The fifth terrorist and an accomplice?
I crouched lower, trying to time it right as the men neared. I hoped they would walk past, give me a chance to get a look at them. Instead, the two silhouettes stopped within a few yards. I relaxed a little when I heard a familiar voice say, "Why the hell are you kneeling? Do you really think a man your size can hide when the moon's this bright?"
As I stood, I dropped the conch shell and tried to slip the knife into my belt without them noticing. I felt like a stupid kid.
"I hope you don't make a habit of being late, Dr. Ford. Forty minutes? My God! Mr. Vue and I were about to give up."
Even though he whispered, the president's tone told me Don't ever be late again.
***
We were already walking toward the canoe, both men in a hurry. When I tried to speak, the president's bodyguard touched a finger to his lips, clapped his hand on my shoulder, and urged me toward the water.
"Later, later. Not much time."
"But what about the—"
"We go now. "
Mr. Vue moved his hand to the small of my back and began to push.He was about five-nine,weighed over two-fifty.When I tried to resist, my feet skidded over the shell path like a car being towed.
"Wait. I have information your people need. I intercepted a hit team. Four men, heavily armed, Middle Eastern, I think—"
"Hit team? You've got to be kidding." Wilson kept walking—he didn't want to believe it.
How could he not know?
"There's a helicopter and a patrol boat on them right now. An assault team with automatic weapons and ski masks. You weren't told?"
Finally, he paused. His bodyguard allowed me to jolt to a stop.
"You saw them?"
"Up close."
He looked at Vue. "Security said we might have a problem. But I think Ford's wrong. I think he saw some of our guys." His tone was hopeful. "But check."
The bodyguard touched a finger to the transceiver in his ear and said, "Shadow One to Moonraker. Need weather update."
He leaned to listen, head down. After several seconds, he said, "Thanks. We waiting to hear disposition." Vue spoke the articulate English of an immigrant from Indochina, unnecessary articles dropped, r s blurred.
He removed the finger from his ear and said to Wilson, "The boat spotted on radar? It has aboard four men, as Dr. Ford said."
Wilson made a sound of frustration.
"But they are not yet sure if they bandits or friendlies. That was Apache we heard from MacDill—a boat crew from SEAL Team Four happened to be standing by. So the situation is copacetic, no worries. We just waiting to find out if they good guys or bad. Coast Guard will get back."
"Did they say they were armed?"
As Vue said, "They haven't seen weapons so far,"
I said, "Trust me, they're loaded for bear. Four men with assault rifles or submachine guns, and there could be a fifth or sixth guy already on the island. Someone planted those charges."
Wilson said, "You mean the three gunshot-sounding bangs?"
They didn't sound like gunshots to me but I nodded.
He looked to his bodyguard, using silence to delegate. Vue took over. "That's what got security guys excited. They have scanner that transmits on random frequencies. Preemptive. It detonates covert ordnance. When we hear bang-bang-bang, they call in cavalry. Then radar picked up a small boat—"
Wilson interrupted, "But, Vue, it sounded like firecrackers. Halloween night, I figured. I thought the guys were overreacting. Secret Service always overreacts. Hell, at first they tried to make me get on a boat and leave for Tampa. But Ford's telling me—"
I said, "Judging from the accents, four men of Middle Eastern, maybe Indonesian, descent—I'm not sure; there're hundreds of dialects. But Muslim regions. They're wearing tactical gear and armed. They came to collect the bounty on your head. It's possible they got spooked when their ordnance detonated early."
"Damn it. Why'd they have to choose tonight of all nights?"
He sounded unconcerned about the assassination attempt but furious about the timing.
Vue pulled at his lip, thinking. "What do you mean 'intercepted them'?"
I started to summarize. Got as far as taking the bearded man's knife and futzing the outboard when Vue held up a finger—
"Hold moment"—then touched the same finger to his ear and bowed his head to listen. He punctuated long silences, saying, "I copy . . . Copy that . . . Are you sure? . . . Heard and understood."
