Maroon Rising

by John H. Cunningham

  I sipped my rum.

  “Buck?” Ray said. “I hope you’re not setting me up as some kind of decoy here.”

  Which is exactly what I’d planned on doing, but now I wasn’t so sure. I took a guzzle of rum at the realization that doing it would make me a card-carrying asshole.

  A friend not to be trusted?

  “What about the professor, Buck?” Not Mr. Buck. Johnny’s respect for me was waning along with my own.

  “She has some detailed information about Morgan that’s never come to light,” I said.

  His eyes lit up. “Serious?”

  “Yeah, but …” I was about to say that Nanny couldn’t be trusted when I spotted a tall woman in a short, tight, low-cut dress in the distance, walking barefoot up the beach toward the bar.

  “But what?” Johnny said.

  The woman pushed her hair back from her face as she climbed the steps, paused, bent down to put her heels back on, and stepped onto the patio. She zeroed in on me and headed toward us. She was dressed to the nines, and I was sure every head turned to watch her approach.

  “Buck?” Ray said.

  “You can ask her yourself, guys.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Just don’t mention the boats, okay?”

  Ray’s eyes shot open.

  Nanny stepped into the middle of our threesome, right up between Ray and Johnny, put a hand on each of their chests, and pushed them back a bit. She then leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Makes sense that this was where Ian Fleming lived,” she said. “You gentlemen look straight out of a James Bond movie.”

  “Good guys or bad guys?” Ray muttered.

  “I never thanked you for your brilliance today, Buck. I came here to do that, properly.”

  Nanny was charming to all three of us. She pulled up a white wooden barstool next to me, while Ray and Johnny stood facing us. Ray had that loopy grin he got around pretty women who were being nice to him.

  Conversation was light, and neither Nanny nor I mentioned Blue Mountains, petroglyphs, or Gunner with his goons and guns. Johnny chewed on his lip and held his arms crossed, Ray leaned against one of the columns plastered with old rock star photos and stared unabashed at Nanny. I caught myself doing the same thing a couple times. I’d thought her attractive since the moment I met her, but tonight she looked like a Jamaican Halle Berry with longer hair.

  Movie star looks and university professor brains.

  The nerve endings in my back sprang to life when she ran one of her fingers across my shoulder blade. I cut a glance toward her, a hopeless attempt to be nonchalant, and we caught each other’s eyes for a moment. She slowly raised the eyebrow over her right eye. I swallowed, still wondering what she meant about thanking me properly.

  “I need to get back to Kingston tonight, get the boats going bright and early,” Johnny said. “And if I drink any more rum, that won’t be happening.”

  “Boats?” Nanny said.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Ray cocked his head toward me and raised a brow.

  “Okay, Johnny. Thanks for getting that rolling. We’ll see you some time tomorrow.”

  He held his fist forward and we all gave him gentle fist bumps. Nanny seemed to get a kick out of this greeting, typical for many Jamaicans, especially Rastas. As Johnny left, Ray excused himself and headed toward the men’s room.

  “To say I’m surprised to see you here would be an understatement,” I said.

  She studied my face. I wasn’t smiling.

  “I meant what I said, that I came to thank you. And to apologize.”

  “You could have sent me a text.”

  She glanced in both directions and leaned closer.

  “Cuffee, the crazy one who was with your, ah, friend today, is stirring up trouble in Cockpit Country.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The Leeward Maroons are thriving, more than our small community in Moore Town. Moore Town used to be the center of Maroon heritage, but now the Leewards in Accompong aren’t just clinging to the past—they’re setting their own agenda for the future. They—”

  I held up a hand, palm out.

  “Whoa. What does that have to do with—”

  “Cuffee’s trying to challenge our possession of the Morgan documents.”

  My eyes and lips narrowed—involuntarily, but Nanny stiffened.

  “I am sorry, Buck. I meant what I told you—I wanted Dodson out on the water in Port Royal so I could work with you on this. And yes, I’m not proud of it, but I lied to the committee to make that happen. Nobody thinks he has a prayer of finding anything of value, and Jamaica gets an historic structure salvaged at someone else’s expense—”

  “And treasure hunters are considered rogues?”

