A Blast to Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series

by Charles Dougherty

  "Or at the very least, they know something went wrong, because they never got the signal from Abe and Mo," Paul added.

  He thought for a moment. "Thanks. You've given me a couple of new ideas, here."

  "Anything to get a little of your attention, Lieutenant," she batted her eyes at him.

  "Now, don't start, Connie. We need to focus on getting the boat to Annapolis; we're not all alone a hundred miles offshore. There're too many people around for that right now."

  She pouted. "One of the things I miss most about open water ... "

  Connie had gone below to get a couple of apples from the refrigerator. As she turned to go back to the cockpit, she heard her phone ring. She reached through the companionway and put the apples on the bridge deck and went to the chart table, opening the drawer underneath and scooping up the phone.

  She glanced at the display as she mounted the companionway ladder. "Hi, Elaine," she answered, as she sat down next to Paul behind the helm. She handed him an apple and switched the phone to hands-free mode.

  "Just following up to see if you got my message," Elaine said.

  "We did," Connie said. "I can't believe we're getting bookings already."

  "Well, there aren't so many competitors, and you've carved out a niche for yourselves with the historic seaport thing."

  "Do you think so?"

  "That's apparently what got this Sam Cohen's attention."

  "Really?" Connie asked.

  "Seems to be; he'd read all the stuff you put on your web page. He said his wife was into historical fiction set in the early colonial era. I got the impression that she might be a writer, or maybe a wannabe, but I can't remember what he said that made me think that."

  "So do you think these people are really going to show up?" Paul asked.

  "Oh, I think so. He paid the deposit with a credit card, and I asked him to email me a scan of his driver's license, just to play it safe."

  "Can you email all that to us?" Paul asked. "The FBI guy that we've been working with wanted to double check any more charter bookings for a while."

  "Sure." They could hear a keyboard clicking in the background. "It's on its way. There was one odd thing about these people, though."

  Paul and Connie looked at one another. "Tell us," Connie said.

  "Well, he seems like a nice man; we had a pretty good chat yesterday when he called. Anyway, he had checked you guys out on the web. Said his secretary had tipped him off that it might be a nice thing to do for his wife. He asked a few questions and made his decision pretty quickly. He was planning to surprise his wife; he said she always complained that he never took time off for a vacation."

  "Right," Connie said. "So what's strange?"

  "Sounds pretty normal to me," Paul said.

  "Yes, me too," Elaine said. "The strange part is that his wife called this morning. I'm guessing he'd just left for the office; it was early. She had endless questions. I mean, he did tell me that they'd never done anything like this — didn't know anything about boats. So at first, I thought, well, okay, she's just trying to figure things out. But the questions got stranger and stranger."

  "Like what?" Connie asked.

  "How old were you? Were you and Paul married? Had I ever met Sam?"

  "Sam?"

  "Sam, her husband. Did I know if he knew you from somewhere?"

  "Sounds pretty squirrelly to me," Connie said.

  "Yes. Neurotic, my mother would have said. Then she got into how much this was going to cost. She went into shock when I told her, and she asked how Sam was planning to pay for it. I told her he'd put it on his credit card, and she said their cards were maxed out."

  "Have you put the charge through?" Paul asked.

  "As soon as I hung up the phone with him yesterday. It cleared with no problem."

  "It may be a long two weeks with them," Connie said. "Anything else?"

  "Yes. She asked which card he used, and I gave her the number. It was a platinum American Express Card, and she said they didn't have one of those."

  "Hmm," Paul said. "Maybe it's from his law firm. I've run across that before."

  "Oh, maybe so. I never thought of that," Elaine said. "Sorry, guys. I didn't mean to get you worried. They both seem like nice people; she was just quirky. I'm sure it'll be all right, but after the last one, I thought I should tell you."

  "Thanks, Elaine," Connie said. "I'm glad you did."

  "Well, other than that, how's the new boat?"

