by Andrew Mayne
Solar spreads the contents of the folder on the floor of the garage. There are lots of electrical schematics and component-design diagrams. He unfolds a blueprint and lays it flat.
It shows a flat submarine that looks like a manta ray. Instead of being cylindrical, it’s spread out, designed to skim along the bottom of the ocean.
Solar and I stare at the same number on the diagram—total height of the craft: thirty-six inches. Short enough to glide through the canals we’ve been looking at but large enough to carry significant cargo.
Solar reads the interior dimensions. “Pretty big inside for just one or two people.”
“They wanted it to carry salvage to the surface. I wonder if Winston found a new purpose for it . . .”
Solar scrutinizes the image. “I’m confused. Where does the pilot go?”
“There is none. It’s automated. Oh man!” I pull the transceiver from my pocket. “This!”
“That’s a radio component. What good is a radio if there’s nobody to talk to?”
“Very good if it’s a modem. Remember what Albert said? This lets one computer talk to another. Data transmission.”
“A remote control?” he asks.
“Or a way to load a new program.” I stab the diagram with my finger. “Either way, I’ll bet you anything this is what K-Group’s looking for.”
“An underwater narco drone . . .” Solar’s voice goes quiet as he thinks it over. “This is serious.”
“No kidding.”
“I mean real, real serious. Narco subs are costly to build and operate. A fleet of these?”
“They can’t cost more than a few million,” I reply.
“And no pilot. I’d love to see one.”
“There’s one out there. Somewhere at the bottom of a canal.” I add silently, With a half-billion dollars inside . . .
Jackie and I could go anywhere. Really anywhere. She might protest, but not so much if I bought her a pony farm in New Zealand.
Slow down, Sloan. We’re the good guys . . . but what does that even mean anymore?
“I think I just saw your father in your eyes,” says Solar.
“No shit,” I say bluntly. “Before we decide to go rogue, we need to figure out where to look.”
“If Bonaventure used this to smuggle the money and files, then our starting point is his estate. But that’s being surveilled by the DIA.”
“Hmm . . . But do they know what they’re looking for?”
“Do we?” asks Solar. “Are you really positive that this Kraken’s real?”
“No. But there’s a quick way to find out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
RUMRUNNERS
All this talk of drug dealers got me thinking about the gangsters who used to smuggle booze through South Florida. With more than a thousand miles of coastline, Florida has always served as both an entry and an exit for illicit goods. Trying to stop it has been an ongoing effort for almost five hundred years.
For every naval innovation—faster boat, radar, airplane, satellite, what have you—smugglers have always been incentivized to outthink and outdesign law enforcement.
I had an economics professor who put it to our class bluntly: “When you restrict the supply of something, the price goes up. When the price goes up, you have more people working on more solutions to distribute the product. The market corrects for that.”
According to him, the only two solutions that dramatically affect the price of an illegal commodity are decriminalizing it and easing restrictions or going the opposite direction and making sale and possession capital offenses. He claimed that educating the public on the dangers had only a nominal effect.
I’m not really sure where I stand. As a cop, I have to enforce a number of laws I don’t agree with (and may have broken in my younger days). But I also recognize that I live in a democracy, and the laws we enforce are generally the ones everyone agrees on. Or at least this is my pat answer when I’m asked for my take on criminal matters.
A phrase you hear often in training and seminars is use your discretion. That gives us a lot of leeway in what we choose to enforce, for better or worse. I know for a fact that if we did as many drug searches of rich white schools as we do poor black ones, there’d be an outcry about our “lack of discretion.” It’s tricky on both sides. That’s why I prefer the water.
Right now, I’m looking at a map of the south end of Palm Beach, where a small island called Turtle Isle perches by the mainland.
Solar and I are parked in a lot near the bridge that leads to the island, and we want to get our bearings straight so we know what we’re looking for. Chances are, Bonaventure’s estate is being watched by a lot of eyes. Even a swift drive-by is bound to get noticed.
“Turtle Isle has about twelve properties,” says Solar. “Hard to keep track. Big ones get split into smaller ones. Two are owned by royalty—a German baron and a Saudi one as well. Some romance novelist owns another. A movie director and bankers or lawyers make up the rest.”
“Must be nice,” I reply.
“Maybe,” says Solar. “The rich have their fair share of domestic squabbles, ungrateful kids, and opportunists preying upon them.”
I don’t point out how it’s probably easier to deal with that when your biggest fear isn’t losing the roof over your head. But I get what he’s saying. When I went to private school, a rich family’s divorce sounded like a civil war. Lines were drawn even in the cafeteria as stepkids sided against each other because trust funds were at stake.
I examine a printout from Google Maps, on which I’ve drawn a big red circle around Bonaventure’s estate. I don’t use the word estate lightly. There’s a main house, several guesthouses, two pools, three hot tubs, a tennis court, a mini putting green, and a large boathouse next to a hundred-foot dock.
