The Black Freighter

by Fred G Baker

  “Hey, I need to take this, Tori. My editor.” He raised his eyebrows. “OK?”

  “Yes, talk to the man. I will wait right here.” She smiled weakly and lifted her wine glass, looking miserable and joyful at the same time.

  He got up from the table and walked over to the edge of the patio, near the pool. He saw a furtive man in the shadows there—possibly the other man spying on Vargas—so he moved to the entryway for privacy, still keeping Vargas in sight. “Hello, Jimmy. What do you have for me?”

  “We need to talk in person. I have new info on our friends and can’t talk about it on the phone.” He paused. “Where are you right now? Can we meet?”

  “I’m in the middle of something. Can’t get away now. Can it wait till tomorrow?”

  “Guess it’ll have to. How about an early meet?”

  “That would work. Where and when?”

  “Eight a.m., my place.”

  “Sounds good.” He hung up the call and looked over at Vargas, who was staring at him. She smiled. He smiled back. Then, he noticed Cortez staring across the restaurant at her, too. He was grim-faced, and his angry, dark eyes were focused tightly. Not good, he thought. Wilson looked around the pool for the other guy—and caught only a view of his silhouette as he retreated down the steps to the driveway.

  Wilson walked back to the table. Their food had arrived, and they had a wonderful meal. By the time they finished, it was 10:00 p.m. and the music was wrapping up for the night. They walked out to the entry, and he gave the valet his stub for the car.

  ***

  The rain was subdued on their drive back to the hotel. The streets were still flooded, and they crept along on their adventure through black water. They saw one car along the way that had overshot the turn in front of the hotel and was now half-floating in the roadside drainage ditch. Wilson had seen a snake in the ditch on previous occasions. They passed it and drove into the car park after Leslie let them through the gate. They disembarked, and he carried his briefcase with them into the hotel.

  “I have a surprise for you, Tori. Why don’t you come up to my room and stay the night?”

  She looked up at him, and her eyes showed delight at the suggestion. “Oh, Roberto. That would be nice—but we must talk a little before we get there. They probably have your room bugged, too.”

  “OK, let’s talk here first.” He led her to one of the small sitting areas in the middle of the hotel garden. It was a small gazebo-like structure with soft seats inside. He made sure that no one was within earshot, but then decided they would be better off in the bar, with the sea and raucous chatter of other customers providing a background din.

  “OK,” she said. “Then you can buy me another of those lovely rum punches since you will have your pleasure with me anyway.” She giggled. “I look forward to it, Roberto.” She suddenly turned serious and came close to nibble his ear and whisper into it. “I have given you copies of all the personnel files I have access to here in Grenada. It has their service records and ranks—everything about them.”

  Wilson was not sure he heard her correctly. He pulled back to let it sink in. Then he leaned in again.

  “What? Really? That’s great, Tori,” he whispered back. “But why now? You could have waited to see how well we treat you before you gave away so much.”

  “It is because I trust you, Roberto. I think I . . .Well, you know how I feel.”

  “For what it’s worth, I brought you evidence that I am indeed a writer, a journalist, and a historian. Here is the material to show Cortez as proof.” He reached inside his briefcase for the manila envelope and handed it to her. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He meant that.

  “Oh, that is nice. I think maybe tomorrow I can get more files from one of the other computers. There may be more about Cortez and his mission.”

  “No. Not now, Tori. If you got caught, they would know we have this info, too, and it would make it less useful. Do you understand?” She looked confused and a little hurt that he was refusing her help. “We can do only a little at a time or it will look suspicious.”

  She listened to him, sad at first, but then she brightened. “One more thing. Whatever is going to happen will be on Tuesday night. That is all I know.” Her mischievous smile returned. “Now, we can go to your room.”