  "Wonderful," Connie said. "She's a blast to sail, as Paul says. Can't wait to get her out in the ocean and head for the islands."

  "Where are you now?"

  "The northern Chesapeake. We should be in Annapolis by mid-afternoon."

  "Lucky you. Grab a soft-shell crab sandwich for me. I need to run; you should have the deposit in a few days, once the money hits my account from Amex."

  "Thanks, Elaine," Connie said.

  "Take care," Paul said, and disconnected the phone.

  "I could get used to this," Bill O'Brien said, gazing at the Naval Academy's seawall a couple of hundred yards away. Connie and Paul had rigged an awning over the cockpit once they were anchored, and they sat in the shade, watching the late afternoon crowds of tourists strolling along the waterfront. "I've been to Annapolis a lot of times since I moved to D.C., but never like this. It has a completely different look from out here."

  "That's typical of a lot of old cities along the coast," Paul said.

  "When they were first settled, everything centered on the waterfront. There wasn't much inland except wilderness, so all the public spaces and the architecture were oriented to the water, where the action was," Connie said.

  "Amazing. I'll bet you guys are going to do well with this historical seaport gig."

  "Maybe," Connie said. "It was a low-risk venture, since we were more or less stuck here for hurricane season anyway. We just whipped out a new page on our website and sat back to see what happened."

  "Apparently that's how this Sam Cohen found us," Paul said. "Any news on him, by the way?"

  "Yeah. We checked him out after you emailed the information. He looks legit; he's got a small practice in Reston. No partners. He keeps a couple of associates on his payroll — the associates are kids, right out of law school — and a secretary and a paralegal. He looks to be doing okay; not getting rich, but he's probably making a good living. Does a lot of work for liberal causes. He's a big supporter of the ACLU."

  "Doesn't sound like a terrorist, then?"

  O'Brien laughed. "Hardly. I don't mean to be politically insensitive, but with a name like Cohen, I don't think he'd be planning to help ISIS nuke New York."

  A worried frown formed on Paul's face.

  "What's wrong," O'Brien asked. "I didn't mean to offend you."

  "No," Paul said. "You didn't. It just crossed my mind to wonder if they keep kosher. I'd have to — "

  "I doubt it," O'Brien said. "We checked with a former agent who's practicing law in Reston; that's where we got our information. He knows Cohen; eats lunch with him about once a week when they bump into one another at the courthouse. At a rib joint. Sounds like he's not hung up on the dietary laws. Don't know about his wife, though."

  "That's part of the questionnaire," Connie said.

  "Huh?" O'Brien looked puzzled.

  "The online form that Elaine has everybody fill out," she explained.

  O'Brien shook his head. "You ask about religious affiliation? That's — "

  "No, Bill. Special diet. It's a standard question on the charter booking forms; we usually provision the boat in advance, because sometimes certain items are hard to come by, at least down in the islands."

  Paul smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I've been in cop-mode too long. Guess I need to get back in charter chef mode; I should have remembered that."

  "While you're still thinking like a cop, what did you learn about 'man-portable' nuclear weapons?" O'Brien asked.

  "The size of a pony keg
, but heavy. Maybe 400 to 500 pounds," Paul said.

  "Shit! Excuse me, but that's scary. How powerful is something like that?"

  "Hiroshima or Nagasaki. Maybe a little more powerful, but in that ballpark."

  "So you could carry that on a boat like this with no sweat, couldn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Might be a little tricky for two people to heft it," O'Brien said, looking around at the deck with all its hardware. "Lots of tripping hazards."

  "But we have all kinds of built-in hoisting equipment. I could lift it out of a dinghy and lower it down the companionway by myself," Connie said, "with all the winches and halyards we have handy."

  "You may have something there," Paul said.

  "What?" Connie asked.

  "That may be why they wanted a sailboat."

  "Oh," she said. "I don't know. I've seen some of those big sport fishing boats with cranes to lift dinghies. Or fish."

