For the conference I was taking a leather document case. When the valise was folded double, it could fit inside the daypack and vice versa, in case I had to change identities down to and including my hand baggage. And of course I was taking my Glock, my compact binoculars, the Orbcom global text messager, and the satellite tracker beacon I’d picked up at Yance Mabry’s. It all added up to a pretty full daypack for the trip to Miami. I would take only some of this gear with me into the conference, repacked into the leather valise.
****
I checked myself over in the guest bathroom’s mirror. A touch of foundation makeup concealed the white line of my scar. The combination of eyeglasses and makeup was usually effective. A memorable scar or other distinguishing mark can put you out of the game, when the game is stalking up close to someone who has seen you before. On the other hand, if you are known for a scar, you tend to disappear in its absence. At the conference I might come face-to-face with Trevor Ridley or Richard Prechter. With my hair freshly trimmed and styled, wearing my color-changing shades and a coat and tie, it was unlikely that either of them would remember me from George Town on Great Exuma Island.
I was all about camouflage. I’d worn camo face paint as a sniper, and now I wore Revlon to hide my scar, and hats and glasses to obscure my face. At least the skin around the scar was smooth; there was just the inch-and-a-half-long line that didn’t tan. A streak of skin-toned foundation mostly took care of. In the grand scheme of things it was nothing, but there were times when I needed to hide it.
I didn’t wake up one morning and set out to become a master of disguise. You might even say that I grew into it. As a novice voyager I had become accustomed to being the stranger who had recently sailed in from afar, and I soon discovered both the ease and the utility of assuming different identities and somewhat enhanced résumés. It was a matter of making a living. As a foreign visitor it’s generally impossible to get a legal work permit, and a former Marine sniper with a high school education is not in great demand.
Keeping a sixty-footer in fresh paint, diesel fuel, upgraded electronics and new sails is not inexpensive, and my marketable skills are limited. It takes an occasional infusion of serious money to maintain Rebel Yell in top condition, and I have learned that in order to get close to that kind of money, I need to hang around with rich people. First-class marinas and yacht clubs are invariably a bastion of the local power structure and therefore a convenient first step on the path to the money tree.
“Nearly broke foreign vagabond who somehow drifted in on the tide” is not the most effective persona for penetrating the local high society. Entering new ports aboard a sixty-foot schooner, I have taken on the role of a trust-fund playboy, a treasure hunter and even a location scout for movie producers. Whatever would fit the situation and impress the wealthy circle I was trying to befriend at the time. I had the yacht, the physical presence and a certain amount of charm, according to some, so there was usually no reason to verify my story of the moment.
Occasionally my new friends did some casual checking, and the internet would provide them with enough ostensibly factual tidbits to back up my story. I was a Facebook fake several times over under different names, none of them Dan or Kilmer. Google searches would lead to invented newspaper articles, high school yearbook photos, graduation announcements and company promotions.
In the searchable digital era, planting these modified stories and images was not hard to do. But I’d been out of the States for a few years and hadn’t put much recent effort into keeping my biographical legends current. I had thin backstops as a film production assistant, an entrepreneur on hiatus from the rat race, and a professional treasure salvor (which was half true), with letterhead and business cards for all of them. I could usually make them work, and more so the farther we sailed from the USA.
Almost anyone who is glib and moderately presentable can pull it off. Most people are not particularly hard to deceive. They are far too wrapped up in their own private existence to ponder deeply the sudden appearance of a pleasant, plausible and helpful new friend. The trick, of course, is to adopt and mirror the language, mannerisms, outlooks and prejudices of the target audience. Conmen, crooks and sociopaths use this chameleon-like behavior to gain the trust of their prey, and sometimes so did I.
I slipped into role-playing because it frequently suited my purposes, but I was well trained as a sneak, even before the Marines. The only way to avoid emotional suffocation growing up under the thumb of parents who were domineering control freaks was by becoming a convincing liar with the escape and reentry skills of a cat burglar. Becoming a Marine sniper seemed like a natural progression. When it came to sneaky, they set the world-class standard in their field.
