Avengers and Rogues

by Charles Dougherty

  Once I made the rounds of the harbor, I headed back to Best Offer. I would return in the wee hours of the morning to plant my tracking device. Gustavia's a spot that offers nightlife; I would have to be careful. Wandering drunks didn't worry me, but they might keep Nash's security team on high alert.

  Tying the RIB to Best Offer's stern, I climbed the boarding ladder into the cockpit. It was time for dinner and a long nap.

  10

  Startled by the ringing, I fumbled for my iPhone and answered it, half asleep. Then I remembered setting the alarm; it wasn't a phone call. I had some tests to run on the tracker I was going to plant on Witch Hunt.

  Rubbing my eyes, I turned on my laptop and went online. I set up an account for the tracking device and verified that it was working. For my testing, I set the update interval on the tracker for five minutes.

  I put a pot of coffee on to perk. When it finished, I logged in to the web page for the satellite tracker. Navigating to the link I created earlier, I saw the blinking dot that marked the tracker's location. Hovering the cursor over the blinking dot for a second brought up a block of text with the latitude and longitude of my current location. The speed of the tracker was zero knots. A course was displayed, but it was meaningless in this case, since the device wasn't moving.

  I wrote down the location and logged off, then poured myself a cup of coffee. Eleven minutes later, I logged in again and got an updated position. Although the tracker was still on the chart table, Best Offer had moved, swinging on her anchor, so I saw updated position information.

  Zooming in, I saw a series of three plot points, almost stacked on top of one another. The most recent showed an updated course that matched our track as we swung to the anchor, and a speed of -0.1 knots. My tracker was working.

  Satisfied that I configured the device properly, I adjusted its update interval to 30 minutes instead of five. Thirty-minute updates would give two weeks of battery life, according to the instructions. If I couldn't kill Nash in two weeks, I would need another plan anyway.

  I drank the rest of my coffee and put on my wetsuit. Stuffing the tracker into a waterproof pouch at my waist, I gathered the rest of my gear and went up into the cockpit. A quick look around satisfied me that no one was visible on the neighboring boats, so I put on my mask and flippers and slipped into the water.

  Earlier, I thought of taking Best Offer's RIB at least part of the way to Witch Hunt, but I rejected the idea. There were places to leave the RIB along the way, but there was too much chance that someone might see me slipping into the water in my wetsuit and snorkeling gear.

  Snorkeling at three o'clock in the morning was unusual enough to attract attention. From where I anchored Best Offer, it was only a quarter mile to the megayacht dock at the marina. I decided it was safer to swim. In an all-black wetsuit with a hood, black equipment, and camouflage paint on my exposed skin, I was close to invisible.

  I drifted along for a moment to get my bearings and then started swimming. Out in the anchorage, there was enough chop so that I didn't have to worry about splashing, so I was making good time. I would slow down when I felt the chop diminish.

  11

  The high-pitched whine in my ears grew louder by the second. From experience, I knew the sound was coming from a good-sized outboard, and it was moving fast. I stopped swimming and raised my head out of the water, looking toward the marina.

  Seeing no moving boats, I turned, treading water. A big RIB was approaching the harbor entrance. It was probably a tender to one of the large crewed charter yachts in the outer anchorage, going to pick up passengers who were visiting the nightclubs in Gustavia.

  I watched for a few seconds, making sure that I wasn't in their path. The RIB passed 200 yards south of me. Before I put my face back in the water, I raised my left wrist and glanced at my watch. After swimming for ten minutes, I was maybe five minutes from Witch Hunt.

  I kicked with my fins and put my face down, resuming my swim. From the flat water I was swimming through two minutes later, I could tell that I was well inside the inner harbor. I glided to a stop and raised my head again, moving slowly to avoid being spotted. I was about fifty yards off the bow of the first big motoryacht that was moored stern-to. Witch Hunt was the third one in.

