Storm Rising

by Steven Becker

  She sipped water and allowed her eyes to focus on the data. There was no need to concentrate as she entered a trancelike state and allowed the rows of numbers to flow. The algorithm wasn’t very complicated. Although latitude and longitude appeared daunting to neophytes, it was actually quite simple once you understood it. The column on the left showed latitude, representing north and south. The next column was longitude, showing east and west. The reference line for latitude is the equator, or “0.” Moving in either direction increases the number, either north or south. Longitude is a little harder to comprehend as the “0” line was placed in Greenwich, England, by the British, the ruling sea power at the time. Known as the Greenwich meridian, the numbers increase as you move away from it, followed by either an east or west notation. Key Largo, where she sat, has a position of 25 degrees, 5 minutes and 11.5 seconds north latitude and 80 degrees, 26 minutes and 50 seconds west longitude. The only other knowledge required was that a degree is sixty nautical miles, a minute translates to roughly a mile, and a second is around one hundred feet.

  The numbers running across the screen were in the British Virgin Islands. Each position had a corresponding value next to it representing a call being made to a number outside of the area—one requiring a satellite to transmit. She concentrated on the coordinates near 18 degrees 30 minutes north and 64 degrees 20 minutes west—Virgin Gorda, where the Shahansha was currently located. Some numbers remained stagnant, indicating calls in progress, while others appeared and disappeared as calls were made and disconnected. Before SIM cards and the ease of using cell phones for international calls, this had been easy, but now it required complex programing to sort out the calls. A map of the island was on another screen, and she punched a series of keys to superimpose the lat/lon grid over it. Soon the numbers running by started to form a pattern, and her trained mind could place any signal coming from Virgin Gorda to within a hundred feet.

  It was mindless for her, and she allowed her subconscious to do the work. She knew the Iranian’s yacht was anchored there, but had no idea if he was on it. He was crafty enough that the ship could be a decoy. But soon enough she would know. His need for constant communication was one of his signatures and would allow her to track his movements. A third screen came to life, showing satellite surveillance of the bay where the boat was docked. It was hard to miss the yacht, but her feed did not allow her enough data to see any detail of the decks or manipulate the satellite.

  She jumped when Cody came up from behind and hugged her neck, kissing her forehead. It had been a rough charter, and she knew she should spend some quality time with him, but they both knew this was it. They either completed this contract or they were in for a major lifestyle change—maybe requiring day jobs. She touched his forearm.

  “You can have the other screens.” She shut off the satellite and map views. “I just need to watch the numbers.”

  He grunted, “No. You gotta do your thing. This is real life, I don’t need to be playing games.”

  She turned away from the monitor and looked at him, wondering for the tenth time in the last few days if she had changed his life for the worse. He used to be like a little kid; now she could see the frown lines straining to invade his face.

  “Just give me a few minutes and we’ll go have a glass of wine.”

  “Okay. I’m going downstairs to see how business has been.” He kissed her again and left the room.

  She rubbed her eyes. The room was dark, with only the monochromatic screen flickering as it updated. She sat back and finished the water, watching the numbers and wondering what she could do to make this right with Cody when a new line appeared. She leaned forward, having seen these numbers before. The coordinates put the call right on the Costa Smeralda dock. Before she could pull up the map, the line vanished. Forgetting Cody, she typed furiously on the keyboard and opened another screen with her contact database. Her trained eye went right to the number she had just seen, and she cringed unconsciously. With one phone call, this had gotten bigger than a few lines of code on the Lloyd’s of London computers.

  ***

  Mako swung his feet onto the deck of the boat and smacked his head on the low ceiling of the cabin when he heard the phone ring. Most calls he could avoid, but Alicia’s distinctive ringtone was not one of them. He looked over at Hillary, sleeping fully clothed on top of the sheet, and hoped the conversation would be short. With only another day with her, he wanted every second he could get to try and break down whatever barrier was holding her back. The woman had intrigued him; her mix of self-confidence and competency had his complete attention. He had even liked it when she had scolded him about the mooring lines earlier.

  He closed the door to the cabin, grabbed the phone and went to the port-side forward cabin, where he shut the door before answering. The cabin was like a sauna, but the heat was a tradeoff for the privacy. Sound carried so well over the water that if the hatch was open and the conditions were right, another boat could easily hear every word of his call. He thought about starting the motor to charge the batteries and provide additional cover, but he didn’t want to wake Hillary.

  “Mako here,” he answered.

  “Really. Who else have you stashed on board that might answer?”

  He wondered for a second if she had surveillance on him right now or if it was an educated guess. Deciding on the later, he ignored the comment. “I’m guessing you didn’t wake me in the middle of the night to say hi.”

  “If you’re asleep this early, you’re surely not alone,” she countered.

  The woman knew him too well. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “The yacht is still docked at the YCCS on Virgin Gorda. But there is a complication.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Mei Li.”

  The sweltering cabin imploded on him when he heard the name of the Chinese operative. “What about her?”

  “She’s on his yacht.”

  Mako thought for a moment. He had never met the woman, but that didn’t mean he didn’t fear her. “She must be almost sixty now,” he commented.

