Read Online The Admiral's Mark (Short Story) by Steve Berry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Berry
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second floor, and he used the key to gain access.Inside was spotless, everything in its place. Ginger, like her sister, appreciated order. Interesting how she waived that rule when it came to her love life. He’d visited here only a couple of times, as usually the Browns came to the Malone house on the other side of town.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but found a checkbook in a drawer, the account only in Ginger’s name, with $4,200 on deposit. A savings book showed another $14,000. Good to know that his sister-in-law kept some money under her control.
A stack of mail caught his attention.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Which startled him.
Another knock.
He hadn’t locked the knob after he’d entered. Why would he? Nobody was around. Family and friends were at the funeral.
The knob began to turn.
He retreated to the bedroom and slid under the bed. A frilly dust ruffle draped down on three sides and provided cover. He wasn’t sure why hiding was necessary, but something didn’t ring right.
“Is anyone home?” a male voice said.
A moment of silence.
“Check the rooms.”
A gap of about half an inch provided a line of sight past the dust ruffle out into the bedroom. He pressed his cheek into the carpet and watched as two feet stepped to the bedroom door, hesitated a moment, then walked to the bathroom and closet, checking both.
“No one is here,” another male voice said.
A burglary?
“They are still at the funeral, so we have some time. Make a search.”
If so, apparently not an ordinary one.
He heard drawers open, items shuffled about.
“No need to look any further,” the first voice said. “Here is what we want.”
He gently raised the dust ruffle enough so that he could see more than shoes.
Past the bedroom doorway he spotted two men. One was maybe fifty, pale, with salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard. The other man was younger, black-haired, dark-complexioned. The older man was holding thestack of mail. He tossed the letters aside and kept one, removing what was inside a large brown envelope.
The older man shook his head. “Seems Herr Brown led us on a diversion. This is nothing.”
“But the wife read it.”
“It would mean nothing to her.”
He watched as the letter was replaced in the envelope and tossed back on the table.
“There is no need to linger,” the older man said. “Unfortunately, Herr Brown managed to get ahead of us. The answers we seek are not here, but we had to come for a look.”
They both left, gently closing the door behind them.
He slid from beneath the bed and rushed to the window, watching as the two men exited the building toward a dark blue Honda.
They climbed inside and started to leave.
He darted to the table, grabbed the envelope, then raced downstairs, slowing his pace to a normal gait as he came to the bottom and walked toward his car.
The Honda was turning a corner, heading toward the exit gate.
He jumped into his own vehicle and followed.
He switched off the car engine and watched as the two men parked the Honda. They’d driven from the apartment complex, found Interstate 85, then headed south to Fayette County and a small private airport. He’d first thought their destination to be Hartsfield-Jackson International, which could have proven a problem. Thankfully, they’d avoided Atlanta’s main terminal. Several single-engine craft and two luxury turboprops waited near a large hangar. His targets entered a metal-sided administration building, stayed a couple of minutes, then climbed aboard one of the turboprops. A few minutes later engines whined and the plane taxied to the runway.
He’d opted not to confront them.
Instead, he should be able to learn what he needed without drawing any unnecessary attention. Before leaving the car he grabbed the envelope from the apartment, which displayed a handwritten return address for the Hotel Creole, Cap-Haïtien, Haiti. He slid out a single sheet of unfolded paper and
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but found a checkbook in a drawer, the account only in Ginger’s name, with $4,200 on deposit. A savings book showed another $14,000. Good to know that his sister-in-law kept some money under her control.
A stack of mail caught his attention.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Which startled him.
Another knock.
He hadn’t locked the knob after he’d entered. Why would he? Nobody was around. Family and friends were at the funeral.
The knob began to turn.
He retreated to the bedroom and slid under the bed. A frilly dust ruffle draped down on three sides and provided cover. He wasn’t sure why hiding was necessary, but something didn’t ring right.
“Is anyone home?” a male voice said.
A moment of silence.
“Check the rooms.”
A gap of about half an inch provided a line of sight past the dust ruffle out into the bedroom. He pressed his cheek into the carpet and watched as two feet stepped to the bedroom door, hesitated a moment, then walked to the bathroom and closet, checking both.
“No one is here,” another male voice said.
A burglary?
“They are still at the funeral, so we have some time. Make a search.”
If so, apparently not an ordinary one.
He heard drawers open, items shuffled about.
“No need to look any further,” the first voice said. “Here is what we want.”
He gently raised the dust ruffle enough so that he could see more than shoes.
Past the bedroom doorway he spotted two men. One was maybe fifty, pale, with salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard. The other man was younger, black-haired, dark-complexioned. The older man was holding thestack of mail. He tossed the letters aside and kept one, removing what was inside a large brown envelope.
The older man shook his head. “Seems Herr Brown led us on a diversion. This is nothing.”
“But the wife read it.”
“It would mean nothing to her.”
He watched as the letter was replaced in the envelope and tossed back on the table.
“There is no need to linger,” the older man said. “Unfortunately, Herr Brown managed to get ahead of us. The answers we seek are not here, but we had to come for a look.”
They both left, gently closing the door behind them.
He slid from beneath the bed and rushed to the window, watching as the two men exited the building toward a dark blue Honda.
They climbed inside and started to leave.
He darted to the table, grabbed the envelope, then raced downstairs, slowing his pace to a normal gait as he came to the bottom and walked toward his car.
The Honda was turning a corner, heading toward the exit gate.
He jumped into his own vehicle and followed.
He switched off the car engine and watched as the two men parked the Honda. They’d driven from the apartment complex, found Interstate 85, then headed south to Fayette County and a small private airport. He’d first thought their destination to be Hartsfield-Jackson International, which could have proven a problem. Thankfully, they’d avoided Atlanta’s main terminal. Several single-engine craft and two luxury turboprops waited near a large hangar. His targets entered a metal-sided administration building, stayed a couple of minutes, then climbed aboard one of the turboprops. A few minutes later engines whined and the plane taxied to the runway.
He’d opted not to confront them.
Instead, he should be able to learn what he needed without drawing any unnecessary attention. Before leaving the car he grabbed the envelope from the apartment, which displayed a handwritten return address for the Hotel Creole, Cap-Haïtien, Haiti. He slid out a single sheet of unfolded paper and
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