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  “The package you sent arrived this morning. I arranged for my associate to drive it up and meet me in person at Ensenada.”

  “Excellent. It is time to put that package to use. And then?”

  “After taking on more fuel and supplies I will fly back up to the last dive site and see if I can locate my divers.”

  “Don’t go out of your way for them. Get what I’m paying you to get. Think of your daughter.”

  Héctor ducked a cloud layer, chasing a desolate stretch of brown sand south for miles.

  CHAPTER 26

  AVALON HARBOR, CATALINA ISLAND

  Ernie Hollister was pretty sure he was making a mistake as he watched the pillar of black smoke escape from the engine compartment of his twenty-eight-foot Bayliner. The Six-Pack was so named not only for obvious reasons, but because it was designed to carry six fishermen on charter trips. That scenario had not come to pass for years, however, although Ernie yearned to put his charter business on a paying basis again.

  After a breakfast of Spam and Budweiser spent poring over old issues of Marine Mechanic, Ernie had come to the realization that he knew how to rectify his engine problem without spending much money. Out here on the water, though, just outside the harbor, he was finding out firsthand that his fix was less than adequate.

  Wiping the grease from his eye, Ernie tried the last trick he could think of, but still the engine sputtered, coughed and belched. Like a prairie dog chased from its burrow, he popped his head out of the engine compartment for fresh air. Around him the water was crowded with vessels of all types. It wouldn't be long before someone called the fire department. With a quiet curse, he inhaled all the air his lungs could handle before ducking back into the inferno.

  He emerged again, this time with the last of the smoke, and reveled in the silence created by shutting down “the beast,” as he had christened his boat's motor. Less comforting was the direction his craft took—toward a concrete docking pier used by the ferries known as “the mole.” This wasn't good. With a sigh, Ernie pulled his cell phone from his pocket and placed a call to Avalon Marine Towing.

  The tow service picked up on the first ring and Ernie explained his situation. After a little razzing about being a frequent customer over the years, the dispatcher asked Ernie for a credit card. Ernie read him the numbers while his boat drifted closer to the mole.

  “Ernie, I'm real sorry, but your card was declined. You got another?” Ernie did not. “Geez, Ernie, you still owe us from before. There's no way the boss'll let me send someone out. If it's an emergency, you should call—”

  “Yeah, yeah, the harbormaster or the Coast Guard, right. I'll see you around.”

  Ernie pressed the END button on his phone. The harbormaster would have a boat tow him in, especially if he got any closer to the mole, but then he would be billed an exorbitant fee for emergency services, as well as possibly being fined for posing a marine hazard. He looked around at the litter of beer cans on deck. He'd have to clean those up, too, before they got here.

  He was dialing the harbormaster when his marine radio sounded. “Ernie this is Deep View, you read? Over.”

  Ernie refrained from sending his cell phone call while he scanned the water around him. The Deep View was unmistakable because it wasn't an ordinary boat. The Deep View was a submarine. Ernie found it without any problem, about fifty yards up ahead along the mole. The lines of its sleek, white cigar-shaped hull and conning tower were unmistakable. And then Ernie saw the hatch pop open and a white-hatted head pop out. The figure wore pressed white pants and shirt—a captain’s uniform.

  Ernie knew the man who threw him an informal salute.

  Walter Johnson was the licensed captain of the island’s only tourist submarine, as well as manager of the sub operation. Walter had worked tenaciously to be the first person to bring passenger submarines to Catalina. He himself had collaborated with the Coast Guard to devise a commercial submarine captain’s licensing program. He was fond of telling people how a well-known U.S. astronaut from the Apollo days was one of the references listed on his resume. When California’s governor had requested an undersea tour of one of the state’s oil rigs, it was Walter Johnson who took him down in a submersible.

  In his day, Johnson had traveled around the world on various oceanic projects. While he was somewhat of a maverick who liked to date women much younger than himself, liked to tell people how much he enjoyed living on a small island without a daily commute, and how he had once stayed up all night by himself on a remote Catalina beach cooking an influx of red shrimp with nothing but a butane lighter and some washed up scrap metal, he was not the reckless type.