  I saw a dark figure standing on her bow, looking out at the small boats on the mooring balls. A sentry? Maybe so. I watched for a full minute, long enough to see the person take a last drag on a cigarette and flick it out into the harbor.

  The figure turned and mounted a set of stairs leading up to the bridge. There was low-level lighting on the stairs, and I could see that this was a man dressed in white, like paid crew. He could still have been a security guard, though. And it didn't matter anyway. I couldn't let anyone see me. There was no innocent explanation for what I was about to do.

  I took several deep breaths, hyperventilating, and dove, swimming underwater toward the bow of Witch Hunt. The water was clear and only about twelve feet deep, so I stayed close to the bottom. There was enough ambient light to make me nervous; somebody who was watching fish might see me.

  I found a pair of heavy anchor chains a few feet apart, hanging in the water. Their weight pulled them into a catenary that was almost vertical where they broke the surface.

  That close to the big yachts, I was hidden from anyone standing on deck. I followed one chain to the surface and verified that I was under Witch Hunt's bow. I put my hand on the mouthpiece of my snorkel and took it from between my teeth, letting the water drain from it. Blowing through it to clear it in the normal way would have given me away if anyone were on deck.

  I hung on the chain and caught my breath while I considered where to affix the tracker. Witch Hunt was an ultramodern design with lots of curved surfaces. I found the style unattractive, but it did offer several places to conceal a tracking device.

  The tracker would work best with an unobstructed view of the sky, so the top surface of the tip of the bow was a good spot. When I scouted earlier, I saw that the point of the bow was rounded at the top, and it was finished in brilliant white gelcoat.

  That was a perfect place for the tracking device. A few inches behind the spot I picked out, there was a short jackstaff where a yacht club burgee was flying in the breeze. The burgee would block the tracker from casual view.

  When I bought the tracker, I picked up a few other items. Two aerosol cans of quick-drying lacquer would make the device less noticeable when it was installed. One was glossy white, the other a glossy medium brown, in case I needed to mount the device on varnished wood.

  A pack of industrial grade, double-faced foam mounting tape solved the problem of how to fasten the tracker to Witch Hunt. When I got back to the boat earlier, after my recon run in the dinghy, I sprayed the tracker with the white paint and stuck a piece of mounting tape on the back.

  All I needed to do was climb to where I could reach the tip of the bow, peel the backing off the foam tape and stick the tracker in place. The anchor chain was easy enough to climb, but that left several feet of slick, glossy fiberglass for me to traverse to get to where I needed to be.

  Removing my mask, snorkel, and fins, I threaded them onto a short length of parachute cord and tied them to the anchor chain where it broke the surface. I was already wearing neoprene dive gloves and booties, both perfect for climbing the chain without losing any skin.

  Wrapping my legs around the chain, I reached up as far as I could and grasped the chain with both hands, pulling with my arms and pushing with my legs. Careful not to go too fast and rattle the chain, I spent almost a minute reaching the hawse pipe where the anchor chain came through the side of the hull.

  Holding on with my legs and one hand, I opened my belt pack and took out a set of the big suction cups sold in chandleries. They were used by divers for holding on while scrubbing the bottom of a boat. They were also used to pick up sheets of plate glass around construction sights ashore.

  Reaching up, I stuck one suction cup in place and pulled
, working my way up the chain with my feet. Sticking the second suction cup in place, I was able to climb high enough to put a foot in the hawse pipe. By straightening my leg, I could reach up and over to where I wanted to put the tracker.

  I took the tracker from my belt pack with my free hand and brought it up to my mouth. Anticipating this, I freed a corner of the backing on the mounting tape earlier. I clamped the backing paper corner between my teeth and pulled it off. Straightening my leg again, I pressed the tracker in place and pulled on it to test its grip.

  Satisfied it would stay there, I used the thumb lever on the higher suction cup to release it. After another minute of working my way down the chain, I was back in the water. I retrieved my snorkeling gear, put it on, and used the chain to pull myself down to the bottom of the lagoon.