  "Yes, but it's much more obvious when they're lifting something," Paul said.

  For O'Brien's benefit, he summarized what else he had learned from J.-P., and the conversation he and Connie had earlier. The notion that it would be easier to acquire a weapon in the U.S. than to smuggle one into the country took O'Brien by surprise.

  "That's an alarming thought," he said. "We think we've got them all locked down. Any reason to think this guy you talked to knows something specific?"

  "Not him, not personally. But whoever he talked to wasn't in any doubt. Think about it, Bill. Like he said, greed, bribery, and blackmail are universal."

  "Interesting ideas," O'Brien said. "And scary as hell. Any of those little harbors would probably work to avoid the DHS radiation portal network, too. So maybe he's onto something. I don't know what I can do with this, but I'm sure not going to forget about it. I just need to figure out how to play it. Can I buy you guys an early dinner before I drive back to D.C.? There's this place in Eastport I really like."

  "You bet," Paul said.

  "I'll call the water taxi," Connie said, moving toward the companionway.

  13

  It was early; the tourists weren't out in force yet. Downtown wasn't crowded; there were only a few people about — locals, he assumed. He parked his motorcycle in the lot outside the harbormaster's office, wondering if they would have a record of the boats in the harbor. He was reluctant to make that sort of inquiry, since he didn't really speak the language of yachting. He might be remembered.

  The satellite-tracking link Faisal had emailed him showed that the vessel was in Annapolis, but the map on the website wasn't sufficiently detailed for him to find its exact location. He had the GPS coordinates, but without a detailed map or a handheld GPS, that wouldn't help. Besides, the boat could have moved since the last update. He would have to rely on his eyesight, now that he had an idea of where to look. He thanked Allah that he had seen the boat back when Abe and Mo had been working on it while it was in the boatyard in Maine.

  He bought a cup of coffee in the shop across the street from the parking lot and took it to an unoccupied bench on the seawall overlooking the public mooring field. He set the coffee down and slipped his backpack from his shoulder, resting it on the bench. He unzipped it and took out his camera. Binoculars would be too obvious, but no one would notice a tourist with a fancy camera. The telephoto lens would do what he needed. He put the camera strap around his neck and sat down, picking up his coffee as he scanned the boats that filled the harbor. He shook his head. The number of boats was overwhelming.

  He started by eliminating any yachts with only a single mast; that narrowed the scope significantly. He was able to further refine his search based on size and color; the boat he sought was white, with gleaming, varnished wood trim, and it was bigger than most of the ones he saw. He set the coffee down and lifted the camera, focusing on the remaining vessels, studying each one.

  Disappointed, he reached into the backpack for the tourist guide. He sipped the coffee as he studied the maps in the booklet, correlating what he saw of the town with the rough sketches. While the book wasn't oriented to the water, its maps were sufficient to show him that there were many places where the vessel could be. He wouldn't be able to see them all from the shoreline.

  He stood and stretched, looking around as the waterfront started to come to life. Along the stretch of water that the booklet had labeled Ego Alley, there were several boats bearing signage that advertised harbor tours. They weren't yet in operation, but he thought that was the way to proceed. He checked his watch and decided that he would have breakfast in one of the little restaurants. He took a last swallow of coffee and tossed the cup in the trash bin next to his bench. He put the camera in the backpack and zipped it. He would walk past the kiosks for the tour boats on his way to breakfast and see what time they began operating.

  "What time did they say they'd be here?" Paul asked.

  "Around nine," Connie said, "but he said not to worry about hanging around to wait for them. We can just leave the keys at the marina office with a note authorizing them to board, and they'll get started."

  Diamantista II was secured to a working dock in one of the marinas on Back Creek. Connie and Paul had made arrangements yesterday to have the satellite communications system installed. They had brought the boat around to the marina first thing this morning. They were shopping for a number of other things for the boat, and several of the suppliers worked out of the various marinas along Back Creek. Aside from equipping Diamantista II, they wanted to explore the attractions of Annapolis so they could be better advisors to their charter guests.

