Graveyard Of The Atlantic

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Book excerpt

Chapter 1

Special Agent Mitchell Parker tried to keep his heart rate steady. He breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly and applied techniques that were second nature to him in stressful situations, except when he was on the water. His six-foot-two frame and diving gear took up one corner of the 42-foot Duffy boat in which he sat and waited.

“OK?” his teammate Ellen Beetson asked from port side.

He looked over at Ellen, petite and blonde, and a divemaster.

“Unlike you, I prefer my feet on land or in the air,” he said.

She laughed breaking the tension.

“You’ve got to agree this is beautiful,” their skipper called back as he navigated over the endless stretch of blue ocean.

Mitch turned his gaze to the water streaming by him. He looked over the edge and scoped the surface of the area they were approaching. He knew what to expect and beauty didn’t come into it on this fly-in, fly-out assignment; he’d be home late tonight like nothing happened.

“We’re almost at the coordinates,” the skipper called, “and there’s about an hour of light left.”

“Let’s get to it,” Ellen said. She zipped up her wetsuit and Mitch followed suit. Ellen checked their gear again before shrugging on the air tank that Mitch held up for her. He slipped his own tank over his shoulders.

The boat stopped and dropped anchor. A minute later the skipper joined them.

“Right above where you need to be,” he said.

Mitch and Ellen put on their masks and sitting on the edge of the boat, flipped back into the water with one easy push. Mitch was struck by the silence as he glided through the depths following Ellen. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing … in and out. He reeled as a large black-spotted eel zipped past his mask. He followed Ellen towards the wreck on the floor of Cape Hatteras. She pointed to a shark following a large school of fish.

Mitch didn’t notice. He was looking to a flat area on the bottom of the ocean not far from the wreck where a bundle lay.

He swam towards it; dreading what he knew to expect. Tangled with cable, their masks and tanks still on, two drowned men stared blankly at him.

* * *

TWO DAYS EARLIER:

The middle-aged Asian man stood on the shoreline of Cape Hatteras lighthouse beach and looked out to sea. Remnants of sand castles were dotted around the water’s edge. Several families braved the cool weather to wade knee-deep into the water.

He knew this beach.

The Graveyard of the Atlantic; strong tides and rip currents, home to hundreds of ships lost at sea. The definition ran through his head.

And well located for navigation along the eastern seaboard of North America.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes. Water engulfed his shoes; he didn’t notice. He lowered the binoculars. Panic swept through him as he stared out to sea; he had been waiting for hours now. The sun was beginning to dip lower on the horizon.

Where are they? He clenched his teeth. They’re an hour late. No instruction to abort.

An elderly couple stopped near him.

“Give it a few more weeks … the herons are migrating now but soon the ducks and geese will be here for the winter.” The man tipped his hat.

The Asian man smiled and nodded. “Thank you, thank you,” he said.

As the couple passed, he glanced at his watch, turned and walked towards a sandy ledge. He climbed and stood atop.

Another glance through the binoculars; nothing.

He sank down, discarded the binoculars and rubbed his hands over his face.

What’s gone wrong this time?

William decided then that he would not report the extent of the failure up the line; this project had to work, there was no going back and he wouldn’t tolerate someone higher up getting cold feet and calling it off.

After a few moments, he rose, stumbled down from the dune and disappeared behind it.

Chapter 2

NOW:

Mitch followed the black line.

He winced from the strain in his shoulders and promised himself he could quit after four more laps. Mitch was a running man. He liked to put on his runners and head out the door, any day, any time. Swimming required organization—fitting around pool opening times, packing gear and carrying cash—planning he couldn’t be bothered with most days, not to mention sharing lanes with fellow swimmers who had to be competitive. He would have liked to have counted the dive yesterday as water time but he knew that was cheating. Besides he spent more time on the flight to and from Cape Hatteras than he did in the water… no exercise in that.

Once a week, he told himself as he followed the black line, lap after lap. Once a week to give the joints a break and keep up my swimming fitness.

He was a capable swimmer and with his athletic build, he made it look easy. He turned mechanically at the end of the lane, kicked out against the wall and propelled through the water for another round of freestyle. In the water his time was his own; he couldn’t carry a pager or be tracked down. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind—what happened to those men? Why were they there? Where did they come from? Where is their ship now?

Mitch hit something in the water. He stopped mid-lane to see a flipper floating in front of him. He looked up and through his goggles saw a tall, blond man standing pool side with hands on hips. It was one of his team, Nicholas Everett.

“Nick! What?” He threw the flipper back and pushed the goggles up on his forehead.

“We’re wanted.” Nick held up his pager.

“I’m not here,” Mitch said.

“I’ve seen you!”

“Can’t you see me in about half an hour?”

Nick frowned.

“Right.” Mitch sighed and sank back into the blue surroundings of the pool. He debated not coming up but his lungs demanded it. Nick was gone, and he finished the twenty yards to the end of the pool and hoisted himself out.

