His story and Mary's matched. Frankie was far too dirty to be sharing information with the FBI; he had too much to gain by sticking with O'Hanlon.
Kelley knew about the tracker Frankie's troops planted on Island Girl. Knowing about the tracker probably meant Kelley was working with the Daileys and O'Hanlon.
From the hints that Mary gave me, it was possible that O'Hanlon had a silent partner — somebody high in the government ranks. I didn't mean Kelley; he was small fry, but he could be working for that high-level silent partner.
It was time for me to move Island Girl; Kelley might come back. I could have gotten rid of the tracking device, but I decided to keep it.
Kelley didn't know I knew about it, so I might be able to use it to my advantage. I wasn't going to make it too easy for him, though. I planned to move outside his jurisdiction, for a start.
In an hour, I would be in the British Virgin Islands, where life would be more complicated for Special Agent Kelley. He could still find me, but he couldn't touch me without leaving an embarrassing paper trail. If I was right and he was a crook, he wouldn't do that. Maybe he would send hired help, but that was a different game — one I could play as well as he could.
8
After a brisk, two-hour sail from Christmas Cove to Soper's Hole, Tortola, I cleared into the BVI with Her Majesty's Customs. I settled for the night in an uncrowded anchorage off Fort Recovery, near the west end of Tortola. Soper's Hole was crowded; looking for privacy, I moved around the corner after securing my clearance.
The anchorage wasn't as well protected as others nearby; it was open to the ocean swell, so it wasn't used much. Island Girl was rolling a lot, but she was the only boat there. That's a rare thing in the BVI, and it meant that if anybody came looking, I would spot them.
There was a nice view from my cockpit. I sipped a beer while looking across the Drake Channel at St. John, in the U.S. Virgins. U.S. territory was only a little over a mile away, but I was in the British Overseas Territory of the Virgin Islands, where FBI agents are foreigners.
Kelley could look, but that was about all he could do without getting tangled in red tape. That's been a source of frustration for law enforcement for a long time. These islands have been a smuggler's haven since before there was a United States. Interestingly, the British Virgin Islands have a low crime rate, at least for the Caribbean. The U.S.V.I. is far more dangerous.
The Virgin Islands have always been a major transshipment point for illegal drugs and other contraband. The U.S.V.I. are a gateway to the U.S. market for illegal narcotics. Smuggling them in from the B.V.I. is easy enough for locals in tiny boats.
There's a cooperation agreement that allows U.S. law enforcement to pursue drug smugglers into the waters of the B.V.I. Casual “courtesy boardings” by the U.S. Coast Guard aren't covered by that arrangement.
If Special Agent Kelley decided to come calling again, he would have to do so as a civilian, or he would have to go through a lot of bureaucratic paperwork. If he were crooked, he wouldn't want the paper trail. I was insulated from him, at least for the moment.
I sent an encrypted text to my client while I was on my way over from Christmas Cove. She mentioned earlier that our “relatives” were looking for Mary. I debated whether to let her know one of those relatives tried to question me.
I didn't want to delay my mission, and having the FBI on my tail might have done that. But I didn't like crooks in law enforcement. It rubbed me the wrong way. I've spent my adult life in service to my country, albeit in a way that most people might think strange. And I was sure Kelley was crooked.
My client could gather background information on Kelley, and that was one reason I decided to involve her. The other reason was to cover my backside. The mission came first. If Kelley got in the way, he would suffer collateral damage at my hands. Should that happen, a record of the fact that he was sticking his nose where it didn't belong would mitigate whatever I might do to him. With advance knowledge, my client could cover for me, if it suited her needs.
There was a ping from below deck — the sound of a text coming in to my smartphone. That wouldn't be my client; we only communicated using the special satellite phone. Not very many people knew the number for my smartphone. The last person who called or texted me was Mary, after she took off in Martinique.
Excited, I scrambled down the companionway and grabbed the phone from the drawer under the chart table. I keyed in my unlock code and went to the text messaging app. There was a message from a number I didn't recognize.
