Vigilantes and Lovers

by Charles Dougherty

  After a few seconds of silence, she said, "Finn?"

  "Mm?"

  "I'm sorry I've been such a bitch for the last two days. I have problems, but I was wrong to take them out on you. Forgive me?"

  "Sure," I said. "I thought I pissed you off asking too many questions."

  "No. No, you didn't. I… Well, maybe that spurred me on, I guess. You did make me angry, but… frustrated, more. And plain old scared. I shouldn't have felt that way. I know I can trust you, but this is new to me."

  "New," I nodded. I took a sip of coffee before I said, "Me, too. I think I know what you mean."

  She studied me in silence for several seconds, her face expressionless. Then she shook her head. "Thanks for trying to understand, but there's just no way you can. Understand, I mean. I've spent the last two days trying to figure this all out, and I'm still not there. There's just so much shit I…"

  I let the silence hang while I took several swallows of coffee. "Want to tell me?"

  She looked me in the eye for a second, squinting and chewing on her lower lip. "Yes. But I don't know how yet. I owe you the truth, this time. I know I must have about run out of rope with you, and that's the scariest feeling I've ever had. I don't want to screw this up. Not this time. But I'm so ashamed…"

  I nodded, giving her time.

  "I've told so many lies that I'm having trouble remembering the truth. I don't mean just to you — to myself, too. I've heard drug addicts describe losing their grip on reality. I can only guess at what they mean, but that's how I feel."

  I didn't say anything.

  "I don't mean now. Now I feel like I'm waking up, kind of. Seeing things the way they really are after living in some kind of hazy hell for as long as I can remember. And how things really are is awful. But I don't…" She shook her head. "I'm so afraid."

  I saw tears begin to trickle down her cheeks.

  "We're about to get a spectacular sunrise, and we're in a beautiful spot — our own little desert island," I said. "There's nobody to bother us. Nobody even knows where we are. This is a good spot for getting reacquainted with yourself. I'm not going to ask you any more questions — no pressure. If you get to a point where you want to talk, I'm here. If you don't, that's okay, too. And if you need out, we'll sail to wherever you want, and we can part ways. No pressure. All right?"

  She nodded, sniffling, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. "Thanks, Finn. Maybe you do understand. I don't deserve you."

  "Maybe you deserve me, maybe not. I'm no angel. You don't know enough about me to make that call right now. One step at a time. How about if you sit here and enjoy the sunrise while I go fry up a few flying fish and eggs? Maybe some grits?"

  "Okay," she sobbed, watching me get up and go down the companionway ladder.

  As I gathered the stuff for breakfast, I heard her start bawling uncontrollably.

  My instinct was to go back to her and take her in my arms, but I resisted. I wanted to comfort her, but I needed to keep my distance and let her work through this.

  If she did come clean somehow, it would have to be without my help. I didn't know what she was dealing with. This might be more of her bullshit, for all I knew. But I didn't think so. That might be the voice of hope, trying to triumph over experience. Keep your distance, Finn. It's okay to feel sympathy for her, but don't let it cloud your judgment.

  As hard as it would be, I would just have to wait until she revealed the next version of her tale, if that's what this was. Or for her to come to terms with whatever was bothering her, if she really was working toward some sort of reconciliation. I fought enough of my own demons to know that beating them requires a solitary effort.

  23

  After breakfast, Mary took the dinghy and went ashore to explore Isla de Aves. She didn't say she wanted to be alone, but she didn't invite me, either. She needed time to herself; I would let her have as much as she wanted.

  I watched as she beached the dinghy and tied it off to a piece of broken concrete well above the high-water mark. She set off across the narrow strip of sandy ground, disturbing the terns that were nesting everywhere. They fluttered into the air, screeching at her, and then settled down as soon as she was a few feet beyond them.

  She carried an insulated lunch bag. Tucked under her arm was a rolled-up beach blanket.

  We were anchored about 50 yards from shore, and the island itself was less than 100 yards wide. There was just enough high ground between us so that when she reached the beach on the windward side and spread her blanket, she was out of my line of sight.

  After she was settled, I powered up my satellite hotspot and started to check the email drop I was sharing with Aaron. Before I got the web browser open, I saw the notification flag on my regular email client's icon; there were two emails waiting.

  I used that email client to access a plain old email account. It was independent of the accounts I used for secure communication with Aaron and Mary. It was for more normal things — banking, travel reservations, keeping up with casual contacts — that kind of stuff. And for last-ditch, coded messages from Nora, when all else failed.

  I wasn't expecting any regular email. The two messages were probably spam, but I decided to look at them anyway. Mary was planning to stay ashore for most of the day; I wasn't pressed for time.

  The emails were from two pharmacies in India. They each offered a drug to cure my erectile dysfunction. The logos of the two drug companies were almost identical.

  To anyone else, the messages would look like spam. To me, each logo was a signal that I should call a pre-established emergency contact number. Nora wanted to talk with me, and she knew the satellite phone wasn't working.

