A Blast to Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  "Yes. There's that place near the bridge; they advertise fuel. We don't really have much choice but to run overnight at this point, given his insistence on getting to New York on the 29th. Bastard."

  They were silent for a moment.

  "Paul?"

  "Yes?"

  "You still awake?"

  "Mm-hmm. What's on your mind?"

  "What do you think he was doing?"

  "What?"

  "When you saw him earlier, in the dark."

  "I don't know. I've been spinning my wheels on that one. I haven't a clue, but it was damned strange."

  "You sent the email to O'Brien?"

  "Yes. We'll probably hear from him in the morning, but he won't be able to shed any light on that."

  "No, I know that, but maybe he's found something else."

  "Maybe, but I wouldn't hold my breath. He'd have sent us a text or an email if he had anything hot." He felt her twitch once and then go limp, her normal pattern of falling asleep. He smiled at his good fortune in finding her and drifted off himself.

  30

  Amal sat in the taxi queue, studying the coded email message he had just received from Kareem. Reading it on his smartphone, he didn't find it as easy to decipher as it would have been on his laptop. He was able to pick up the critical points, though. The weapon was still functional and was en route to the 79th Street Boat Basin. It would be armed by daybreak on the morning of 30 July, and he should trigger it at noon, for a mid-afternoon detonation. He would be provided with a new triggering device, one that would show him whether the weapon was armed. This time, he was given the yacht's name and description in case he needed to find a way to arm the weapon. He smiled; Kareem was taking no chances. He must be feeling the wrath of the Caliph.

  He considered what he would do once his mission was completed. Unlike the previous attempt, this one was scheduled on a holiday that wasn't widely known or celebrated. He had never heard of International Day of Friendship until he had gotten an earlier email warning him to be ready. He had figured that he would have little chance to escape the target area on the Fourth of July, given the holiday crowds and traffic problems. This time, though, he could leave at noon. Driving north, he could be well out of immediate danger in three hours. Of course, if something unexpected happened, he might be ordered to stay and trigger the weapon immediately; he was prepared for that. The thought of dying as a martyr to the cause didn't alarm him.

  He thought about his family members, several of whom would be killed unless he warned them. The problem with that was that it increased the chances of discovery. While he trusted them not to go to the authorities, he didn't trust them not to try to save their friends. Boutros in particular might tell his current lady friend, and she was an unknown. He decided the liability was too great; they would have to die with the infidels.

  Paul had fixed a light breakfast for the Cohens and ferried them ashore, leaving them with a handheld VHF radio to call Diamantista II for a pickup when they were ready. He left Connie asleep, and when he returned, he took off his cargo shorts and polo shirt and slipped back into their bed. He had no trouble getting back to sleep.

  They were both startled when the cellphone rang at 9:30. Paul fumbled for it, finding it on the shelf next to their berth, and answered with a groggy, "Hello?"

  "Paul?"

  "Yes. Who is this?"

  "Bill O'Brien. Did I wake you?"

  "Um, yes." He looked over at Connie as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "It's Bill."

  She nodded. "Put him on speakerphone."

  "Sorry to wake you. I thought with the guests aboard, you'd be up by now," O'Brien said.

  "No problem," Connie said. "Paul took them ashore a little while ago. We sailed up from Norfolk and didn't get in until early this morning, so we went back to bed after they left. What's new?"

  "You guys in St. Mary's City?"

  "Yes. Didn't you get the email I sent?" Paul asked.

  "I did, but I wanted to be sure. It's important."

  "Why's that?" Connie asked.

  "Because we intercepted a text message to a number in Syria. It's the same one that the guy you caught aboard Diamantista II in Solomons Island was sending texts to."

  "And?" Paul said.

  "It was coded, so we don't know what it said. Not yet, anyhow. But it originated in St. Mary's City at about 1 a.m. this morning."

  "That's about when we got in," Paul said.

  "But I thought the Cohens were asleep," Connie said.