  He put an arm around her and kissed her. Then, without changing position, he said, “I have a surprise for you. I have a machine that can cancel out any recording in the room. A friend of mine from the newspaper sent it to me. I just plug it in, and it makes a swarm of radio waves that will jam any signal sent from the room—so they can’t hear us or see us tonight, once it comes up to power. It takes two minutes to get strong enough to jam their signal. That way it seems like a natural interference. Pretty clever, isn’t it.”

  “Now you tell me you have spy tools.” A questioning look. “What do I believe now?”

  “No, no.” He shook his head and put up his hands. “My journalist friend worked in Russia for a year, and he had this machine with him because everyone knows the Russians spy on everybody there. He didn’t want them listening to him talk to his sources or they would arrest them. That’s all.”

  She seemed reassured but did not smile. They sat there a few more moments, each sipping a drink. Finally, she said, “I believe you. Even if you are a spy, I have to trust you.”

  They walked to the door of his room, and he put the key in the lock. He reached into the briefcase and flipped the switch on a small, black box. He pushed the door open and turned on the light. They entered, and he had her stand by the door while he walked quickly into the bathroom, making sure they were alone. They didn’t say anything important until two minutes had expired. Then, they acted like normal lovers would in a hotel room.

  Later, as Tori slept quietly, he left the bed and walked to the balcony door. The rain had picked up again, and thunder boomed across the bay. Large waves crashed on the beach, adding their rumble to the night’s torment. Through it all, he could see the mooring lights of the black freighter, lying in wait.

  Chapter 13

  Monday

  The next morning, Wilson left the hotel after spending the night with Tori Vargas in his room. It was a memorable date for many reasons. One of these reasons was pressing on his mind at seven in the morning, when she had crept off to her own room to shower and prepare for her day of conference proceedings. This reason was on a small thumb drive. He took the drive, with its purloined files, with him as he drove around the flooded streets for twenty minutes, making sure he was not being followed. After last night, he felt that Cortez might be on to him.

  Something was troubling him. He knew he had to take advantage of his relationship with Vargas for the good of the mission—but that was the problem. He had a relationship with her, not just a role where he acted out his part to get information from her. He found her pleasant to be with—not just the sex, but the woman herself. Maybe it was foolish, but he wondered if they might be able to maintain the relationship after the mission was finished. It sounded stupid, but he enjoyed her simple and straightforward charm—and he wanted to help her. The thought occupied the back of his mind as he drove through the wet streets.

  At the warehouse, he had enough time to insert the thumb drive into his USB port and verify that there were no viruses on the device. He and Madeline looked the files over for a few minutes and found that the material was as Vargas had said—personnel files and other information about the conference and the people who had come to Grenada from Venezuela. One file in particular caught Wilson’s attention. It was that of Major Fernando Cortez, leader of Operation Condor.

  “Holy shit!” he said. “This is really bad. Just the name tells us something about the operation. It’s major league trouble.”

  “Bugger. You’re right. Either she’s handed us a false lead, or we’re onto something big. I’ll call Lightchurch now.” She touched a button on her phone keypad, completely absorbed.

  It was nearly 8
:00 a.m., and he had to meet Pendergast at his shop. He was also going to help Tim Martin with his financial data later in the day. He had Madeline take over the examination of the files and asked her to keep him informed. She also said, with a smirk, that she would wait until later and ask how his date went. Her eyes registered disapproval—maybe something more. He left the warehouse in a huff.

  Wilson decided to drive along the flooded Grand Anse Road, stopping at the Spiceland Mall shopping center, where he parked the car and proceeded on foot through the stores, avoiding any tails. He took the opportunity to call Martin and to tell him he would meet him later because something had come up. He told him to get started reviewing the data in his room and not to leave the hotel under any circumstances until Wilson returned.

  He wandered through a few shops, stopping for coffee and a sweet roll at one of the coffee shops in the mall, before working his way out the back and to the car again. He hustled, but still arrived at the Reefer shop twenty minutes late.

  He saw Pendergast out on his dock next to his thirty-foot Sportcraft. He rushed down the dock and heard a gruff, “You’re late!”