  "I'd like to be here while they're installing it," Paul said.

  "I know. I told him that, and he said not to worry. They've got several hours of 'getting started' work before they'll need any decisions about where to put things. Something about figuring out cabling options, I think he said. Anyway, I told him we'd be back after lunch, and he said that would be perfect timing. They'll have all the options worked out, and we can make our choices."

  "Oh. Okay. The place with the RIBs is on our way into town," Paul said. "It's just before we cross the Spa Creek Bridge. We can make a deal for a dinghy and an outboard on our way to the Naval Academy. We'll grab lunch somewhere downtown and pick up the dinghy on our way back. He said they could have it ready in a couple of hours." They were planning to visit the museum at the Academy and see about guided tours, as well.

  "Let's get going, then," Connie said, swinging a leg over the lifelines and stepping onto the dock.

  "Lead on, captain," Paul said, right behind her.

  As he climbed ashore from the tour boat, he glanced at his watch. He had a few minutes before the time was up on the parking meter where he had left his motorcycle. He had not thought about that when he boarded the boat; he had grown anxious when it occurred to him. He had no idea how big an area Spa Creek encompassed, and the boat moved at a slow pace as the guide rattled off endless, boring details about the boats, the houses they passed, and the history of the city. A parking ticket wasn't a big deal, but he was careful never to leave a trail. A ticket would be an enduring mark if anyone started looking for him. The bike was registered in the name he was using, of course, but it would only take a small thread to begin unraveling his identity.

  He was frustrated that he had not found the boat. He had considered asking the guide if she had seen it around the waterfront, but he thought better of calling attention to himself. He fed six quarters into the meter; that should keep him out of trouble while he took the other tour, the one that included Back Creek. Pretending to gawk like the rest of the tourists, he joined the queue for the next excursion.

  Five minutes later, he was seated on the boat, squeezed between a large, round woman and a hyperactive five or six-year-old boy. Holding his backpack on his knees, he tuned out the round woman's shrill voice as she berated her frail-looking husband about how hot and miserable she was. He suppressed his urge to silence her with an elbow to the ribs and unzipped his backpack, extrac
ting the camera and putting the strap over his neck.

  He zipped the pack up. Now that everyone was seated, he was able to make space for it between his feet. That had required exerting increasing pressure against the obnoxious woman's thigh. She had finally turned and scowled at him, shifting her bulk along the bench away from him. He felt disgust for her long-suffering husband; a man should command more respect from his woman. No wonder America was in decline, he thought, clenching his jaw.

  When they entered Back Creek a few minutes later, all the boats overwhelmed him. It seemed there was barely enough space for the tour boat to pass between the boats that were anchored in the creek, and the docks along both sides were packed as well. Just as he was beginning to feel discouraged, he saw the object of his quest. Even to him, a man of the desert, the boat was a thing of beauty. It stood out among the others, unusual not only because of its size, but for the grace of its lines. It was, he thought, a work of art.

  The first part of his mission accomplished, he closed his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, willing himself to relax. He wouldn't hit the woman to his left, nor the out-of-control brat on his right. He could endure this for another half-hour, and then he would bring the motorcycle around here and figure out how to finish what he had to do.

  14

  “To install a full system on a 60-footer is roughly a two-day job, sir," the woman on the phone said.

  "I see. Thank you," he said, leaning against the motorcycle. He had parked in the gravel lot at the boatyard and marina where his quarry was located. After walking down the dock pretending to admire the boats, he saw that there were several men working on the one he was seeking.

  He wouldn't have been able to recognize the owners, but he knew that one was a woman. It didn't take long to see that there was no woman in evidence. All the men he saw wore identical white polo shirts with a logo on the left side of the chest; they were workmen of some sort. Unable to make out the logo, he had retreated to the shade outside the marina office and purchased a soft drink from the vending machine.