  I swam under water until I was in the middle of the mooring field where the smaller boats were secured. Surfacing for a breath, I got my bearings before I ducked back under the surface and swam toward the harbor entrance. I held my breath until I was far enough from all the moored boats to swim on the surface without the risk of being seen.

  I took my time; there were a few people walking along the waterfront — early risers, or late drunks. I didn't want to splash and call attention to myself. Soon, I was back aboard Best Offer. Before I took off my gear, I went below and powered up the laptop.

  After I satisfied myself that the tracker was working, I shut down the computer and cleaned myself up. My swim to Witch Hunt took an hour. It was four a.m.; I would nap for a few hours and then get underway. There was no reason to stay in St. Barth any longer.

  12

  It was a beautiful morning. I was rolling along under full sail, making seven knots on a direct course to Antigua. Best Offer was in her element; she was on a close reach in 15 knots of wind.

  We left St. Barth an hour ago. At this rate, we would arrive in Antigua a little after dark. I decided on Antigua for a couple of reasons. One, if Nash were “shuffling dark money around,” as my client put it in her text, Antigua was a likely spot. It was by no means the only one, but it also put me out to the east with a good angle on the trade winds to sail down island. That was my other reason.

  The autopilot was doing a good job holding the course, and there was not another boat in sight. I went below and put a kettle on the stove; it was time for some coffee. While it perked, I took out the sat phone and my laptop. Reaching through the companionway, I set the computer and the phone on the bridge deck.

  I spent another few minutes plotting a position on the paper chart I found in the chart drawer. There was no real need, but it was something to do while I waited for my coffee. Once the water was hot, I made a mug of instant and put it on the bridge deck next to the other stuff. I used the rest of the hot water to make a thermos of coffee for later.

  Climbing back into the cockpit, I stood up and scanned the horizon. There were still no other vessels in sight. That was nice; I was enjoying the solitude. I took a sip of coffee and powered up the laptop. There was no internet service out here, but I made a note of the link to the tracking website, along with the user name and password I set up.

  With that information on the screen, I picked up the satellite phone and keyed it in. I shut off the computer and finished composing a text to my client, telling her what I was up to. It wasn't required, but it was good business. If she wanted to, she could track Witch Hunt herself to keep up with Nash. Besides, at some point, she would have to approve the expense for this junket. Best Offer might be like a floating rental car, but she cost quite a bit more.

  With the text sent, I considered powering on the laptop again and trying to make sense of Mary's files. Then I got distracted by two dolphins putting on a show off the starboard quarter. There would be time to look at the files later.

  I was sipping coffee and smiling at the dolphins when the satellite phone rang. Stunned, I put the coffee down and reached for the phone. As I said, no one could call it except my client, and she rarely did.

  Answering an incoming call wasn't as simple as on a normal sat phone. I went through the series of codes and voice recognition screening, and then I heard her voice.

  "I hope I'm not interrupting. Is this a convenient time for us to talk about your request from the other day?"

  She was giving me time to recognize her voice, and an opportunity to excuse myself if I didn't happen to be in a position to talk freely.

  "Yes."

  "You recognize my voice?"

  "Yes. I just sent you a text."

  "I got it. That's why I thought this would be a good time to talk. Are you at sea?"

  "Yes. I won't be at my destination for several hours. Not until after dark."

  "About your request, then. I'm not sure what you've stumbled into. You know who my boss is?"

  I hesitated; I wasn't supposed to know that, but she was my boss for a long time. A guy like me figured out stuff like that. It was one of the skills that made me suited for the job. And a woman like her knew that. But I was shocked at the question, just the same. I decided to be honest with her.

  "Yes. I mean, not by name, but — "

  "Okay," she interrupted me. "That's enough. My boss just got an ass-chewing about a request for super-sensitive personnel information coming out of our department. You know what I'm talking about?"