  Ernie scrambled to his marine radio and keyed the transmitter. He knew that if he didn't answer soon Walt would assume his radio didn't work. The radio was one of the only things that did work on his ramshackle vessel.

  “I hear you, Walt. You read me?”

  “I copy, Ernie. Looks like you're going just about wherever this big ocean wants to take you right about now. You want some help? Over.”

  Ernie felt a wave of relief wash over him as he eyed the fast-approaching concrete mole and then turned an eye toward Walt's professional submarine operation, with its floating dock and twin support vessels. “Copy that, Walt. I could use a tow before I end up on the mole. Over.”

  The reply was immediate and filled Ernie with confidence. “Copy that, Six-Pack. I'm sending Ted over in one of the inflatables now. He'll give you a tow back into the harbor. Over.”

  Ernie could already hear the whine of an outboard starting up somewhere behind the sub's floating dock. “Thanks, Walt,” Ernie called across the water. Then, into the radio, he said, “I'll get this taken care of and be back on the water soon. I owe you one.” Walt merely waved him off. Ernie having his boat in seaworthy condition anytime soon was not a bet he would have taken.

  A runabout zipped by the sub, it's operator calling out, “Nice party the other day, Walt,” referring to one of the sub captain's summer seafood barbecues which had become the stuff of legend on the island. Walt gave him a thumbs up in return.

  By the time Ernie had swept his beer cans into the bait well, Walt's tender vessel had arrived. His employee tossed Ernie a line and, amidst a barrage of good-natured ribbing about Ernie's calling as a mechanic, he slowly but surely towed the Six-Pack back into the harbor.

  When Ernie's boat had been deposited at the dock and the tender's lines cast away, Ernie shook hands with Walter's employee. “Thanks again, Ted. Stop by The Nest tonight, I'll buy you a few rounds.”

  “Thanks Ernie, but I'll have to take a rain check. Walt's sending all of us—the whole crew—down to the Bahamas for a week to start up a new sub operation there. Leaving tonight,” he finished, glancing at his watch.

  Ernie thanked him again and was left standing once more in his docked boat. Not quite ready for the walk back into town, he lifted the lid on his engine compartment and reached into his bait well to retrieve another beer.

  CHAPTER 27

  ABOARD PANDORA’S BOX

  The OLF crew gathered at the boat’s swim platform to assist the two divers. First Fernando and then Juan were helped aboard.

  “That’s some serious dive gear,” the lookout, now down from his perch in the crow’s nest, noted.

  “Rebreathers,” Pineapple said, moving closer for a better look. “No bubbles—great for stealth missions. Let you stay down longer, too. Expensive stuff.”

  Stein put his hands out to remove Fernando’s full-face mask. Fernando backed away, stumbled in his fins, regained his balance, and began to remove the mask without assistance.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help,” Stein said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want your blood on his gear,” Pineapple said. Several crewmembers pointed out that Stein’s hand was still dripping blood from the deep gash on his thumb. Stein looked around and found the long-haired guy he’d almost killed.

  “Who brou
ght him on the boat?”

  The crew reacted with silence. No one wanted to say anything. The two rescuees were slipping their fins off, cautiously eyeing their new surroundings.

  “I said, who brought him on the damn boat?”

  Finally a crewmember pointed toward the cabin’s entrance. “She did.”

  The girl from the bathroom emerged on deck. She glared at Stein.

  “Oh great, my girlfriend, the party favor.”

  “Screw you, Eric. Maybe if you were home with me for more than two days at a time instead of out trying to tell people how to save the world like Mr. I’m So Freaking Important, I wouldn’t feel the need to be with anyone else.”

  “You brought this guy on my boat without clearing it with anyone?” Stein said, cocking his head toward the long-hair.

