Brains

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  At about the same time, Santiago was talking to his man at the Baia Yacht facility. “There was an American here asking the capo about your boat,” the man told him. “Seemed like something official.” Santiago promised to send him an extra five hundred euros, then called el jefe, who was still in Basseterre.

  “The Americans are tracing the Turtuga Marina.”

  “Where are you,” Perez replied.

  “At the facility in Queens. The poet is in training several hours a day, strengthening his legs.”

  “Good. Prepare my apartment. I will be arriving this afternoon.” He hung up, then rang for his man downstairs, who, in turn, called the pilots and had them prepare the G-5, which had just returned from New York the day before.

  Cameron did not know it, but somewhere between Miami and St. Kitts, Perez's Gulfstream 5 passed almost directly over his American Airlines 737. Perez, as usual, was using a false passport, and the executive airport personnel at both ends of his journey were amply rewarded for silence. And, of course, threatened with unimaginable consequences for leaking information. Carrots and sticks.

  Chapter 10

  Thursday, October 13

  Basseterre, Saint Kitts

  When Cameron landed in Basseterre, he booted up his phone and saw there was an email from Langley indicating that the Baia Boat was still in the harbor. As he had seen it himself on the plane's approach, that was no surprise.

  There were also about two dozen voice mails from Mitzi. He listened to the first four or five, all of which simply said, “Call me,” or “Call me now,” or “Call me immediately.” He decided the rest could wait. Just like Mitzi to be certain she had to talk to him NOW. I'm not jumping through your hoops today, he thought. Maddening woman.

  He realized his options here in Basseterre were actually quite limited. He had no official status, and certainly could not simply knock on Perez's door. “Hi Juan Carlos, remember me? I slept with your woman, betrayed you, and shot you. Enjoying your wheelchair? Oh, and I have a few questions about your sick human experiments on your private island.”

  Instead, he took a taxi to the main constabulary, where he asked for Spencer Lewis.

  Lewis had, at one time, been instrumental in St. Kitts' upset all-Caribbean rugby championship. Now he was the Island's top cop, and ran a small but well-regarded police force. He was generally known to be friendly to the CIA, and Cameron hoped at a minimum for some local information, if not direct assistance.

  At his current girth of over three hundred pounds, Lewis bore only a passing resemblance to the lithe open-side flanker from twenty years previously. He had a genial, easy manner, and a laugh that seemed to bubble up from the depths of his massive torso. Cameron liked him immediately.

  “How can I help my friends from Uncle Sam?” he almost chortled. “Not much happening here, you know. Still kind of a mess after the hurricane.” St. Kitts had been hit almost as hard as Antigua, and it showed. Basseterre meant “low earth,” and much of the low earth was covered in wrecked houses and mud.

  “I am here about Juan Carlos Perez.” Cameron had decided to be direct. “We have reason to believe he has been engaged in some rather unsavory activities in the area.”

  “Hmm, always thought there was something fishy there.” Lewis was doing his best to frown, but the muscles of his face seemed to rebel at the attempt, treacherously turning up the corners of his mouth in a comical caricature looking much like Humpty Dumpty. “As you might guess, he is popular here. Throws out a lot of money. Hosts fancy parties at his villa or on the Turtuga Marina, his yacht. Don't actually know if he is here, haven't been down to the harbor. He comes and goes a lot.”

  “I saw the boat in the harbor as I was coming in,” replied Cameron, “if that means anything.”

  “Doesn't prove anything, but it is hopeful. Let's ride up to the villa and have a look.”

  “Er, I can't approach him directly,” Cameron interjected hastily. “We have a history.”

  “Let me guess, an affair of the heart?” Lewis winked, a massive movement that was as contorted as if Cameron had squeezed lemon juice into his eye. He laughed and clapped a fleshy paw on Cameron's shoulder, practically snapping his clavicle.

  “Something like that. How much time does he spend here?”

