"One cheeseburger, comin' up. How about for you, sweetie? Tell me what you want ... for dinner; I can guess the other."
"The ribs, um ... are they pork?"
She laughed. "Of course they are. You want ribs?"
"Uh, no. I'll have a cheeseburger."
"All right," she said, tearing off their order and putting it on the tray before she put the pad back in her pocket and stood up. "Be back with you in two shakes." She picked up the tray, winked and twirled, pausing to shake her hips twice before she sashayed off to the kitchen.
"Disgusting whore," Rashid muttered.
Boutros nodded, his eyes locked on her receding figure until she was out of sight.
"And you are no better, fool. Do not forget why you are here."
Boutros turned to face him and swallowed hard, remembering all that Amal had told him about this man. "A heartless killer," he remembered his brother saying. "Do not give him cause to doubt you." Boutros felt a chill as he looked into the flat, blue-gray eyes. They were as devoid of emotion as the desert he remembered from his early childhood. "Disgusting, yes. What man would touch such a slut?" he asked.
Rashid stared at him until Boutros dropped his eyes and began to fidget with the silverware.
"Look straight across the water," Rashid said. "Directly behind me, and on the opposite shore."
"Yes?" Boutros said, relieved that Rashid had changed the subject.
"The long, white yacht with the two masts, and the wood that glows like gold. Do you see it?"
"Yes."
"That is the one. We must keep watch over it until I say otherwise. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. While you are on this mission, you will curb your filthy urges. Satan rules this land, and there are many temptations for a man who is less than a man. If you give in, I will know, and you and your family will answer, to me first, and then to Allah."
17
“You about ready to go sailing?" Connie asked, as she dried the frying pan.
Paul stood beside her at the galley sink, washing their breakfast dishes. "Sure. We've crossed everything off the list; might as well do some sightseeing."
"I don't mean to spring this on you if you aren't ready to go yet."
He laughed. "I saw you reading the cruising guide last night; you tipped your hand. Where are we going?"
"I thought St. Michaels sounded good for a first stop. I was feeling like we had a lot of time to kill before the twentieth, but then I added up the sailing time. I'd like a day to look around some of these places, too. There's a lot to see. It seems like all these little towns have museums or historic sites of some sort."
"Yes. I noticed the same thing a few days ago. You trying to rough out an itinerary for this charter?"
"Mm-hmm. I thought it would be good to hit some of the main attractions before we have guests aboard. That way, if they don't have an agenda, we can at least keep them amused."
"Uh-huh. Makes sense. I've been wondering, though ... " Paul said.
"About?"
"Does it strike you as odd that these people want to end up in New York?" Paul asked.
"You mean because of the others? The no-shows?"
"Maybe that's it. Two in a row just seems strange." Finished with the dishes, Paul drained the sink and rinsed it with fresh water.
"Look at you," Connie teased. "Wasting that fresh water."
"I'm getting spoiled, being at a dock with free water. Not like the islands, is it?"
"No. All the water you want — don't have to run the water-maker, or pay 20 cents a gallon. Might as well enjoy it while we can. I think the New York thing wouldn't seem as odd if the first people hadn't wanted us to pick them up there. I mean, yeah, they no-showed, and it looks like it was some kind of setup, but still ... "
"You're probably right. You know how I am about coincidences."
Connie laughed and reached around him to hang up the damp dish towel, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. "Can't say I blame you. Think that's really behind us?"
"I wish I did," Paul said.
"Well, like Bill said, people with a Jewish last name aren't likely to be part of any terrorist plot," she said. "You think?"
"It would be a great cover, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, come on, Paul. He said one of their former agents knew this guy — eats lunch with him. Let it go, will you?"
"Okay, captain," he grinned. "Whatever you say. When are we sailing?"
"Oh, it looks to be less than four hours, even allowing for the light air. It's under 25 miles. I thought I'd go settle our bill and we could beat the noon checkout time. We'll still get there mid-afternoon. What do you think?"