  Pendergast turned around and gave him a scowl that stopped him in his tracks. “Damn it, man. We gotta shove off right now. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Wilson jumped over the gunwale right behind Pendergast, while Wet Dog started the engines. Within seconds, they had backed off the dock, and Wet Dog turned the boat out to sea. They came up to speed fast and veered left toward Quarantine Point. The sea was still choppy after the storm, with large swells that lifted them as they motored along. The sky had cleared temporarily, but huge roll clouds still filled the horizon as the storm drifted to the south.

  “The damn Russians left during the night,” Pendergast shouted over the noise of the wind and the slapping waves. “I had a man there after dark, but he left the lookout on Quarantine Point at midnight. This morning they were gone. Must have set sail in the night when the storm slackened. They may have as much as an eight-hour head start on us.”

  “But where would they go?” Wilson asked. “Why leave so abruptly?”

  “We don’t know, but they were up to something—of that I’m certain.”

  They rounded the point. The wave height increased, so they reduced speed. Wet Dog swore like a sailor and fought the waves. Rain began falling again, limiting their visibility dramatically. The wind changed direction and became gusty. The boat began taking water over the starboard bow. Wet Dog cut back and changed his course to ride the waves differently, without sloshing the sea onto their decks.

  Pendergast pulled on a life jacket, and so did Wet Dog. Wilson looked around for another, but found none. Wet Dog shouted to him. “You can swim, can’t ya?”

  Both Pendergast and Wet Dog laughed like it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. “Your face tells a real tale, Robert.” They laughed until a wave crashed over the bow and they were all soaked with seawater. Wet Dog handed Wilson a life jacket.

  “We’ll run west for a ways and then cut south to Canoe Bay and around the point,” Pendergast said. “They were out there the last few days. Maybe they moved the ship there to cut the travel time back and forth.”

  Wet Dog brought them in closer to the coast near Canoe Bay. They could see the shoreline then, and he reduced speed for a while as they neared Point Salines. The wind rose to near gale force, and huge waves crashed on the rock of the promontory. They could see a large, flashing red light on the end of the point—where a self-sustained lighthouse marked the treacherous waters. Next to the lighthouse was a huge radar station with a revolving dish that searched the skies for any threat of aircraft.

  “That’s the new radar the Russians set up last year. They installed four new stations: one here, one at Grand Etang in the middle of the island, one north of Saint George’s, and one across the island. It improved radar control for the airport.” Pendergast seemed pleased. “We needed an upgrade on that system. The Cubans built the original with Soviet parts, so it failed often.” He laughed. “But it lasted quite a few years even then.”

  “It was a hell of an engineering project to site them stations,” Wet Dog said. “The Russians had the whole point dug up anchoring the damn thing. Even running cables out into the sea as anchors. This one station took almost as long as the other three stations combined.”

  “And they lost two men out here during construction. Both drowned while doing underwater construction. It was a terrible thing,” Pendergast said solemnly.

  “OK, we’re comin’ round the point, and the seas are goin’ to be a little rough,” Pendergast shouted. A wave slapped over the gunnel and soaked Wilson in one go. He gripped the railing on the cabin and moved inside. Pendergast shouted some orders to Wet Dog and then came under the canopy too.

  “Jimmy,” Wet Dog called out, “we’re almost on the last point of contact. I’ll reduce speed and try radar.”

  Pendergast looked doubtful. “The damn thing probably won’t work for this. Too weak of a signal.” He made a fist. “The fuckers got away. They must have suspected somethin’.”

  “Made contact—a half mile out. Coming on a new course.”

  “I spoke too soon,” Pendergast shouted. “Slow, slow, Wet Dog—and watch your visibility.” He looked at Wilson. “We don’t want him seeing us nosing around. We aren’t rigged for a fight.”

  “A fight? Why a fight?” Wilson asked, caught off guard at the sudden possibility.