But my application of the arts of deception came into full flower only after I became the owner and skipper of Rebel Yell. With a decent paint job my schooner was actually quite presentable when lying dockside or at anchor. Mi yate provided instant entrée into the upper strata of society when I penetrated that always-open break in their castle walls, the marina catering to both the local elite and the wealthy foreign visitor. It also helped having on board a surgeon fluent in several key languages, and it certainly didn’t hurt to have an Asian live-aboard cook, crewman and boat guard. My schooner, Doctor Victor Aleman and Tran Hung were all the bona fides I needed to show the potential marks in a fresh hunting ground. (I’d learned through experience that not many people quite trust the permanent long-distance solo sailor.)
Not surprisingly, having attractive young girlfriends staying aboard Rebel also tended to open male-chauvinist castle gates.
Useful information about the social terrain of my destination port was frequently gleaned from temporary acquaintances that I met in other marinas and anchorages along the cruising paths. My new pals often liked to brag about their highly placed connections. “When you get to Puerto X, you should look up my Uncle Y. He’s got the whole town wired. He can help you cut through the red tape and get you whatever you need. Just tell him I sent you.” First names and private numbers were often scribbled on the backs of business cards. Just as valuable was the opposite type of advice. “Watch out for Z. He’s a real asshole—don’t cross him, whatever you do.” Señor Z might be a port captain, mayor, police chief, district military commander or mafia boss.
The local aristocracy was usually happy to rub elbows with me, the tall and presumably rich Norteamericano who owned an ocean-crossing twenty-meter yacht. This was especially true in Latin America, where height, a fair complexion, light hair, blue eyes and a straight and narrow European nose combine to lend a foreign visitor instant credibility bordering on star appeal. It might not have been politically correct or racially sensitive, but it was the truth, and I was all about playing the cards I’d been dealt.
It was almost routine for me, the charming stranger, to be offered a temporary guest membership in the local club de yates, especially when I was able to drop a few well-placed names. The not-so-charming truth is that I am often seeking an opportunity to make a fast buck or peso and slip back out onto the open ocean for a long voyage to a country that does not share much information with the previous one. Then I like to spend a few months of vacation in a remote archipelago—preferably with pleasant feminine companionship. When I grow bored or broke, I begin to study the regional high society for fresh targets of opportunity.
Socially, every island is a self-contained continent unto itself, each new port a new and unique world. In most places, I have found there to be many well-fleeced sheep, and a few well-fed sharks and wolves. The predators can often be found circling around the local yachting scene, where they first hear of Dan Kilmer and see my black pilothouse schooner with its long widow-maker bowsprit. These rich, often dangerous and usually politically well-connected hometown tyrants and petty overlords are my preferred prey. But I give them only a bite. Even when they deserve it, I try not to hurt them so badly that they might make me their personal revenge project. And when a plan is wel
l executed, they don’t have a clue about what happened or whom to suspect. Sometimes they don’t even miss what is gone.
With Lady Luck on my side, I score frequently enough to keep the cruising fund in the black. But like all endeavors involving Miss Fortune, sometimes you hit a prolonged losing streak. And when Rebel Yell begins to look down and out, she loses her attractiveness as a calling card for the next round of fun and games for profit, and a downward spiral ensues. It could even happen while enjoying the Bahamas with a gorgeous young Venezolana runaway like Corissa Elena Ferratti-Vargas.
A lowborn old dowager like Rebel Yell needs a lot of makeup to make up for her somewhat crudely welded steel construction and boxy lines, as seen from certain unflattering angles, especially in harsh sunlight. When Rebel’s polyurethane paint cosmetics job is fairly new and not chipped, peeling and sun-flattened, she can credibly consort with the gleaming new composite fiberglass, stainless steel and teak wonder yachts found in the upper tier of marinas along the cruising path. But a period of neglect will quickly reveal the old girl’s advanced age and common origins. And don’t even dare mention ugly rumors of rust. They are lies, almost without exception.
