That would mean ground transportation for Nash, so I would find myself an inconspicuous spot ashore where I could watch for him. All I needed was a split second of inattention on his part. Getting into or out of a car would do.
It was late enough for me to move in to the customs dock. I put everything away and fired up the diesel, leaving it to idle while I rigged fenders and dock lines. That done, I went up to the foredeck and retrieved the anchor, enjoying the luxury of an electric anchor windlass. Maybe someday, I would install one on Island Girl.
I pulled in alongside the customs dock and tied Best Offer up at the outside end. Being alone, I didn't want other boats to block me in. Tied at the outer end, I could cast off the lines and back straight out after I handled the formalities.
I gathered my paperwork and locked the companionway before I climbed onto the dock. Walking to the seawall, I followed the sidewalk a hundred yards or so to the south. I pulled up a stool at the snack bar there and ordered scrambled eggs and saltfish patties.
Once I ate and drank another cup of coffee, I strolled back to the customs office. The agent was still getting her desk set up, but she greeted me and pushed a form across the counter. Ten minutes later, I was back aboard Best Offer.
I unlocked the companionway and went below, stashing the paperwork in the chart table. Firing up the laptop, I clicked my way to the tracking website and found that Witch Hunt was on course to enter Falmouth Harbour soon. If I hurried, I could be there shortly after she settled into a berth.
Back up on deck, I retrieved the dock lines. I looped them around the cleats on the dock when I came in, bringing the ends of the lines back aboard Best Offer to tie them. That was a single-hander's trick. It enabled me to untie the lines from the cleats on Best Offer's toe rail and pull the lines back aboard without setting foot on the dock.
Dropping the lines on deck, I went back to the helm and engaged reverse gear, opening the throttle a bit. Best Offer backed away from the dock, and I shifted to neutral, letting her coast backward. The breeze blew the bow around so it pointed to the northeast.
When Best Offer was about 100 feet from the dock, I put her in forward gear and cranked the helm around to the port, bumping the throttle open a little. The boat twirled in her own length, and I headed for the harbor entrance.
An hour and a half later, I dropped the anchor off Pigeon Beach in Falmouth Harbour. I was just south of the marked channel to the marina. Witch Hunt was approaching the marina's dock. She must have had to wait while they moved boats around to accommodate her. My timing was perfect.
I dropped the RIB in the water and mounted the outboard while I kept an eye on Best Offer's position relative to her neighbors. Satisfied that we were not going to swing into the other boats nearby, I went below and put the laptop and my phones in a canvas briefcase.
As an afterthought, I tossed in a small pair of binoculars and a compact camera with a good zoom lens. I didn't need pictures of Witch Hunt, but a camera would be good cover. With binoculars and a camera, I could pass myself off as a birdwatcher while I spied on Nash.
I locked up and climbed down into the dinghy. As Witch Hunt's crew finished securing her to the outer dock at the marina, I pulled in to the dinghy dock and clambered ashore. Now I needed to find a good vantage point and see what David Nash/Daoud Nasser was up to.
14
The marina in Falmouth Harbour included a large building with lots of shops and restaurants. I was sitting at an outdoor table on the balcony of a second-floor internet café that afforded me a good view of Witch Hunt, maybe 50 yards away. With my laptop open in front of me, I stayed a couple of hours, drinking decaf espresso to pay my rent. To pass the time, I forced myself to read through the files that Mary took from the Daileys, but it was slow going.
An hour earlier, Nash and a guy who might as well have worn a T-shirt with "Bodyguard" printed on it came outside. They went to the aft deck of Witch Hunt and stood there. Nash was talking and gesturing toward shore, and the other guy was listening intently and nodding his head.
After a few minutes, Nash went back inside, and Bodyguard came ashore and went into the rental car office across the way from where I was sitting. He was in there for five minutes, and then he emerged, keys in hand. I stood, pretending to stretch the kinks from my back, and moved around the balcony far enough to watch him go to the parking lot. He approached a white mid-sized sedan, walking around the car and looking it over. He opened the trunk and closed it, then headed back to Witch Hunt.
