Frank ended the call knowing the old man was right — Prioritize. Nicolai would have to be dealt with head-on. Unraveling the Omega Formula mystery would be priority one.
* * * * *
Cezar Nicolai steered the ocean-going Viking yacht due east out of the marina. Once in the open, her twin engines planed the boat and throbbed through the dusk at full throttle. Vlad Torok sat next to Cezar on the enclosed bridge, while Miguel Cardoza and his two associates squatted against the transom and gripped the gunwales on the lower aft deck.
“She responds well and can make over 40 knots,” Cezar said, his voice topping the roar of the powerful engines.
“The shakedown of the other vessel went well according to man I hired to captain her,” Vlad said. “Looks like we made a good deal and we have an able crew.”
Cezar nodded approvingly.
The Viking reached 15 miles out from Miami when Cezar idled down the engines to barely any headway.
Cezar patted Vlad’s arm and said. “Let’s go pay the dealer and get back to the marina.”
Vlad stepped down to the aft deck while Cezar stood looking on at the top of the stairway. Cardoza and his men stood as Vlad approached.
“Payday, gentlemen,” Vlad said. “Mr. Grainger loves his purchases and we have a deal.”
“Bueno,” Cardoza said, displaying almost all of his incredibly white teeth.
When Vlad pulled the Beretta 9mm from the shoulder holster under his jacket, Cardoza and his men shuffled back against the starboard side of the stern.
That was exactly where Cezar wanted them.
Three shots flashed and boomed into the black of the moonless night, followed by three nearly silent splashes.
For a moment, the low gurgle of the Viking’s exhaust was all that broke the quiet of the open sea. Then another tiny splash followed. Cezar knew it was the sound of a pistol piercing the surface and sinking into the depths of the Atlantic.
* * * * *
Frank drove back to Stuart. He needed to pack a suitcase with fresh clothes and get back to Miami as soon as possible. All hell was going to break loose in the search for Braewyn Joyce. Every law enforcement agency would be double-timing it to rescue a kidnapped FBI agent. Frank didn’t always trust their tactics. The media would be out in force reporting every move the authorities made, giving the bad guys a heads-up, providing them with time to counter with evasion into deeper cover. Frank knew the best way to deal with a sinister ego like Cezar Nicloai was to take him on one-to-one, so he would reveal himself. That FBI full assault crap wasn’t going to fly in this situation.
Frank parked the cruiser in his driveway and stared out the windshield at the hibiscus-lined path to the back yard. After several moments he broke his semi-trance, stepped out of the car, and went to the rear of the vehicle. When he opened the trunk, a shadow on the driveway moved past him. He groped under his arm for his Browning and twisted around to face the source of the shadow. Frank felt his pulse race and a chill swept up his back as he locked eyes with Alasdair MacGowan.
“I did na come to kill ya,” Alasdair said and smiled.
“Good to know,” Frank said and released his grip on the Browning.
“Can we have a word?”
“Sure. How’d you know I was here?”
“It’s your home. Figured you’d come here sometime.”
“You still diving in Vero?”
“Yeah, we dive again tomorrow.”
Frank led Alasdair to the back yard tiki bar where they sat across from each other on wicker stools. An uncomfortable moment passed before Alasdair spoke.
“Celine’s gone.”
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Frank asked.
“She’s missing. I flew home yesterday to pick up more equipment. There’s warm food in the microwave. The front door’s wide open and her car’s sitting in the driveway.”
“Are you sure?” Frank said. “Maybe she went to the store.”
“And left her Gucci purse? She never goes anywhere without that purse.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“There was a note,” Alasdair said and took out a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Frank.
Frank unfolded the paper and read its brief typewritten message:
CALL THE POLICE AND WE KILL HER.
WE NEED TO ASK HER QUESTIONS.
WE GET ANSWERS, SHE GETS RETURNED UNHARMED.
“You call the cops?”
“You see what it says. They’ll kill her.”