****
While we were getting our haircuts, Mike rode out on his mountain bike to complete some gold-selling deals in the neighborhood. The arrangements had been made by phone the night before. He returned with a small shoebox and presented it to me sitting across from me at the kitchen table. He had a pocket calculator and a note-pad, and laid out the cash. The money was in fourteen separate packs of fifty-, hundred- and five-hundred-dollar bills, held together with rubber bands, plus one tight roll of thousand-dollar bills that was as skinny as a lipstick tube.
He said, “All together, it’s seventy-five thousand. Five grand in each bundle. Fifteen thousand an ounce. And if you need more, that’s no problem. My friends were happy to get the gold.”
“This should be enough. You didn’t need to take any unnecessary chances, did you? Nobody’s going to rat you out?” Exchanging gold bullion coins for dollars without government authorization was a felony. Rewards paid to snitches were the way financial cases were usually cracked.
“No. I only went to three friends I’ve known for years. They were happy to get the Krugerrands. They thought they made out well.”
I pushed two of the bundles of fifty-dollar bills across to him. They were over an inch thick and a bit unwieldy for my purposes. “You keep these, for your trouble.”
“Dan, you don’t need to do that,” he said while eying the stacks.
“It’s for the dock, the haircuts…everything. And to buy gas for the boat, if you can. If you can get the gas, I’ll pay extra to make up the difference.”
After a pause he said, “All right,” and slid the two bundles off the table.
I set aside a few more stacks of hundreds and five-hundreds for myself and folded the rest inside a kitchen towel given to me by Sharon. The loose packs went into my pants pockets. When in potentially hostile territory I always keep bribe money at the ready. Maybe money can’t buy you happiness, but sometimes it can buy your way out of misery. The folded towel containing the rest of the money went into my green daypack along with the change of clothes and other needed items.
Nick was in the living room, keeping an eye on the street out front. Their street dead-ended at the river, and he reported only out-bound cars as those working-age neighbors still with jobs headed off to them. At five before eight he said, “Our ride’s here.”
Kelly Urbanzik entered the kitchen through the inside garage door as I was zipping the pack shut. Nick came in from the living room. Kelly’s brown hair was again tied back in a tight ponytail. She was wearing a form-fitting red tank top and white shorts. Black Wayfarer sunglasses were pushed up on her head. Although slim and no taller than maybe five-five, she was not a stick figure by any means. She studied us with her arms crossed. “So, who are you guys, and what have you done with those nasty boat bums I was supposed to meet?” Although Kelly was in college, she sounded like a younger girl. She was smart, I knew that, but her chirpy voice suggested otherwise.
Sharon said, “Gloria did the makeover.”
“Gloria does good work. Nice, very nice, both of you. So, you ready for the big day?”
I said, “Yeah, we’re ready. Did you bring some other clothes?”
“Aye-aye, Captain. As instructed, I packed a bag with a few other fashion statements. Sounds like major overkill for driving to Miami, but I decided I’d humor you.”
We left the house through the garage. I followed her, carrying my bags and jacket. A metallic-gray subcompact hatchback was parked in the driveway past the Delaneys’ old minivan. “This is your car?” I asked her. “This is it?”
“What, you were expecting an SUV? This is a great car! It’s a Volkswagen GTI and it hauls ass. And it gets decent mileage, too. Or it will, after you fill its tank.”
“I just didn’t expect a two-door. That’s…a problem. Maybe.”
“Well, it’s not my problem.” She opened the driver’s door. “I know where I’m sitting.” Both side windows were already down.
I asked her, “You sure you want to drive?”
“I’ve got the only valid Florida license, right? And I know all the shortcuts.”
