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  SHARK AND OCTOPUS

  SHARK AND OCTOPUS

  A novel

  by

  JC SULLIVAN

  Adelaide Books

  New York/Lisbon

  2020

  SHARK AND OCTOPUS

  A novel

  By JC Sullivan

  Copyright © by JC Sullivan

  Cover design © 2020 Adelaide Books

  Published by Adelaide Books, New York / Lisbon

  adelaidebooks.org

  Editor-in-Chief

  Stevan V. Nikolic

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

  manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except

  in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For any information, please address Adelaide Books

  at [email protected]

  or write to:

  Adelaide Books

  244 Fifth Ave. Suite D27

  New York, NY, 10001

  ISBN-13: 978-1-953510-38-9

  TO MY DAUGHTERS,

  KIRA AND MEREDITH

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  About the Author

  ONE

  July 4

  5:10 am

  For a long moment, Griffin Gilmore sat in the passenger’s seat of the Malibu, cradling the box.

  “You don’t expect to see him waiting, do you?” Kit asked. “It’s still too dark to see much of anything.”

  “Even if you could see,” Griffin Gilmore replied, “he’s way too cautious to be standing out in the open. But he’ll be watching me and I want him to know I’m alone. No cops in sight. He’s more than eager for what he thinks is in this box. But he won’t take foolish risks. If he spots a police car, he’ll bolt.”

  They sat a while longer.

  “Don’t forget the box,” Kit said. It was, Griffin understood, a gentle push to get him moving.

  He grabbed the box and opened the door. “Kit?” Griffin stayed in the safety of the car a bit longer. “You know, I can’t be sure how this meeting is going to go,” he said. Admitting he was not completely in charge of events was not something Griffin did easily.

  “What will you do when he finds out the box doesn’t have what he wants?”

  Griffin did not answer Kit’s question. He wasn’t sure what the answer to that question was.

  He walked up Dumbarton Road toward the softball field, where the meeting was to take place. The day was muggy already. As planned, he arrived a few minutes early. The darkness was lifting enough he was sure the field was empty. Along Dumbarton Road he could see the grey outline of row houses. Somewhere in those houses were Baltimore County police and federal officials following his movements. Carrying the box, Griffin reached the softball field and waited.

  Griffin was aware that in his nervousness the minutes would pass with unnatural slowness. Still, it seemed several eternities before his wait ended.

  *

  His wait ended with the ringing of a phone, which he found taped to the bottom of a bench by the softball field. He yanked away the tape and hit the button to answer the phone. He was greeted by a formal, smoothly gracious, Latin-accented voice. The voice was unmistakable, though he’d heard it only once before. “Good morning, Mr. Gilmore. I trust you are well. You are Griffin Gilmore? How are you, sir?”

  Griffin could not quite manage to reply, so the voice resumed.

  “I have been watching you for the seventeen minutes since your arrival. You are attired in a red shirt, blue slacks, and running shoes, which you will need momentarily. I have also observed that you have a habit of rubbing the left side of your face. You did so throughout our conversation when we met at the museum one month ago.”

  Finally Griffin spoke. “I only do that when I’m nervous.”

  “You have been doing so the entirety of the time you have been here.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “You are alone, I see.”

  “I am. You’ll be coming here to me to handle our transaction?”

  “No, Mr. Gilmore. I will not be joining you. You will be joining me. Now, listen attentively.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Turn around and face the other direction.”

  Griffin did as ordered.

  “You are now facing Stevenson Lane. I will meet you on Stevenson Lane, Mr. Gilmore. You have sixty seconds to get here from the termination of this phone call. If you are not here in that time, I keep driving. If the contents of the box are damaged in any way, there is no sale. You understand my terms?”

  “Yes.”

  “You accept them?”

  “Yes.”

  Griffin was then told, “Put down the phone. Hold onto the box. Start running, Mr. Gilmore. You have sixty seconds.”

  And the call ended.

  *

  Unbalanced by the box, Griffin stumbled twice but reached Stevenson in under a minute, he was fairly sure.

  He saw no cars moving in either direction. He had no idea what would happen next. Could he have missed the deadline?

  Directly across the street the headlights of an ordinary, small grey car switched on. A window powered down and that same accented voice called out, “Do be careful with the box crossing the street. With haste, please, Mr. Gilmore.”

  Griffin got into the front seat of the car, the box resting between his knees. The man driving wore the same outfit he’d worn the only other time Griffin had seen him, at a museum fundraiser one month before: white gabardine slacks, white suit coat, ivory colored shirt, and marble-white tie. Then, he had been wearing a Panama straw hat, also white. In the intervening month Griffin had learned the man’s name, but still thought of him as he had that night – the man in white.

