Troubled Waters td-133

by Warren Murphy

  When there was no reply, Kidd slowly lowered his revolver, turning back in the direction of his quarters. Offering his back to any coward who would take the chance, hoping that he would not be called upon to kill another of his men this afternoon.

  Behind him, as he walked away, he heard the ancient Oriental's high-pitched voice. "Clear trash away!" he said. "Wash filthy hands and come to eat!"

  The only one who dared speak was a senile old man-that brought a chuckle to the lips of Captain Kidd.

  CARLOS RAMIREZ TAPPED the ash from his cigar into an ashtray fashioned from a jaguar's skull. It was illegal to hunt jaguars, since they had been registered as an endangered species, but such laws meant little to a multibillionaire who earned his living from cocaine.

  "Another boat," Ramirez said. "Our friends are having busy days."

  "They take too many risks," Fabian Guzman said.

  "Life is a risk," Ramirez said.

  "These locos thrive on danger," Guzman argued. "They are not normal businessmen."

  "What's normal?" asked Ramirez. "The Jamaicans? The Italians? The Chinese? We have enough trouble with enemies, amigo. Do not borrow more by picking quarrels with our friends."

  "Suppose they are discovered?" Fabian went on, insistent. "Do you think that they would hesitate to tell the Coast Guard or the DEA who buys the boats they steal?"

  "I doubt that they would let themselves be taken," said the cocaine lord of Cartagena. "They are loco, as you say, and hate the law more than you do. Also, they seem to lead charmed lives. A padre told me once that God takes care of fools and children."

  "They leave witnesses," Guzman replied.

  "You mean the women? What is that to us? These locos need some entertainment on their little island, no? Is that so terrible? The women are not yours, amigo."

  "I am told they let one get away."

  Ramirez took a long pull on his prime Havana cigar, savoring the taste of it, slowly expelling twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. He had heard the story, too, about a Yankee woman who was fished out of the ocean, telling tales of pirates and the foul indignities she suffered at their hands, but nothing had been done about it so far. With no positive response from the authorities, Ramirez thought there must be one of two solutions to the riddle. First, the story might be false, one of those rumors that came up from time to time, without apparent origin, and got some people overheated while they sought in vain to track it down. The other possibility was that a woman had escaped the pirates, but that she could give no useful information to the law. She could be dead by now, perhaps deranged from her experience, or simply ignorant of where she had been held.

  In any case, Ramirez told himself, no problem. Unless...

  Carlos Ramirez had survived this long in a treacherous business, while others fell around him, because he left nothing to chance. His dealings with the pirates led by Thomas Kidd had amply benefited both sides, and he had no wish to sever the connection if there was a means of keeping it alive. Security came first, however, and he wouldn't sacrifice himself, the empire he had built from his estate outside of Cartagena, in the interest of some loco pirates who weren't even from Colombia.

  "What are you thinking?" he inquired of his lieutenant.

  "Simply that we must be cautious in our dealings with these people, Carlos. They are not part of our family-they never will be. When I talk to them and look into their eyes, it is like talking to-" Guzman dropped his voice to a whisper, though they were alone "-like talking to Jorge."

  Ramirez looked at his lieutenant sharply, surprised at the breach in etiquette. Jorge's name was not to be mentioned.

  "I say this," Guzman stated carefully and seriously, "so that you will know what I am thinking. If I am right, then we need to do something about it."

  The brief flare of anger subsided, and Ramirez nodded in understanding. Guzman's point was well taken. Jorge, the unmentionable cousin, was a crazy boy, kept in seclusion in a comfortable but hidden and remote private asylum in the jungle. Just him and a few dozen overpaid caretakers. Ramirez and Guzman visited him regularly-every Christmas Eve without fail.

  Jorge had insane eyes, and now that Ramirez considered it, he had maybe seen a touch of that in the eyes of the pirates. Just a little, but it was there, masked behind their animal cruelty.

  Of course, you had to be crazy to live like they did. Kidd had insisted that they were like the American Amish people, who lived their lives by codes of conduct that the rest of the world forgot centuries ago. They just didn't happen to have the religious rationale that made the Amish look "normal."