"Might as well. I'm antsy to get away from all the hustle and bustle here."
Bill O'Brien had occupied himself with paperwork from his backlog this morning; there was always plenty of that, stacked in his in-basket. It tickled him that there were so many references to paperwork reduction, and so much emphasis on electronic records. Paper was in the genetic makeup of every bureaucracy, and the FBI was no exception. He smiled at the memory of one of the old guys, long-retired now, joking that they should never forget what the "B" stood for.
He'd had an encouraging telephone conversation with the SAC in Boston when he got in this morning. The man had readily agreed to a follow-up visit to the boatyard; he had some people in the Bangor office who had just wrapped up another case. O'Brien had been surprised; he'd expected to have to argue his need for resources. As it stood, the SAC had told him to expect to have some answers by early afternoon. O'Brien wasn't holding his breath on that account, but it was nice not to have to beg.
He scrawled his initials on yet another paper file tagged "FYI" and put it in his outbox, surprised to see that his in-basket was empty when he reached for the next item. He took a last bite of the soggy sandwich from the cafeteria downstairs and dropped it in the wastebasket, swiveling his chair to face his computer monitor. He logged on to find an email report of the second round of interviews with the boatyard workers. He clicked on it and began reading.
The men didn't recognize the facial composite he had sent. He wasn't too surprised; the carpet guy had been wearing dark, wrap-around sunglasses, and the sketch included them. There was also a version with the glasses removed, but it was pure guesswork. Even so, there was a chance that the hair and the visible features would be recognized, at least as a possible match. But none of the four men thought the sketch resembled the only stranger they had seen in company with Mo and Abe. Seeing the reference to a new facial composite, he scrolled down to find a sketch of a handsome man with dark, curly hair and light eyes, a smile on his face. O'Brien scrolled back up and continued reading. All four of the workers had concurred that the new sketch, done during this morning's interviews, was a good likeness of the stranger.
The stranger had joined Mo and Abe and the others at their regular table at the local beer joint on at least two occasions over the last couple of months. None of the men remembered his name, but Abe had introduced him as a friend from college. He had been quiet but pleasant. The men were certain that they had seen him in the bar on July 5. They remembered because they had been talking about their first round of interviews with the FBI when one of them had spotted the stranger across the room. He had been sitting at the bar with his back to them, and they hadn't been sure of his identity at the time. When he paid his tab and stood to leave, one of them recognized him. He got up to go say hello, but the stranger was on his way outside. By the time the man from the group got to the door, he saw the stranger ride out of the parking lot on a big, black motorcycle.
By chance, the man was a motorcycle aficionado; he had pulled a rumpled magazine from the hip pocket of his bib overalls and thumbed through it to point out a series of photographs of a similar machine. The agent had scanned one of the better shots with his smartphone, and the image was attached to the report. The man had commented that the unusually quiet engine had tipped him off
that the bike was a big BMW before he even got a good look at it. He'd also noticed that the plates were from New Jersey, but he had not been able to make out the number.
The agents had shown the new facial composite sketch to the bartender, who recognized the man immediately. "Ain't from 'round here, ya see," the agent had quoted the bartender. The stranger had fixed himself in the bartender's mind because he drank orange juice. "Don't git me wrong. Ain't nothin wrong with a man who don't drink. Reckon that's his business. But why come hang out somewhere like this? Reckon he mighta been lookin' for company, but he didn't say nothin' to nobody. Just set there, listenin' to them fellas from the boatyard. I think I seen him with them a time or two before, but when one of 'em got up and started to come over, he paid up an' left in a hurry." O'Brien chuckled at the agent's effort to reproduce the man's speech, thinking he must be an aspiring writer.
