Steven turned, and contemplated Antonia emerging from the bathroom.
“I don’t want you to think that I sleep with every hot Italian supermodel celebrity publisher I come across. I have my standards. What kind of pirate do you think I am?” he asked.
“Be quiet and just look pretty, okay? No is necessary all the noise,” she said mischievously.
The food was delivered accordingly, a collection of fruit, grilled meats, and chicken and rice. No meal had ever been as appreciated as this one was. They devoured the entire plate – and then made sweet love all over again.
He woke to find that Friday had arrived. His watch said 8:00 a.m.. Antonia lay sleeping on the bed, so he tried his laptop, happy to find the internet was working. He checked his e-mail; there were several messages. The first was an encrypted e-mail:
[Just send me the wire instructions and the amount and it shall be done. Take care. Stan]
Next, from Spyder:
[Santa Maria De Ignacio in Panama raised a red flag with the DEA. It’s a shell used for laundering Ecuadorian narco-trafficking money. They build a few low-budget schools in Latin America to maintain pretense, but it’s well known in security circles as big drug money. A hit on that one. Nothing on the Argentine company yet. And still working on my other theory. Spyder]
Wow. So our good friend Griffen had dope dealers as one of his significant offshore fund investors. Nice to have solid confirmation he was dirty. He wondered how to go about proving it. That might take some creativity. And it was the offshore fund, not the domestic one, so not as damaging as he’d like. Still, a good start nonetheless.
Next, a posting from Pogo:
[They’ve stepped up their hunt for the site. I’m moving the mirroring every 24 hours now. Driving them bat-shit. This is fun. Anything you want uploaded? Let me know. Pogo]
He responded:
[Not for now. Just keep jabbing them with a sharp stick. I’ll keep in touch. Bowman]
He heard the sound of Antonia stirring, so logged off and returned to the bedroom. She was sitting up, looking at him.
“Been on the computer?”
“Yeah. Turns out my Wall Street friend has an investor that’s also one of the world’s largest cocaine producers,” he told her.
“Steven, this scares me to hear. I have plans for you,” she said.
“Do they involve me naked?” he asked, hopefully.
“Ai, with the talking. Pretty face, and then you spoil it with the talking. I figure I can clean you up, you keep quiet, maybe I show you off a little. I bet you clean up pretty good,” she teased.
He walked over to her, sat down on the bed, took her hands.
“You are an amazing woman, Antonia. Thank God I found you,” he said.
“I feel the same way...I am an amazing woman.”
He swatted at her playfully.
Then she became serious. “No, sorry. You are everything I ever hoped for. I didn’t know if I was going to come to you the other night, or try to leave the island.” Her mind returned there for a moment. “I think we can both thank the hurricane for much, Steven. For forcing me to choose. For making me choose to rejoin the living.”
“Hurricane Antonia,” he announced.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Steven?” she persisted.
“I do.” No joking now.
They kissed. She pulled away.
“My face is getting very hurt, caro. I need a break. The goatee has to go. The sooner the better.”
“Who said anything about needing to kiss?” he replied. It was his turn to slip under the covers.
They finally made it to breakfast at eleven.
The hotel was steadily recovering its poise. They’d lost about half their beach to the storm, carried away by the heavy seas. The waiter told them it would be back within a week or two; nature’s washing machine on rinse. They ordered, and Steven turned on his cell phone. No service. The infrastructure was a little slow in catching up.
They ate voraciously and happily, exchanging mutual admiration over the food-laden table. Steven asked her what she wanted to do with her day. She cocked an eyebrow.
“Maybe we lie in the sun a little, you can read, and then a nap?” she said. Sounded good to him.
“A fine plan, my little hurricane.”
Focal Point: Chapter 26
Saturday, Steven was awakened by the jarring ring of the hotel phone. It was Alfred.
