At the same time the President’s secretary called Slanetti to the Oval Office, Derek Gilbertson and his new “partner,” Vlad Kucherov, had just sent down the first team of divers to begin what they anticipated would be a day-long process of bringing the $20 million in drug money up from the narco-submersible Mirta that had sunk a few weeks earlier off Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas, 70 miles due west of Key West.
After following Flores and Duarte out the day before and finding out where the sub had gone down, Kucherov had shot them both, returning to port to put together the boats and equipment necessary to bring up the cash this morning.
“I’ve got guys with a couple of vans we’ll use to get the money back to Miami,” said Kucherov in a low voice, taking Derek by the arm and drawing him away from the crew. “We’ll pay these guys and get the hell out of here.”
“Listen, Vlad,” said Derek. “This is my score. That money down there’s mine, not yours. Just because Howard Rothberg told you about it and you muscled your way into the picture doesn’t mean you’re in charge, you hear me?”
“I hear you, Derek, I hear you,” Kucherov smiled. He had a single crooked tooth in his lower jaw that Derek somehow found annoying, threatening.
Derek didn’t think he was getting very far in an effort to intimidate the burly and yet suave Russian mobster. He knew there was much more to the backstory of this guy who had swept into town with a Frenchman named Napoleon LaPierre from Marseille to open the Kremlin Club, the biggest and hottest nightclub on South Beach, or rather, to muscle their way into the club owned by Jonah Lomax.
“We still haven’t figured out how much you’re getting for providing me with this unasked for assistance,” Derek forged on.
Kucherov looked at the brown-eyes, the color of a light molasses, that went so well with Derek’s almost girlishly wavy blond hair. While he wasn’t in one of his $4,000 suits right now, he still looked exactly like the Ivy League lawyer he was, thought Kucherov. The crooked Ivy League lawyer that he was, Kucherov corrected himself in his mind. He would have to treat Derek well—he was a conduit to greater fortunes than even Kucherov had dreamt awaited him when he came to America to partner up with the slimy Frenchman.
“We’ll work it out, Derek. I’m sure you’ll be more than fair with me. I still have to help you out with that business you said you had for Omer Flores.”
“The business I had before you shot him in the head yesterday? That business?”
“Well—yes, that business,” Kucherov shrugged, his arms spread wide helplessly. “Once he led us to the sub, we really didn’t need him anymore.”
“No. I needed, him, not you.”
“Now you need me more,” was all Kucherov had to say.
“Señor,” one of the crew called out. Derek and Kucherov moved to the side of the boat and peered over as four divers broke the surface. Two of them were Kucherov’s men, Dmitri and Gregor.
No one liked the look on their faces when they ripped off their masks.
“Dmitri,” said Kucherov, clearly in a panic. “What?”
Dmitri and Gregor shook their heads.
“It’s gone!”
A beat as this sank it.
“Gone?” said Derek.
“It can’t be gone,” said Kucherov.
Derek and Kucherov looked at each other. They both thought the same thing at the same time: that the other one couldn’t possibly have taken the money for the simple reason that they had spent the entire afternoon together yesterday, as well as the evening, staying up till midnight while they planned today’s excursion. During the preparations, they’d looked a dozen times at the pictures of the bundled cash the diver took the day before.
“Get up here!” Kucherov yelled. “You scuba, Derek?”
“Sure I do.”
“You and me. We see for ourselves.”
“You got it.”
They both stripped down and in minutes were over the side, following Dmitri and Gregor down a mere 35 feet to the shallow bottom where they immediately saw the stricken sub, resting upright, its main hatch wide open.
Both men caught their breath as they saw the odd loose bits of cash floating up through the hatch where the notes were picked up by the current and swiftly whisked away toward the Gulf Stream not too far away.
Dmitri went in first followed by Kucherov and Derek. Gregor waited above. It was very narrow in the sub and not a lot of room to maneuver when you were saddled with full scuba gear.
Inside, Dmitri flashed his light toward the rear of the sub and Derek and Kucherov moved back together, side by side. They clearly saw where the bundles had been. Whoever had stolen the money had punctured a few of the bundles and left them there, not deeming it worth the time to scoop up the loose bills that now floated through the cabin like pale ghosts of real money.
But it was real money. Derek grabbed a half-filled bundle, cinched together the parts where the wrapper had been split and handed it back to Kucherov, who gave it to Dmitri to hand up to Gregor. Derek found a couple of burlap sacks on a shelf and used them to stuff the remaining open bundles into, quickly securing what he could.
They made their way out and returned to the surface.
Once safely back on board their fishing vessel, Derek ordered the captain to return to Key West. The second ship brought along to help with the bundles followed them.
Kucherov stood in his Speedo with his hands on his hips looking at the horizon. Derek looked at Kucherov’s pasty white skin and paunchy stomach and love handles with distaste. I’ll never look like that, he thought. But he didn’t really care what Kucherov looked like.
“What
