol, then back, and said, “I need some Gatorade and a towel. You want anything? Or did you already check the fridge?”
A smile, definitely a smile—the guarded variety used by neurosurgeons and others who’ve been taught that emotion signals deficiency. “A census switch on my cabin door told me you stayed for only nine minutes. Nothing missing, so I figure you got nervous. Surprising behavior”—he paused for effect—“for an operator who’s supposedly a legend in the field.”
The Brazilian’s middle finger was tapping the pistol grip as I replied, “Your boat’s too close to home, so I pulled the plug. Maybe it’ll happen to you one day.”
“Is that an explanation—or an excuse?”
“Committing a felony isn’t as much fun in your own backyard,” I said. “You’re a long way from São Pedro, but I’m counting on you having better judgment.”
“And that means . . . ? Oh! You’re worried about this,” Diemer said, then swept his hand over the pistol and had the muzzle pointed at my face before I could react. Held it there for a second, savoring the power, then pointed it away. “I thought this might help convey a message. Bad form to board a private vessel without permission, old boy. Particularly my vessel.” He glared at me. “Don’t ever do it again, homey—o es fodido! Understand?”
Portuñol slang. Or you’re screwed, it probably meant, but I was more concerned with the damn pistol. If the Brazilian was crazy enough to shoot me in my own home,