Mitch grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his shoulders to cover the scars running the length of his back. He glanced around; no one had noticed.

The adrenaline began to course through him. It was not uncommon to work twenty-four-seven when on a case, but after retrieving the bodies yesterday, it was normally just a waiting game.

Not anymore!

* * *

Mitch raced up from the parking lot to his office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s field office in Washington D.C. Inside, he took the stairs two at a time to his department’s floor and glanced towards John Windsor’s office—the Executive Director for the Trans-national Crime Unit. John was on the phone and Mitch’s team gathered in the coffee station outside his office, waiting.

“Hey,” he announced his arrival.

“Mitch, thanks for coming,” Nick, the newest member of the team and Mitch’s oldest friend, ragged him.

“Wanted to make an entrance.” Mitch grinned at Nick, who except for being the same height was a perfect contrast to Mitch’s dark hair and blue eyes.

Ellen flicked through the newspaper as she sat on the desk next to Nick. Her blonde hair was tied back and the odd splatter of paint featured around her face and on her arms.

Mitch smiled at her. “Nice shade.”

Ellen looked at the patch of blue paint on her arm. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it already. What do you expect if you call me in on a Sunday? At this rate, it will never be finished. It’s taken me two weeks to do one wall of the bathroom.”

“I hear that is in now,” Nick offered. “It’s called a feature wall.”

Ellen shook her head. “It’s featured all right because the other walls now look drab.”

“Well I just got out of bed,” Samantha Moore boasted as she pushed the plunger down on a fresh pot of coffee.

“Yeah, we didn’t want to say anything but the pajama pants and messy hair gave it away,” Nick teased.

“Hmph.” She poured a hot mug of dark coffee, before handing it to Mitch. “You smell of chlorine. No prize for guessing where you were.”

“Thanks,” he took a few mouthfuls of coffee, feeling the warmth permeate through him. “I was swimming at the uni. By myself I might add.”

Nick cleared his throat. “Yeah, sorry about that … I intended to come but, uh, I got caught up.”

“Where? In the sheets?” Mitch asked.

“No, actually. There was a housemate-wanted notice on the hallway corkboard on Friday and I grabbed it, called up the damsel wanting a housemate and moved in this morning.”

“Who is she?” Ellen asked.

“Amy Callaghan, know her?” Nick asked.

“No,” Ellen and Samantha answered in unison. Mitch avoided the question; he knew her, had even dated her once and was pretty sure she didn’t want to know him.

“I hate swimming,” Samantha continued.

“I know, but you’re going to have to get better at it.” Mitch turned to her.

“Why?” Samantha looked alarmed.

John Windsor hung up and beckoned them in.

“I’ll explain later,” Mitch told her.

“Mitch…” John diverted his attention from the computer screen to look at him. “Where were you?”

“At the pool.” Mitch’s voice was laced with exasperation. “For an hour.”

“Remind me to get you a waterproof, vibrating pager.” John made a note.

“And where do I wear that?” Mitch asked.

“You’ll find somewhere.”

Mitch observed that even on a Sunday, John was dressed in a navy suit, his tidily cropped gray hair groomed to perfection. He had compromised—wearing a T-shirt under his jacket instead of a business shirt.

Nick collapsed into a chair near the door. “I was hoping when we couldn’t reach you, Mitch, that you might have been getting some action.”

“I expect you to respond to the pager even if you are getting some … action,” John responded.

Mitch rolled his eyes and kick started the brief. “What have you got?”

John pressed a button on his desk that lowered a screen from the ceiling. He dimmed the lights. “Close the door please.”

Nick looked around; the outside offices were empty. He closed the door.

John tapped some keys on his keyboard to call up a photo; a head shot of an Asian man.

“Ying Shan, known to us as William Ying, Chinese ambassador to D.C.,” John began. “He applied for permanent residency for himself, his wife and child when he finished his tenure last year and it was granted. On his last day in office, at a function, he disappeared. His wife reported him missing. It’s been twelve months and still no sign of him.”

John clicked to the next photo; a grainy shot of a figure on a beach, standing at the water’s edge. Beside him, a family could be seen wading in the water.

“This photo was sent in by Andrew Gunston, one of our agents. He returned yesterday from holidaying with his family at Cape Hatteras. Gunston worked for a short time on William’s case before it was marked unsolved and put on ice.” John began to pace around the room. “Gunston didn’t notice anything on the day this was photo was taken, but when he looked through his holiday photos last night, he found three successive photos of this man on the beach looking out to sea. In one shot, the man is using binoculars.” John returned to the computer and flicked through the shots that had been doctored to feature only the Asian man on the shoreline.

Mitch leaned in and squinted at the shot. “Is it William Ying?”

“Gunston seems to think so.” He continued through the photos.

“So when exactly on his holidays were these taken?” Mitch asked.

“On Thursday. Gunston’s wife took the shots.”

“Any shots out to sea?”

“No, and Gunston doesn’t recall seeing anything unusual—no boats, no other swimmers. But he said he can’t be certain … he wasn’t looking for anything unusual,” John concluded.