“They always say that─”
“It’s all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should never have gotten into unauthorized police work. This could be all about the Omega film.”
“It’s about power,” Frank said.
“I’m sorry I got mad at you.”
“I’d’ve reacted the same way.”
“Where do we go from here?” Alasdair said. “We need to stop these people.”
“The same bunch may have Agent Braewyn Joyce.”
“They can kidnap FBI agents?”
“Apparently, seems there’s not much they can’t do.”
“Where are they?”
“Somewhere in Miami, last estimate.”
“Can we find out if they’re the ones who have Celine?”
“Don’t know. This Cezar Nicolai guy, AKA Anton Chernac, has got Agent Joyce somewhere in south Florida. Maybe Celine too. Braewyn caught them working on an arms deal and got pictures of several of the bunch, but that’s about all I know. Nicolai says he’s going to call me to talk about resolving things, but I’m sure that means trading things I know for Braewyn.”
“And then he’ll kill you both. He’s got nothing to lose.”
“I’m not crazy about the FBI, but I’m not going to let him hurt her, or Celine, because of me.”
“Then let me work as backup when the time comes.”
“That would be the best news I’ve had in a long time.”
“What did you say this guy’s name is?”
“Cezar Nicolai.”
“What do you know about him?”
“I’m pretty sure he killed my father,” Frank said.
“What makes you think he’d spare Celine?”
Frank didn’t have an answer for that.
I’ve got to get back to Vero,” Alasdair said. “The cops’ll contact me if they get anything new.”
“I’m sorry,” Frank said and put his hand on Alasdair’s shoulder.
Frank felt bad about upsetting Alasdair earlier by charging that Celine was involved in collusion with Anton Chernac. Now she’d been kidnapped and his friend was devastated. The situation was growing steadily worse by the hour.
Frank hated to think what new hell tomorrow would hold. Whatever it would be, he would go to Miami and face it head-on.
Giving up was not a term Frank Dugan was acquainted with.
Chapter 51
Frank decided to stay at home for the night, since rushing back to Miami wouldn’t be of much help to Agent Joyce until Nicolai called, set up their meeting, and stated his demands. He checked in with Tom Gardner to get any updates, but, so far, things were status quo. Nothing new on Agent Joyce or her captors.
He stood in front of the dresser mirror and stared at his drawn face for a long moment, then cast his eyes down on a framed photograph. In the picture were three people. A pretty woman in her twenties, and two very young children, a girl and a boy. He touched the faces in the photo with gentle fingers, turned away, and undressed.
Later, Frank climbed into bed and watched a few minutes of the late TV news, a lot of which was about the kidnapping. He set his clock for 6 A.M., rolled over, and tried to grab a few hours’ sleep.
The clock showed almost midnight when he was jarred awake. His cell phone vibrated actively under the light of the lamp on the nightstand as it crept toward the table’s edge. Frank snatched the phone before it fell and read the incoming numb
er. It was the international number the mysterious Chernac had given Roland days ago.
“Hello,” Frank said.
“Detective Dugan, good evening,” said the familiar voice.
Frank got up and began to pace the room.
“What’s up, Nicolai?”
“I’m calling to set up our meeting. Our summit talk, shall we say.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Good. Now I’m sure you’ll want to meet somewhere you can feel safe, so I’ve chosen the Oceanside Marina’s al fresco bar in Miami Beach. Do you know it?
“I’ll find it.”
“Excellent. Will nine this evening work for you?”
“Why so late?”
“I have appointments through the day, and the restaurant is far less busy after those cheap seniors get their early-bird meals and hobble back to their condos.”
“All right, nine it is. Will Agent Joyce be there?”
“I’ll make sure she attends.”
“She’d better look healthy. I get cranky when things are given to me in rough condition.”
“I certainly understand. I’m sure you’ll be most pleased. Of course you know this meeting of ours will require that you come alone. No backup, as you say. And, of course, no weapons.”
