The Price of Time

by Tim Tigner

  To prepare for the high-tech portion, we visited an electronics store. After discussing our options with an eager salesman, we charged Tory’s employers $1,200 for a DJI Phantom photo drone.

  The other main purchase we made over the telephone, rather than in person. This allowed us to swap a diligent in-person ID check for the much less rigorous remote one. I rented the biggest yacht the broker was confident we could handle if docking wasn’t involved. A 62-foot Azimut luxury yacht. Just $17,000 for the week, plus a $50,000 security deposit given that we were sailing without the included crew.

  I dictated the Amex number, then emailed a scan of Tory’s driver’s license with my own DL photo superimposed. Hefty stacks of paperwork followed. Rules, regulations, safety procedures, liability disclaimers, and an arbitration agreement. I signed and returned them all—in Tory’s name.

  With the critical purchases squared away, we moved on to the casual prong of the plan. En route to the marina, we stopped at the Lincoln Road Mall, where Tory’s employers graciously outfitted us in shorts, shirts, and sunglasses that cost ten times what either of us would normally have spent.

  As we were exiting, I spotted a jewelry store. Acting on a whim, I guided Skylar in and raised the platinum card. “Will you promise not to read anything into it if I suggest that we complete your disguise with a bit of bling?”

  Skylar studied my face for a long moment, then broke into a big smile. Forty minutes and a couple of complimentary glasses of Champagne later, we walked out of the shop with an $81,000 receipt, a necklace, a tennis bracelet, and an engagement ring. Skylar held her wrist up to her chest. “What do you think? Will I look at home on a yacht?”

  “We might need to extend the rental for a second week. Assuming the card’s still working.”

  “I’m surprised it’s worked this long.”

  “I bet you a diamond ring that the card’s on autopay. Might work for years.” I flashed my eyebrows.

  “I’m pretty sure the ring won’t fit you,” she replied.

  We were enjoying a splash of joviality before facing the danger that lay ahead.

  Fully outfitted and looking appropriate, we hired a BMW 7 series through Uber Black to drive us the mile from the mall to the marina. Arriving in anything less just wouldn’t do.

  The marina wasn’t particularly fancy. More like a mid-range restaurant than the gateway to luxury, except that it was up on stilts. But the reception we received was classy and cordial. It began with warm handshakes from the captain, who was about to enjoy a week of paid vacation, and continued with two hours of hands-on instruction on how to handle his baby, the C’est La Vie.

  Once we both understood the yacht’s extensive control system, most of which we’d never touch, Captain Stewart piloted us out of the marina. “On the open water, there’s nothing to it. You’ve got plenty of buffer. Docking is what takes practice. Use this manual”—he grabbed a booklet from beside the captain’s wheel—“to radio any marina in the Bahamas or Caribbean. Most will send a pilot out for a modest fee. Believe me, it’s worth it.” He pointed to a number written in black marker on the manual’s front cover. “Call me with any questions. When you’re on your way back here, let me know and I’ll come out to meet you. Got it?”

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  He nodded sternly, then headed aft, climbed aboard a trailing dinghy, and left us alone with sixty-two feet of ship and an open ocean.

  As he motored away, I felt the weight of what we were attempting come crashing down.

  Fortunately, as part of our training, and at Skylar’s suggestion, Captain Stewart had plugged Fox Town on Grand Abaco into the navigation system, and set the autopilot. All I had to do to get us there was hit ENGAGE.

  Of course, getting there was the easy part.

  72

  Red Light, Green Light

  FOX TOWN was the northwestern-most village on the Bahamian isle closest to Seven Star, which lay about ten miles to its northwest. We sailed straight for it, so as not to alert any radar tracking system Aria might have in place.

  While the Azimut’s motors churned away under the autopilot’s steady hand, Skylar studied the drone. She figured out how to program GPS coordinates into its navigation system, something the store clerk had assured us would not be a problem. Then she practiced precision flying it around the yacht’s interior, which consisted of three cabins and two saloons spread over two interior decks.

  Meanwhile, I continued to familiarize myself with the helm. It wasn’t so very different from the dashboard of a car, once I translated from terrestrial to nautical.

  I slowed our speed from twenty knots to two and called back to Skylar as we entered the shallower waters of the island chain. “It’s about time. Seven Star is three miles northeast of our current position.” Three miles was the outer limit of the drone’s transmission range.

  We took the drone up to the top deck and Skylar set it down. “Here goes,” she said, as it took to the sky. “I’ve programmed the coordinates. We’ll know everything we’re going to know in about twenty minutes.”

  “What happens in twenty?”

  “It falls out of the sky. Flight time is twenty-eight minutes max, but it’s got wind to contend with, so I figure we can only count on twenty. It will take at least five of those to reach the island.”

  I was curious and excited to see what we’d find. I’d never been to a private island. Never even laid eyes on one. The owner also intrigued me.

  The society page article had described Aria Eiffel as the wealthy and childless widow of a petroleum magnate. She’d been a society belle while her husband was alive but had become reclusive shortly after his death. I figured that if I owned a Bahamian island, I might choose to become a recluse myself—particularly if I had a woman like Skylar by my side. What I couldn’t fathom was why Aria had hired Tory.