Then he said, "Uh-huh, Moonraker will contact Smallville, run background checks. We maintain level-four alert. Hunter, yes . . . he on station. Eyeball not necessary." Vue turned to look at the former president. "But, no way, not going to interrupt man in his cabin unless bandits verified. No . . . FIGMO to that, Moonraker. You heard Hunter's briefing. I'm clear . . ."
FIGMO—an old and profane military acronym: Fuck You I've Got My Orders.
Vue turned. "Four men. Three Indonesian passports, one British, all Muslim surnames. But no weapons. They carrying green cards and Florida driver's licenses . . ."
I said, "Then they dumped the weapons during the chase," as Vue continued, "They say they work in the Sarasota area. They here on vacation, staying at place called Palm Island Resort. They claim they on way to party. Party at some local island, but got lost in fog—"
As I said, "What about the tactical gear? The ski masks?," Vue said, "It is Halloween party. They say they think it funny, dressing up like soldiers, a joke. Coast Guard says they might be drunk." I was shaking my head, anticipating what came next as he added, "No weapons, but they found bottle of vodka aboard. Half empty."
When I said, "Your people aren't going to fall for a bullshit story like that," Wilson touched the sleeve of my sodden sports jacket as if admiring the material. "Yes, dressed up for a party. They'd have to be idiots to come up with something so transparent."
The man could be a ballbuster.
I said, "For a local guy, it's a reasonable story. But foreigners? That's why I need to speak to security—"
"You're not talking to anyone without my authorization. Secret Service will figure it out. But if these four guys aren't carrying weapons, and they have all their papers"—Wilson was speaking to Vue now—"What's illegal about dressing up on Halloween? Shooting off a couple of firecrackers? What'd you think, Vue? I think it gives me enough wiggle room to stick with my plan."
The stocky man was shaking his head. "They'll want to ship you out. Tonight. If there's any chance of risk—"
"Well, what Secret Service wants and what I want may be two different things. I can tell you who's gonna win that debate."
"Mr. President . . . Kal, I think it better you wait. We go back cabin, let other agents eyeball. They know you okay, then. Dr. Ford, he wait here three, maybe four hours. Leave oh-dark-thirty. Safer then—"
I was thinking: Sit in a mangrove swamp until 5 a.m., October, no breeze. Mosquitoes would drain me dry.
"Can't do it. I've got this trip scheduled. I can't spare three hours." Wilson began walking toward the bay again, taking long strides for a man his height. He had a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Vue was carrying his duffel bag.
The smell of military olive drab is distinctive. It was like the former president was twenty again, field-packed and headed off to war.
6
When we got to the water, I used my flashlight to indicate where the canoe was hidden, then moved away to give the two men privacy. Over the last few days, I'd read a lot about the former president. I knew that Le Huy Vue had been his personal assistant and bodyguard for more than fifteen years. The media liked the storybook irony: Vue and Wilson had fought in the same war but on opposing sides. After the war, Vue was one of thousands who fled Indochina, seeking refuge in America. "Inseparable" had become the cliché used to describe their relationship.
Even if I was unaware of the history, I would've noticed their visual exchanges, the intensity of the silences they shared. Wils
on was terminally ill. This might be the last time they saw each other.
As I waited, Vue did a lot of throat clearing. The former president made soothing sounds, laughed, maybe cracking jokes. I couldn't make out what they said. I didn't try.
It was 12:50. Tide would be high around one, the moon would set at sunrise. We had good water and plenty of light. I felt wakeful, energized, confidence growing. I didn't know where Wilson wanted to go but that was okay. Some of my best trips have had destinations so vague that the trip itself became the destination.
My blue Chevy pickup was loaded and ready. Wilson had told me to park someplace private, so I'd left it at a friend's house on Pine Island, just a couple of miles away. The gas tank was full, oil changed, tires good, and there was a cooler in back filled with ice, beer, and food. The truck is more than twenty years old, but any vehicle packed for a road trip handles like it's new.