  A flush of color bloomed in her cheeks.

  “Didn’t I call you right after you left Jamaica? You kept blowing me off—”

  “Nanny, I get everything you’ve said, but you’ve been holding out on me. If I can’t trust you—”

  “You can trust me.”

  “How am I supposed to—”

  “Stanley refused to share all the information until you’d proven yourself capable. You did that in the mountains.” She inhaled a deep breath. “But you’re right. I did withhold some pages from Morgan’s diary—”

  “I knew it!” I pounded my fist on the bar.

  “Which I brought here with me tonight.”

  Ours eyes locked. My mind opened like a flower.

  What else could be in the archives? Would it connect the circular petroglyphs we’d discovered this morning? Provide a meaningful clue to the treasure? And why was Nanny so dolled up for an apology?

  She hadn’t told me what was in the papers she’d withheld yet, so I needed to play this out.

  “To answer the question I’m sure you’re wondering,” she said, “Morgan’s documents don’t specifically say anything about the petroglyphs you found today.”

  I sagged. Both at what she’d just said and because it wasn’t the only thing I’d been wondering.

  “But it does have some detailed statements about Isla Vaca, among other things.”

  “You need to fill in the blanks here if you expect me to stay involved,” I said. “You mentioned Isla Vaca before, is that the same as Île à Vache off Haiti?”

  “Haiti, yes.”

  “Haiti, you say?” Ray had returned from the men’s room but neither of us had noticed him walk up. “I’m not going to Haiti, Buck.” Ray held his palms up toward me and shook them. “You know how I feel about voodoo.”

  “Relax, will you? I have no plans to go to Haiti, and I need you out with Johnny anyway.” I checked my watch. It had been a very long day, and I still wasn’t sure what the night might hold, but if Nanny had come clean, and still wanted us to work together, we’d have a busy morning ahead.

  I promised to explain my plan to Ray at an early breakfast. He sauntered off to the Lagoon villa we were sharing, and I turned back to Nanny.

  “When do I get to see the pages?”

  She cocked her head slightly to the side, tugging up on the deep V neck of her dress.

  “Well now, Mr. Bond, you do work fast, don’t you?”

  I felt my face flush.

  She laughed. “The pages are back in the Ian Fleming suite—Chris let me use it for the night. Would you like to come have a look?”

  My turn to smirk. “Well now, Moneypenny, I’d love to.”

  I stood and held up my arm, which she took. We made our way across the beach, over the illuminated bridge, and on to the very private Ian Fleming suite.

  When we arrived at the well-appointed suite, Nanny and I studied the Morgan archives together with increasing excitement. The missing pages added some details about Morgan’s Maroon associates, mentioning Akim, who had sailed with him, and Njoni his son, and noted a date that had been in the future—in fact, after Morgan died. The assumption was that this future date was for a m
eeting. Other details showed what I assumed to be some type of code:

  III =III ^III 0

  Could this be some type of map code we had no context to unravel? If we could get a better bearing on the macro of where the stash might be located, maybe it could help us with the micro of details to locate it.

  This information calmed my concerns about Nanny—to the point that I said we deserved a moonlight swim on the private beach.

  “Don’t fall,” I said a few minutes later. “There are a dozen steps and they’re steep.”

  “And the stone is sharp,” Nanny said.

  The moon cast a brilliant glow on the private beach below, along with the white-capped waves crashing against it. I stepped from the stone landing onto the still warm sand, the champagne flutes in my left hand clinking against one another. I placed them on the ledge and filled them.

  I stood up and held out a flute to Nanny. Instead of reaching for it she grasped the knot on her robe, twisted it, and let the batik print fabric fall to the beach. She turned, and the moonlight that filtered through the sea grape trees cast her breasts into silhouette.

  “After we go swimming,” she said—then stepped into the water. No swimsuit, no hesitation, no modesty.