  Griffin looked into the back seat and spotted the Panama hat. He also saw what looked like an oversized, bulky pair of sunglasses. That, Griffin decided, must be the night vision equipment enabling the man to watch him by the softball field.

  The man reached into the pocket of his white suit coat and withdrew a small rectangular block of wood. On the box were four switches. He pushed one of the switches forward.

  A loud explosion instantly followed. A car on Dumbarton Road blew up with a crumping noise. The flames must have leaped twenty feet into the air. The flames reached high enough Griffin could see them from Stevenson Lane, hundreds of yards away.

  The man in white hit another switch and there was another crump and explosion, further up Dumbarton Road. The two flames burned a bright yellow and red against the background of the still-dark houses.

  He flicked the third and fourth switches and two more explosions resulted, these on Stevenson Lane. A car ahead and another behind Griffin suddenly burst into flames.

  The ex
ploded car ahead of Griffin was no more than one hundred feet away. This close, the explosion was loud and Griffin watched sections of the car tumbling into the air. Chunks of roof and bumper cascaded into the street with thumps and scraping sounds. Car alarms were going off up and down the road. Griffin could not believe how high the flames were reaching. He could not pull his eyes from the fire, which gave off a whooooshing sound.

  There was another explosion on Dumbarton Road. Griffin figured a car must have been parked close enough to an exploded car that its gasoline tank blew up.

  “A bit of a distraction,” Griffin was informed. “Now you must be frisked. That is the American word?” Griffin nodded that he understood. “Get out of the vehicle and place your hands against the hood, Mr. Gilmore. If you would be so kind.”

  He got out of the car, still holding the box.

  “If that box contains what you have promised, you have nothing to fear. I am a man of my word. You will be paid, generously.”

  A tracking beeper was taped inside Griffin’s left armpit and the tape keeping it in place covered less than a square inch of skin – but this frisking was so thorough Griffin knew it was inevitable the beeper would be discovered.

  The man’s hand worked its way up the left side of Griffin’s torso. Griffin tried shifting his body slightly to the side. He hoped by doing so the man would miss the beeper. He did not. With a single sharp yank he pulled away the tape and beeper. Griffin let fly a yelp of pain as the tape was torn away from his skin.

  “A beeper in the armpit is standard procedure, Mr. Gilmore. I am afraid your law enforcement associates will hereafter be unable to track your whereabouts.”

  Griffin knew that was true. The Baltimore County PD and the feds would not know where he was going. He did not know either.

  “Return to the car, Mr. Gilmore, please. We must leave immediately.”

  They pulled away from the curb.

  TWO

  June 4

  8:27 pm

  Griffin Gilmore had met the man in white exactly one month earlier. On that night as well the man’s slacks, suit coat, shirt and tie had all been white. He wore a Panama straw hat, also white, but with a gold band. The hatband was the only non-white part of the ensemble and flashed all the brighter for it.

  When Griffin first saw the man in white he was taking an hors d‘oeuvre from Griffin’s girlfriend Annie. Her role was as a server at the Baltimore Museum of Art fundraiser. As the man in white took the last prosciutto crostini he gave her a courtly head bob of thanks. Then he slipped away into the thick crowd. At the time Griffin did not give the man another thought.

  On her way to the kitchen for another tray, Annie stopped to speak to Griffin.

  “So. Another five minutes?” she asked.

  “Four,” Griffin replied, without needing to check his watch.

  “Have you heard from Kit?” Annie asked next.

  Griffin tapped his ear piece. His role tonight was privately hired security. The real museum guards had been told he’d been hired for this occasion only and to be left alone. This gave him the chance to go into other parts of the museum, which he was about to do.

  “Kit says he’s parked right where we planned. He assures me the limo engine is running and the champagne is chilling. Remember where he is?”

  “Surely,” Annie answered, and Griffin knew felt himself relax. No one else could do that for him.

  “I’ll meet you in the limo,” he said. “It’s almost time for Bobby’s big moment.”

  They both looked at Bobby Lowell, the fourth member of Griffin Gilmore’s team. Bobby’s gig was as a magician entertaining children at the fundraiser.

  Bobby was making animals from balloons. He twisted a few balloons into a dachshund. Then he made a bouquet of flowers. He airwalked the dachshund over to the bouquet, and lifted the dog’s rear leg, as if the animal were relieving himself. The kids circled three deep around him shrieked with laughter.

  Sensing Griffin and Annie’s glance, Bobby looked over. He turned his shoulder slightly, so his young audience couldn’t see. He stuck an index finger into his throat, as if forcing himself to vomit. Bobby, an actor since his high school days with Griffin, Annie and Kit, despised children’s theater.