Respond if you can. No names or identifiers.
I responded with a simple okay.
There was an immediate reply.
Use a web browser and your VPN. Go to first [email protected]. Initials from my maiden name, year we met. Look in drafts folder. Delete this text. Don't respond to this number.
I erased the message and put the phone away. Opening the lid of the chart table, I took out my laptop and went back up into the cockpit. Powering up the laptop, I found an open WiFi network. I signed into a secure VPN and followed the directions from the text, sure it was from Mary. Who else could it have been?
I got as far as the password request by using the account name "islandgirl" and the server name for my regular email account after the @. For the password, I tried "meo'b2017," and I was in. I wasn't sure that was Mary's “maiden name,” but it was obviously what she meant. I navigated to the drafts folder and found one message.
Hi. Miss you. Still moving fast, cleaning up after those wayward “friends” of mine. Thought we could use this for a blind email drop. After you read this, delete the draft and leave your response in the drafts folder. I'll check it when I can and leave you a response. You do the same. Stay well.
It was Mary, and just when I wished I could ask her some questions. I tapped out a quick email.
Glad you're okay. Thanks for letting me know. I have it from a trusted source that the FBI is after the woman who killed the Daileys. Your not-brother the fighter told me his troops put a tracker on the boat after you got away when they tried to snatch you that time down island. Must be how they found us. Also, there's an FBI agent in St. Thomas who knows about the tracker. He's gotta be crooked. Only way he could know is from brother dear, or someone else in the family. Did Uncle O. have partners? Need you to check the records from the family business and get word back to me ASAP. Stay well, and see you soon in our usual place, I hope.
I put the message in the drafts folder and logged out of the email account. After I closed down the laptop and stowed it, I checked the satellite phone on the off chance that my client responded to my earlier message. I was surprised to see a message waiting.
Target is in St. Barth, on a motor yacht named Witch Hunt. He has her under term charter for three months. Plans to cruise the Leewards and Windwards. Suspect he's shuffling dark money around, if that helps. Have a go ASAP, but mind the collateral damage.
Received your query re: George Kelley. Following up is taking time. Be cautious with him until you hear from us with details on how he's related.
Mind the collateral damage, she said, about Nash. In other words, she didn't want me to blow up the yacht, or kill the crew. But she wanted Nash out of the picture, and in a hurry.
I didn't tell her about the tracker on Island Girl, but it could be a problem. I didn't need Kelley tracking me to St. Barth. Nor was I ready to ditch the tracker. The longer I thought about it, the more curious I was to see who would follow me.
But I didn't want to find out until I took care of Nash/Nasser. Maybe I would leave Island Girl in Tortola and fly to St. Martin. I could charter a boat there and carry out my mission while Kelley wondered where I was.
Opening the drawer under the chart table, I took out the laptop again. I could reserve marina space and charter another yacht online.
Making airline reservations would be more risky. My online activity was anonymous, thanks to the VPN. But airline reservation systems are notoriously leaky
where the feds are concerned.
A few minutes later, I was done. There would be a slip waiting for Island Girl the next morning in Soper's Hole. A low-rent bareboat charter company was expecting Jacob G. Finnerty to pick up a 35-foot Beneteau in St. Martin that next afternoon. A quick look at the airline schedules showed that there were plenty of puddle-jumper flights to choose from.
Since I was online, I checked the email drop. To my surprise, I found an answer from Mary. She must have been waiting and watching. That thought made me smile.
So happy to be in touch. I don't have ready access to the family records, but unless you ditched my stuff, you can help yourself. Feel along the seams in the backpack. There's a microSD card stitched in there with duplicates of everything. You're right — Uncle O could well have a partner or two still in the game. Suspect he was tight with someone in the government; no surprise there. Seeing signs of it myself. Good luck, and stay safe.
I deleted the draft from Mary and left one of my own, short and to the point.
Thanks. You too.