  “Well, the past six months, he has been here a lot, leaves in the Turtuga for a couple of days at a time, but mostly here. He was definitely off-island for the hurricane, rumor has it that his people hired over a hundred men to get his property back to normal before he came back.”

  “He went out on his boat during a hurricane?” Cameron was surprised.

  “Well, the boat left a couple of days ahead of the storm, and the house was closed up. I would imagine he headed down south out of the path, but I don't really know.”

  In the end they decided to take the constabulary van up the mountain to the villa. Lewis would knock on the door with the pretext of delivering an invitation to the Governor's upcoming gala, while Cameron hid in the back. Accordingly, when they were a couple of blocks away, Cameron got out and climbed into the cargo area, and Lewis slammed the door.

  Cameron was suddenly claustrophobic. The van was, in point of fact, designed to carry prisoners. The back had thick padding on the walls and floor, and a steel cage separating it from the passenger compartment. There was no handle on the inside of the door.

  His discomfort increased when, instead of parking at the curb, Lewis drove directly to the gate and honked twice. The gate swung open, and Lewis maneuvered up the drive and around to the side, where he pulled the van under a carport and got out. A lean whip of a man was approaching from the front of the house.

  Cameron started to sweat. The driver's window was open, and he was able to hear the two men clearly.

  “I've brought you a present,” Lewis boomed, “tell el jefe that I've got a nosy American for him.”

  “El jefe is gone, flew away this afternoon.” The voice was harsh, almost a hiss.

  “Wish I had known that,” grumbled Lewis, “I would have just let him nose about. Now we'll have to take care of him.” He heaved a massive sigh.

  “I'll need to check with el jefe first,” said the thin man.

  Cameron had pulled out his phone, only to find it had no service. At first he was surprised, but then glanced up and saw that the roof and sides of the compartment were covered with the chicken-wire-like jamming net.

  Lewis opened the back door and snatched the phone from Cameron, laughing. “No, no,” he tutted, “can't have you calling in the cavalry.” He slammed the phone on the edge of the bumper with such force as to almost bend it in half, then tossed it back into the van.

  Cameron had been tensing his muscles, and as Lewis' arm was extended, he uncoiled a viscous blow to the big man's neck, hoping to smash his larynx. His fist landed hard, but felt just like punching a memory foam pillow, sinking slowly into the massive fat, probably not even causing a bruise. Lewis' eyes lit up with surprise, but he simply swept his extended arm into Cameron's head, the force cracking him against the side of the van. Dazed, he tried to deliver a second blow, but Lewis grabbed his fist with a massive hand, and yanked Cameron out of the van onto the ground, put his knee into his back, and deftly applied handcuffs. He then jerked him to his feet.

  The thin man snapped a photo, and sent a text. Less than a minute passed, and the phone buzzed. He answered, listened, nodded to himself and said simply, “Yes, el jefe,” and hung up.

  “El jefe wants him taken to New Jersey. I'm to take the Turtuga to Florida, where I'll be met.” He turned to Cameron. “A luxury cruise for you,” he grinned, showing bad teeth. “Apparently el jefe wants to talk to you. He told me to give you a message. Enjoy your legs while you can.”

  At 36,000 feet, Perez was pleased. It had been six years since the man he had known as Anderson had shot him, and despite his network of informants, he had been unsuccessful in discovering who he really was. He had almost despaired of
ever finding the man. But all he had to do was wait, and the rabbit hopped right into the fox's den. He dialed Santiago.

  “Meet Gonzales in the cove south of Miami on Friday at nine p.m. He will have a package for me. Bring it to the number two facility. I much prefer that you inflict no damage. I mean to take care of it personally.”

  Santiago made plans to leave for Miami with his special truck. He would drive up the coast with “the package.” Piece of cake. Except for the part about no damage. He preferred to have options.

  He really did love his job.