The only other instruction Wilson gave me was to clear my calendar for two weeks.That wasn't easy.I had research projects under way and orders to fill. The University of Iowa's medical school needed three liters of shark's blood. Colorado College wanted several dozen ivory barnacles and assorted sea tunicates, all shipped live. Duke needed horseshoe crabs—their blood is sensitive to endotoxins and valuable as a diagnostic tool in cancer research.
My personal life was just as demanding, and even more complicated than usual. I like independent, strong-willed women, but those very qualities can also be a monumental pain in the ass when friendship crosses the dangerous line into romance.
Marlissa Kay Engle was an example. Dewey Nye, my former girlfriend, was another. In the last couple of weeks, I'd come to the conclusion that actresses and female tennis pros should have warning tags wired to their bra snaps.
A more pressing concern was my teenage son, Laken. More than a year ago, he'd been abducted and held captive by a sociopath and professional killer. Because Laken's a tough kid, and because I'd had some very good luck, the man went to prison, and Laken had returned home to Central America, where he lives with his mother, Pilar. Laken was untouched, not a scratch.
He is a bright and rational young man in every way except one—he's taken what he considers to be an academic interest in his abductor's "mental illness." He refuses to terminate contact.
The killer writes rambling letters describing his "symptoms" and detailing his unhappy childhood. My son frequents medical libraries and is now well-versed in brain chemistry and behavioral anomalies caused by injury and birth defects.
The killer also has a savant's gift for computers and electronic gizmos. He has used that gift to trick victims more than once.
The man's name is Lourdes. Praxcedes Lourdes. Lourdes is a convincing liar because, like most psychopaths, he has no conscience. He's had a lifetime to perfect the social camouflage necessary to hide the truth—he is a monster.
I can't stop the correspondence between my son and his abductor because, several months ago, the man was extradited to Nicaragua to stand trial for murder. Seventeen counts. Lourdes is a serial killer. His fetish is setting people on fire—ultimate control. The peasants speak of him in whispers. "Man Burner," they call him. Incendiario.
But the Nicaraguan judicial system doesn't care about the fatherly concerns of a U.S. citizen, so I've spent a lot of time on the phone talking to attorneys in Managua. It's the main reason I accepted the consulting job in nearby Panama. It's also the reason why, after months of my badgering, Pilar took Laken to live in San Diego until I convinced the courts to act. I had friends on Coronado who would keep watch.
I was much too busy to disappear for two weeks. But I cleared my calendar, anyway—and I was secretly relieved.
So I was ready. And cautiously optimistic. As Vue had said, the cavalry was here, Coast Guard and military, but they were busy dealing with the four assassins. Secret Service radar hadn't picked up my plastic canoe as I approached. Presumably, it wouldn't track me as we returned to my truck. And if agents did swoop down, guns drawn? Kal Wilson was my willing passenger. He could do the explaining—which might be interesting. See how the great man handled it.
So I stood facing the water, waiting while the two men loaded gear and said their good-byes. Luckily, I turned to look when Vue said something loud enough for me to understand: "If this hurts, Kal, tell me and I'll . . ."
I was surprised to see that the president had his sleeve rolled up. Vue was using a penlight, concentrating on the man's shoulder as if inspecting a wound. Why?
I was considering explanations when I noticed a third person approaching. A man. The moon was so bright his shadow glided with him along the white shell ridge. Vue and the president were oblivious.
I whispered the only warning I could— "Pssst! On your six!"—and ducked into the mangroves. A fighter pilot would understand.
Wilson did.
***
. . .Calmly, the former president turned. at the same time, he hurried to get his sleeve down. Vue took a couple steps forward, placing himself between the approaching figure and Wilson. I hid in the bushes, listening.
"Identify yourself."
A flashlight went on. A man in slacks and sports jacket used the light to show himself. "It's me, Mr. President. Agent Wren."
Short man, styled hair, eye sockets in shadow because the light angled from below his chin. He switched off the flashlight and continued walking.
"You're looking for me?"
"Yes, Mr. President. I was worried, sir. Am I intruding?"
"Yep, Adrian. You're intruding. I didn't make myself clear at the briefing? As of an hour ago—midnight—I began my retreat. My wedding anniversary is today. First day of November—it would've been our fortieth. Or maybe you forgot."