“Sorry, Steven, but cellular service is still out and there’s no other way to reach you. I’m calling from a public box, by the way. I’ve got two more names. Imperial Equipment Corporation in Zurich, and Adriatic Trading out of Moscow. He really does have an eclectic mix of investors, doesn’t he?”
“Considering that the Panamanian one is a front for the Ecuadorian cocaine cartel, I’d say so,” Steven observed.
“Really?” Alfred said. “That might land him in hot water – even in the more forgiving jurisdictions, such as Barbados. I didn’t realize we were dealing with groups incorporating such obvious liabilities.”
“I’d be very careful every step of this inquiry you’re doing, Alfred. Bad things have already happened. I’m not sure they won’t continue to happen.” Steven wanted Alfred to understand he was dealing with dangerous people – the Ecuadorian deal was unmistakably malevolent.
“Point taken. I tried sending you the wire instructions, but I’m having a spot of difficulty with the internet since the storm. I’ll try again today,” Alfred advised him.
“My attorney on the other end confirmed it’s good to go, so whenever you send me the instructions I can execute.”
“Very well then. Have a marvelous weekend, why don’t you…things should be back to normal soon enough. Try to make the most your current situation.”
Steven smiled to himself. “I’ll do my best, Alfred – that’s a promise.”
Antonia had gotten into the shower by the time he was off the phone. He joined her under the streaming water, and she was happy to receive him. He absently hoped there was a good supply of hot water available. Showers took a long time in room 904 of late.
Once their morning routine was completed, Steven told Antonia he needed a few hours by himself to check on some leads. She wanted to accompany him, but he was adamant.
“I’ve already lost too much by underestimating the danger involved. I won’t risk you. It’s not an option, Antonia. I hope you understand.” He wasn’t going to give on this new policy of his.
“It’s your game, so I guess you can make the rules,” she decided matter-of-factly. “I’ll stay here. I can read your David Foster Wallace book.” And just like that, it was settled.
At the hotel, Steven asked Jenkins what the most discreet way to get around the island would be, absent an ID being presented. Jenkins recommended taxis, or hiring a car and driver. Steven opted for cabs, but asked for a lift over to Sandy Ground; he’d start there, even though the boat explosion had occurred outside of Island Harbor. Maybe Roy had some ideas as to who owned the boat that had exploded. It wasn’t that big an island, and all the skippers probably knew each other.
The hotel van dropped him off at Roy’s, and he made his way down to the dock. It was gone – wiped away by the hurricane, with just a few drunken pilings left sticking out of the water. But the hardy little catamaran was floating offshore about thirty yards; anchored, with no damage. Roy was sitting and drinking coffee at a bench outside the little café, which was undergoing major roof repairs.
Roy greeted him. “Hey, Mon, how’s it going? You made it through the storm… still here, huh?”
“Yeah. I see the dock didn’t make it. How did the boat survive?” Steven asked.
“It was pretty hairy. I took her off the beach, put out three storm anchors, and rode it out. Had to use the engines to keep from pulling the anchors up for a few hours there. Big seas, I tell you that; confused, coming from all around. Wet, too. It was a long night.” Roy was pretty salty. Steven could envision the tumul
tuous scene and he wouldn’t have done it for any amount of money.
“You’re a braver man than I, Roy. Hey, do you remember a couple of years ago a boat ran aground on the reef outside of Island Harbor and exploded?” Steven asked.
“You know, I do remember hear tell of something like that. Big explosion. I wasn’t there, though. Don’t know much about it.”
Steven dangled the question. “Any idea whose boat it was?”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t know. Maybe it was the guy’s boat?” Roy speculated.
“I don’t think so. He was here as a tourist for a week – from the States. It just seems strange that a large speedboat could be in these waters and not be a local boat. I mean, how would you get a Scarab over here as a tourist?” Steven was thinking out loud.
