Free Mark of the Devil by William Kerr Page A

doorway and spoke to someone inside. Immediately, a fourth man stepped out of the pilothouse and onto the bridge. Taking the megaphone, he said, “Mr. Berkeley? I am addressing Mr. Matthew Berkeley of the NAARPA organization, am I not?”
    “You got it,” Matt called back.
    “I’ll be damned,” Park said out of the corner of his mouth in Matt’s direction. “It’s Bruder, the guy from Tallahassee.”
    “And you’re Dr. Mason’s man from Tallahassee,” Matt immediately responded toward the larger vessel.
    “That’s correct, Mr. Berkeley. Eric Bruder.”
    “So what the hell’s this restricted water thing? And what are you doing with those people? I sent you an application requesting exploration and excavation rights to this area almost a week ago.”
    Bruder spoke hurriedly to the man in the yachting outfit, then called, “Afraid I never received your application, Mr. Berkeley. Appears Antiquity Finders also submitted an application which has been approved.”
    Matt dropped back onto the cushioned seat, numbed by Bruder’s words. “Can’t be,” he said to Park. “No way those people could have known about this place, unless—”
    Park cut him off. “Like I said, gotta be Bruder.”
    Matt pushed to his feet and called, “I think there’s been a mistake, Bruder. A very serious mistake, and I plan to find out what happened. I suggest you be in your office tomorrow ‘cause I’ll be there with a copy of my application, and I want to see AFI’s application.”
    “Afraid not, Mr. Berkeley. It contains privileged information that—”
    “Don’t give me that crap, Bruder. State of Florida’s Sunshine Law says I can. That’s state land down there, and state land means it’s public land. Anything to do with public land must be available to the public, and that’s me.”
    “It really won’t do you any good, Mr. Berkeley,” Bruder said through the megaphone, “but if you want to waste your time, be my guest. And, oh yes, Mr. Park, I promise AFI’s divers will check your hazard-to-navigation buoys each day to make certain they’re secured to the barge. Now please leave. AFI does not want any unpleasantness, but if you insist…”
    Eyeing the machine pistols, which slowly rose in his direction, Matt cupped his hands over his mouth and directed his next words to the man wearing the yachting cap. “You’re Henry Shoemaker, aren’t you?”
    The man nodded.
    “You and AFI have pulled this shit with other people and other organizations before, but you’ve pulled it on the wrong person this time. One way or the other, I’m gonna find out what’s down there and make sure the right people get it.” Taking his seat and ignoring anything else that might be coming from the
Sea Rover,
Matt said to Park, “With those two pinheads pointing popguns at us, we’re not gonna accomplish anything by hanging around. Let’s go. I’ve gotta call Brandy Mason, and I don’t want to do it on a cell phone. Too many ears on the airwaves.”

    Henry Shoemaker watched from
Sea Rover’s
bridge as
Native Diver
backed away from the buoy, pivoted, and pointed its bow to the north. Turning to Bruder, he said, “Mr. Berkeley needs to be taught some manners. Just enough to warn him off. Tomorrow in Tallahassee, I think. What do you think, Eric?”
    Bruder nodded. “Tomorrow in Tallahassee.”
    “And Striker. Where is he?”
    “Arrives in Washington this afternoon,” Bruder answered.
    “Excellent,” Shoemaker said, retreating into the pilothouse out of the sun. Once inside, he added, “Unfortunate for Mr. Berkeley but, as my loving wife insists, it appears it’s time we removed the opposition from the playing field. And by the way, from now on the game you play is Starla’s responsibility and yours. Don’t embarrass me, Eric. I’m not one who likes to be embarrassed.”

CHAPTER 9
    Chantilly, Virginia
    There was still enough daylight for Striker to glance at the street map one last time before tossing it onto