"Of course I didn't forget. You and the late Mrs. Wilson, a very special day. But what you don't understand is, the security situation has become serious. Coast Guard has detained four men, foreign nationals, all Muslims—"
"Islamicists or Muslims?"
"I don't understand the distinction—"
"Then you need to do some reading."
I knew the distinction, but only because of recent research I'd done. I listened to the president say, "What you should understand is that no one, and I mean no one, is supposed to bother me for the next fourteen days. It's a spiritual matter, Adrian, which means it's private. In an emergency, you contact Mr. Vue. He brings my meals and delivers messages too important to wait."
The agent had stopped a few yards away. Vue moved to Wilson's left—a mobile wall. I got the impression Vue didn't like Agent Wren. Same with the president.
"I'm very sorry, sir. Our understanding was that sequestering yourself meant you weren't going to leave your cabin. Two weeks of solitary meditation. Very healing, I'm sure. But here you are outside your cabin." The man had the infuriating ability to sound compliant but with a subtle, superior edge.
"Our understanding, Adrian? I missed the evening news. Were you named director, Secret Service?"
"Of course not, sir—"
"Then maybe you have something in your pocket. A special little friend? My guess is, it's the GPS tracker."
Tracker?
Wren reached into his jacket and produced something the size of a TV remote. When I saw green lights blinking, I knew what it was.
"Sorry, Mr. President, but I took extra precautions tonight for obvious reasons. The tracker indicated you'd left your cabin. I thought it was a false reading, so I tried to find Vue. When Vue didn't respond, I knocked on your cabin door—"
"You what?"
Vue took it as a cue. "He did right thing, Mr. President. That's procedure."
"Bullshit. I gave orders not to be disturbed. Period."
"He was just doing his job, sir."
"His job, my ass. Agent Wren's job is to follow orders. Don't take his side in this, Vue—"
Good cop, bad cop, Wilson and his bodyguard knew their roles.
"Vue's right, Mr. President. I wouldn't risk disturbing you unless agen
cy protocol required—"
Like heat, Wilson's voice began to rise. "Agent Wren, for the next two weeks I want you to pretend like agency protocol requires you to follow my 0rders. Pretend as if I'm the man in charge, not you. Do you read me, mister ?"
"I understand, sir, but—"
". . . Because, Agent Wren, if I'd known a GPS chip in my shoulder gave you permission to stick your nose into my personal business I'd've had the doctors stick it up my ass instead of sewing it into my arm!"
"If you got the impression I'm snooping, sir, I want to reassure you—"
"I don't want to be reassured. I want to be obeyed. For your information, Agent Wren, we are on an island. Do you know the sailor's definition of an island? An island is a navigational hazard inhabited by drunks, whores, farmers, thieves, and other sons of bitches who were dumb enough to get off the fucking boat . . ."
"Really. That's quite amusing, sir—"
". . . which is why I strongly suggest that unless that electronic gizmo your holding, the whatchamacallit, 'Angel Tracker,' indicates I'm swimming out to sea, or drifting toward Mars, you'd better mind your own goddamn business. Or you will find yourself on a boat headed for an assignment that includes icebergs and sex-starved polar bears. Not palm trees and moonlit beaches. Am I getting through to you, mister?"
"Well . . . of course, sir. When you put it that way. And it really is such a beautiful tropical night . . ."
I continued listening, impressed by Wilson's gift for seagoing profanity. But I was also picturing the president with his sleeve rolled up, Vue concentrating.
Angel Tracker.
Suddenly, I understood.
I've done a lot of fish-tagging projects. Worldwide, the electronic fish tag of choice is made by Applied Digital Solutions, a Florida-based company. Because I'm on their mailing list, I knew that the company had patented an implantable microchip for humans. The chip is the size of a rice grain and transmits its location, along with a unique verification number, via satellite.
The system is called "Digital Angel."
Kal Wilson had a locator microchip in his shoulder. Vue had been in the process of removing the Digital Angel when Agent Wren interrupted them. Smart.
Hunter's Moon - Randy Wayne White Page 6