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  It was nearly midnight, and Mitzi was annoyed. She had been trying since morning to reach Cameron, but his phone had been off. It had occurred to her that Perez had to be drawing his talent from somewhere, and she wanted him to see if he could find out anything about any Central or South American neurosurgeons who had disappeared. All of her contacts were stateside, and she hoped to have a research assistant assigned down at Langley. She must have called twenty times, each time going straight to voice mail. Finally, as afternoon turned into evening, she became concerned, and took a taxi over to his apartment. No answer at the door, but she had a key and let herself in. No Cameron. The apartment felt stale. Where was he?

  She thought about asking over at his Anti-Terrorist Unit office, but decided that whoever was there overnight, they would not be likely to give out anything, FBI credentials notwithstanding. No, her best bet there would be in the morning, when she could talk to Harris, who had the office next to Cameron. He happened to be FBI and was on cordial but cautious terms with her.

  Cameron was also annoyed. He could not believe his stupidity. He had been so excited to get back into the field that he had managed to forget everything he knew about fieldcraft. He was currently handcuffed to a chain attached to a sturdy cleat over the headboard of a luxury queen-sized bed, with a toilet and sink within reach, and a large TV with a selection of movies. So things could have been worse. Of course, he was in the middle of the ocean heading for a rendezvous with a man who had every cause to detest him. So clearly things could have been better.

  He had no reason to believe that anyone even knew he was missing. Certainly he had not told anyone he was leaving town, another unforgivable blunder, and he had had no meetings scheduled. He kicked himself for not having returned Mitzi's calls. Even if he were missed, which was by no means certain, he had not left much of a trail. The thing was, he knew better, which was why he was annoyed, but given the fiasco at Isla Sofia, he had been wary of letting anyone know that he was continuing to pursue Perez until he had something concrete. He should have checked in, left notes of his plan, checked in on arrival to Basseterre. That was what the secure email was for, after all. The techs in satellite surveillance could certainly help, but only Mitzi would know to ask them. He perked up a little, remembering her repeated attempts to contact him during his flight. Mitzi would be looking, and she would look harder because she would be angry.

  He was also berating himself for having gotten into the back of the van. After six years behind a desk, his operational readiness was way below par. He should have been on alert for the possibility that officials on a small island like St. Kitts would be likely to be on the Perez payroll. He felt like a fool, and knew he was likely going to die for his foolishness.

  At least he was eating well. The Turtuga Marina was only stocked with the finest food, and he was brought meals at regular intervals. Plastic cutlery, obviously. He had searched in vain to the limits of his manacles for any scrap of metal to use as a pick, but the room was very sparsely decorated, and very clean. He wondered a little about the stateroom. It was certainly an odd mixture of luxury and confinement, and he thought more than once that he was probably not the first unwilling guest on board.

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  The ship cruised surprisingly quietly. He had a porthole, and he estimated they were making at least thirty knots. Malcolm had said the Baia Boat could cruise at forty-five knots, and he guessed that the slower speed was to conserve fuel. He thought it was over a thousand miles to Florida, so maybe about thirty hours. Not that he was in a hurry. He doubted he would like the next part of the journey, which would likely be the last one he ever made.

  Chapter 11

  Friday, October 14

  New York

  Dr. Overbridge reserved Fridays for new patient consultations. At this point in his career, only patients already known to require his expert surgery made it through his staff's screening process to actually see him. He scheduled one new patient per hour, and saw four each Friday morning starting at eight, and three in the afternoon, starting at one. Patients were required to arrive a minimum of fifteen minutes early, so as to be in the consultation room when he walked through the door at the top of the hour. If they were not there, they were not seen, and would have exactly one opportunity to reschedule, with a five hundred dollar penalty fee. He himself, of course, was never late. Not even a minute. He considered physicians who ran late to be poor managers, and could not fathom why any patient would trust such a surgeon with their life and health.