  I took a more careful look at the messages. There was a subtle difference hidden in the text embedded in the two logos. The messages were from different people.

  The emergency contact number would be answered by an automated system that would prompt me to enter a four-digit code. There was a default code, which I memorized long ago along with the emergency number. That code was for me to use when I initiated the contact procedure. These messages gave me two different four-digit codes, the equivalent of different extensions.

  One message was sure to be from Nora, but what about the other one? There was no reason she would have sent two messages — no reason I could think of, anyhow. One message was sent yesterday; the other was time-stamped from the day before.

  Odds were that the first one was from Nora. The second one intrigued me. Who could have sent it? Why? Was Nora being shut out? Or had someone tried to reach me before Nora could?

  The only way to get answers would be to call both numbers. I could guess what Nora would have to say, so I was more interested in the second message. I would respond first to the message less likely to be from Nora.

  There was no cellphone service out here, but I could use Wi-Fi calling from my iPhone via the satellite hotspot. That offered the advantage of being far more secure than a cellular call.

  Wi-Fi calls, or VOIP calls, as they were more correctly known, were difficult to trace. They were impossible to tap. The data packets of encoded audio were protected by end-to-end encryption, and sequential packets didn't follow the same physical path between the two endpoints.

  Before I called either number, I checked the email drop to see what was new with Aaron. Our last contact was two days ago; he could have learned a lot since then. Sure enough, there were two messages from him in the drafts folder.

  I opened the one with the older date first.

  I have an update on those files. They include checking account statements from seven different banks. The transactions were spread among the different banks to get around the Bank Secrecy Act's reporting requirements. Whoever is running this is no amateur.

  My source matched bank transactions with the "payoffs" file. This is taking longer than we expected. There's trial and error involved to find which payments add up to a specific payoff amount.

  We thought we could ide
ntify one of the recipients from bank records of the receiving banks. We hacked into the receiving banks' systems to find the account holder. That was a test to see if our approach worked.

  We didn't manage to identify the account holder before we were subjected to a cyberattack that wiped out our entire online system. Clearly, we hit a virtual tripwire, so we know our theory is correct. We kept offline backups, so we didn't lose any data, but we're working to identify the source of the cyberattack.

  Until we figure out what happened, we've suspended further work on the decryption. Once we find the tripwire and figure out how to avoid it, we'll try again. For what it's worth, my source has never encountered anything like this before; this level of security is unprecedented. I thought you should know what you're up against.

  About the mystery man, we're still pulling in bits and pieces, but suspect Russian government involvement. Possible that there may be more than one mystery man. Several suspected FSB / former KGB agents have shown up in the areas you flagged at around the right times.

  We're being careful on this. We've learned there is a super-secret Department of Justice investigation touching on our candidates for the mystery man. The same DOJ investigation is looking into the recent murder of an FBI agent in St. Thomas. Can't confirm yet, but suspect it may be the man you mentioned.

  I'll update as I have new info.

  I reread that several times, committing it to memory before I erased it. Then I opened his second message.

  When you're alone and have time to talk, call me at the last number we used.

  After I erased that one, I left him an acknowledgement. He might not be available to take my call in the next few minutes, so I wanted him to know I understood his messages.

  Before I made any phone calls, I stood up, trying for enough height to see over the rise in the island. Mary probably wouldn't come back while I was on the phone, but I wanted to make sure of that.

  Unable to see across the low dunes, I went forward and climbed up the mast a few feet. Mary was stretched out on her blanket, sunbathing. Since I was downwind from her, she wouldn't be able to overhear my phone calls.

  Back in the cockpit, I connected my iPhone to the hotspot's Wi-Fi and dialed Aaron's most recent number.

  24

  "Yeah?" Aaron's voice was gruff, pitched lower than normal, like he was disguising it.

  His phone probably showed "Caller ID not available" for the incoming call.

  "I'm trying to reach Elena Howard. I got a message to call her at this number. She there, by any chance?" That was enough for him to recognize my voice.

  "You get my messages?"

  "Yeah, that's why I'm calling."

  "Okay, but what's with the caller ID block?"

  "It's a VOIP call, through a VPN and a satellite hotspot."

  "Okay, that's cool. You by yourself?"

  "For the moment. She's ashore right now. I'll be able to see her coming before she can tell what I'm up to. What's up?"

  "Phorcys. We think it's the name of an organization. Maybe also the guy who runs it, but not his real name. Their objectives are consistent with what I told you before. We got a little finer definition, but it doesn't add much of consequence. Not as far as we know yet, anyhow."

  "What's that mean?" I asked.

  "I told you how my source felt about them, right?"

  "You said she thought they could do no wrong."

  "That's maybe a bit of an overstatement. They're willing to cross some lines, but nothing you or I would worry about. Their goal is to keep the government in the hands of strict constitutionalists."

  "You mean conservatives?"

  "Well, definitions are tough. Let's say they favor the middle two-thirds of the ideological range. Not too far to the right or to the left."

  "So what lines have they crossed?"

  "Rumor has it they've taken out a few rogue politicians, but they're selective as all hell about it."