“Did this Asian guy, William Ying, take photos or just use binoculars?” Mitch continued.

“Gunston can’t recall.”

“Geez, when he goes on holidays, he really goes on holidays.” Mitch frowned. “So, what’s the hook?”

John smiled.

“The binoculars. When Gunston was packing up his family’s gear at the beach, one of his kids found the binoculars on a rock. Gunston said there was no sign of an owner so he let his son have them.”

Mitch’s eyes widened. “And?”

“After he saw the photos, Gunston brought the binoculars straight to the lab when he arrived back from holidays. The lab found William Ying’s fingerprints are all over them.”

“So why not hand it over to missing persons?” Samantha asked. “They can declare William Ying not-missing!”

“Because we’re thinking this is connected to the two drowned Asian divers we retrieved yesterday near the stretch of water where the binoculars were found?” Mitch asked

“Yes,” John said, and then played his trump card. “There was another set of fingerprints on the binoculars belonging to a Chinese dissident with a criminal record a mile long—Huang ‘Danny’ Ming. Note the Asian surname goes first.”

“Why do they take a western name?” Samantha asked.

“Probably because when they come here we can’t get their name right,” Mitch suggested.

John continued. “He goes by the western name of Danny Huang. And Danny Huang, according to our records, isn’t even in the country.”

Mitch took the fingerprint report from John, had a look, and passed it around.

“Are both prints fresh?” Mitch asked.

“Good question,” John said. “If Danny Huang is not in the country, they might be old prints. You can check that out.”

“What have we got on Danny then?” Mitch asked.

“Glad you asked.” John picked up a manila file the size of the phone book and dropped it into Mitch’s lap.

“Good!” Mitch sized it up with dismay. “Some light reading.”

“So, where do you want to begin?” John asked.

Mitch stood up. “We need the area under surveillance immediately. Nick, that’s your specialty… or it used to be,” he said, referring to their time in the Air Force when Nick specialized in reconnaissance, surveillance, search and rescue. “Sam, you look like more of a beachgoer than Ellie, best you go with Nick.” He turned to Ellen, noting her almost translucent white skin.

Ellen glanced at her white arms. “I guess it has been a while since I’ve seen the sun.”

“When do you want us to go?” Nick asked.

“On the next flight.”

“We could drive down,” Nick suggested.

“No, we need someone there now. If there are no flights then yeah, drive, but it’s just over a six hour road trip from memory,” Mitch said.

“Six-and-a-half hours, if you are doing the speed limit,” John said with a glance to Mitch. John turned to his computer and tapped into the company’s travel page.

Mitch continued. “Ellie and I will get started on some ground work here.”

“There’s a flight leaving in ninety minutes, I’ll get you both onto it,” John said. “It will get you to Norfolk International in an hour and then it’s only three hours drive.” He picked up the phone to call administration to book the flights.

Mitch continued, “Nick, Sam, follow in Gunston’s footsteps; rent a place, play the tourist couple, swim, photograph each other, fish, surf, whatever it takes. Go at sunrise, sunset, different times of the day and observe activity in the area. Get some shots out to sea … who knows what he’s looking for. Photograph everything. If William was there once, he may come back again.”

“And I’ll put in a courtesy call to the Dare County Sheriff’s Office, just in case he notices you two looking suspicious,” John added.

“Just stick to the budget,” Mitch warned.

“We’d better share a room if we’re a couple, just to keep the cover authentic,” Nick suggested.

Mitch shot Samantha a look.

“What?” she said defensively. “I sleep with one agent on an overseas job and now I’m branded for life!”

“Don’t worry, if we sleep together we won’t tell you, problem solved,” Nick said.

“Nick, you’re not helping.” Samantha hit his arm. “Shut up!”

“Nicholas, Samantha …” Mitch began.

Samantha began to laugh at his fatherly tone.

“You’re killing me,” Mitch sighed. “Go home and pack.”

Nick and Samantha moved to the door.

“Hey, before you go …” Mitch stopped them. “I’ve been thinking … we have got to address our skills shortage.”

“What skills shortage?” Samantha dropped back into a chair.

“You’re not addressing it if it means more manpower.” John shut down the laptop. “Sorry, can’t help you there.”

“No, not people, prowess,” Mitch emphasized. “You know, fill the skills we are short of in our team or need to refresh. That last assignment brought home to me the fact that we can’t cover each other.”

Mitch saw their blank stares.

“Ellie, if you and Nick had to abort from that plane last assignment, you wouldn’t have known how to.”

“I could have done a tandem parachute jump,” Nick said.

“You could have. But what if you are not around, Nick? How does Ellie get out of the plane? Ever parachuted?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Sam, you’ve said yourself a thousand times you’re a hopeless swimmer; what if you had to swim to save yourself or tow one of us in to shore?”

“I passed the fifty yard freestyle test at high school,” Samantha declared. “Besides, there was no swimming requirement when I joined the FBI.”