  I put the glass down, removed my trunks and robe, laid them next to the champagne bottle, and followed her in. The water was warm, but the night air was cool, so I stayed under except for my head as I caught up to her.

  I pulled her into my arms. The warmth of her skin encouraged me to press her body against mine—with predictable effects.

  Waves rocked us to and fro and we wound up rolling slowly across the surf-swept beach, moonlight reflecting off our wet skin, her chest lifting quickly with each breath as we kissed and allowed our fingers to explore one another, stroking, kneading, clutching.

  A slight shriek escaped her parted lips, the sound lost on the breeze but not on me as I held her tight, thrusting, rocking her beneath the water, my shudders matching hers, until we both let our limbs fall flat and we drifted into the shallow water that lapped at our spent bodies. After a moment, when a larger wave lifted us for a second or two, she rolled on top of me and buried her face in my neck. I shivered.

  “Apology accepted?”

  “Almost,” I said.

  Her laugh carried through the stone cavern around the beach.

  I was gradually awakened by the sound of waves beating on the beach. The same beach in the framed black and white photograph on the wall of Ian Fleming in dark trousers and a white shirt with a woman behind him holding a rake. The same beach where Nanny and I had walked into the surf and made love last night.

  Dawn had just broken, and the sky through the open curtains was a swirl of pinks and oranges. Nanny was spooning me, and the warmth between our bodies was incendiary. Her arm being draped over me, I studied her hand—fingers long and graceful, nails smooth without polish, skin brown against my tanned chest. The empty champagne bottle sat on the nightstand, one flute half full and the other lying on its side.

  After our moonlight swim we’d beat a sandy return to Mr. Fleming’s former villa, where a hot shower led to a complete and thorough atonement. After which Nanny had promised there would be no more half-truths or omissions—all known facts would be in the open. While tempered by my usual paranoia, I believed she had been sincere.

  The digital clock surprised me—I was supposed to meet Ray in ten minutes. I started to roll toward the side of the bed. Nanny flinched, then wrapped her arm tight around my chest.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Reilly?” Her low, half-asleep voice was incredibly sexy.

  I rolled back to face her. Our lips brushed—I felt my whiskers rub against her cheek. She didn’t complain.

  “Ray’s waiting in the restaurant,” I said.

  She let out a short breath, her eyes wide for a moment, then half lidded.

  “Can you be a little late?”

  I lowered my lips to her cheek, then down to her throat.

  “I can be a lot late.”

  My lips continued down to the darker brown circle of her areola and nipple, which tightened at the touch of my tongue.

  Sorry, Ray.

  Breakfast was hurried, and while Ray didn’t ask why I was late he grunted and mumbled something about me and women. As for me? Once Nanny shared that the colonel had been responsible for her holding out on me and we viewed the missing pages, my evening with her had been beyond words, not a single one of which I was going to share with anybody.

  My cell phone rang—Johnny.

  “How’s it going?” I said.

  “Like clockwork, mon. What else you expect from Johnny Blake?”

  “That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”

  “Very funny, Mr. Buck. But yes, I do hope to get the big bucks you mention, and if this charade helps make them happen, I will perform like Denzel Washington for you.”

  “You have the boats?”

  “A fishing boat with salon—very nice old Viking. A work barge with enclosed bridge, two center console fishing boats, and a small tugboat for the barge. All fueled up, captains at the helm, just need your word to proceed.”

  Ray’s eyebrows lifted at the smile on my face.

  “Then go ahead and have your JNHT contact alert his counterpart on Dodson’s crew. Once that’s done, proceed with caution.” I remembered the bullet holes in the Beast’s wing—crap! Ray hadn’t seen them yet. “Just be careful, Johnny. These guys are very protective of their turf.”

  “Well, they not found shit, so maybe not so worried anymore.” He laughed and I could almost see his bright smile at the other end of the line.

  “And make sure to alert the Coast Guard station there at Port Royal, too. Don’t need them firing practice rounds toward our boats—we do have insurance, right?”

