Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Are you talking about piracy?’ said Debbie unbelievingly.

  ‘Just that.’

  I had heard the rumours, as I suppose every other Bahamian had, and it had been a topic in some of the American yachting magazines. I said, ‘I know there was piracy around here in the old days, but these boats aren’t treasure ships—they’re not carrying gold to Spain. I suppose you could sell off bits and pieces—radar, radio, engines, perhaps—but that’s chicken feed, and dangerous, too. Easy to detect.’

  ‘You’re right. Your boat is probably on the sea bed by now, with all its equipment intact. These people are not going to risk selling a few items for a few dollars. Mr Mangan, I think we’re dealing with coke smugglers, and I don’t mean Coca-Cola—I mean cocaine. It comes through here from South America and goes to the States. Some heroin, too, but not much because we’re not on that route. Some marijuana, also, but again not much because it’s too bulky.’

  He nodded and gestured towards the large map of the Bahamas on the wall. ‘Look at that—100,000 square miles of which only five per cent is land. If the land were conveniently in one place our task would be easier, but there are thousands of cays. An area the size of the British Isles with a population of 220,000. That’s what we have to police.’

  He walked over to the map. ‘Take only one small group.’ His arm slashed in an arc. ‘The Ragged Island Range and the Jumentos Cays—120 miles long with a total population of 200, mostly concentrated in Duncan Town in the south. Anyone could bring a boat in there with a nine nines certainty of not being seen even in daylight. They could land on Flamingo Cay, Water Cay, Stoney Cay—or any one of a hundred others, most of which don’t even have names. And that’s just one small chain of islands among many. We could turn our whole population into police officers and still not have enough men to cover.’

  Debbie said, ‘How does piracy come into this?’

  ‘It’s not called piracy any more, although it is,’ said Perigord tiredly. ‘It’s become prevalent enough to have aquired its own name—yacht-jacking. They grab a boat and sail it out of the local area, fast. A quick paint spray job of the upperworks takes care of easy identification. They head for the cay where the cocaine is hidden and then run it to the States. Once the cocaine is ashore they usually sink the boat; sometimes they may use it for a second run, but not often. And you know how many we’ve caught?’ He held up a single finger.

  ‘And for that they murder the crew?’ I demanded.

  ‘Do you know what the profits are, Mr Mangan? But normally the boats are stolen from a marina and there are no deaths. That’s easy enough considering the informality of most boat owners and the laxity of the average marina.’

  ’Lucayan Girl wasn’t stolen from a marina.’

  Perigord said deliberately, ‘When a man like you sends his wife and small daughter to sea with a crewman he has never seen and whose name he doesn’t know he’s asking for trouble.’

  He had not come right out and said it, but he was implying that I was a damn fool and I was inclined to agree with him. I said weakly, ‘But who could have known?’

  Perigord sighed. ‘We hand out circulars, put posters in marinas—watch your boat—know your crew—use your keys—and no one apparently takes a damn bit of notice.’ He paused. ‘I wouldn’t say that the case of Lucayan Girl is the norm. Boats are lost at sea for other than criminal reasons; storm damage, fire, explosions, run down, and so on. But if they’re taken by piracy and then sunk who’s to know the difference? That’s our problem; we don’t know how many acts of piracy are occurring. All we know is that too many boats are being lost.’

  Debbie said, ‘Are you implying that the crewman on Lucayan Girl might be alive?’

  Perigord spread his hands. ‘Miss Cunningham, if this is a simple matter of sinking, which we can’t discount, then he’s probably dead. If it is piracy, which is more than likely because of what we found on Cat Island, then he is probably alive. And that’s why I want your silence. If he’s still here I don’t want him to know he’s being looked for.’ He pursed his lips in a dubious manner. ‘But without a name or description he’s going to be difficult to find.’

  I said, ‘Commissioner, find the bastard. If it’s a matter of a reward to be offered I’ll put it up, no matter how much.’

  ‘I mentioned discretion,’ said Perigord softly. ‘Offering a public reward is hardly being discreet.’ He clasped his hands in front of him. ‘This is a professional matter, Mr Mangan; a matter for the police. I don’t want you butting in, and you did give me your word.’