  "Proven crooks?"

  "There are signs that they've set up some of those — boxed them in with solid proof and made sure the authorities took them down. Same thing with the wing-nuts."

  "Wing-nuts are one thing, but what about the crooked ones? What happens when the authorities won't act? Say somebody's on the take?"

  "I'll get to that soon. First, listen to their party line, okay?"

  "Okay. Tell me."

  "Their stated mission is to compel elected officials to uphold their sworn oaths to preserve, protect, and defend the constitution. Some people think Phorcys was started by a few retired senior military officers. Word is they were fed up with the way our government was behaving. Their goal's supposedly to function as a watchdog — they watch the watchers."

  "They sound like an upstanding bunch, to me. But they're anonymous?"

  "That's right. Maybe they are upstanding; I don't know. It's hard to fault their party line, but there are other rumors you should know about."

  "Okay."

  "They have a small branch called something like 'Special Projects,' or maybe the 'Projects Executive.'"

  "'Special projects?' 'Projects executive?' Any idea what that means in plain English?"

  "'SPG,' we've heard they call it. Also 'PE,' but we aren't sure those are the same thing. This gets to your question about real live crooked politicians. When there's criminal activity and the government turns a blind eye, Phorcys refers the problem to SPG, and the traitors end up dead."

  "How sure are your people about this?"

  "Not sure at all. But you asked. Remember that suicide we talked about after Abby was rescued?"

  "Yes," I said, feeling goosebumps along my spine. "What about it?"

  "That was investigated by the best team the feds could pull together. Somebody way up the line didn't buy that he killed himself."

  "In your message you mentioned a secret Department of Justice investigation into the crooked FBI agent's death."

  "Yeah, and into some of the candidates for Mystery Man, too. That's one investigation. This one was separate from that."

  "Did they find anything?"

  "Not directly related to the cause of his death, no. But did you hear that a bunch of incriminating shit came out about him right afterward?"

  "I've been out of touch. What kind of incriminating shit?"

  "He was apparently a sick bastard — into stuff so kinky it would curl your damn hair just to think about. Rumor was that he knew it was all about to hit the media, and that's why he killed himself."

  "So?" I remembered Mary and Phorcys referring to something like this, but I kept that to myself.

  "So there was a problem with the incriminating material. He had a mistress, which was no big secret."

  "Okay. I'm not following. What about the mistress?"

  "She was in the Bahamas when he supposedly killed himself. She told the cops he was due to meet her there the day his body was found. With me so far?"

  "Yeah. So the cops found her?"

  "She found them. Called homicide in Miami after she heard the news about him. Flew back at their request and spent several days interviewing with them. Seems that he had an alibi for the times when he was supposed to have done some of that kinky shit."

  "The mistress? Was she the alibi?"

  "The mistress and two other people, yeah."

  "So where's this going?" I asked.

  "Nowhere. The mistress and the other witnesses are missing."

  "Missing?"

  "Yeah. There was evidence of foul play in the mistress's case, but it led nowhere. Case closed. The other two are just plain gone. No trace to show they ever even existed. They weren't exactly paragons of virtue, I guess. Not like anybody would get too upset about their disappearance. Anyhow, the team the feds put on it backed the finding that it was a suicide and shut down the follow-up investigation. Somebody with stroke decided it was best to let it be, if you want my guess."

  "Okay. Does anybody think Phorcys was behind any of this? Either the senator's death or the di
sappearance of the alibi witnesses?"

  "I don't know. You think Phorcys played a part in it?"

  "Sounds like that's a dangerous thing to contemplate," I said.

  "Yeah, I agree. You want me to keep after this?"

  "No, let it go. But if you happen to hear anything else, pass it on to me, okay?"

  "You got it. I may have more on the files in the next day or two. But my source on that DOJ investigation's trying to reach me on another line. She thought she was onto something hot. Check the blind drop this evening, in case she gets something."

  "Will do."

  "Gotta take her call; anything else that's hot while we're on the line?"

  "No, nothing. Thanks; I'll be in touch after I get the next package from you." I disconnected the call and sat back to think about what Aaron told me, and what he didn't tell me.

  He knew I would read between the lines. Aaron would never ask, but I could tell he thought I was behind that suicide. And he would be pretty sure Mary was involved in it, too. His comments on the mistress and the other witnesses were interesting.

  Mary's time wasn't accounted for during the period when the mistress and the witnesses vanished. As far as I knew, she was in Florida then. My bet was that she took care of cleaning up those details while I was sailing back and forth to St. Martin. But I wouldn't ask. People in our line of work didn't ask each other questions like that; it was considered rude.

  Before I responded to Nora and whoever the other person was, I needed coffee. I went below and put the pot on the stove, planning my calls while it perked.

  25

  Back in the cockpit with a thermos of coffee, I poured myself a mug and picked up my phone. My first call was to the person I suspected was not Nora. After I keyed in the four-digit code from the email, I heard a man's voice repeat the four digits.

  "Speak," he ordered, after he rattled off the numbers.