As far as I knew, Nick still had a current driver’s license, but I didn’t mention it and neither did he. I gave the car a walk-around inspection. Good tread on the tires. No rust or serious scratches on the paint job. Regular Florida tag on the back, not a vanity plate. Current registration sticker. No tag on the front bumper, as was customary in Florida. The car was small and at least a decade old, but it was at least presentable as a generic compact hatchback.
I noted a Department of Defense sticker on the lower left corner of the windshield. The blue stripe beneath the business card–size sticker indicated that it belonged to a military officer assigned to Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia. That was good. It would give us some standing if questioned by police. On the front bumper was a parking decal for Florida International University in North Miami. More cover, more camouflage. I peered in through the open passenger window and saw a standard transmission, with a knob protruding from a black leather pyramid. “Are you any good on a stick shift?”
“What, you think girls can’t drive a stick?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, I’m damned good on a stick. And right now I’ll bet I’m a lot better than you are. From what I’ve heard, there aren’t a lot of stick shifts on schooners. And I’m sure as hell better than you in this GTI, since I know all its quirks.”
The girl could argue effectively, I had to give her that. “Well, then I call shotgun.”
Nick said, “Let’s flip for it.”
I told him, “In your dreams, sweetheart.” I opened the passenger door, put my jacket and daypack on the front bucket seat, and then snapped it forward for him to climb into the back.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Dan, if I’m in the back…well, I’m screwed if we have to un-ass this thing in a major hurry.”
I offered no sympathy. After a moment Nick stooped and climbed into the back, taking his black gym bag and the laptop case containing his .357 revolver.
Through the window he asked Kelly, “Can I open the hatch from the inside? From the backseat, I mean.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “I’ve never had a reason to check.”
I said, “Try this.” The rear hatch was unlocked, and I popped it open. It sprang up readily on two gas pistons. I studied the center locking mechanism and had an idea. My daypack had a small roll of green parachute cord in a side pocket. It was with a mini-flashlight, a folding knife, a multi-tool and a few other small items that lived there full time. I cut off a few feet of the green cord and tied a coin-size bowline loop in one end. It made me think of another piece of identical green paracord, and I wondered how much if any of Archy Mildenhall was still hanging from the roots of that mangrove tree b
ack on Castigo Cay. It seemed impossible that the mangrove swamp was only a day in my past.
I put the cord into the latch and tripped it, snapping the lock closed over the loop. I tossed the other end of the paracord over the backseat to Nick. “Find something for an anchor point and tie a quick-release knot.” I didn’t need to explain this any further to a former Ranger. They all considered themselves rock climbers and knew Army knots and rope tricks no sailor had ever learned. The hatch would be held down firmly by the paracord. From outside the car it would appear to be locked shut, but Nick would be able to release the string and push the hatch up from inside.
The backrest of the rear seat was divided into two parts. Nick folded down the left section, forming a partial cargo deck between the hatch and the back of the driver’s seat. “I just need a way to get out,” he explained. “I get nervous when I can’t get out of a vehicle fast. If you have somebody between you and the only way out…well, sometimes that person in front of you can’t get out. Then you’re fucked. Sorry, Kelly. But you know what I mean, Dan.”
I did indeed. I’d seen people burning after being trapped in vehicles, both military and civilian. You didn’t forget the sight. I’m sure Nick had seen them too, so I understood his nervousness. A polite “after you” took on a whole new meaning when troops were loading into an armored personnel carrier, where “first in, last out” could be a matter of life or death. The likelihood of being trapped in a car fire was infinitely small on that day, but some fears became hardwired after witnessing living nightmares you could never erase from your mind.
Nick’s revolver and extra ammunition were in a black laptop computer carrying case, lent to him by Sharon. He slid it under the folded-down seatback to his left. Their daypacks and gym bags and my leather valise went on top of it, making the partial cargo deck arrangement seem less unusual. I set my green daypack on the floor in front of the passenger seat and picked up my jacket by the collar, looking for a hook.
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