  There sure was nothing moral or ethical in the pirates' code. They were savage, even by the standards of the Colombian drug trade.

  Bloodthirsty and at least slightly unbalanced. Not a good combination. Not the kind of people you necessarily should be putting your trust in.

  Yes, he told himself. The loco label said it all. Still, they were useful in their way. They had supplied Ramirez with an average of ten to fifteen boats per year since he had first begun to deal with Captain Kidd. A handful of the craft were still in use on smuggling runs-repainted now, of course, with brand-new serial numbers guaranteed to pass at least a cursory inspection. The rest were either seized or sunk, some of them auctioned off by U.S. Customs or the DEA under provisions of the federal assets seizure program. It was a point of special, ironic pride to Ramirez that some of those very boats would be repurchased at a discount by his own jobbers, returned yet again to the smuggling trade ...and that they would no doubt be seized again at some time in the future.

  The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

  Ramirez had trusted Thomas Kidd. Should he continue to trust the man-within the limits of his own ability to trust?

  They would never be the best of friends, that much was preordained, but Carlos didn't think the pirate would betray him, either.

  Not unless Kidd found a way to profit greatly from the treachery.

  In the devious world of Carlos Ramirez, there were only two ways to insure loyalty-fear and favor. Colombians even had a phrase in Spanish that expressed the concept: plata o plomo. Silver or lead. If you didn't accept the silver that was offered willingly, you got the lead when you were least expecting it. Sometimes the other members of your family got the lead, as well.

  Ramirez wasn't prepared for a war with the pirates of the Windward Islands. They had served him well, so far, without a hitch. It might be useful, even so, if he could find a way to reinforce their loyalty now, before some outside stress or stimulus should put it to the test.

  "When are we picking up the latest boat?" Ramirez asked.

  "Tomorrow or the next day," Guzman said. "Make it tomorrow. Send the word."

  "Si, jefe."

  Guzman didn't like the order, but he would obey it all the same. It was his nature to be second in command, a follower. That was why Ramirez trusted his lieutenant more than any other living man. He knew that even if poor Fabian should find the courage to rebel against his master, it wouldn't occur to him. He would no sooner try to run the family by himself than he would sprout wings and fly up to Panama City for carnival season.

  "When we go, this time," Ramirez added in an offhand tone, "I'm going with you."

  "Carlos! Why, for Christ's sake? It could be-" The cocaine lord raised his hand for silence, and Guzman's mouth snapped shut like a mousetrap. Angry color darkened Guzman's cheeks, but he had nothing more to say without permission from his commander.

  "It has been some time since I sat down with Kidd and talked about our common interests," Ramirez said. "It can do no harm to show our partners that we value their participation. I may even feel disposed to pay a bit more for the next few boats, if it seems feasible."

  "Carlos-"

  "I must look into those eyes again, Fabian." Ramirez took another pull on his cigar, let the smoke leak slowly from between his teeth. "I must see if I see-what you see, then decide what to do."

  Guzman unde
rstood. He said as much with new determination in his brief nod.

  "Go send the word," Ramirez said. "And while you're at it, get the troops together. I want twenty men for this excursion, well armed."

  "Si, jefe. As you say."

  Guzman went off to carry out his orders, while Ramirez sat alone and thought about the day to come. A nice excursion to the islands, sun and sea, a bit of an adventure with the pirates waiting for him at the other end. And if his meeting with the pirate leader gave him any cause to think Kidd might betray them, well...

  Plomo o plata, si. Lead and silver. They made the bloody world go around.

  REMO THOUGHT THE Mulligan Stew would never leave. First Ethan Humphrey spent what seemed like hours in his cabin, unpacking his duffel bag and making up his room with the diligence of the true anal retentive.

  Finally the buccaneers returned from their respective errands and groused with the master of the vessel over whatever it was that he had sent them off to fetch. Then, at last, they cast off.

  Remo watched them go.

  When they were about a hundred yards from shore, he ran after them.