“Could be it came over on a big yacht as a tender? Or from St. Martin? I don’t know, wish I could help you. You might want to go down to Island Harbor and ask. I don’t know whose boat it was, though.” Roy seemed pretty open, so Steven had no reason to doubt his word. That made it weird. Small island, not many boats, so whose was it?
Steven walked back up to the road and called a cab, which he took to Island Harbor, on the far end of the island. He walked around the waterfront talking to the captains and some of the local vendors. Most remembered the explosion, but no one had any idea who owned the boat. One skipper in particular had interesting thoughts on the topic, though:
“I remember at the time, this big boom happened and then a bunch of black smoke and all – but not much debris. I thought it was strange. If big Scarab goes kapow, you think you’d find bits of her everywhere. Still, the sea’s an odd mistress. She keeps her secrets to herself.”
So everyone remembered the explosion, but no one saw the boat actually run aground, and little debris was found. The skippers suggested it was probably a St. Martin boat, rented for the day. Wasn’t a local, that was for sure.
He next stopped at the newspaper’s offices. The owner was there, but he was evasive, and actively unfriendly towards the end of the discussion. Steven couldn’t understand why the guy was so annoyed at someone expressing interest in a piece of news he’d covered several years earlier; it made no sense.
Steven had lunch at a resort that overlooked the harbor, and asked the waitress about Hedges House; she pointed to a collection of villas on the hill down the cove from where they were located, and said it was one of those. He figured he could do that tomorrow. He wanted to check on the St. Martin boat angle first. He finished his meal and caught a cab back to Cap Juluca.
Antonia was seated on the terrace reading his book.
“Isn’t that a little dense for you?” he said.
“I read it slowly. Some of the words I don’t understand but the overall I do.” She closed the book and jumped up to embrace him with a shower of kisses. “How was your spy work?”
“Okay I suppose. Roy lost his dock, but saved his boat. What’s weird is that nobody knows anything about the boat that exploded. I need to make a phone call to St. Martin and check on some things.” He really was puzzled.
“I’m starving to death, wasting away waiting for Double-O-Seven to get back. Feed me, you bad selfish man,” she demanded.
“You have but to ask.”
They strolled down to the restaurant, and she had lunch while he nursed a beer. The girl could eat. Loved her seafood.
Steven completely forgot about the phone call to St. Martin until it was almost dark. He dug Jean-Claude’s card out of his wallet.
“Allo.”
“Jean-Claude, this is your friend you dropped off on the beach the other day. Do you remember?”
“Ah, bien sur, Anguilla, non? Were your friends surprised?”
“Very. Listen, I wanted to ask, do you remember a boat explosion here a few years ago? Tourist was killed?”
“I remember something. Not much. Why?”
“I’m trying to figure out whose boat it was, whether it was a rental from St. Martin. Could you ask around for me?” Steven asked.
“Oui, I can, but I don’t think you will have luck. I know all of the boats here, and she wasn’t one of the fleet. Still, could have been a private boat. I’ll check and see what I can find out. Do you have a phone number?” Jean-Claude asked.
Steven told him he didn’t, but would call again tomorrow evening.
“Bon. Do you need me to come get you soon?”
“Keep the boat full of gas. Probably next week.”
Sunday morning he was awakened by a sultry Italian making passionate overtures, and he made a mental note that he hadn’t had this intense a sex drive since he was sixteen. They couldn’t get enough of each other, and there was a lot of lost time to make up for. Afterwards, he concluded that he was the lucky beneficiary of her almost-two-year dry spell, and then he was forced to focus his attention in other areas, and so chased away the unchaste thoughts.
Rested and somewhat guilty over having put his exercise routine on hold, he floated the idea of a morning run to Antonia. She was receptive, pointing out he must have already burned up twenty calories from his lovemaking efforts this week.
They ran over the bridge and up the main road, avoiding the infrequent scooters that served as the primary method of transport for the locals. Antonia kept up easily, which didn’t surprise Steven given her age, body, and other demonstrated endurance capabilities. She could easily match him. Youth is wasted on the young.