  “What do you think Aria’s up to?” Skylar asked, as if reading my mind. We’d been so busy planning and preparing this incursion that we hadn’t paused to speculate. “She doesn’t need money. She doesn’t appear to crave power or prestige. What’s left?”

  “Health,” I suggested.

  Skylar mulled that over while the drone gained ground. I knew she’d reached my conclusion when her face contorted. “You mean like organ harvesting for some secret medical procedure?”

  “That might explain why lookalikes are required. I’m not an expert on the intricacies of transplantation, but beyond matching blood types I’m sure it’s best if the donor is young and of a similar size. By that logic, maybe other appearance-related attributes help make a perfect match.”

  “If that were the case, Tory would have—” she grimaced, “violated me before shoving me into an oven.”

  “Maybe before I got there he ran some sort of tissue compatibility test, and you failed.”

  “He didn’t mention anything about tests or tissue compatibility when we interrogated him.”

  “It was in his best interests to provide the prosecution with as little detail as possible.”

  “Still seems thin.”

  “I agree. But we’ll learn soon enough, one way or another.”

  The island came into view after eight minutes, rather than the five the published maximum speed predicted. We knew it was Seven Star by the shape, which was a cross between a kidney bean and a chili pepper, matching what we’d seen on Google.

  Skylar had the drone flying at an altitude of 1,000 feet, so it couldn’t be heard and wouldn’t be noticed with a casual skyward glance. She disengaged the autopilot and began a broad circle.

  Half the island was covered with natural vegetation, the other half was landscaped. She narrated, since she was holding the controller with its video screen. “I see two piers, but only one boat and it’s a go-fast, not a yacht. The tiltrotor we saw on Google is also gone.”

  “Sounds like the mistress isn’t home.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Skylar asked.

  I waggled my hand. “Could go eithe
r way. Depends on the disposition of the people left behind. If there are any.”

  “You think she’ll return anytime soon?”

  “I expect so. We know she was there yesterday when she opened our email. With money like that, she probably treats flights to the mainland like you and I do drives to the grocery store. Just part of the daily routine. With a tiltrotor, it would be just as fast.”

  The drone’s remote control beeped after it circled the island twice, then its screen pulsed yellow. “We’ve reached the return to base limit. In thirty seconds it won’t have sufficient power to reach the takeoff point.”

  “We don’t need it back—and neither does Tory.”

  Skylar elbowed me, but continued to circle.

  “I don’t see any people. Have you spotted any?” I asked, studying the screen from over Skylar’s shoulder.

  “Not yet. Should I take it lower?”

  “How much battery do we have?”

  “Just six minutes. The 28-minute spec is way too optimistic.”

  “Yes. Start with the secondary structures, which I assume are for guests and servants, including guards.”

  Skylar took the drone down and inspected the cottages. They were situated in a semicircular formation around the back side of the house, the side away from the beach and the pool. She did a flyby on one side, then the other, peering through windows and one open door. Nothing stirred. No one came into view. “Three minutes.”

  “Now the main house.”

  She took the drone halfway around so we could peer into the living room but pulled back and up prematurely when three people appeared on the screen. They were lounging in the part of the pool that was under a sunshade. “The mistress is home.”

  “Doesn’t look like anyone spotted the drone. They’d be looking up if they did. In fact, I think they’re sleeping. The guards must be too, if she has any,” I added, exposing my wishful thinking.

  The remote started pulsing red. “We’re down to one minute of battery life. In sixty seconds the drone will automatically land.”

  “Let’s risk a look through the big window at the back.”

  Skylar made a wide arc, then dropped to a hundred feet and zoomed in on the house. The back window was actually a series of ten heavy-duty sliding glass doors, all parted now to open up the back room. Skylar focused the camera on a scene that looked like a still life oil painting from the time of Henry VIII. A table was piled high with fancy foods on silver service, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. Not a waiter. Not a cook.

  “Switch back to the people in the pool.” The remote turned solid red as I spoke.

  “The battery is exhausted,” Skylar said. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s safe for us to pay a visit.”

  73

  Perfect Sense

  TORY’S HEART SANK as he piloted his stolen go-fast boat within sight of Seven Star’s two piers. No yachts were docked. No people apparent. That left the tiltrotor he’d seen in Google’s satellite shot as his best hope of catching Aria at home, but he couldn’t see the helipad from his current position.

  Tory had sent half a dozen emails to Aria’s address. Emails that would look like junk mail if opened, but ones that would slip through filters since she was the only recipient. He’d sent each from a different email. Fresh accounts from the major public providers.

  The tactic worked.

  He’d acted the minute he learned her location, knowing that Chase and Skylar would be close behind. This forced him to forgo a hospital stay in favor of a cursory exam and quick clean-up from a concierge doctor. Not a big deal. His left eye remained useless, but what could a doctor do? If surgery was an option he’d have that later. Meanwhile, his right eye was fully functional.