9
I was adjusting to the feel of a strange boat. Best Offer was a modern, lightweight design; she didn't respond to the controls like Island Girl. It was a challenge to hold my position in the pack of boats waiting for the drawbridge opening. This was the last opening of the day. Everybody wanted out of the lagoon at St. Martin. I already put in a full day, and I was still facing two hours of sailing upwind before I reached St. Barth.
I was feeling lucky, though. Everything fell into place this morning. I tucked Island Girl away in the marina at Soper's Hole and got to the airport in time for a mid-morning flight to St. Martin.
After I did the paperwork to charter Best Offer and cleared out with customs, I stopped in a chandlery and picked up a satellite tracking device. They were easy to get and inexpensive. People used them to let friends and relatives back home track their adventures.
I intended to attach it to David Nash's yacht. If my luck held, I might catch him by himself in Gustavia, St. Barth. Then I could take care of him on the spot and relax, but I wasn't counting on it. I figured I probably used up my quota of dumb luck for one day. The tracker would expand my options.
My client said Nash planned to cruise the islands for a while. There were better places for me to kill him than St. Barth. It would be crowded, and the French police there were better organized than their colleagues in the Eastern Caribbean countries.
With a tracker on Witch Hunt, I could choose where to kill Nash. I didn't yet know what kind of vessel Witch Hunt was, but the client said she was a motor yacht. She would certainly be faster than Best Offer. Once I planted the device, I could sail on down island and let Nash come to me, so boat speed wouldn't be an issue.
I could have chartered a powerboat, but that would have attracted more attention than a generic chartered sailboat. Best Offer was almost identical to the hundreds of her sister ships that made up the bareboat charter fleets in the islands.
Some were a little larger; a few were smaller, but they were all white, no-frills boats with blue canvas. They were everywhere, and the people sailing them were often unskilled, so I'd have to do something awfully strange to attract attention.
Even if there weren't a tracking device on Island Girl, I would have chartered because of the anonymity it gave me. Plus, Best Offer was almost disposable. If I needed to make a quick getaway, I could leave her where she sat and call the charter company to pick her up when it was convenient for them. She was like a floating rental car.
The drawbridge opened on time, and I joined the parade of boats exiting the lagoon. It was a good bet that half of them were going to St. Barth. It was close by and a popular spot for charterers. That suited me. I would be less obvious as part of the pack.
Leaving St. Martin that time of day, we would reach St. Barth in daylight. Still, it would be too late to clear in with the authorities. The French were easy-going when it came to the formalities of customs and immigration, at least for visiting yachts. That made the French islands good vacation destinations. I could handle my inbound clearance in the morning, if I decided to stay.
If I managed to plant my tracker that evening, I planned to move on in the morning. As I mentioned, there were better places for me to deal with David Nash.
Once through the drawbridge and out in Simpson Bay, I set the autopilot to hold the bow into the wind while I unfurled the mainsail. I didn't like roller-furling sails on an ocean-going boat, but they sure made it easy for a single-hander. The course to St. Barth was too close to the wind to sail, but the mainsail caught enough wind to steady the boat. In a hurry to get there, I powered into the choppy swell with the auxiliary diesel engine.
With the sail up and sheeted in tight, I adjusted my course as I rounded Pelican Point. Headed straight for St. Barth, I was able to trim the sail so it wasn't flogging. I re-engaged the autopilot and adjusted the throttle to keep my speed at Best Offer's upper limit.
I was right; almost half the boats that came through the drawbridge with me were on course for St. Barth. I kept an eye on my neighbors until we were spread out enough to avoid collisions. Then I ducked below and retrieved my laptop.
Back in the cockpit, I found a shady spot under the dodger so I could read the screen. After I retrieved Mary's microSD card last night, I copied all the files to a folder on my hard drive. Then I put the card back in its hiding place. This was my first chance to look at the files.