  ‘He’s right, Tom,’ said Debbie.

  ‘I know.’ I stood up and said to Perigord, ‘I’m sorry if I blew my top.’

  ‘No apology is necessary. I understood.’

  ‘You’ll keep me informed of developments?’

  ‘Insofar as I can. You must understand that I may not be able to tell all I know, even to you. Discretion also applies to the police when in the public interest.’

  He stood up and we shook hands, and with that I had to be satisfied. But, as Perigord had warned, it was not to my entire satisfaction.

  FIVE

  And so there was a funeral after all, but before that, the inquest. I attended, but before the proceedings began Perigord had a word with me. ‘Regardless of the findings of this inquest we’re treating this as a murder case.’

  I looked at him sharply. ‘New evidence?’

  ‘Not really. But your daughter didn’t die by drowning; there was no salt water in the lungs. Of course, in the event of an explosion on the boat she could have struck her head hard enough to kill her before entering the water. The head injuries are consistent with that.’ He paused. ‘It might help you to know that, in the opinion of the forensic pathologist, death was instantaneous.’

  Debbie sat with me at the inquest—she was staying until after the funeral. The inquest was beautifully stage-managed; by Perigord, I suspect. The coroner had obviously been briefed and knew all the questions he was not supposed to ask, and he guided witnesses skilfully. As I gave my evidence it occurred to me that one of the factors in Perigord’s decision to tell me what he had was to prevent any awkward questions coming from me at the inquest.

  The verdict was death by unknown causes.

  The family was at the funeral, of course. Grace came from Florida, and Peggy and Bob from Abaco, bringing Karen with them. Karen had regained most of her spirits but the funeral subdued her a little. In Peggy’s opinion it was a good thing for Karen to attend. She was probably right. Also present were some of my Bahamian friends and a surprising number of Corporation employees.

  It was sad to see the pathetically small coffin being lowered into the sandy earth. Karen cried, so I picked her up and held her close during the brief ceremony. A few last words were said and then it was all over and the crowd drifted away.

  Debbie left for Houston the next day and I drove her to the airport. I picked her up at the Royal Palm and, on the way, she asked me to stop at the International Bazaar as there was something she wanted to pick up. I parked outside, and she said, ‘Don’t bother to come in; I won’t be long.’ So I sat in the car and waited, and she was back in five minutes.

  At the airport we had coffee after we had got rid of her luggage and were waiting for her flight announcement. I said, ‘You can tell Billy I’m willing to talk business as soon as he’s ready.’

  She looked at me closely. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Mike was right,’ I said. ‘Life goes on, and the Corporation doesn’t run itself. Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking of what you suggested when we were coming back from Abaco. You know, when I think of it I’ve lived a pretty useless life.’ She smiled wryly. ‘The Cunningham family doesn’t believe in women in business. They’re supposed to be ornamental, be good in bed and make babies—preferably boys to carry on the line. Damned misplaced southern chivalry. So I’ve been ornamental and that’s about all.’

  I smiled. ‘What about
the bed bit?’

  ‘You won’t believe this, but I was a virgin until I met that bastard back in Houston.’ She shook the thought from her. ‘Anyway, I think all that’s going to change, and it’s going to give a hell of a shock to my father—me mixing with black kids and poor white trash. I think I can get it past Billy One though.’

  ‘Stick at it. It’s time the Cunninghams made something besides money. Making people happy isn’t a bad aim.’

  We talked about it some more, and then she excused herself and walked across the concourse to the toilets. When she came back she was hurrying, her heels clicking rapidly on the hard floor. She stopped in front of me and said, ‘There’s something I have to show you, Tom. I wasn’t going to, but…’ She stopped and bit her lip nervously, then thrust an envelope into my hand. ‘Here!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You remember Sue left her camera behind. Well, I took out the film and had it developed. I just picked up the prints at the International Bazaar and I went into the John to have a look at them.’

  ‘I see,’ I said slowly. I was not sure I wanted to see them. There would be too many memories of that last day.