He leaned back in his chair and thought about what he had read. There was no certainty that the man in the sketch was the man who had slipped aboard Paul's and Connie's boat, but the odds favored it, in O'Brien's mind. The use of a disguise increased his suspicion. When he put it together with the information on the cellphone that he had read last night, the odds became even stronger that this was the man he was calling the carpet guy. He dialed Paul's cellphone number, but the call went to voicemail. Glancing at his watch, O'Brien saw that it was mid-afternoon. He left a message asking Paul to call as soon as he could, no matter what time that might be.
Paul and Connie sat in Diamantista II's cockpit, admiring the town of St. Michaels, Maryland. Arriving relatively early on a weekday, they had found a spot to anchor in the inner harbor, so they had a good vantage point to study the little town. Off to the right, one of the Chesapeake's iconic screw-pile lighthouses marked the grounds of the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum. Connie was snapping photographs of it to use in her brochures.
"That one used to mark Hooper Strait," she said. "Thomas Point Light, south of Annapolis, is the only one still in service. The rest are either gone or in museums, I think."
"I'm going down and grab the cruising guide so I can catch up with you on the local lore. You want anything while I'm below? Drink? Snack?"
"No, thanks. I'm fine for now."
Paul returned in a minute, cruising guide in one hand and his cellphone in the other. "Missed a call from O'Brien."
"What did he want?"
"I don't know; he wants us to call him, ASAP."
Connie put her camera down on the cockpit seat and folded down the table. Paul put the phone in the center and placed the call, switching to hands-free mode as they sat down across from each other.
"O'Brien."
"Hey, Bill. It's Paul and Connie."
"Good. Thanks for calling back so quickly; sorry to intrude, but I thought you should know the latest on your carpet guy."
"Okay," Paul said. "Let's hear it."
O'Brien gave them a concise summary.
"Wow. Too bad that guy didn't get the plate number."
"Yeah," O'Brien said, "but at least it's not a common motorcycle. We may be able to narrow it down, especially if he's been using the phone enough to give us an idea of his normal stomping grounds in New Jersey. Even there, there won't be a lot of those motorcycles. They're out-of-sight expensive. The bike may ice it down for us. Meanwhile, I want to send you the new facial composite and a picture of that bike. You still at the marina where you've got Wi-Fi?"
"No, we've moved," Connie said. "We're in St. Michaels, but we've got the satcom system now. With what that cost, we might as well start getting some use out of it."
"Do I use your same email address?"
"Yes," she said. "We have our own high-speed access, now, wherever we are, but everything else is the same."
"Cool. It's on its way. I think you need to watch out for this turkey. There's no telling what he's up to, and it still bothers me that he snuck aboard your boat."
"Yeah, it bothers us, too," Paul said.
"Well, at least you've moved. Maybe he's lost you," O'Brien said.
"Maybe, but how'd he track us to Annapolis?" Paul asked.
"Mo and Abe could have overheard us talking about going there to finish fitting out," Connie said. "The guys at the boatyard even told us all the good places to eat in Annapolis, remember?"
"Yes," Paul said. "That's probably it. I'm just paranoid, looking for connections where there aren't any."
"Paranoia is good," O'Brien said. "I saw a slogan on a police car when I was on vacation in St. Martin a couple of years ago. It stuck with me."
"Something besides 'To protect and serve,' you mean?" Paul asked.
"Yeah. It said, 'In God we trust. All others, we observe.' You two keep your guard up, at least until we figure out why this guy's interested in your boat."
"I like that slogan," Paul said.
"You would," Connie said. "Thanks, Bill. Got any more helpful bits of advice?"
"Nope. Fresh out. Stay safe, and call me if you see any sign of him. I'll be in touch."
18
Rashid had seen the boat leave the dock in Annapolis while he was eating breakfast with Boutros this morning. When they got back to their rooms in the cheap motel, he told Boutros to go to town and buy some roadmaps of the land area bordering the Chesapeake. Rashid needed to hold on to the ones they had been studying over breakfast; he couldn't give them to Boutros.