“Got it. See you later,” Frank said.
The growing storm outside began to light up the darkened sky and rumble. Rain followed and continued through the night. Frank lay on his side and stared at the flashing lightning patterns dancing on the window curtains and wondered if his storm would ever pass and peaceful sleep ever come.
* * * * *
Later that morning, Frank called Alasdair and told him about his call from Nicolai.
“You’re going to go meet this bastard on his terms, at his place of bidding and by yourself?” Alasdair said. “I thought we were partners. And I thought you were smart.”
“We are partners,” Frank said. “But I can’t jeopardize Braewyn Joyce by bringing in extra troops.”
“If you don’t tell your sheriff, I will.”
“No you won’t.”
“To hell with the sheriff, I should call out the damn marines.”
“Let me handle this,” Frank said. “I’ll be okay.”
“Aye, like you were okay when he kidnapped you, and okay when those two goons nearly ‘killed you?”
“‘Bye, Al.”
Frank hung up, but no sooner had the screen on his cell gone black, when something struck him as odd about the conversation. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something didn’t have the right sound to it.
* * * * *
Cezar Nicolai waited in the Mercedes at the Oceanside Marina parking lot while Vlad Torok performed final cleaning chores and secured the Viking. Nicolai’s first overnight on the new yacht was even more restful than his stays at the Tresor Penthouse. The gentle lapping of water against the hull and marina bulkhead, the smells of the sea, and the far-off squeals of the early morning gulls all contributed to the euphoria.
Late morning brought another sun-filled day in the 80s. Breezes from the Atlantic carried the aroma of coconut oil lotion, mixed with the flavors of smoky burgers, French fries and hot dogs, wafting inland from the beachfront concessions.
The Viking was moored a few yards from where he had parked. He could see its graceful superstructure backed by the dark water of Biscayne Bay. Cezar was anxious to get his FBI agent and her attendant on board, but he knew that would have to wait until dark.
When Vlad finished up, they would return to the house in Coral Gables where two of his men held Agent Joyce. Later they would drive to the marina and have her sedated body brought aboard his new portable headquarters.
Then he would meet with Frank Dugan and complete the answer to the Omega puzzle.
Cezar smiled. Things were going well. Exquisitely well.
* * * * *
Frank settled into his modest motel room in South Miami and planned out his next moves for the meeting with Nicolai only hours away. Trouble was, there wasn’t much he could plan. Things would happen with little predictability. And it would be at night. That was worrisome, but he had to go through with it. Meanwhile, he had time to gather his thoughts and continue to work on the loose ends that plagued his life. First in line was the Omega poem.
He started by going over the first verse to brainstorm its plausible meaning. He had barely whispered the first words of the poem when his cell pinged. He thumb-tapped his way to the text message.
Our appointment is at 9.
Don’t be late.
Frank immediately recognized the call log ID as Anton Chernac’s international phone number he’d traced to South America the day he received it from Roland. The origin was Venezuela. That was it. No other information was available. Frank knew Nicolai wasn’t stupid enough to give him a traceable number, but he felt compelled to hunt down anything that might yield information about his number one Omega formula fan. Frank ran the trace again, and got the same disappointing results.
Frank knew trying to pin down a permanent location on Nicolai was, regrettably, like trying to pick up mercury with an oven mitt.
* * * * *
Frank watched the light rain which began around eight-thirty and, through his open window, felt the steamy mist rising from the hot parking lot. The air smelled like a wet dog. Weather forecasts had predicted heavy rains and, at eight-forty-five, an eastern cloudburst bombarded the Oceanside Marina. Intermittent gusts kicked up at first. Then sustained, 30 MPH winds whipped the maritime pennants on their masts that lined the waterfront and made them snap and vibrate like triangular bullwhips.