  “Gold star for math. If she’s here, there is something bigger going on than the Lloyd’s code. This could be our big break,” Alicia said.

  “Says the woman sitting in Cody’s war room. I’m here on the front line. This is not going to make things any easier,” he stated, but silence hung on the phone, and he knew he was about to be dragged into waters he wasn’t sure he could swim.

  “Let’s just see where it leads. Take the boat over to Virgin Gorda in the morning and have a look.”

  There was no harm in having a look, especially with the cover of the rented boat. Like a good many of the cruisers here, he would be assumed a novice sailor and would be able to get close to the yacht under that guise. “What about Storm? Does he know she’s here?”

  “So you did pay attention in class. Another gold star. You know he won’t use a cell phone, computer or credit card when he’s in the field.”

  The long history of Storm and Mei Li had been recounted often during his training. The two had tangled for years, neither besting the other—both, at least at one time, regarded as the top of their professions before she had disappeared and he had become obsolete.

  “Call you tomorrow,” Mako said and disconnected the call. He left the cabin and ascended the six steps to the deck, where he let the evening breeze dry the sweat from his body before heading back to bed.

  ***

  Alicia clicked on Mei Li’s name, focusing on the screen as the woman’s latest picture and biography appeared.

  “Hey, I thought you were coming out for a glass of wine?” Cody said, making her jump. “Shit. She looks delightful,” he said sarcastically.

  “Mei Li. Chinese operative since the seventies and probably still their best. Her face is well known enough to be on the post office wall, but somehow she is still effective.”

  Silence ensconced them as they read her resume from the screen.

  “�
�Been there, done that’ pretty much sums her up. But look at the list of suspected activity. Haven’t they been able to pin anything on her?” Cody asked.

  “She’s rumored to be the daughter of a vice premier. Any action against her could start an international incident.”

  “What’s she got to do with our contract? Looks like she’d chew up old Mako and spit him out.”

  “She’s on Cyrus’s yacht. I’m thinking about contacting Langley and telling them. There could be a bigger payoff than the Lloyd’s contract,” Alicia said.

  Cody placed a hand on her shoulder. “Guess we won’t be having that glass of wine,” he said.

  Alicia felt guilty, but she smelled something big. “It’s for us,” she said and placed her hand over his.

  He left the room and she changed screens, this time opening a direct link to her contact at the CIA. He would probably not answer until morning, but she would have the initial contact, and if there was a contract in the making, that would give her the inside track. Maybe after the Agency revisited Storm and Mei Li’s history, they would relieve him of the Lloyd’s contract as well.

  On another screen, she brought up the Iranian’s profile. Scanning the information of the two operatives, she wondered what Iran and China could be up to.

  CHAPTER 9

  Storm did a double take, rubbed his eyes and cleaned the lenses of the field glasses with the tail of his shirt. He put the rubber cups back to his eyes and stared at the woman. It was déjà vu. She looked the same as he remembered—exactly the same. And then he realized that it couldn’t be her. He calmed his breath and studied the woman. Her features were slightly subtler than her mother’s, the Asian diluted by something else, and the air caught in his throat. It must be her daughter. He remembered a time when Mei Li had disappeared for several years. The word on the street was that she’d had a child then, though the father remained a mystery.

  When the Iranian appeared next to her, the mystery was solved, but at the same time, things became quite a bit more complicated. The girl’s Chinese blood and political lineage mixed with Cyrus’s money and connections were a potent blend. Now that China was allied with Iran, the woman would wield status and power. He needed a better look, and a picture if at all possible. There was always a chance, and it happened more often than any Agency would admit, that eyewitness information was wrong. He didn’t think so, but would prefer an outsider to confirm her identity. He pulled a small camera from his bag, but the range was too far. Looking around before slowly coming to his feet, he brushed off his clothes and made his way back to the road. There was nothing about his dress or look that would be appropriate for even a worker at the resort, so he stayed in the shadows of the service road by the kitchens and laundry.

  He made his way uncontested to the edge of the dock, but dared go no further. Even without the uniformed guard standing by the gas dock, the area was too open and well lit. A cluster of trees near the water gave him cover as he removed the glasses again and focused on the yacht. Both figures were still there, their conversation, though he couldn’t hear it, clearly heated. The woman slouched, using the natural body language that all daughters at one time or another used with their fathers to get their way, and after apparently succeeding, she left and went into the cabin. The Iranian followed a minute later, taking one case in each hand. John waited a few minutes before leaving, checked the road and headed back to the Fat Virgin restaurant.

  He sat at the small bar, ordered a beer and asked the bartender to call the taxi for him. With his index and middle finger, he scraped the condensation from the bottle of Red Stripe and spread the cool water across his brow, almost missing the slightly more tolerable weather in D.C. While he waited for the water taxi, he watched a group off to the side playing a ring toss game, laughing and cajoling each other even though they were being taken for beers by a younger man with a Dutch accent. He envied their freedom.

  It had been a long day, and he wanted a nightcap and his bed. Finally the water taxi arrived. He paid his tab and went to the dock, where he boarded the boat and told the driver his destination.