  ‘I think you ought to look at them,’ Debbie urged. ‘It’s important.’

  I took the prints out of the envelope and shuffled through them. There were a couple of pictures of the Girl in one of which Pete posed in the bows, striking a mock-heroic attitude; three pictures of Sue herself, probably taken by Julie, which damn near broke my heart to see; and the rest were of Julie herself in various locations—by the pool, by the boat, and on board supervising the loading of luggage. There was one picture of Debbie and also four duds, out of focus and blurred. Sue had not yet got the hang of the camera and now never would. I got a lump in my throat and coughed.

  Debbie was watching me closely. ‘Look again.’

  I went through the pictures again and suddenly Debbie said, ‘Stop! That one.’ In the picture where Pete was in the bows there was a dim figure in the stern—a man just coming on deck from below. He was in the shade and his face was indistinct.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ I put down the print and took out the negative. A 110 film negative is damned small—it will just about cover your thumbnail—and the bit which showed the man was about as big as a pinhead. ‘The crewman!’ I said softly.

  ‘Yes. You’ll have something to show Perigord.’

  ‘But I’ll have it enlarged first. I’m not letting this into Perigord’s hands without having a few copies for myself. His ideas of discretion might get in my way. I have a shrewd idea that once he gets this I’ll never see it again.’

  Debbie’s flight was announced, garbled by bad acoustics, and I accompanied her to the barrier where we said our goodbyes. ‘I’ll write to you about our scheme,’ she said. ‘Look after yourself, Tom.’ She kissed me, a chaste peck on the cheek.

  Then she was gone and I went back into Freeport to find a photographer.

  Two days later I had what I wanted. I sat in my office and examined the duplicate negative, the copies of the colour print, and the six glossy black-and-white blow-ups of the pinhead-sized area of the negative which was the head of the crewman. The darkroom technician had done a good job considering the size of the image he had to work with. It could not be said to be a good portrait, being very grainy and slightly out of focus, but it was not all that bad.

  The man was youngish—I would say under thirty—and he appeared to be blond. He had a broadish forehead and narrow chin, and his eyes were deepset and shadowed. One hand was up by his face as though he intended to hide it, and the head was slightly blurred as though it was in motion when the picture was taken. On the colour print it looked as though he was emerging from below, and perhaps he had suddenly been aware that he was on candid camera. If so, he had not beaten the speed of a camera shutter and a fast film.

  I studied the face for a very long time. Was this a callous murderer? What did a murderer look like? Like anyone else, I suppose.

  I was about to ring Perigord when the intercom buzzed so I flicked the switch. ‘Yes, Jessie?’

  ‘Mr Ford to see you.’

  I had forgotten about Sam Ford. I pushed the photographs to one side of my desk, and said, ‘Shoot him in.’

  Sam Ford was a black Bahamian, and manager of the marina which was attached to the Sea Gardens Hotel on New Providence. He was an efficient manager, a good sailor, and did a lot for the branch of BASRA over there. Ever since the talk in Perigord’s office and his expressed views on marina security I had been thinking about ours, and I had a job for Sam.

  He came in. ‘Morning, Mr Mangan.’

  ‘Morning, Sam. Take a chair.’

  As he sat down he said, ‘I was real sorry to hear about what happened. I’d have come to the funeral, but we had problems that day at the marina.’

  There had been a wreath from Sam and his family. ‘Thanks, Sam. But it’s over now.’ He nodded and I leaned back in my chair. ‘I’ve been reviewing our policy on marinas. We have three, and soon we’ll have another when the hotel is finished on Eleuthera. If things turn out as I hope we’ll have more. So far the marinas have been attached to the hotels with the marina manager being responsible to the hotel manager. It’s worked well enough, but there’s been a certain amount of friction, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’ve had trouble,’ said Sam. ‘I don’t know about the other marinas but my boss, Archie Bain, knows damn all about boats. The times he’s asked me to put a quart in a pint pot I swear he thinks boats are collapsible.’