  Running on water wasn't easy, even for a Master of Sinanju. It involved, simply put, sensing the natural pressure of the water's surface and not allowing your footsteps to apply pressure in excess of that. Remo didn't understand it himself, exactly, and found it was better not to think about it too much. Just do it. If you wanted to keep dry, it was better than swimming.

  The calm Caribbean helped. He crossed the open water in a smooth blur of flying feet that touched, but never quite broke the surface, and landed as soundless as a feather on the rear diving platform of the Mulligan Stew. And he wasn't wet except for some droplets clinging to his shoes.

  Time to take over.

  There was some kind of a racket on the front deck, a sound of spillage, something broken, followed by an angry outburst from one of the pirates. Heavy footsteps came around the back of the deckhouse and turned into the companionway without noticing Remo.

  Remo followed him inside. It was the man with long hair, cursing to himself and reaching for a broom or mop in a closet, and he finally sensed trouble. He turned around fast, but it was too late for him. Remo took him by the scruff of the neck in a two-finger pinch that froze him solid.

  Remo put the fallen mop in the long-hair's hand, closed his fingers around it and walked him back outside. Long Hair mewled.

  Remo heard the skinhead muttering, while Ethan Humphrey told him to relax, that it was nothing to get excited about. A little glass, was all.

  "Spilt milk," he heard the ex-professor say, and chuckle to himself.

  It seemed that either Skinhead or Long Hair had dropped a pitcher with some kind of fruit drink in it, and fractured glass and pinkish liquid spread across the planking of the deck.

  Skinhead's back was to him, Ethan Humphrey facing toward the open hatch as Remo stepped into the light with the silent Long Hair. The old man recognized him at a glance but didn't speak. His lips were working, but no sound was coming out. The bald man, as it happened, was busy staring and cursing at the mess around his feet, oblivious to Humphrey's sudden shock.

  And then, the ex-professor found his voice. "My God!" he blurted out. "It's you!"

  "Huh?" Skinhead grumbled. "What are you talk-?"

  Skinhead stopped when he saw the old man's face, eyes focused behind him. He glanced across one burly shoulder, blinked at Remo in surprise and pivoted to face the stranger, reaching for something on his hip. A knife.

  Remo moved in slow motion as far as Skinhead or the old man could tell, but the knife wasn't even out of its leather sheath before Remo took hold of the forearm that was grabbing for it. He bent the forearm, but it wasn't the wrist that turned at right angles suddenly-it was the forearm itself, and that required a lot of bone breaking to accomplish. Remo didn't mind putting out the little bit of extra effort.

  Skinhead minded. The bellow that came out of him was extraordinary.

  "Hey, hey, hey," Remo said as he pinched Skinhead behind the neck in a fashion similar to Long Hair; this made the bellow stop. "People will think you're a foghorn-you want to screw up shipping traffic from here to Key West?"

  "What are you doing here?" Ethan Humphrey demanded.

  "First things first," Remo said. "Do we or do we not need Dumb and Dumber to make the trip to the pirate island?"

  "Wha-what?" Humphrey asked. "Pirate island?"

  "They know where the pirate island is," Remo said matter-of-factly. "Don't you, boys?"

  In torment, Skinhead and Long Hair still managed to produce vigorous nods of assent.

  "If they can get me there, I'll keep them. Instead of you," Remo said. "Got the picture?"

  "I get it," Humphrey said miserably.

  "You take me where I need to go, and you just might survive," said Remo, "but you don't have tons of time to think about it. Tick-tock, Dr. Humphrey. Sink or swim."

  "I'll take you." Humphrey hung his head.

  "Good. Sorry, boys."

  He lifted the pair of cutthroats and brought them together violently, shattering their bones and pulverizing their softer parts. What remained was fused into a mass of flesh and seeping blood. Remo heaved it into the water before it started to drip on the deck.

  Humphrey was staring at Remo, aghast, as he turned back from the rail. "You ...you...killed him!" the professor stammered.

  "I didn't check pulses but, yeah, I'm pretty sure dead is what they are," Remo asked.

  "I'm to be next, I suppose?"