When they returned, they showered and ate brunch. Steven again had to invest a few hours into his project, and Antonia settled into the chair on the terrace to continue reading his book.
He had the van take him to the main inland town, an area called The Valley, and took a look around. Not much there. After a brief reconnaissance, he caught a cab to the resort near Hedges House, walking up to the sun-bleached villa on foot. It was a breathtaking view, and the grounds were immaculately groomed. He guessed the house was eleven thousand square feet if it was an inch.
Approaching the main entrance, he was greeted by a young woman sweeping the front porch area. They exchanged pleasantries, and he explained he was doing research into the boat accident from a few years ago, and so was interested in talking to anyone who remembered it or had been working there.
“That’s before my time, but Miss Talya was here, I think. Let me go see if she’s available. Who shall I say is calling for her?”
“Marvin Simpson,” Steven said. “Thanks a million.”
The girl was gone for a good ten minutes. She returned accompanied by a large woman with an officious air pervading her stature.
“I’m Miss Talya, Mr. Simpson. Jessie here tells me you are interested in a boat accident? Jessie, run along now, there’s cleaning to be done, girl.” Miss Talya was three hundred pounds of island matron.
“I was trying to find someone who remembers the group that was here, and could specifically tell me anything about the boat that blew up,” he explained.
“Mr. Simpson,” she oozed, “we don’t discuss our guests as a matter of policy, you see? I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course I understand. I am willing to pay for a little recollection, though. Not about your guests’ behavior, more just who was here and where the boat came from.” He showed her the corner of a hundred dollar bill. “Was Mr. Cavierti here with his wife…or anyone else?”
She glared at him. “I told you, we don’t talk about our guests. I don’t know nothing ‘bout no boat,” she declared emphatically, losing her matronly accent.
“So it wasn’t the villa’s boat?” He figured he’d try for that, at least.
“We got no boats, and I can’t tell you about something I don’t know about, now can I? You best be going.” She recovered her matronly persona. “There’s nothing for you here, Mr. Simpson. I trust you can find your way back the way you came?” And with that she turned and strode back into the house.
Huh. So not the villa’s boat, and it wasn�
��t an island rental. That was a loose end. Where did the boat come from? And judging by her reaction when he’d mentioned Mrs. Cavierti, he guessed old Jim boy hadn’t been here with her. Now all he needed to figure out was who was here, where the boat came from, and what it all meant in the larger scheme of things. Nothing to it.
Steven walked down the winding drive and back to Island Harbor. He stopped along the way, asking any locals he encountered if anyone remembered the group that had been at Hedges House when the horrible accident happened. He got exactly nowhere. Most were friendly, but a few were unpleasant, and didn’t seem interested in talking about the incident. Oh well, he supposed that was just typical small town-cum-island isolationism. After a few fruitless hours of this, he retraced his steps and caught a cab back to the resort; higher up the beach than their hotel – he wanted to get Antonia a sun visor for their exercise runs and it seemed like the kind of location to sell them. He bought the best one he could find, and jogged back along the beach to the Cap Juluca.
When he got to the room, he presented Antonia with his gift; to her obvious delight. She’d taken a nap and felt well rested, which she demonstrated in an unmistakable way for Steven; they spent most of the approaching evening in bed, and as an afterthought arranged for a late dinner.
Just before they walked out the door, Steven remembered to call Jean-Claude, who confirmed it was definitely not a St. Martin boat.
Now that was a real logical problem from the standpoint of the official accounts. You had a boat exploding off the reef, killing a high-visibility tourist in the process, and yet there was no trace of any boats missing on the island, and none from St. Martin, either. And a 32-foot Scarab speedboat wasn’t the sort of boat a visiting yacht might have as a tender – and even if one did, it would have to have been a mega-yacht, which meant you’d think there would be someone on the island who remembered the story – it wasn’t as if boats exploded off the coast every month.
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