Ranya snorted derisively. “They couldn’t tell the truth if it would save their mother’s life.”
Carson laughed. “Yeah, well, that was last week. Gilmore’s not standing so firm this week, not after the hearings.”
“After the hearings, or after Senator Ludenwright getting shot?” The vociferously anti-gun Ludenwright was the third Senator to be assassinated since the “dirty war” had begun. They were frequently listening to VOA and BBC on the shortwave, and were also occasionally watching some international news in the satellite bar, with its big-screen TV. Ranya said, “Gilmore must be tired of going to funerals by now.”
“You’d think so,” Carson replied. The weekly body count of politicians and federal officials was steadily mounting, despite their taking elaborate security precautions. More frequent and more rigorously en forced highway checkpoints were not having the desired effect, and the “bullets from nowhere” continued to find their marks.
“It sounds like it’s just getting worse and worse up there,” Ranya said. “Pretty soon, Americans are going to start coming to Colombia to get a break from the violence.”
“Ha-ha, you’re very funny. I know, if you just listen to the news, it might sound like things are getting totally out of control. But behind the scenes, well, things are changing. Forget about the open hearings, that’s all just window dressing for the sheeple. The real story is what’s going on in the closed sessions, the classified hearings.”
“And how would you know about that? Are you just guessing, or are they leaking something to the press?”
“There’s a lot of leaking going on, but I’ve got much better information than that. You’ll never guess who testified in the closed hearings last week.”
“If they were closed hearings, then how would I know who testified?” she asked. “And how would you know?”
“Because last week I emailed somebody, who emailed me back to tell me to email this guy who just testified in closed session; that’s how I’d know. And this morning I talked to him on the phone for fifteen minutes.” Carson leaned back against the cockpit side, and crossed his legs on the opposite bench.
“In Santa Marta?”
“Of course, in Santa Marta. I’d never call or email from here. And you shouldn’t either.”
“You know me better than that.” There were international phones and an internet room in the Club Rapanga next to the satellite bar, but emailing or telephoning from so close to where they were hiding out was taboo. “So, who’d you talk to? Who’s this secret mystery witness?”
“You ready? Burgess Edmonds.”
“No way!”
“Oh, yes way. Burgess Edmonds himself.”
“So he made it, he’s alive… Well, that’s something at least. It won’t bring back his family, but it’s something.” Ranya had told him of watching Valerie’s house burning from their overnight anchorage on the Nansemond River. She had told him of watching the fire with Brad from this very same cockpit, thousands of miles and a lifetime away.
“He’s alive, and he’s testifying in closed session. You can read the open session transcripts in the Times, but it’s almost a waste of time. Half of the stuff in the open session is wrong, and the rest is just government posturing and CYA. Some of the reporting is so wrong, it’s actually kind of funny. I mean, they’re still trying to figure out what happened at Malvone’s house. A lot of people think it was a ‘falling out among thieves’ kind of thing. And then Malvone floating ashore with the MP-5, well, that was just a classic! That’s still got them running in circles chasing their tails, trying to figure that one out.”
While they were on their twenty-day voyage to Colombia, they had heard shortwave news reports about the body of Walter Malvone, a “senior ATF official,” surfacing on the Potomac near Mount Vernon. This had dominated a news cycle when his body and gun were connected to the fatal shootout and fire at his house. Bullets from the MP-5 he had been carrying were found in a police helicopter and in at least one of his own men. The entire situation appeared certain to provide a lifetime of work for dedicated conspiracy buffs.
Ranya turned brooding and gloomy, wrapping her arms around her upraised knees and looking down at her feet, her light brown hair blowing across her face. That night was a sore subject; three months later her emotional wounds were still very raw. He had been forced to tie her up in the Molly M’s forward cabin for her own safety, after she saw that Brad had gone over the side. He went deep, and his body had never been recovered, or if it had, the news had not reached them in Playa Rapanga. He often wondered if Brad had finally made it to the open Atlantic, but of course, they never discussed it.