  The pre-surgical visits were long, albeit with very brief conversations. Essentially, he would put the scans up on the monitor, and, after staring intently (and silently) at each and every one of as many as six hundred frames in an MRI, CT-angio, or angiogram, he would then simply tell the patient the name of the operation proposed, a rough success rate, and the risks, which were always infection, bleeding, permanent brain injury, and death. He did not like to explain options and alternatives. In his world, the only options were to do it his way or to find another doctor. His reputation and statistics were compelling, however, and there was always a long waiting list for his services.

  At precisely three o'clock, Overbridge opened the door to his consulting office, wearing his white coat and an orange and red polka dot bow tie.

  Maxwell sat in the visitor's chair, and Dr. Overbridge greeted him and pressed his thumb on the pad next to his monitor. The screen lit up, the CT-angio already loaded in by his assistant. He scrolled slowly through the films, stopping every now and then to go back and check a prior frame. He spent several minutes going back and forth over one specific area. There was a small aneurysm of the anterior communicating carotid artery, with a broad neck, and arteries branching near its dome, making it poorly suited for a non-surgical approach. He then looked up at Maxwell.

  “Have you had any headaches or other symptoms?” he asked. Maxwell shook his head.

  “No, not really.”

  “And how about the patient? Does HE have any symptoms?”

  Maxwell sat up with a start. “What makes you think I am not the patient?”

  “Well, for one, it is extremely unlikely that this particular aneurysm would have been discovered without some symptom to prompt the CT-angio. And secondly, your brows and cheekbones are significantly less prominent than the scan would indicate. Thirdly, your eyes are much closer together. I look at a lot of scans, and a lot of patients.”

  Maxwell looked at Overbridge. “You are, of course, correct. I am representing someone who wants to make sure you will do the procedure prior to seeing you.”

  “I think we are done here. I have patients who are kings and billionaires, politicians and celebrities. I do not do business this way. You are wasting my time.” He started to stand.

  “COULD you do the surgery?” Maxwell hadn't moved.

  “Of course. You knew that before you came. There was no need to play games.”

  “There are two reasons for this unconventional approach. The first is that, in addition to the aneurysm, there is something else we need you to do for this patient, something that may interest you enormously.”

  Dr. Overbridge was walking towards the door.

  “The second is that the patient is Pierre Lemieux.”

  Overbridge froze, then turned rigidly and returned to his chair.

  “I need you to come to our research facility in Queens to show you what we
are working on. I promise it will be worth your while. More importantly, it will be worth it to Pierre. A car will pick you up at your apartment tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp. I trust you will be at your curb.” He rose and left the room.

  Overbridge remained, rigid, in his chair. He sat there, motionless, until precisely four o'clock, then rose and removed his white coat, which he placed in a hamper in his office closet, put on his suit jacket, and started his walk home. His secretary stared, stupefied. She had worked for Dr. Overbridge for seven years. He always left his office on Fridays precisely at five. She tried calling after him, asking if there was something wrong. He did not so much as acknowledge her existence.

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  In lower Manhattan, by three o'clock, Mitzi had been busy raising hell for almost seven straight hours. Her office in the FBI complex was a couple of blocks from the ATU, and she had been there most of the day. She went in to see the Special Agent in Charge of the ATU, Agent Kevin Crawley.

  “Sir, I need some help with Agent Hansen.”

  “I heard you were over here irritating everyone. Tell me what you've got.”

  “Well, when I spoke with him Wednesday night, he was tracing a luxury yacht suspected to belong to Juan Carlos Perez. He found it in Basseterre, and we have him on a flight to St. Kitts' yesterday morning. He cleared customs, but then nothing. I called and talked to the Chief of Police himself, a friendly fellow named Lewis, who assured me that Cameron had not shown up at the constabulary. He knew all about the yacht, and even went down to the harbor to check, but it was not there. We have no idea where the boat is now, and there is thick cloud cover that rolled in over the Caribbean this morning, so it might be days before the satellites give any more information.”