Bonaventure’s boat, a ninety-footer cheekily named the Good Fortune, is currently docked in a marina in Miami.
“You sure there was nothing on the boat?” I ask.
“No. I’m not sure about anything in life. But DEA, FBI, and—I’m sure—a DIA search team have been all over it.”
“Yeah, makes sense.”
“DIA would have used antiterrorism stuff, military grade. Millimeter radar, X-rays, that new neutron thing. The boat was even up in dry dock with a robot arm loaded with sensors scanning the thing. Keep in mind that Bonaventure’s smart. He knew the first thing they’d search is that boat.”
“And where is he in all this?” I ask.
“Around. He’s not under official investigation. He still goes back and forth between here and New York. LA. He doesn’t leave the US, though, and he always has a security team with him.”
“You’d think K-Group could get to him.”
“They’re afraid to kill him. They can’t risk his files getting out. They’d rather get him into DIA custody and interrogate him.”
Hmm. I nod.
“The reason he won’t leave the United States is he’s afraid he’ll get hauled to some overseas black site.”
“Rich-people problems,” I reply.
Solar keys the ignition. “Ready?”
“I still think we should have used another car and worn a disguise.”
Solar even has the windows rolled down.
He pulls us onto the bridge. “George Solar 101: if you know they’re going to catch you doing a thing, don’t try to hide. That confuses them and makes them think that maybe you’re not doing a thing.”
“Aren’t we doing a thing?” I ask.
“Yep. And maybe they’ll think we’re just curious how Bonaventure lives. Who cares? If we used a rental car or one belonging to anyone we know, they’d trace it.” He points to a traffic camera on a light post. “That’s not a Department of Transportation camera. That’s a plate scanner. Right now, my registration and name are being added to a database with a time stamp. See the one ahead?” A camera is facing us on a traffic-signal pole. “That’s taking photos of everyone driving onto the island. Facia
l recognition would see past a wig and sunglasses.”
I get a case of the butterflies. “So DIA knows we’re here?”
“Their computer does. It’s not necessarily the same thing. They probably have it programmed to ping them whenever Bonaventure comes or goes. If he tries to sit in the back of a big SUV, there’s a thermal profile for him—same thing Predator drones use to take out terrorists in their homes.”
“Wonderful.” It’s one thing to know this technology exists; it’s something else entirely to realize it’s being used on you.
“If they have their act together, they probably have a database of persons of interest too. You’d be in there for sure.”
“Delightful.”
The main road on the island is a loop. On one side is the ocean view; the other is the bay side. While the ocean side has the better view, the bay side has the calmer waters and is where most of the houses with boat docks are located.
Bonaventure’s parcel is at the tip, so it features a dock on the bay and an ocean view from the main house. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have that kind of money. This is Run’s family’s territory. I’m just happy if my boat doesn’t have a leak.
The houses are all predictably immaculate and have perfectly manicured lawns. Some have fountains in front, others high fences.
When we get to Bonaventure’s estate, I’m surprised that his fence is only two feet tall. It’s more of a property divider. I’d been expecting a walled compound.
Instead, I can see clear across the estate to the ocean. Parts of it have stone walls and are shielded from the road, but the house itself and the cottages are out in the open.
You could almost go up and knock at the door if it weren’t for the small guardhouse at the base of the main driveway. A stocky man in a polo shirt is sitting inside and watching as we drive by.
Solar waves to him, and the guard returns the gesture. Much to my horror, Solar stops the truck and rolls my window down.
“Is Jason around?” he asks.
The guard steps over to our vehicle. “Mr. Bonaventure isn’t home today,” he replies politely. “Shall I tell him you stopped by?”
“Yeah, tell him George Solar said hello.”
The guard makes a note of this. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.” Solar gives him a grin, then pulls ahead to the far end of the loop and brings the truck to a stop.
“You’re one ballsy man,” I note.
“Did you get a good look?”
“At what? His clipboard?”
“George Solar 101: talk but see. He had a sidearm on his right side and another under his slacks on his ankle. Former cop. Which means he’s paid a lot more than a regular security guard.”
“Okay. That makes sense.”
“Upper-right window over the side garage?”
“What?” I didn’t even notice there was a side garage.
“The curtains were drawn partially, but there was a six-inch gap. A man with a telescope was watching from there.”
“How the hell did you see that?” I resist the urge to turn back and look.
“Because Vernon, the ex-cop in the guardhouse, just turned around and looked at that window and flashed him an all-clear sign.”
“No radio?”
“Would you trust a radio with DIA surveilling you?”
“Fair point. Anything else?”
“You tell me. Did you spot a secret submarine pen?”
He’s serious.
“Um, no. They’re usually on the water.”
“Even secret ones?”
“Another fair point.” I glance back at the dock and the boathouse. “I’d have to have a look from the water.”
“All right, then. There’s a boat-rental place ten minutes from here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
GROTTO
Solar makes a show of casting his fishing line into the water while I stare at Bonaventure’s estate. At first I thought he was making a half-assed effort at being undercover, but then I realized he genuinely wanted to know if the fish were biting.