“Did you ever hear from the Rev?” she asked after a minute of silence. It had been his idea to take Malvone’s body up the river.
“Barney Wheeler? Nope, never did, not yet. He was never in the news, either, so I don’t think he was picked up.”
“You really think he got away?” Ranya looked up, brightening a little, her hair flicking under her chin.
“Sure, why not? He’s probably kicking back on his houseboat, way up some river in the Carolinas. He’s good at disappearing.”
“So, what did Burgess Edmonds have to say? To you, I mean.”
“Bottom line, he says he thinks it’s okay for us to come home. Apparently, the President just wants it over… It sort of sounds like the government counsel is using Edmonds as a go-between, to get the word out to the resisters, and to folks like us. They just want it over. No charges, no nothing, as long as we shut up about it; that’s what Edmonds says the government is telling him. They know Malvone and Hammet did it. The stadium, the bombings, everything. From what Edmonds heard around the committee rooms, your video of Hammet and my audiotape of Malvone really clinched it. They went to the dam, and they found the bullet marks just like Malvone said. Then they found slugs in the reservoir that matched the stadium rifle. They can even place Hammet in the VA hospital in Hampton, checking his ‘old friend’ Jimmy Shifflett out of the place.”
“All this is in closed session? Off the record?”
“For now. But the whole story, the real story, it’s about to blow up big time. The government knows they can’t contain it, so they’re already in damage control mode. Gilmore just asked for network time for a big Oval Office speech tomorrow. Everybody’s guessing that he wants to get out in front of the bad news. He’s probably going to blame it all on Malvone and Hammet, just blame the whole sorry situation on them.
“He might even ask Congress to rescind the gun bans, and try to go back to the status quo before the Stadium Massacre. That’s what Edmonds thinks is going to happen. There’re so many rumors. Apparently, it’s just getting crazy, really out of hand. That’s why the President might want to come out with a tell-all speech now, because some of the rumors are even worse than the reality.”
Carson continued, recalling his telephone call to Edmonds from memory. “You know that story about how it was the FBI that raided Malvone’s house? Guess where that came from?”
Based on a tip from an “unnamed high-ranking federal law enforcement source,” the leading U.S. cable news network had misreported that Malvone’s house had been attacked by a secret FBI covert-action team. The two Playa Rapanga fugitives were sometimes able to watch satellite cable news ashore and, in November in Cartagena, they had been amazed to see the lengthy, detailed, and totally wrong report crediting a secret FBI team for their own vigilante attack.
“Where? Where’d the FBI story come from?”
“Think about it. Who was left at Malvone’s house? The sniper on the balcony.”
“But I thought we nailed him?”
“So did I, but it looks like he got away. The sniper was Bob Bullard; he was the operational commander of the STU Team. In closed session, he admitted he told a reporter that he heard the attackers yelling ‘FBI!’ when they came in. That’s all it took to start all the FBI hit team rumors.”
This was still a leading theory among
the conspiracy minded, that the FBI had sent a killer team to “clean up” the out-of-control STU. Their simple diversionary tactic of shouting “FBI!” as they entered Malvone’s basement had taken on a life of its own, extending far beyond that fateful Friday night. Now the phrase “FBI killer team” had permanently entered the internet and talk radio lexicon.
“Bob Bullard…Bob Bullard. So he’s the one.” She didn’t need to finish the thought. He was the one who killed Brad, who had shot him in the back, along with Tony and Malvone.
“Yeah, Bob Bullard. In closed session, he said he thought he was ‘driving off a terrorist attack’ when he might have ‘accidentally’ shot his boss.”
“What a piece of human garbage! They’ll probably give him a medal, and promote him to Director of the BATF.”