  Johnny confirmed he’d paid extra for insurance and we disconnected.

  Ray shook his head. “Even you have to admit this is one of your crazier schemes, Buck.”

  “If it works, it’ll be great. If not, we’ll still be a burr under their saddle.” An expensive burr, to say the least. Harry Greenbaum would definitely not be happy if that turned out to be the case, which reminded me that I really needed to update him on our progress. I winced. I’d been hoping to have more news of tangible progress.

  McGyver, Chris Blackwell’s friend and driver, got us in ten minutes to Ian Fleming Airport, where the Beast was tied down. A big, friendly man, he laughed when I asked if his real name was McGyver.

  “Plenty rock stars call me McGyver, so you can too.” His smile was so infectious it gave me confidence that the day—this trip—might actually work out.

  Once inside the barbed wire compound, I suggested that Ray go do the preflight inspection of the Beast while I filed the flight plan.

  “Aren’t we just going to Kingston?”

  “Water landing, Ray? Let’s not get shot at like Buffett did.”

  “Oh yeah. ‘Jamaica Mistaica.’” He scowled. “Is this going to be—”

  “That’s why I’m filing the flight plan. It’ll all be fine, don’t worry.”

  He headed off for the Beast while I went into the pilot’s lounge. I looked at my area chart, pulled out one that covered a broader territory, used the computer to check weather, scratched some notes. I peeked in on the airport manager and told him what I had planned. He wasn’t happy—in fact he tried hard to discourage me—but in the end he sighed and said he’d make the necessary phone calls.

  With my flight bag over my shoulder I left the terminal and walked to the Beast. Ray was scurrying around, making animated gestures at the wing. I took in a deep breath. It was a miracle Ray Floyd was still my friend after all I’d put him through, but I was convinced he secretly enjoyed the fly-by-the-edge-of-our-seat trips he sometimes took with me—not that he’d ever admit it.

  “These are bullet holes!” He glared at me. “You said they weren’t!”

  “I said I wasn’t sure—”


  “How can you not be sure? Either someone shot at you or they didn’t.”

  “Jack Dodson thought I was there to poach his dive site—”

  “Which is exactly what he’ll think again with your mini-flotilla heading out there!”

  “Which is why I filed our flight plan coming in from the west. We’ll land nearly a quarter mile away from them, Ray. Relax, I’ve got it all figured.”

  Ray turned away and continued to apply the patching material to the wing. Although it was temporary, it would keep out water, which could lead to corrosion—or worse, throw off our center of gravity.

  “Got it all figured, my ass.” He’d muttered it to himself, but I heard it.

  I ignored him and climbed inside the open hatch.

  “Hello, girl,” I said. “Ready for some fun?”

  Once Ray was aboard, we completed the preflight check, then cranked up the ancient twin Pratt & Whitney 450 horsepower Wasp Junior engines. I checked the elevator trim tabs, the rudder, and the wing flaps—no warning lights lit. Satisfied, we taxied out to the end of the runway. I pressed the throttles forward and we hurtled ahead to the east. Once airborne we continued east and climbed to seven thousand feet.

  “Don’t we need to vector south?” Ray pointed his thumb back over his shoulder. “Kingston’s back that way.”

  “Yeah, but first we’re going further east.”

  I pressed my lips together to stop a smile.

  I could hear Ray breathing heavily inside my headset. The eastern tip of Jamaica appeared ahead of us.

  “How much further east?”

  I cleared my throat. “Two hundred and four miles, to be exact.”

  “Fucking Haiti? You said we weren’t going to Haiti! You know I don’t do voodoo, Buck—”

  “Calm down, will you? We’re not going to Haiti, we’re going to—”

  “Isla Vaca, which is in Haitian waters, so yes, we are going to Haiti.”

  “I’m not planning to land.”

  “Unless?”

  “Well, if we see something of interest—”

  “Interest? Like what?”

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out another sketch—this one from memory—of the petroglyphs I’d seen up above the shelf on the rock wall at the crossroads, and handed it to Ray.