I was astonished at how much information could be packed into a few hundred megabytes. The files weren't in any rational order that I could recognize. There were quite a few folders, and loads of files mixed in among them. The file names didn't tell me much. Some were date ranges, some were place names. There was a mix of file types: Word, Excel, PDF, plain text, html. The same was true of the folder names, and their contents were mixed, too.
I navigated back out to the folder I copied the files into. I left it with the default name — "new folder" when I copied the files into it. Even though my computer was encrypted, I tried to avoid making it easy for anyone to find their way around my stuff.
All my data folders were named "new folder." The machine assigned a number following the name. This one's "new folder (37)." I would remember that so I could get back to it, but to a stranger, even one who got past the encryption, it wouldn't mean much.
I checked the metadata for "new folder (37)" and learned that it contained 3,852 files and 113 folders. My head started to ache, just thinking about it. I was too tired to even begin to devise a plan for an organized search. Wondering if Mary had a clue as to how the files were organized, I shook my head.
I shut down the computer and took a couple of minutes to watch the other boats. We were spread out comfortably — nothing to worry about. I picked up the computer and took it below, putting it away.
Filling a kettle with water, I clamped it in place on the stovetop. Then I released the latch that locked the stove in place. Allowing the stove to swing in its gimbals as the boat rocked kept the water from sloshing out of the kettle. I lit the burner and spooned instant coffee into a vacuum bottle I found in one of the galley lockers.
I expected to have a long night ahead of me, and while the boats nearby weren't uncomfortably close, there was too much traffic for me to risk napping. The coffee would keep me going until I anchored in St. Barth. By the time I scouted the harbor and planted my tracker on Witch Hunt, I'd be tired enough to sleep despite the caffeine.
As I expected, it was about a half hour before sundown by the time I got Best Offer anchored in the outer harbor at Gustavia, St. Barth. It was crowded, but that wasn't unusual. Using a spare halyard, I hoisted the rigid inflatable boat that was stowed on the foredeck.
When it was swinging free and high enough to clear the lifelines, I unwrapped the halyard from the winch drum, leaving one turn. By pulling hard on the tail of the halyard with my left hand, I kept the RIB in the air. Throwing my weight into it, I gave the RIB a shove to swing it out
over the water. I let the halyard run free, and the RIB landed with a splash.
I climbed down into it and unhooked the halyard, refastening it to the base of the lifeline stanchion. Hand over hand, I walked the RIB around to Best Offer's transom and tied it there. A 15-horsepower outboard was clamped to the stern rail, with a little hand-operated crane to raise and lower it. After jockeying the RIB into position so that its stern was directly below the outboard, I climbed up into Best Offer's cockpit and lowered the outboard.
Retrieving the outboard's fuel tank from where it was stashed under the helmsman's seat, I climbed back down into the RIB and finished mounting the outboard. Connecting the fuel line, I crossed my fingers and pulled the starter handle. I was relieved when the engine sputtered to life on my second try.
I untied the lines holding the RIB to Best Offer and motored into Gustavia's inner harbor in search of Witch Hunt. A few minutes later, I spotted her. She was one of several big motor vessels moored stern-to the seawall in the marina.
Witch Hunt wasn't remarkable among her neighbors. She was neither the largest nor the smallest of the big motor yachts docked there. Typically, her stern was several feet out from the seawall, with a gangway running up from her swim platform to the concrete abutment. She was held away from the wall by two anchors run out from her bow, their chains making a “V” with an angle of about 45 degrees. Hawsers ran from her stern to massive bollards set atop the seawall. A gap of several feet separated her from the vessels on either side. Big pneumatic fenders hung along the sides to protect the yachts from bumping one another if the wind kicked up.
There was no sign of anyone aboard, but that didn't mean much. Witch Hunt was between 120 and 140 feet in length. There was a lot of smoked glass in her superstructure, affording a good view of the harbor to anyone concealed behind it. I kept moving, careful to study all the big boats. I gawked like a tourist, in case somebody was watching.
Avengers and Rogues Page 4