Taking a compass reading on the shore, he aimed for thirty degrees south of the harbor. He planned to travel along the ocean floor a quarter of a mile away from the drop spot before rising to a depth of fifty feet. After another quarter of a mile, he would move to twenty feet—a a depth that should still hide the glow of his flashlight from someone on the surface. The longer he stayed deep, the quicker he used up his air. Already, with all the excitement, and struggle with the bag, he had consumed a third of his air tank.

But the fresh battery in the second Farallon was a lifesaver. He had power and speed. He took off like a rocket, and the water swam by him like a river flowing into the underworld. Nevertheless, riding the back of his torpedo, he ascended slowly. The trip gave him time to contemplate all the obstacles the FBI would have to overcome to catch him. They would not have been prepared for an ocean scenario. They would not have divers suited up and standing by. They could not know he had the world’s top-of-the-line underwater propulsion device at his disposal, or that he was even beneath the water with the ransom already in hand. All they could see was the huge black ocean, and David in his boat, riding to Catalina and waiting for a call that would never come.

Yet Matt knew they were not stupid. He had taken them by surprise, true, but they would brainstorm and figure out a few details of his plan. If they were smart they would decide that he did indeed have the ransom, and that he was heading back to shore. They would flood the harbor with agents. That was the reason he was not heading to the harbor, but to a spot two miles south of the marina, where earlier he had parked a fast powerboat. The latter was anchored over a mile offshore. He was not foolish enough to try to exit the harbor—later, on foot—with the FBI virtually setting up camp there. He would ride his boat south to Newport Harbor—where he had originally rented the craft—and go ashore in that marina. Even if one among them was brilliant and grasped the general design of his plan, he or she could not read his mind and anticipate his every move.

Matt wondered if he should write thrillers for a living.

Not that he needed the money. Anymore.

He steered underwater and blind until he estimated he was within a quarter of a mile of his boat. Only then did he allow himself to surface and take a peek. His turn to be surprised. He was shocked to see that his boat was still a half mile away—not a small problem, given that he was practically out of air.