When Bodyguard was back on the boat, I gave the waitress who was taking care of me a few dollars to keep an eye on my computer and went downstairs. Out in the parking lot, I made sure no one was watching. Satisfied I wasn't observed, I walked past the car Bodyguard rented and bent to adjust the laces of my running shoes.
I stood up and went on my way, listening to the satisfying hiss as the car's right rear tire went flat. That might have been enough of a distraction to meet my needs, or it might have just annoyed Bodyguard. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I went back to my table, ordering another espresso from the waitress when she greeted me.
As I drained the last of my espresso, I saw movement on Witch Hunt. I watched as Nash and Bodyguard came down the gangway and walked along the dock, headed toward the parking lot. Closing the lid of my laptop, I slipped it into my canvas briefcase.
I nodded at the waitress and made sure she saw me leave some bills on the table. She smiled and told me to hurry back. By the time I was downstairs and in sight of the parking lot, Bodyguard and Nash were in the car. Bodyguard was behind the wheel; Nash held a cell phone to his ear, nodding his head as he talked with someone.
Bodyguard backed out of the parking place and drove a few feet, then he stopped and got out. Walking around the car, he bent to look at the flat tire and cursed. He pulled the car back into the parking place, said something to Nash, and got out again, leaving the car running to keep the air conditioning on. Nash was still on his phone call.
I turned my back and pretended to window shop as I listened to Bodyguard's approaching footsteps. He was pissed; I could tell from the way his feet smacked the pavement.
I was standing in a little passageway that cut through the ground floor of the building that housed the shops. There were display windows on each corner of the passageway. As Bodyguard stomped past me, I turned from my window shopping, bumping into him. He cursed and shoved me, his right hand on my chest.
I trapped his hand and spun in a clockwise direction, locking his right elbow in an extended position and forcing him to a crouch. He was good; even taken by surprise, he reacted in the right way, twisting to his left to take the pressure off his elbow and hooking my left knee with his left hand.
He would have taken me down, except that I knew the move and anticipated it. I drove the ice pick in my left hand up under his chin, through his tongue and soft palette into his brain. As he convulsed, I retrieved the ice pick and wiped it on his shirt.
Halfway through the passageway, there was a door marked "Trash." I dragged the body through the door. The trash room was half-filled with black plastic bags, each bulging with garbage. I covered my victim with several of the full bags, hiding him from view. Fitting, I thought. Maybe that would buy me a little time before somebody found him.
Walking to the car, I shifted the ice pick to my right hand. Nash glanced up as I jerked the passenger door open. He turned his head to look at me, still talking on the phone. His eyes registered surprise when he saw I wasn't Bodyguard. Before he could react, I drove the icepick into his left ear, right up to the hilt. His eyes went wide, and he gasped one final breath. I pulled the ice pick out and wiped it on his shoulder, dropping it in my briefcase as I closed the car door.
At a casual pace, I walked back to the building with the shops and entered a ground-floor restaurant. It was still early enough for lunch, and my day's work was already done.
A waiter brought me a menu and gave me a card with the password for the restaur
ant's WiFi. He recommended the fish and chips special, so I ordered that and a Guinness. While I waited for my food, I checked the blind email drop, but the message I left for Mary last night was still there in the drafts folder.
I kept expecting to hear sirens, but it was quiet. By the time I finished my lunch, there was still no sign that anyone had found the bodies. That wasn't surprising, I guess. The place seemed dead in the middle of the day, no pun intended. But I was surprised that whoever was on the phone with Nash didn't raise an alarm. Maybe they were used to spotty cellphone service here.
I settled my check and went back to Best Offer, deciding to sail back to Jolly Harbour. Falmouth Harbour was a rough neighborhood; I wasn't sure it was safe to spend the night there.