  "I think so. If I'm right, apologize on my behalf."

  "Not necessary. People are pissed off, all right, but not at us."

  Her boss was an undersecretary reporting to the Secretary of Defense. The position didn't show up on any organization charts. I didn't know anything about the person in the job — man, woman, old, young. Only my boss and the Secretary of Defense knew.

  We were a small operation as government entities went. My boss's boss was the highest level who wasn't politically vulnerable. I wasn't sure how that worked, but I suspected there was some fear instilled in the upper echelons of the chain of command. Crossing my boss's boss would be dangerous.

  "Who's your boss upset with, then?"

  "The asshole who chewed out the Secretary."

  Damn, she was good. She told me what I needed to know and nothing more, all in an innocuous sentence. Anybody who overheard her would picture a middle-aged woman with a steno pad getting raked over the coals. Only my client and I knew who the asshole was. There was only one person who could chew out the Secretary of Defense.

  "You know what I mean?"

  "Yes," I said, thinking my way through this. Special Agent George Kelley had high-level protection. "What do you want me to do?" I was braced for her answer, but life was full of surprises.

  "Take care of your mission first. Then we'll figure out how to find the culprit and exact retribution. I'm assuming you want in on this. If you want to play the retirement card, I understand."

  "I'm in."

  "I knew you would be."

  "I guess this is all you learned from the inquiry, huh?"

  "Don't underestimate the people you're reporting to. There's more than one way to skin a pol — a cat."

  I laughed. "Pol-a-cat? Polecats can stink when you upset them."

  "Yeah. Damn skunks and politicians both. Tell me about it. Take care of your end."

  With that, she was gone. I put the phone down and picked up my lukewarm coffee. I needed to give Mary a heads-up, without breaching national security. At least I would have several hours to think about that before I could get online and leave her a message.

  13

  The sun was just peeking over the island of Antigua. The anchorage outside the Jolly Harbour entrance was still in shadow when I brought my first coffee of the day up into the cockpit. The customs and immigration office wouldn't be open for two hours, but I knew there was public WiFi available out here in the anchorage.

  I took a sip of my coffee and opened the laptop. I could kill an hour here and then go in for breakfast at the restaurant in the marina. By then, the customs office would be open and I could clear in.


  Once connected, I checked on Witch Hunt's position. Nash was moving; Witch Hunt was about two hours away, moving toward Antigua at 15 knots. Given their speed, they left St. Barth sometime early this morning. My guess about Antigua as their first stop was correct. I would have to wait and see which harbor they chose, but I was betting on Falmouth Harbour.

  English Harbour was also a possibility, but it was far more touristy than Falmouth. Nash wouldn't be here for sightseeing; Falmouth was much more business-like and less crowded. Either would accommodate Witch Hunt. Jolly Harbour would, as well, but a boat that size would attract too much attention in Jolly Harbour.

  Finished with my coffee, I logged in to the blind drop email account that Mary and I were using. I left her a message last night warning her that the FBI agent I mentioned earlier was corrupt, and that his friends in high places were covering for him.

  I didn't tell her how high. It didn't matter, for now, and I was curious to see how she would respond. I would have to wait, though. The message I left for her was still sitting in the drafts folder. She must have been busy.

  I closed the laptop and picked up the satellite phone. I figured I might as well give my boss an update on Nash. Knowing he was headed for Antigua, she could research whether he had contacts in the financial community there. Anything she discovered might be useful.

  With that message composed and sent, I poured another mug of coffee and turned my thoughts to the day ahead. I would stick to my plan of breakfast and customs clearance at Jolly Harbour. By the time I was done, Witch Hunt should be arriving.

  Once I knew where she was berthed, I would move to her neighborhood and begin surveillance. Given that Nash was probably here to meet somebody, he would most likely be going ashore. The banks were in downtown St. John, the capital city.