  ***

  Mako woke slowly, the rum from last night clearly having an effect on him. He was naked and alone. Kicking his legs, he untangled himself from the sheets crammed in the foot of the V-berth. The smell of coffee brewing in the galley motivated him enough to pull on his board shorts and move aft. He poured a cup and, balancing it in his hand, he made his way up to the cockpit, where Hillary was laid out in the sun.

  “Hey, sailor. About time you got up. Your phone’s been beeping like crazy and I gotta go,” she said and sat up.

  Mako stared at her cleavage as she moved, barely able to take his eyes away. “Let me check in and we’ll get going.”

  “You’re moving a little slow this morning. Do what you have to. I can handle the boat,” she said and rose.

  He sat there for a minute and drank the dark brew before going back into the cabin and grabbing his phone. Hillary was moving around him, closing hatches and setting the cabin in order before their departure. The screen was full of texts, mainly from Alicia. It sounded like she had information for him, but there was nowhere to talk in private. It would have to wait until he dropped Hillary off.

  Without the breeze blowing in the hatches, the cabin quickly turned into a sauna. He took the phone and moved back to the cockpit.

  “Can you give me a hand?” she asked.

  The motor turned over, and she set it in neutral and revved it to two thousand RPMs to give the batteries a charge.

  He set the phone down. “Sure.”

  “Go forward and release the mooring line. I’ll get us out of here.”

  He stumbled forward, using the stays for support, skirting the narrow path between the cabin and rail. At the bow, he untied one end and pulled it through the eye of the mooring line. They were free of the ball now, and he heard the transmission click into reverse. Grabbing the rail to keep from falling as the boat jerked backwards, he fell to his knees. On the deck, he coiled the line and crawled back to the cabin.

  She spun the boat, and he found himself looking at the large island of Tortola, dead ahead. Hillary steered a serpentine course through the mooring field, carefully avoiding the other boats. She cleared the last ball and turned toward the north.

  “What’s up? Road Harbor’s over there, isn’t it?” Mako asked, pointing to the barely distinguishable harbor to the west.

  “Your little party last night has me running a bit late. I’m going to head to Marina Cay, and you can run me over to the airport in the dinghy,” she said. “Think you can handle the mainsail?”

  He looked back at her. “You bet,” he said, dreading another trip forward. He grabbed the stay and crawled to the mast while she turned the bow into the wind.

  “Okay,” she yelled from the cockpit. “Just pull the halyard.”

  He looked at the mess of lines attached to the mast, trying to figure out what she was talking about. Actual sailing had not been in his plan when he’d chartered the boat. He had wanted the boat for cover, not sport.

  She must have noticed his indecision. “The black one. Pull it hand over hand.”

  He found the line, unwound it from the cleat and started to pull. Slowly the sail rose. She called him back to the protection of the cockpit and turned the wheel to starboard.

  “Here.” She pointed to the winch handle. “Crank it up the rest of the way with this.”

  The sail caught the wind, and she settled on a course while Mako turned the handle, tightening the line an inch at a time.

  “There you go,” she said and reached over, released the furling line and pulled on the jib sheet.

  With both sails out and the assistance of the engine, the boat picked up speed, slamming through the waves as they crossed the Sir Francis Drake passage. An hour later, after he had fumbled his way through several tacking maneuvers, she turned into the wind again, released the jib sheet and pulled in the jib furling line. The sail
wrapped around itself, and she secured the lines.

  “Why don’t you hold her into the wind?” She offered him the wheel and moved forward, climbing onto the forward deck without any support. “Release the black line and feed the slack to me,” she called back.

  He reached over and lifted the catch on the mechanism, freeing the halyard, and looked up surprised to see her climbing the mast. She was several feet above the deck, pulling down the sail and folding it back on itself into the cover.

  “Hey! The wind. Steer into the wind,” she yelled.

  Having no idea where the wind was from, he turned the wheel to the port side . He stared at her lithe body, relieved that he had turned the right way. She finished lashing the sail, dropped the four feet to the deck, and entered the cockpit. Flashing a brief smile, she slid past him to pull in the dinghy line. After pointing out the course into the harbor, she went below, emerging a few minutes later in her uniform.

  Mako offered his phone number when she hopped onto the pier at Trellis Bay.

  “Why don’t we make this interesting? There’s a bar called Corsair’s over in Jost Van Dyke. Write something on the wall for me,” she said, and blew him a kiss.

  He watched her walk across the tarmac and into the terminal before reversing the engine and starting back in the direction of the boat. It wasn’t often a woman made him feel this way—inferior but wanting more. Deciding he needed a diversion, he took a detour to the small island of Marina Cay. Speeding through the mooring field, he brushed off the angry looks from the other boaters. After tying the dinghy to the dock, he climbed the hill to the bar and ordered a shot with a beer chaser.

  After a few Red Stripes and some casual flirting with the barmaid, he was feeling more himself and realized he had left his phone on the boat. He paid for the beers and ambled back down the hill to the dinghy dock. After a quick run through the mooring field, he tied up to the sailboat and climbed aboard.