While Boutros was gone, Rashid logged on to the website for the company that provided the tracking device. In the hour since the yacht departed, there were two position fixes recorded. He transferred them to his paper map and extended the line that connected them until he saw that it entered a body of water labeled 'Eastern Bay.' Opening one of his guidebooks, he flipped through it until he found a sketch map of the Eastern Bay.
The town of St. Michaels was a hub of tourist activity in that area. The book also referred to it as a yachting center. Turning back to his computer, he refreshed the position plot and saw that the yacht had changed course, turning up into the Eastern Bay from the main body of the Chesapeake. He made a rough calculation, estimating that the yacht could be in St. Michaels in an hour and a half.
He had shut down the computer and packed his few belongings in his backpack. After a quick look around the room to be sure he wasn't leaving anything, he shouldered the pack and went down to the office to check out. He stuck the backpack into one of the panniers on his motorcycle, pausing before he left to send a text to Boutros advising him to wait in Annapolis for further instructions.
Rashid sat on a bench in the little park on the waterfront in St. Michaels, watching the man and the woman on the yacht. He had arrived in St. Michaels an hour ago and had been waiting in the park when the yacht turned into the harbor entrance. Once he was satisfied that they were going to stay for at least a little while, he walked back out to Talbot Street and bought a sandwich and soft drink, returning to the park bench to eat and keep an eye on his quarry.
Having staved off his hunger, he turned his attention to shelter. He extracted one of his guide books and studied the entries for St. Michaels, settling on a bed and breakfast that wasn't too far from where he sat. From the sketch map, he could tell that it would afford a view of the yacht, which was all he cared about. He would stay there tonight; he would go there in a few minutes and pay whatever it cost to get a room with a harbor view.
The people on the yacht had rigged an awning over the cockpit and were relaxing in the shade. Rashid took his camera from his backpack and raised it to his eye, adjusting the zoom lens to give him a comfortable view of the couple as they laughed and talked. He hadn't seen them before; they were attractive people. The man was fit, with thick steel-gray hair. He appeared to be a few years older than the woman, a stunning brunette. They matched the descriptions that Amal had given, and although Amal had said the woman was attractive, Rashid was still taken aback by her beauty.
They looked so close through the lens that he was holding his breath, not wanting to a
ttract their attention. He was surprised that he couldn't hear their laughter for a moment, and then he remembered that they were quite a distance away. He swept the camera around the harbor, snapping pictures. To anyone who might notice, he would appear to be just another tourist. He finished up with a final shot of the yacht, zooming out to show its size in relation to the harbor. That was the picture he would send Kareem Abdullah tonight.
As he packed up his camera, he saw the people hoist a small rigid inflatable boat from the foredeck and drop it in the water. The man climbed down into it and walked it back along the big boat's side as the woman attached a line to an outboard motor that hung on the stern rail. Satisfied now that they were staying for the evening, he stood and stretched his back. He would take his motorcycle around to the bed and breakfast and check in. He could use a nap; he wanted to be alert tonight. If they planned to do any work on the yacht, he reasoned that it would be done under cover of darkness.
The restaurant was popular. Not long after Connie and Paul had been seated, a line began to form at the door, stretching down the stairs and winding around the dock in front of the ramshackle building. Steamed crabs were the signature offering.
The people waiting in the line were able to watch the sweating, laughing men in the kitchen as they upended cauldron after cauldron, dumping piles of steaming, scarlet crustaceans on a counter to drain. Others were busy raking the cooked crabs onto platters and hustling them to the newspaper-covered tables.
The din in the main dining room was deafening. The diners used short sections of broomsticks to crack the claws, smacking tabletops as they dug out tasty morsels to dip in the ramekins of drawn butter.
"You like to pick crabs?" Connie asked, taking a sip of wine as she studied the menu.
"Not me," Paul said. "I like crab as well as any seafood, but I spend more energy picking than I get from eating. I'd rather have soft-shell crabs or crab cakes. How about you?"
A Blast to Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 13