15
Far enough from Antigua to be out of the island's wind shadow, I unfurled Best Offer's sails and shut down the diesel. The previous day was a busy one for me. After returning to the anchorage outside the Jolly Harbour entrance, I took the dinghy in and cleared out with customs and immigration for an early departure this morning.
I would make St. Martin around sunset. That was too late for the last drawbridge into the lagoon; the anchorage out in Simpson Bay would have to serve for the evening. I would clear in the next morning and drop the boat off at the charter company. By that night, I would be home on Island Girl.
Once I was settled in the anchorage off Jolly Harbour last night, I caught up on my correspondence. I sent my client a short text to let her know my mission was accomplished, and I used the public WiFi in the anchorage to check for messages from Mary.
I found a lengthy response from her in the drafts folder of our blind email drop. Relieved to hear from her, I fetched a beer from the ice box and settled in to read.
Hello, sailor!
Hope all's well in your world. Things are still messy here, but I'm making steady progress. I cleaned up several loose ends from Uncle O's estate, but the more I look, the more I find.
About that foreign-born Irish guy you mentioned — watch out for him. I got my hands on the files we were talking about. There are some references there that could explain his interest. A couple of the relatives I've talked with mentioned that there was a guy in your part of the world who was sent to find those records. He's also supposed to find my “brother.” Maybe the foreign-born guy you mentioned. Still checking on that.
I'm not sure it's worth your trouble to try to make sense of those old family records. I have enough context to find my way through them, but I'm sure they're overwhelming without clues as to how they fit together. Don't worry about trying to decipher them; just make sure you have a copy in a safe place. I may need to retrieve them from you, and the family may suspect that you have them.
You never said how you got on with brother dear, but I'm guessing he was a hit with you. The family up here is missing him and his sidekick — did my brother introduce you when you were all together that time? Let me know how it went when you get a chance; I'll tell his aunt.
Meanwhile, I'm surprised at the size of the extended family. I always thought Uncle was the patriarch of the clan, but not so. Still trying to figure out how all these people are related and who's in charge.
I didn't know so many of my distant cousins were such powerful people in our government. Some of them are important enough that I'll need a little help to set up meetings with them, but it has to be done to settle the estate.
I could use your assistance, if you have time to spare. There's no big hurry; these people aren't going anywhere. Thinking maybe you and I should meet up a little sooner than we planned. We need to talk this over face-to-face, if you're available.
Let me know when you'll be free. Travel's no problem for me. I'd love to see you again. Look forward to your reply.
It took more than one beer for me to digest that. I chuckled at her use of “foreign-born Irish” to describe Kelley. I never heard the U.S. Irish Catholic slang term “FBI” used to refer to an Irish immigrant until Mary used it a few weeks ago. It amused me that she turned it around to avoid naming Kelley. She picked up something about him from contacts in the States, apparently.
Working with her appealed to me; there was no question about that. But there were risks, too. Although I was “retired,” my client would take a dim view of freelance activities that made use of my special skills. And when I read between the lines, that's what Mary was hinting at. Or at least, I thought she was.
We needed that face-to-face meeting. I still wasn't sure about Mary's identity and affiliations. Before Frankie Dailey passed away, he told me she was a hired gun. That wasn't inconsistent with what I knew about her. He implied that she was in business for herself, but he wasn't the most reliable source.
Most people who guessed what I did for a living thought I was self-employed, too. I wasn't, but people in my profession worked hard to protect the identity of our employers. I wasn't trying to convince myself that Mary was a government agent of some kind, but she could well be.
Who really knew how many obscure little “departments” existed in our government? Departments that exist to solve common-sense problems that the voting public and our elected representatives chose not to know about?
I had spent too long in this game to believe my own organization was unique. I knew for a fact that it wasn't. Over the years, I ran across other people like me. More than once, our paths converged on common targets. Given our work, we didn't sit down over a drink and compare notes. But we tacitly acknowledged one another.