  “Hey! You two lovebirds can hash this out in therapy later,” Pineapple interrupted. “Let’s see what’s up with these guys.” He nodded at the divers, who had just removed their facemasks. No one spoke for a moment while the rescued men warily appraised the OLF boat and crew.

  “You guys okay?” Pineapple asked tentatively. The divers returned blank stares. Someone produced a first aid kit and held its bright red cross logo out for the divers to see.

  “First aid?”

  To this the divers shook their heads no.

  Someone offered a jug of water, which Fernando eagerly accepted.

  “You speak English?” Stein asked them.

  No again. Then Fernando said something in Spanish.

  Stein, curiosity piqued, approached them slowly. He asked, “¿Dónde está su barco?” Where is your boat?

  Juan was unable to contain his surprise. He had not expected any of their gringo rescuers to know Spanish.

  “¿Habla usted español?” he queried Stein, just to be sure. Stein frowned as if insulted. He rattled off an account, in Spanish, of how he had grown up in Los Angeles, taken Spanish in high school and again in college before dropping out, and had used it many times during his extensive travels throughout Mexico and Central and South America. His command of the language was conversational, not perfectly fluent, but it more than got the point across.

  Juan and Fernando, realizing they would have no choice but to communicate, began speaking rapid-fire Spanish at the same time.

  “What are they saying?” Pineapple asked Stein.

  Stein shook his head. “He’s saying something about their boat hitting some rocks and sinking early this morning,” he said, pointing at Fernando. “And he’s saying they want to use the radio to make a call,” he finished, indicating Juan. All three men stopped talking.

  “They’re full of crap about there being a boat,” Pineapple said.

  “How do you know?”

  “You should turn on a TV now and then, Eric. Current events affect OLF whether you want to believe they do or not.”

  “Pineapple, just tell me what you know, okay?” Stein and his inner circle were concerned that Pineapple’s criticism of Stein’s leadership had become sharper in recent months.

  “Sometimes I can’t believe you guys,” Pineapple said, turning to look at the crew gathered around the divers. “Yesterday when the FBI agent in the helicopter was in the water with the Orca . . . the guys that were already there trying to get the tag—”

  “He’s right!” a blonde hippie girl wearing a puka-shell necklace said. “I saw an article about it online. They had the same black re-what’s it called?”

  “Rebreathers.” Stein prompted.

  “Yeah. They had those, and it said they came in the plane that was shown on the whale’s camera.”

  At the mention of the word “plane,” Juan and Carlos looked at one another, knowing they’d been found out. A tense moment ensued for both sides. One of the divers had a knife strapped to his calf, but he was far outnumbered and knew that to even look at it would be a mistake. He wondered why the Spanish-speaking gringo was bleeding.

  Stein stepped closer to the men they’d rescued, confident his crew would defend him should they attack. “Did you come by plane?” he asked.

  They hesitated.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Stein continued. “We are not from the television show that tagged the whale. We are against what they have done. But as the captain of this vessel, I cannot have anybody on my boat I don’t trust.” Stein couldn’t resist turning back to look at his girlfriend and, hiding near the back of the group, her companion from the bathroom.

  The two divers used the time to argue with each other, speaking in hushed tones. They became quiet after apparently coming to no decisive conclusion.

  Stein pressed them. “Look, we don’t know anything about the murder or whatever it was that the whale broadcast on the show’s web site, okay? All we want—all we have ever wanted—is for marine animals to be able to live their lives in peace, without people like Wired Kingdom exploiting them and robbing them of their dignity.” A few cheers went up from Stein’s crew.

  The divers appeared to relax, but the confused looks remained.

  “I’ve got an idea.” Pineapple jumped down from the rail he was sitting on to stand next to Stein. “Just hear me out,” he said, reading Stein’s impatience.

  Stein nodded.