  “Please, Griffin,” Bobby had pleaded, when Griffin handed out assignments. “Don’t make me work with kids. I’m a classically trained actor. I’ll do anything other than perform for children, please. Let me be a server.”

  “Annie’s got that.”

  “I’ll wear a dress.”

  “No, you’ll wear a tux. We can’t take a chance on any kids wandering off into the rest of the museum, Bobby. The fundraiser is supposed to be restricted to the first floor of the museum, but you never know where people might go. Kids especially.

  “I need five minutes alone in the room with the display of The Life of 18th Century Italian Nobles. You have to keep the kids entertained and occupied and out of the exhibit while I’m in there. And you have to give me the signal when to leave.”

  At the fundraiser Griffin was waiting for Bobby to give that signal.

  Bobby reached into the pocket of his tuxedo. He withdrew a waxy looking grey lump of something, size of a gumball. He showed it to the children, who waited expectantly. He threw the grey lump against the floor. And he disappeared in a puff of sky blue smoke.

  The children erupted into cheers and applause. A few seconds later Bobby emerged from the smoke, bowing, ten feet to the side. All eyes were turned toward him, away from the stairs leading to the second floor of the museum.

  By then Griffin was halfway up those stairs.

  No one challenged him, to all appearances someone in security checking out the second floor. He moved quickly but did not run. A running man attracts attention.

  The Life of 18th Century Italian Nobles exhibit took up the first two rooms on the right side of the second floor hall. He went to the second room.

  The entrance to the room was barred by a sign stating NO ADMITTANCE, EXHIBIT UNDER REPAIR. The sign had been placed there at Griffin’s request, as part of his preparation for this assignment. Museum officials had been convinced to cooperate, although they were never informed why their assistance was needed.

  Griffin strode past the sign, through the doorway and into the room, which held five waist-high glass display cases. He headed immediately to the case in the far corner. When he reached the display case, he glanced at the room entrance, empty. Seems he’d gotten here without being followed, or even noticed probably.

  From his preparation, Griffin knew that breaking into the display case, with its basic pin and tumbler lock, would not be difficult. A sergeant with the Baltimore County Police Department had tutored him in the fine art of picking locks. A pair of four inch lengths of copper wire, tension pliers, practice, and a steady hand were enough.

  No, the challenge would be dealing with the spring-loaded alarm, set off by any change in the weight within the display case. On display were twelve keys, eleven from Italian counts, dukes and princes of the 1700s; one key belonged to a jailer in the employ of a Duke. The keys were arranged in four columns of three keys each. If even a single key were removed from the cushion inside the display case, the decrease in weight would cause the alarm to sound.

  Griffin, though, was not planning to remove a key. He was going to exchange one.

  *

  Griffin picked the display case lock in under ninety seconds. His teacher, Sergeant Ahearn, would have been proud. He pushed back the glass lid of the case.

  Griffin glanced again at the doorway, still empty. Sounds from the fundraiser floated up to him. He could hear more applause for Bobby’s performance. Bobby was killing them, no doubt to his dismay. From the other end of the fundraiser he could hear the musical entertainment, a jazz fusion trio, starting back up after their break.

  Griffin reached into the pocket of his suit coat. The coat was the brown of a lunch bag and about as stylish. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself
by overdressing for his part as hired security.

  From his suit coat pocket he removed a key. The key appeared to be an exact replica of one of the keys in the display case – the one identified as belonging to an unknown jailer in the employ of the Duke of Arazzo.

  In fact the key Griffin held was not a replica. It was the original. He paused for a moment, contemplating the irony of stealing from the exhibit a worthless fake and replacing it with the valuable original.

  Griffin again eyed the doorway. Empty. Another minute and he’d be back through that door, his assignment accomplished.

  With the most extreme care he could manage, Griffin brought the original key into the open display case. Then, moving with even greater slowness, he brought the round end of the original key into contact with the display cushion. He did this with his left hand.

  At precisely the same speed and at exactly the same time, with his right hand he pulled the replica away from the display case. Mastering this skill had required far more practice than learning to pick locks.

  Once the keys were exchanged Griffin held his breath, listening for an alarm. But all he heard was that sweet, sweet sound of silence.

  He did not exhale until the replica was inside his coat pocket.

  From the doorway someone called out, “Bravo, Mr. Gilmore.” It was a man dressed entirely in white, nodding appreciatively at Griffin.

  *

  “How did you know my-”Griffin began, then stopped himself. Reverting to role, and in his best head of security tone, he informed the man in white, “Sir, I’m sorry, but the second floor is off limits to guests of the fundraiser.”