Sometimes, I improved the odds for one of the others. It was just another way of getting my job done. I didn't have to pull the trigger myself every time.
I didn't send Mary an answer last night, as tempting as it was. The impulsive side of my nature wanted to, but I've conditioned myself to suppress my impulses. Behavior that might be a minor embarrassment to the average person could have dire consequences for me — or for someone else.
Tonight would be soon enough to give Mary an answer. Maybe too soon. Meanwhile, I got a strange text from my client this morning as I was leaving the anchorage. The timing alone was odd; the message was sent at 3 a.m., her time.
For her to be sending messages at that time of day meant something out of the ordinary was going on. And then there was the message content, which was even more strange than the timing.
That person you asked about the other day — repercussions still coming. Tone of reaction to our request for info on him has changed. Keep him close, but be wary. Mixed messages on him. He may become a target, but not yet.
Stand by for further direction.
I was struggling to grasp her meaning. Confusion was evident in those few short sentences, but in almost 20 years of working at her direction, I never knew my client to be confused. If she ever was, she kept it to herself. So I would do what she suggested; I would stand by for further direction. I was shocked by the implication that she might want me to eliminate an FBI agent. I never heard of such a thing — executing a U.S. citizen was rare enough, but an FBI agent? Even a crooked one… Kelley must have been into something heavy.
I was having a beautiful sail while I puzzled over what to do about Mary and what to make of my client's message. Mary's request wasn't too surprising. My client's message was far more unsettling. And the fact that both of them seemed to be warning me about Special Agent George Kelley was worrisome.
Their comments and my deduction that Kelley knew about the tracker Frankie's troops put on Island Girl all pointed to his being crooked. That was unusual, although Kelley wouldn't be the first FBI agent who went astray.
He might work out of San Juan, or he could be assigned to the resident office in St. Thomas. Either one would make him a valuable ally for crooks smuggling drugs or people through the islands to the U.S. mainland.
Thoughts of lunch were distracting me when I heard the ping of a text message arriving on the satellite phone. It was below deck on the chart table. Standing up, I scanned the horizon for other vessels. I was a
ll alone out there, so I engaged the autopilot. I would check the message and fix myself a sandwich or two.
Once below, I picked up the sat phone and keyed in all the codes. A text from my boss appeared, and when the implications sunk in, I felt a chill run down my spine.
This means of communications is compromised. Act accordingly. Do not attempt to initiate contact by other means.
Talk about short and to the point. I powered off the phone and used a straightened paper clip to open the SIM drawer. Removing the SIM card, I put it on the chart table while I mounted the companionway ladder. With a clear view of the horizon, I cocked my arm and launched the phone in a long, flat arc. Watching the splash when it hit the water, I swallowed hard and wondered what the hell was going on.
Back below, I pulled the tweezers from my Swiss Army knife and picked up the SIM card. Lighting a burner on the galley stove, I held the SIM card in the flame. It melted into a sooty blob and then caught fire for a few seconds.
When the flames died down, I climbed into the cockpit with the charred drop of plastic still in the tweezers. Putting it down on the cockpit seat, I folded out the small blade on the Swiss Army knife. I picked up the tweezers again and held them over the downwind side of the boat, using the knife to scrape the charred mess off the stainless-steel tweezers.
That was overkill to get rid of the SIM card. I could have just tossed it over the side, but burning it was consistent with my training, and it gave me something to do.
Sticking the tweezers back in their slot, I closed the knife and put it in my pocket. Below deck again, I assembled sandwich makings as I wondered what would come next.
16
The ride was wild out in the Simpson Bay anchorage. Best Offer was rolling through about 15 degrees to each side of vertical. A heavier displacement, old-fashioned design like Island Girl would still have been rolling in those conditions, but she would have been far more comfortable. It had to do with inertia. Best Offer was a lighter-weight boat. She started, accelerated, and stopped much more quickly than Island Girl. I felt like I would get whiplash every few seconds.
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