“Yeah, they probably will, knowing those guys. Anyway, Edmonds says we can come back to the states. No investigation, no charges, no nothing. Apparently, President Gilmore just wants it over. That’s why they’re letting Edmonds hear about the secret testimony, because they want it leaked in advance. They want to soften the blow for Gilmore’s big speech. They’re trying to find a way to climb down from the gun bans and the checkpoints and all the killings. So they’re going to blame everything on Malvone and Hammet, and try to put the country back where it was before the Stadium Massacre. They might drop the gun bans; that’s the big rumor going around. Just say it was all a tragic mistake: it was all Malvone’s fault. Edmonds says they just want it over.”
“Do you believe them? I mean, how can we believe what the President, or supposedly the President, how can we believe what he’s passing on to us through all these cut-outs? It doesn’t exactly sound like we’re going to get a signed Presidential pardon, or a grant of immunity, not when it’s being handled like this. How can we trust them? How can we trust that they won’t just turn around and stab us in the back, if we go home?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they would. But Edmonds is alive. He’s testifying, and nobody’s knocked him off.”
“But Edmonds didn’t kill any federal agents!” she exclaimed. “Federal agents killed his family and torched his house; he’s just a victim in this. But it’s a totally different story with us.”
“That’s true, but now that they’re pinning the Stadium Massacre on Malvone, they don’t really care who killed him. They’re just glad he’s dead. There’s still a lot of theories about what actually happened at his house that night, and we’re not in any of them. Some of them were killed with 10mm, and then Malvone floats up with a 10mm MP-5, the kind that only federal agents have. That really looks bad for them. That kind of simple connection sticks in people’s minds. Most of the sheeple hear that, and that’s as far as they go. And when you think about it, what really happened is even more far-out sounding than the other theories. They’ve got nothing to gain by going after us.”
“I still don’t trust them,” she replied. “They’ll lie to Edmonds, they’ll lie to lure us back to the states, and then we’ll have ‘accidents.’ I don’t think they’ll just leave us alone. Not with what we know, and not after killing federal agents. They don’t just forgive and forget that kind of thing. And the gun bans are still in effect, and they’re still doing highway checkpoints, so what’s really changed?”
Carson answered, “What’s changed is that they’re accepting that Malvone did it. One of their own did the massacre, just to get the gun bans passed, just to start a civil war. That changes everything. Edmonds really thinks the President’s going to call for repealing the gun bans and getting rid of the checkpoints, to try to stop the assassinations. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. We’ll just have to wait and listen to what he says in his speech, before we decide if we should go back or not.
“And Ranya, there’s one other factor to consider. Your child. Do you really want your baby to be born a fake Canadian citizen? Or a Colombian? If you have him down here, it’s going to make a lot of problems for both of you. You’re starting to show. We’re going to have to start planning.”
Ranya was sitting on the other side of the cockpit from him, facing northward out beyond the reefs to the open Caribbean. She looked down and felt her belly; she was indeed beginning to show. “I know. Believe me, I think about that all the time. Do I want him to lose his chance to be an American? What’s best for my baby? And is it really so great to be an American anymore, anyway? I think it probably is.”
“We could fly up anytime,” he said. “Fly to Mexico City on our Canadian papers, and then reenter the states with our real passports.”
“What about sailing up on Guajira—I mean Garimpeiro?”
“That would be a problem… I mean, it’s not our boat, at least not in the States, not legally. And I don’t know if the Garimpeiro vessel documents would stand up to Customs or Coast Guard scrutiny. They look good to me, but I’m no expert.”
“But you used to do it, right? Are you telling me you can’t sail this boat back up to the states ‘under the radar’?” She was gently teasing him, bringing up his shady past.
“That was a long time ago. The Coast Guard’s gotten a lot better since I was in that game.”
“But we could do it?”
“Sure,” he replied, “we could do it. But there’s a very real risk. We could get caught. We have to be realistic about it.”
She said, “Or we could just stay down here, and cruise over to Venezuela, then Brazil…”
“As long as the money holds out. And we’re not exactly rolling in dough.”