  "Well, that depends on you."

  "Excuse me?" Humphrey seemed confused.

  Chapter 15

  "Excuse me?"

  "You're surprised," the man named Kidd responded. "Certainly, I understand how you must feel."

  "I doubt that very much."

  They were alone inside the squalid hut that served as Stacy's prison cell. The other three young women had been sent outside when he arrived demanding privacy. At first Stacy feared she was about to be assaulted, but the truth was even more bizarre, more frightening.

  The pirate captain was proposing marriage.

  No, that wasn't right. He wasn't asking her to marry him. Rather, he was informing her of his decision, standing back and smiling at her with his yellow teeth, as if she ought to be delighted by the news. He plainly viewed the prospect of their marriage as an honor that should be apparent to the most thickheaded woman on the planet.

  "Married?" She repeated it as if the word were foreign to her, not a part of her vocabulary.

  "That's the ticket," Kidd replied, still beaming at her with discolored teeth. "You're prob'ly wondering about the service."

  "Well-"

  "I grant you, we don't have a rightful preacher," he continued, "but we have our differences with Mother Church."

  "I can imagine," Stacy said.

  Kidd chuckled to himself, appreciating her wit, but it was artificial, like stage laughter, there and gone. He still had more to say, and while he hadn't exactly rehearsed the speech, he still seemed bent on making certain points.

  "The good news," Kidd continued, "is that I'm the captain of this scurvy lot, and maritime law gives me the authority to pronounce nuptials."

  "So, you can marry yourself?"

  Kidd blinked at that idea, as if confused, then frowned slightly. "Perform the rights, you mean? Of course. I grant you, it may not be strictly legal on the mainland, but I've long since given up on courting the opinion of landlubbers."

  "This is so sudden," Stacy said. It was the ultimate cliche, but she could think of nothing else to say. Her mind was racing, jumbled thoughts colliding, jostling one another, but she had a feeling that it would be foolish-maybe even fatal-to show weakness in the presence of this man.

  "You'll get used to the notion," Kidd replied, "once we've been rightly hitched. You'll be my queen."

  The final comment was so serious that Stacy almost laughed out loud. She bit her tongue instead and stood with eyes
downcast, considering the best response.

  "What sort of an engagement period were you considering?" she asked at last.

  "Engagement?" Once again Kidd seemed confused. "To hell with that nonsense! Tonight's the night, my love. Your Chinky friend's already working on the menu."

  "He's Korean," Stacy said, stalling for time.

  "It's all the same," Kidd said. "You rest now. Get yourself shipshape for the big event."

  "I don't have anything to wear!" she blurted out, the sheer absurdity of it all twitching the corners of her mouth into a near-hysterical smile that could just as easily have been a rictus of pain.

  "No matter," Kidd replied. "We'll fix you up with something for the ceremony. Later on, of course, you won't need anything to wear."

  He left her with a wink and leer in parting. Stacy stared after him until she was alone and fairly certain he wouldn't duck back to add some new announcement. She stiffened at the sound of shuffling footsteps, but it was her fellow captives returning. Megan came forward, while Robin and Felicia hung back, near the curtained entrance to the hut.

  "I hear we're going to be bridesmaids," Megan said.

  At that, a dam burst inside Stacy, and she stepped into the younger woman's arms, dissolving into tears.

  CHIUN WAS WORKING ON A culinary masterpiece. It was to be a wedding feast, as he had been informed, and the ridiculous young men who thought he was their prisoner demanded "something special for the bride and groom."

  Chiun intended to oblige.

  The one-eyed cretin charged with guarding Chiun lurched to his feet as the Master Emeritus of Sinanju approached. "Need sumpthin', Chinaman?"

  Chiun considered pulling off the pirate's arm and using it to rearrange his grubby features. It would be so easy. Once that simple chore was done, he could proceed to take the others as they came, one at a time, or in whatever combinations they preferred. There were no more than sixty-five or seventy in all. It would be child's play. If not for the prisoners. Surely the rabble would resort to using hostages once it became apparent that they were being picked off by an invisible killer.