  "He was out of bed and crawling around an hour or two before that, remember?" Paul asked.

  "I got the email," O'Brien said. "I guess you still have no idea what he was up to, do you?"

  "Afraid not," Paul said, "but the coincidence of that text message is interesting. What about the sender's number?"

  "Burner phone," O'Brien said. "We're working on it; may have a point of purchase later today. I'll let you know what we find."

  "Hang on a second," Connie said, sitting up.

  "What's up?" Paul asked.

  "They're not here. I'm going to toss their cabin."

  "I don't — "

  "Don't be a cop, Paul. It's our boat, and I'm the captain. I believe we have a threat to the safety of the vessel and her crew, given Sam's suspicious behavior."

  "It probably won't stand up in court," O'Brien said.

  "Neither will I," Connie said, climbing over Paul as she got out of their berth.

  She returned within a minute, an off-brand smartphone in her hand. "I've found a phone, but it's password protected. I can't get the number."

  "Call the number you have, Bill," Paul said.

  "Right," O'Brien said.

  The phone in Connie's hand vibrated a few seconds later.

  "Looks like he's our man," she said. "Now what?"

  "Until he does something illegal, we can't do much but watch him," O'Brien said, "but I'm going to beef up the surveillance right away."

  "What about that text message?" Paul asked.

  "We're working on it, but I wouldn't hold my breath. If we crack it, it may or may not give us enough to arrest him. I think keeping a closer eye on him is a better bet."

  "Okay," Connie said. "I'll put the phone back where I found it."

  "Yeah. Do that," O'Brien said.

  "What do you think about the wife?" Paul asked.

  "No way," Connie said. "I like her; she's not part of this."

  "I don't think we can assume that," O'Brien said. "They've been married a long time. Could be a team; most likely they are. Keep your guard up, guys."

  "Count on it," Paul said.

  Connie shook her head, but said, "Okay."

  "When do you expect them back?" O'Brien asked.

  "Hard to say," Connie said. "She's got a genuine interest in St. Mary's City; she's been telling me about this novel she's working on that's set here in the 1600s. My bet is they'll spend the better part of the day ashore. They were planning on lunch at the college cafeteria. Why?"

  "Just thinking," O'Brien said. "I may try to get a team on them while they're there; see what they're doing. What's your next stop?"

  "Unless Cohen changes his mind, we'll probably set out up the Bay when they come back. Head for the C&D Canal, and on to New York."

  "Straight through?" O'Brien asked.

  "Yes. That's what it'll take to keep to his schedule."

  "Good," O'Brien said.

  "Good?" Connie asked.

  "Yes. If you're going straight through, there's less chance of somebody stashing an explosive device aboard. I'm gonna get moving on this. If you think of anything else, call me or text me."

  "Okay," Paul said. "Want us to do a more thorough search of their stuff?"

  "No. If he's a pro, he's likely to notice if their things have been disturbed. Was the phone in plain sight, Connie?"

  “On one of the little shelves by itself,” she said. “The one up high on the forward bulkhead with the ledge,” she added for Paul’s benef
it.

  "Damn. He may notice that it's been moved,” Paul said.

  "No problem," Connie said. "I'll give their stateroom a thorough cleaning and change the bed linens. Move all their things around. That should cover our tracks."

  "Good idea," O'Brien said. "Go for it. I'll be in touch."

  "How was it?" Connie asked Miriam.

  Paul had brought the Cohens back to Diamantista II a few minutes earlier. Sam was sitting on the forward end of the coach roof, his iPhone pressed to his ear. He had said that he needed to call his office to see how things were going in his absence. Connie and Paul had traded glances as he extracted an iPhone from his pocket.

  "Wonderful! I could spend another day here, easily. There's so much to learn. The docents are in period costumes, and they stay in character. I can't tell you how valuable it is to be able to absorb all the details. I'm really frustrated with Sam, but ... "

  "Maybe you could come back," Connie said. "It can't be too long a drive from the D.C. area."