  His goal was to make the leap from outside consultant to inside confidant by confronting his employers in person. First he’d show them the battle scars he’d suffered on their behalf; then he’d warn them of the impending threat. Their gratitude and guilt, combined with his obvious value and intimate knowledge, should guarantee him either a sweet contract as their permanent fixer or a payoff suitable for a king’s ransom.

  The thought of ransom drew his eyes to where his raw wrists rested on the wheel. Breaking out of the oven while hog-tied had been a most unpleasant experience—albeit highly preferable to the alternative.

  Chase had played him masterfully. Tory had to give the American credit.

  By teaming up with Aria, Tory would also solve the dilemma his charitable captors had created. As things stood, Tory was honor-bound not to pursue the meddlesome couple, despite what they’d done to him. Fair was fair, and he wasn’t one to break the code. But if they came to him…well, then the counter reset to zero and the game started anew.

  And come to him they would, right there on Seven Star Island.

  He managed to dock without attracting attention. Securing the ropes involved a few fast back-and-forth leaps. Nothing too tough, but strenuous enough that he paused afterward to apply a bit more salve to each wrist and ankle. He pulled the burn ointment from his pocket as well, intent on giving his facial wounds a fresh shellacking, but decided to leave them angry. Best to let his employers see the scars in their full glory.

  Not really sure what to expect, but full of confidence in his ability to cope come what might, Tory tucked his new handgun into the small of his back and headed up the flagstones toward the house. He spotted no one along the way.

  Aria’s front door was an intricate ornamental arrangement of glass panes and carved exotic hardwood. Probably cost as much as the average car. He peered through but saw no movement. He looked for a doorbell but didn’t find one. Of course. This was a private island.

  Walking around to the back, he caught his first manmade sound. A waterfall. Probably a large cascade into an oddly shaped pool, one of those designer types with natural stone accents and romantic grottos. He’d ignored that part of the photo.

  Peering around the corner from the inside edge of the flagstone path, he spotted three faces he knew well but had never seen in person. Aria, Pierce, and David. They were seated in floating pool chairs, the kind that looked like contoured chaise longues. Each held a Champagne flute and a large white straw in one hand. All were actively engaged in conversation.

  Who drank Champagne from a straw?

  Tory took a sidestep into concealing vegetation. The waterfall was drowning out their words, but whatever they were saying, it was obviously fraught with emotion. Faces were scrunching. Tears were streaming. Fingers fidgeted nervously.

  He’d picked a bad time.

  The discussion stopped while Tory stood contemplating his next move. Some kind of an agreement had been reached, or decision had been made. David placed his Champagne and straw in his cup holder and carefully paddled his chair over next to Aria’s.

  Now Tory could see that it wasn’t a straw. It was a syringe. They looked similar enough from a distance, when you had only one eye.

  Aria downed the rest of her Champagne, then dropped the flute in the water. She passed David her syringe and held out her arm.

  While he found a vein, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  He completed the injection quickly, then kissed her hand, long and slow. He held onto it while she relaxed. The whole scene resembled some taboo ceremony, and Tory found it fascinating.

  He had always known that there was something odd about his clients. The random nature of their replacement requests made no sense. Then there was their lax attitude toward money, which clashed with their extremely disciplined informational security. At last he understood. They’d developed some kind of new narcotic. They were white-collar drug dealers.

  Tory felt the thrill of pulling back a big curtain. This new theory explained everything.

  They were making money by the boatload, no doubt with elite clientele. Going exclusive was the only way to keep such a special product below the radar. Sure, there would be rumors, but if there were no deaths, law enforcement w
ouldn’t get involved.

  The cartels, however, would.

  They’d consider any illegal drug to be unacceptable competition. And their preferred method for dealing with competitors was cutting them out. Quite literally. With machetes and chainsaws. Hence his clients’ obsession with secrecy and need for identity swaps. It all made perfect sense now.

  So what should he do?

  He definitely did not want to get tangled up in the narcotics business. Best to hit them hard for a payout, then disappear.

  Tory studied Aria. She wasn’t moving. He would wait until the others were off in whatever la-la land their product took them to, then he’d put them at his mercy. Nothing painful or even overtly hostile, just precarious enough to make it clear that his offer was one they couldn’t refuse.

  74

  Pointed Argument

  SOMEWHAT TO OUR SURPRISE, nobody came running as the C’est La Vie approached the big pier on Seven Star Island. How could people so obsessed with their informational security leave their home unguarded?

  I knew we’d have that answer within the hour.

  I brought the yacht in straight and slow as Captain Stewart had advised, then hit reverse as the bow broke even with the end.

  Skylar jumped off and did a masterful job with the ropes, first securing and then tightening them.

  “You look like you’ve done that before,” I said, hopping off the yacht to join her.

  She linked my arm, playing for the audience if one was watching. “Once or twice, on smaller boats. Triathlons are on the water, so I spent a fair amount of time around boaters. Occasionally I scored an invitation.”

  The pier was long and large, designed to accommodate yachts twice our size. We walked along it toward the seagrass-speckled shore, wearing hats and sunglasses, armed only with our drone’s remote control.

  Following the KISS principle, we had decided to present ourselves as boaters retrieving a downed drone. It was a plausible scenario given the propensity of the leisure class to play with expensive toys.