It’s typical Florida weather: overcast skies to the south and bright sun to the north, each side seemingly flipping a coin to decide if it’s going to rain or stay sunny here.
“What do you think?” asks Solar from the bow of the small boat.
“Your cast could use some work.”
“I’m more of an inshore guy,” he replies. “What about the place? Any James Bond villain chicanery going on?”
I was curious to get a look at the dock, but I see nothing suspicious about it. The seawall is made of large boulders and doesn’t look like the ideal place to install a secret hatch or whatever.
A boathouse stands at the end of the dock, next to a small crane for lifting smaller boats out of the water. At the other end is a motorized boat cradle and a floating dock for kayaks and craft like ours. It looks like a thousand other waterfront properties in South Florida.
At one point, another guard dressed in the same maroon polo came out and walked around the grounds before going through a door in the back of the large garage area.
We figure that’s their command center. If I were going to Jason Bourne this place, my first stop would be that garage entry, to knock them out or something. Thankfully that’s not our job.
We’re still trying to figure if there’s some way Bonaventure could load or unload a Kraken-type craft here under watchful eyes. So far it seems questionable.
“What if it’s under the dock while the larger ship is moored here?” asks Solar.
I try to estimate how much space there is under the dock. “I don’t know. The waves are a little rough. I could see the thing getting banged up on the rocks. You might be able to do it under cover of loading a bigger boat, but that also seems like when there’d most likely be DEA and coast guard ships out there watching. Too risky.”
“Yeah, I thought it was a dumb idea too. I just wanted to see what you thought.”
I study the floating dock. “If that thing were hollow . . . maybe it could raise up underneath it? I don’t know. The more I look at this place, the harder it seems for Bonaventure to use it to load and unload contraband.”
“The sub may have been only for handling money shipments,” says Solar.
“Why even bother? Why not Bitcoin it or something?”
“His South American partners prefer cash. Ever since the terrorism laws about money transfers, money laundering has been harder to get away with,” he explains.
“What about the dark web and all that?”
“They’re into that. For sure. But we’re talking billions of dollars over time. Your street dealers get the cash; it moves upstream to Bonaventure, who has to figure out how to get it upstream to the cartel.”
“I always wondered about that middle part, how it gets laundered.”
“All kinds of ways. If you ever paid for a comedy show or a concert in an all-cash venue, there’s a good chance your money got lumped in with drug money in the box office. You can clean a few million dollars a week doing that all over South Florida.”
I never thought of that. Of course, I’m typically only retrieving evidence from underwater, not following a criminal enterprise’s money chain.
“One day we’ll take a little car ride and I’ll show you where all the money goes. You’d be surprised how many hands are dirty—or at least don’t ask questions. If you cut off all the drug money flowing into South Florida overnight, the economy would collapse in some cities. Hell, some countries would topple as well. The only thing keeping certain politicians in office in South and Central America is the payments from the drug trade. And the same could be said for here.”
“Cheery thought.”
“Here’s another one for you. Nobody knows this, but right before Bonaventure got served a warrant, his people had been looking at a possible senatorial run. The cynic in me thinks that his opposition decided it was time to cut him off.”
“You�
�re pretty much all cynic.” I eye the houses on the island. “I’m looking, but I don’t see it. Maybe the transceiver was just that and not part of a robot narco sub?”
“What about the pool at the shipyard? Think Winston liked to go for laps?”
“Yeah, that . . . I don’t know. But I’m not seeing where Bonaventure could park a sub here and not get spotted by the world. Maybe it was somewhere else? Some other property?”
“Could be . . .” Solar drags his words out a little, hesitating. “Let’s just say I got a strong feeling money came through here.”
“An informant?”
“An informed guess.”
“Okay, but I’m still not seeing it.”
“Maybe look at it differently,” Solar suggests.
“Like with a drone?”
“Do you have one? I’m sure his people would love to see that flying over his estate.”
“Not on me.”
“But you could see a lot with one of those, right?”
“Yeah. I’ve played with my brother’s. They’re kind of cool. Our police department was thinking about getting one. Hold on . . . A lot of rich people live here.” I nod at Turtle Isle.
“You think?”
“That means rich kids. Realtors . . .” I start typing on my phone.
Less than a minute later, I find more than a dozen YouTube videos of Turtle Isle taken by drones. I throw a towel over my head to block the sun as I scrub through the footage until I spot Bonaventure’s estate.
“Uh, that doesn’t look suspicious,” grumbles Solar.
“It just looks like I’m changing film,” I reply.
“Right. And don’t forget to make sure your time machine has enough power.”
“Quiet.” I roll back a video and scrutinize the water a hundred yards up the island from Bonaventure’s estate.
“Interesting . . .” The water is crystal clear blue except for one section where it’s muddy, emanating from a narrow point—maybe a sewer or storm drain.