  "Oh, I wish, but he'd never let me do that." Miriam dropped her eyes as she finished speaking. "He resents the little bit of success that I've had with my books. I'm lucky he even let me do this much."

  "What will you do in New York? Do you have to attend any functions with him?"

  "Functions? I have no idea what he's got going on that's so important; he doesn't tell me anything about his business. I'll go shopping while he's tied up. That's my one way to get back at him."

  "Excuse me, ladies. I'd better go start chopping vegetables; don't want to do that underway if I can avoid it," Paul said, going below.

  Connie nodded at Paul. "Get back at him?" she asked.

  "He's a real control freak; he's tried to take my credit cards away, but they're in my name. I pay the charges out of the allowance he gives me to run the household."

  "I see," Connie said.

  "I know that sounds like something out of the last century, but Sam's got some really old-fashioned ideas about marriage."

  "So if you have to pay out of the allowance, how can you get back at him?"

  An evil grin split Miriam's face. "I pay my bills first. If there's not enough for the mortgage or groceries, that's his problem."

  "Wow! I would think that would make him angry."

  "Oh, it does. But he's only gotten angry enough to hit me a few times. He can't afford to have any of this come out in public; it's completely at odds with his image as a crusader for human rights."

  "I see," Connie said.

  Sam returned to the cockpit, slipping his phone in his pocket.

  "How's everything at the office?" Miriam asked.

  "I can't talk about it," he grumbled. "What time will we get to New York harbor?"

  "There're too many variables for me to give you a specific time this far ahead," Connie said, "but it should be early evening on the 29th."

  "After dinner?" he asked.

  "Most likely. If we have a favorable current in the Bay, it could be earlier. I'll know better in a few hours."

  "Can't you check stuff like that? I thought there were tide tables."

  "There are, but in a body of water like the Bay, there's quite a bit of error in the tables. Winds have a big effect; even winds in the ocean off the mouth of the Bay, or off the mouth of the Delaware Bay."

  "Oh," he said, frowning.

  Paul joined them in the cockpit. He had been working in the galley, getting ready to cook dinner in a couple of hours. "I thought you just needed to be there sometime tomorrow night," he said.

  "Yeah. That's right," Sam said.

  "We have to stop for fuel before we get there," Connie said. "That's another variable. There's a place in the Canal, I think — "

  Sam interrupted. "It's critical that I get to Manhattan tomorrow evening; I may be called to a preliminary meeting."

  Paul and Connie looked at one another.

  "Shouldn't be a problem," Connie said. "There's a fuel dock right in the Canal; it'll only take us a few minutes."

  "Better than running out; there's not much wind in the forecast for sailing," Paul added.

  Sam nodded, frowning. He glared at Connie. "Don't screw me up, woman. This meeting's worth big bucks. Make me miss it and I'll sue your pretty little ass off."

  Paul stood up, stepping between Sam and Connie, his cold blue eyes boring into Sam.

  "Let's go to our stateroom, Sam," Miriam said. "We could both use a shower; it was kind of sticky ashore." She stood and reached for his hand.

  As Sam stood up, he glared at Paul. "I'm not scared of an ex-cop; don't even think about threatening me," he said.

  Paul shook his head. "No, sir. Not me," he said, but his posture told a different story.

  Sam dropped his eyes and let Miriam lead him to the companionway.

  "Whoa," Connie said, in a soft voice, once they heard the pressure water pump for the shower start running. "That was a strange reaction."

  "No kidding," Paul said.

  "She said he was a real control freak," Connie said.

  "Maybe, but I think there was more to it than that. He's on some kind of schedule he's not sharing with us."

  "Time to email O'Brien?" she asked.

  "Yes," Paul said, his thumbs flying over the screen of his iPhone.

  31

  “I’m going to call the fuel dock and make sure they're expecting us," Connie said, once she had the bridge over the C&D canal in sight. "Sam will have a fit if there's another boat blocking it."