  I had heard similar comments from other marina managers. ‘All right, we’re going to change things. We’re going to set up a marinas division with the marina managers responsible to the divisional manager, not to the hotel managers. He’d be running the lot with the centralized buying of ship’s chandlery and so on. How would you like the job?’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Divisional manager?’

  ‘Yes. You’d get the pay that goes with the job.’

  Sam took a deep breath. ‘Mr Mangan, that’s a job I’ve been praying for.’

  I smiled. ‘It’s yours from the first of the month—that’s in two weeks. And as divisional manager you get to call me Tom.’ We talked about his new job for some time, settling lines of demarcation, his salary, and other details. Then I said, ‘And I want you to beef up on security in the marinas. How many boats have you had stolen, Sam?’

  ‘From the Sea Gardens?’ He scratched his head. ‘One this year, two last year, and two the year before. The one this year was recovered on Andros, found abandoned. I think someone just took it for a joyride.’

  Five in three years did not sound many out of all the boats Sam had handled, but multiply that by the number of marinas in the Bahamas and it was a hell of a lot. I began to appreciate Perigord’s point of view. I said, ‘Go back over the records of all our marinas for the last five years. I want to know how many boats went missing. And, Sam, we don’t want to lose any more.’

  ‘I don’t see we’re responsible,’ said Sam. ‘And there’s a clause in the marina agreement which says so. You know boat people. They reckon they’ve gotten the freedom of the seas. Maybe they have because no one has gotten around to licensing them yet, but some are downright irresponsible.’

  I winced because Sam had hit a raw nerve; I had been a boat owner. ‘Nevertheless, beef up security.’

  ‘It’ll cost,’ Sam warned. ‘That means watchmen.’

  ‘Do it.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Anything more, Mr…er…Tom?’

  ‘I think that’s all.’

  He stood up, then hesitated. ‘Excuse me, but I’ve been wondering. What are you doing with those pictures of Jack Kayles?’

  ‘Who?’

  Sam pointed to the black-and-white photographs. ‘There. That’s Jack Kayles.’

  ‘You know this man?’

  ‘Not to say know like being friends, but he’s been in and out of the marina.’

  ‘Sam, you’ve just ea
rned yourself a bonus.’ I pushed a photograph across the desk. ‘Now, sit down and tell me everything you know about him.’

  Sam picked it up. ‘Not a good picture,’ he commented. ‘But it’s Kayles, all right. He’s a yacht bum; got a sloop—a twenty-seven footer, British-built and glass fibre. Usually sails single-handed.’

  ‘Where does he keep her?’

  ‘Nowhere and everywhere. She’s usually where he happens to be at the time. Kayles can pitch up anywhere, I reckon. He was in New Providence two years ago and told me he’d comes up from the Galapagos, through the Panama Canal, and had worked his way through the islands. He was going on to look at the Florida keys. He’s pretty handy with a boat.’

  ‘What’s she called?’

  Sam frowned. ‘Now that’s a funny thing—he changed her name, which is mighty unusual. Most folk are superstitious about that. Two years ago she was called Seaglow, but when I saw her last she was Green Wave.’

  ‘Maybe a different boat,’ I suggested.

  ‘Same boat,’ said Sam firmly.

  I accepted that; Sam knew his boats. ‘When was he last in your marina?’

  ‘About three months ago.’

  ‘How does Kayles earn his living?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he crews for pay. I told you; he’s a yacht bum. There’s plenty like Kayles about. They live on their boats and scratch a living somehow.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, Kayles never seemed short of cash. He paid on the nail for everything. A few bits of chandlery from the shop, fuel, marina fees and all that.’

  ‘Credit card?’

  ‘No. Always in cash. Always in American dollars, too.’

  ‘He’s an American?’

  ‘I’d say so. Could be Canadian, but I don’t think so. What’s all this about, Tom?’

  ‘I have an interest in him,’ I said uninformatively. ‘Any more you can tell me?’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ said Sam. ‘I just put diesel oil in his boat and took his money. Not much of that, either. He has a pint-sized diesel engine which he doesn’t use much; he’s one of those guys who prefers the wind—a good sailor, like I said.’