  “Listen,”—the divers became noticeably on edge at the switch to English, but said nothing, waiting for a development—“I don’t know what these guys’ deal is, but if they’re the ones who were after the tag yesterday—and it looks like today too—then they’re not in any position to bargain.” Stein’s expression made it clear that he didn’t understand. Pineapple frowned before continuing. “Their plane left without them. They were out here with without a ride until we came along.”

  This sparked several urgent conversations at once, and soon the divers were worried. But Stein wanted to keep them calm, so he stepped in. “Hold on. I want to hear Pineapple’s idea.”

  Not expecting to be given the floor, Pineapple shot Stein a grudging look of respect before speaking. “Translate for me, okay?”

  Stein nodded, as did the divers, recognizing the word.

  “We can help each other,” Pineapple began, and waited for Stein to communicate the phrase to the divers. “We can drop you off somewhere along the coast . . . instead of turning you in to the nearest port authorities . . . as required by law. . . .” When he saw the divers’ eyes widen, he continued. “And in return . . . you give us all of your dive gear . . . rebreathers, communication gear, knives, drysuits . . . everything.”

  The divers turned to face each other and spoke to indicate their agreement while Stein interpreted. Then they hesitated.

  “What’s the problem?” Pineapple asked.

  Juan spoke, and Stein interpreted for him. “How do we know you will not take our gear and throw us overboard?” Cries of “Oh, come on!” and “Give us a break” rang out across the deck. The members of OLF acted genuinely offended.

  Stein waited for the outbursts to stop before responding. “Look, we’ve done some extreme things to stand up for the environment, but we don’t kill people for dive gear. We’ll take your equipment, sure. But as long as you agree to our conditions we’ll make sure you get somewhere that works for you in one piece.” The divers exchanged glances once more and then Stein drove the deal home. “We both want the tag off of the whale, just for different reasons. But we don’t care what your reason is—you can have the tag for all we care. As long as it stays off the whale.”

  “And any other animals,” the puka-shell girl said.

  “¡Excelente!” Juan said and began removing his gear, handing it off to the crew. Fernando followed suit.

  The same crewmember who had been lookout when he spotted the divers tossed them some shorts and T-shirts. “Have some dry clothes,” he said. Fernando put on one of the shirts, which read Señor Frog’s, Cozumel, Mexico.

  “Eh, Mexico,” Fernando said, pointing proudly at the shirt. “Bueno.” Everyone had a good laugh.

  Then Juan, his face becoming se
rious, waved at Stein to get his attention. The captain was watching his girlfriend out of the corner of his eye. “May we use your radio to contact our plane?”

  “Why not?” Stein said. Then he addressed Pineapple, lowering his voice. “I’ll monitor the transmission to make sure they’re not calling out our position to a band of pirates waiting somewhere.”

  “Make sure they’re on an air frequency, too. They said they needed to call their plane—not a boat.” Stein nodded in agreement.

  Stein informed the rescued pair that they could use the radio and led them to the electronics console. Juan placed a call, looking into Fernando’s eyes as he broadcast the bogus call sign that identified them to their pilot. The rustling of manila lines against a wooden mast was the only sound while they waited for a reply.

  After a minute, Stein couldn’t help but notice that the Mexicans seemed distraught. He asked them what they thought had happened to their pilot. They replied that maybe he had been forced to make an emergency landing at sea and had already been rescued by the Coast Guard, who would have turned him over to Immigration or police. Stein told them that they were free to try the radio every thirty minutes. Juan and Fernando thanked him.

  Tecates were offered and accepted, and for the second time that day a party started on Pandora’s Box that would end badly.

  CHAPTER 28

  BEL AIR

  Mr. George Reed gave up trying to ignore his wife.

  “At least give me the courtesy of telling me who she is,” Mrs. Reed said. “You expect me to go with you to another one of your tedious charity fundraisers while I pretend to know nothing about your latest affair?”

  Mr. Reed walked away from the oversized plasma monitor mounted on the wall of their bedroom. The screen displayed a computer error message from the Wired Kingdom web site.

  “You care more about that damn web site than you do about me and your new whore.”