  The Cohens were sitting on the forward end of the coachroof, enjoying the scenery while sipping coffee.

  "While you do that, I'll check the tank and get a level reading," Paul said.

  "Good idea," she agreed, taking her phone from the pocket of her shorts.

  Paul was back in a few minutes, frowning and shaking his head.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "I can't make sense out of it."

  "Out of what?"

  "The dipstick reading. We've got about four inches of fuel; given the cross section of the tank, I think that works out to around 20 gallons," Paul replied.

  "That's not out of line with our guess; we burned 30 hours' worth getting here. I'm surprised it's not lower," Connie said.

  "Right, but the puzzle is that the tank's not as deep as it should be, by my calculations."

  "How much is it off?"

  "About half; I must be doing something wrong."

  "Half? You mean it's a hundred gallons?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  "Unless I've forgotten my high school math," Paul said.

  "Well, let's see how much it takes to fill it. If we've got 20 gallons, give or take a little, we should take around 180, right?"

  "Right," Paul said. "If we've really got a two-hundred-gallon tank. Then I'll know whether I'm figuring it right or not."

  "Rick Peterson said that's what he ordered; he said he did a lot of business with the fabricator. Recommended him highly," Connie said. "How did you calculate the volume?"

  "I assumed it was rectangular; I know it's tapered a little, but still ... "

  "Maybe there's a deep sump, or something, and the dipstick doesn't reach the low part of the bottom."

  "Could be, I guess."

  O'Brien re-read the report from the lab on the device they had recovered from Ferraras. The technicians had extracted the contents of the memory; with no background to bias their judgment, they speculated that it was used to test a security system of some kind that was accessed via a proprietary wireless network. The contents of the data file made reference to network connections, and listed a number of events that were indexed by elapsed time since the last network connection. The first event was "System armed 004:22:13; system internal diagnostics: passed." There was a sequence of several similar entries. The last couple were, "System disarmed," and "No wireless network found." O'Brien called the lab and asked for the technician who had written the report.

  "Is there any way to establish what time and date the
entries in this log were made?" he asked.

  "No, sir, Mr. O'Brien. They're all just relative to the connect time. Guess whoever used it was supposed to make a note, or maybe they mated it up with some software in a computer that did that."

  "I see. Thanks," O'Brien said, hanging up his phone and scratching his head. He pondered the question of why the man had been carrying the device when he boarded Diamantista II. Ferraras's identity was false; they had no idea where he lived, so they couldn't check to see if he had a home or office security system that he might have controlled with the device. There had been no such system on the motorcycle.

  He opened the file he had on the multiple searches of Diamantista II. He scanned the file, looking for references to any wireless networks. There was one associated with the satellite communications system, but he saw that it operated on a different frequency from the one the device used; it was designed to connect to Wi-Fi enabled devices. He shook his head and decided to go to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.

  Connie throttled back as they approached the fuel dock and Paul got up to rig the dock lines and hang fenders along the port side. In two minutes, they were tied to the dock and the attendant handled Paul the fuel hose.

  "How much do you think you'll take?" the attendant asked.

  "We're trying to calibrate a new tank," Paul said. "So I'm not quite sure. Why?"

  "Well, I like to watch the meter on the pump, so I can warn you when you're getting close. Helps keep from overflowing the tank; we gotta report spills, ya know."

  "Okay," Paul said. "I should take about 180 gallons."

  "Good enough. I'll sing out when you're close."

  Paul started pumping, careful to keep the delivery rate slow to avoid the fuel splashing back out the fill pipe as air escaped. The tank had a separate vent line to avoid that, but he didn't trust it yet. After a few minutes, he glanced at the vent in the side of the coachroof and saw a trickle of diesel. He released his grip on the pump and stood up.

  "How much?" he called to the attendant.

  "Eighty-two gallons, skipper."

  "Hang on. I want to try the dipstick. Shouldn't be full, but I'm getting fuel trickling from the vent line."