  “If you were up to no good and a nosey boat came on you doing it, would you let them get home to talk about it?”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Exactly,” Pendergast said, pulling out a Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol from a pouch on the console. He pulled the slide back a quarter inch to check that he had a round in the chamber. He noticed Wilson watching him. “I’d rather be prepared in case we see trouble.”

  “Won’t they see us if we can see them?”

  “We’re pretty small on any radar screen. So we should be OK—as long as we don’t go runnin’ into them.” He looked a Wet Dog and shouted to get his attention. “Right, Wet Dog?”

  “Yes, sir.” He cut the speed again, grinning madly.

  “Cut the engine. Eyes to starboard.” Pendergast used a pair of binoculars for several minutes, scanning the mist for the starboard side of the boat. Wilson wondered if he could see anything in the dense haze.

  They drifted in the waves and listened. In the distance, they heard the rattle of an outboard motor and a man shouting. Then, on their right side, they glimpsed a tall ship through a break in the rain. It was there for only a second, but they all saw it.

  Pendergast whispered, “There they are. Wet Dog, get a GPS read on this location.” He turned to Wilson. “We’ll keep an eye on them until the storm sets in again.” Then, to Wet Dog, he said, “Don’t let us drift in on them. Use the electric motor for positioning.”

  They drifted there, occasionally seeing the tall masts or the hull of Varoushka, but never the whole ship in one view. At one point, a small boat came toward them, and they held their breaths for a few seconds.

  Then, the rain came in hard again and the wind picked up. Pendergast sniffed the air and felt the sea under them. “Boys, we’re getting out of here. It’s goin’ to get rough real quick.”

  Wet Dog started the engines and brought them about, headed back toward the point. Pendergast directed him. “Head for the point. If it gets too rough, we’ll go along the south shore to True Blue Bay—if we can make it.”

  They motored along in silence as Wet Dog did his magic and fought the sea. Their speed was better than before because they ran partway with the waves. Finally, they made the point, and Pendergast decided they would risk returning the way they had come. They had to fight the sea, running up oncoming waves and then crashing down the backside, jarring them on each drop. Their true speed was poor, as they gained only a few feet with each wave. After what seemed like an hour of this shuddering struggle, they had to head diagonally up t
he waves as they changed course. The boat made a vicious and sickening roll with each wave. You had to really like the ocean to deal with this chaos.

  It took nearly three hours to get back to the dock and tie up the boat. They encountered no other boats at all on their course.

  They were all soaked, and even though the weather was not cold, they were chilled and dehydrated. Pendergast passed out Stag beers, and they huddled around the small space heater to dry out their clothes. He turned on the local radio station, letting it blare over the wind. One of the GPC political ads ran between every song or announcement.

  “What were they doing?” asked Wilson. “And why in the storm?”

  “I don’t know. I have to check the marine charts and see what’s out that far west on Shark Reef. There’s some deep water farther out.”

  Wet Dog murmured, “Maybe there’s a ship down there we don’t know about.”

  The radio announcer broke with a news alert. The storm had now been classified as Tropical Storm Betty. She might grow into a category one hurricane if winds continued strengthening.

  Wilson jumped up. “Damn! It’s after two. I have to go.” He said his goodbyes and raced outside to the Noah, a perfect name for a vehicle in this weather. He climbed in and turned the key. Nothing. The battery was completely dead. That’s all I need—a dead battery. Anger overcame him. He walked back through the water to the Reefer shop, swearing out loud.

  “Can you drive me to Spiceland? My car’s out of commission. The battery is as dead as a doornail.” He swore some more. “I have to get back to the hotel and meet someone.”

  “I can’t spare a man now,” Pendergast said as he stood up and fished for a set of keys in his desk drawer. “From the looks of these waves, we need to move our boats into the lagoon to protect them from the storm. You can take my extra truck and leave your rental here. The truck has better clearance anyway. You’ll need it, the way the water’s rising.”