Frank parked the cruiser in one of the few empty spaces in the back of the lot and shut off the motor. On Thursday nights, the Oceanside Restaurant offered their “early bird” specials which brought out the retiree crowd in droves. He decided to wait out the torrent for a few minutes in the car since tropical downpours were typically brief. He checked the surrounding parked cars for any movement, but saw none.
“Do you need a ride to the restaurant?” a voice yelled, muffled by the rain and Frank’s closed car windows.
Frank twisted almost backward and to the left to see who was talking. Stopped behind his car was a young man in an oversized golf cart equipped with a roof and side curtains. Frank cracked his window a couple of inches.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Would you like a ride to the restaurant?” the young man asked.
“Sure. Give me a sec.” Frank said and rolled up the window.
Frank jumped out of the cruiser, locked the car with his keyless remote, and dashed to the golf cart. He slid into the seat beside the young man, dripping and squeaking on the vinyl upholstery.
“Some nasty weather tonight,” the young man said and gunned the golf cart down the row of parked cars.
“I was going to wait it out, but I’ve got to meet someone inside, and I’m almost late,” Frank said with water draining off him in rivulets.
The golf cart weaved its way out of the parking area, but as it approached the restaurant’s porte-cochère, the driver cut the wheel sharply to the left and aimed the cart directly toward the boat slips off the main pier.
“You missed the restaurant,” Frank said and pointed to it.
“Got another pick-up. Only take a minute.”
They stopped at a fifty-five-foot, Viking sport fisher, a yacht regarded by boatmen as the ultimate in floating man caves, where the young man jumped out and hustled around to Frank’s side of the cart. Frank looked at the driver and noticed he was staring hard at him. He noticed something else. The man was pointing a Walther automatic three feet from his head.
“Let’s go aboard, sir. And no fast moves, please.”
“Cezar didn’t like the menu at the Coral Reef Room?” Frank said and obeyed his chaperone.
“If you have any firearms, now would be a good time to hand them over.”
“I didn’t allow for a shoot-out, so I came unheeled
.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind if I check myself in case you overlooked something.” The young man said and spun Frank around and patted down his soaking wet clothing. He pulled up Frank’s left pant leg and removed a snub-nose revolver from its ankle holster.
“Happy?” Frank said.
“Delirious.”
The young man nudged Frank up the gangplank and onto the boat’s deck where Cezar Nicolai stood waiting under its canopy.
“This is so much more private than the restaurant with all those inconsolable pensioners, don’t you agree?” Cezar said.
“Much more private,” Frank said. “I bet those old folks probably couldn’t even hear a gunshot from this distance.”
The young man pulled up the rear of the tight group, led by Cezar, as they filed down steps into a spacious salon in the center of the yacht. The young man closed the door of the passageway from the outside, and Cezar stepped down into a luxurious lounge and pulled up a stool next to a red mahogany bar.
“Sit, please, detective,” Cezar said and indicated a pub chair next to a round, walnut captain’s table with an inlaid chessboard. Frank sat, took in the elegantly appointed room and laced his fingers on the tabletop.
“I don’t see Agent Joyce,” Frank said.
“I don’t see my document,” Cezar said looking down at Frank.
“I have it, and you may have it as soon as I see her.”
“You’re a difficult man to bargain with,” Nicolai said and shifted his glance up toward the door.
Frank sensed movement behind him. Large hands clamped on his shoulders, followed by the smell of heavy garlic breath and an unpleasant, moist warmth on his neck.
“I’ll give you an opportunity to hand over the document before I allow Vlad to search you for it,” Cezar said. “Let me encourage you to comply. Vlad’s not particularly dainty when he’s hunting for something.”
Vlad removed his hands from Frank and stepped back.
Frank pulled up his golf shirt and reached into the rear waistband of his khakis and pulled out an envelope and flipped it across the table toward Cezar. The damp envelope slid off the table and fell to the deck where Vlad darted over to it, picked it up and handed it to his boss. Cezar opened the unsealed envelope and read the blue handwritten words on the single, yellow-cast page. Frank looked on intently.
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 23