“I thought you knew how to make money with a sailboat?” she said, and playfully poked his leg with her toe.
“Don’t even kid about that,” he said flatly. “That’s something I won’t even discuss. I’m too old for jail, and you’re too young. Forget it.”
“But what about people?” she asked him.
“What about people?” he asked back, not catching her meaning.
“We could carry a few paying customers back up north with us.”
“Oh? What have you heard?” he asked, surprised that Ranya was hearing about smuggling scams before he was. Of course, he had been intentionally tuning out that type of talk, and he stayed away from “that side” of the satellite bar in the Club Rapanga. He had had one meeting with the Dongando brothers for old time’s sake, and to put Ranya and himself under their protection, but he had informed them politely that he was out of that business forever. That life was far behind him.
She said, “Ten to twenty grand a head for primo passengers, guaranteed safe delivery to Florida or Texas. Strictly high-class people. Cuanto dinero do we have left?”
“Not very much. Four thousand and change, that’s it.” Their new Canadian passports, other official papers and numerous bribes had eaten up most of Brad’s hidden cash. “But I can always fly back to Virginia and dig up another ammo can. Then we’d be set for another year or two. But you might be safer in Cartagena if I had to fly out. We’d put the boat in a real marina, with real security.”
Real security in “Locombia” meant chain link topped with razor wire, and uniformed private guards carrying riot shotguns. Kidnapping for profit was a national scourge, and no one of means was safe. A beautiful gringa alone on a yacht would be assumed to be the valuable plaything of a millonario, and fair game.
“Or we can both sail Garimpeiro back,” she offered.
“Or we can both sail back,” he agreed.
“We don’t have to decide today, do we ‘Dad’?”
“No, we don’t have to decide today, ‘Diana’.”
They each finished their beers, regarding one another.
“Do we have enough cash left for a windsurfer? I saw a sign by the patio bar for a used Mistral for two-hundred bucks. Please, ‘Daddy’? Please?” Ranya made a little-girl cutesy-face at him, tilting her head and fluttering her eyelashes while smiling sweetly.
“So you can terrorize the anchorage, and get all the local boys hot and bothered?”
“I just want a w
indsurfer! I’m getting bored just skin diving all the time!”
“That Aussie kid has a windsurfer; he lets you use it anytime you want, doesn’t he?”
“The catamaran’s leaving on Saturday.” She grew sullen, crossing her arms. “They’re heading to Panama, and then home to Brisbane.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I…just know.”
****
Ranya stopped herself abruptly. She had actually been enjoying herself with the Daltons, the Australian family, and especially with Mark, their cute twenty-two-year-old son with the unruly tussled blond hair. He was cruising with his family on their fifty-foot cat “Double Trouble,” completing an east-to-west circumnavigation with them after finishing college in England.
And it wasn’t right that she was enjoying herself in this tropical paradise without Brad. It was horrible! She was such a terrible person, it was so disloyal to his memory! She prodded the stainless steel wedding band on her finger with her long thumbnail, and turned to face the open sea to hide her welling tears. How could she forget Brad Fallon, when all she had to do was look at the blue sky to see his eyes?
After a minute, she said, “Forget it, Phil. Forget the windsurfer. It was just an idea. And I do want to go back to the states, as long as it’s safe. I don’t want my baby to be born as a fugitive on a phony Canadian passport, and mess up his life. Let’s go back home, if you think we’ll be safe there.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, let’s go back and face the music.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Let’s listen to what the President says, and if he says what Edmonds told you, about lifting the gun bans, if the checkpoints and the shootings stop, then let’s go back.”
“What made you decide?”
“My baby,” she said truthfully, spreading her long tapered fingers across her subtly growing belly. And the future citizenship of her baby was, indeed, a large part of the truth.
But the other part of her truth lay hidden, buried in the Virginia countryside like one of Phil Carson’s loot-filled ammo cans.
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