He watched, relieved, as the yacht slowed almost to a stop and worked its way to the dock at one of the marinas. He had been worried that they would anchor in the creek, leaving him with the problem of how to get aboard the boat. He wasn't an accomplished swimmer; he would have had to find a small boat that he could rent or steal. Allah had heard his prayer. He waited until he was sure they were stopped before he walked back to his motorcycle.
He returned to the motel, which happened to be almost adjacent to the marina. Finding Boutros watching television alone in the breakfast room, he got a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with him. He dispatched Boutros to keep an eye on the yacht and let him know when the people left.
Bill O'Brien called as Connie and Paul finished making Diamantista II fast to the dock.
"We intercepted a text message from our suspect's phone late yesterday. Not sure why the delay; there was some technical explanation that went over my head, but it was sent mid-morning. Anyway, it said, "Go to Solomons Island." It was sent from a greasy spoon joint near the east end of the Bay Bridge."
"No real surprise," Paul said, "now that we know about the tracker. Who was the recipient?"
"Same number as before. The receiving phone was in Annapolis."
"So there must be two of them, working together," Connie said.
"At least two. They may each have companions. We've sent agents to interview the people at the diner; maybe somebody will recognize one of the sketches. Meanwhile, watch yourselves. I've bumped up the priority on your security detail; they'll begin getting in place early this afternoon. You won't see them; don't even bother looking, okay?"
"Right," Paul said. "No way to move that faster?"
"Not without bringing in the locals, and our judgment is that they'd add significantly to the risk. They don't have the resources or the skills; they could spook our quarry, and there's no telling what that might provoke these guys to do."
"Yeah, okay. What about the motorcycle?"
"We've got a BOLO out on it. The notice says it was stolen and used in the commission of a crime; observe and report, but do not approach."
"What do you think we should do in the meantime?" Connie asked.
"Whatever you would normally do. So far, there's no indication that they're interested in you two; it's your boat that's got their attention, for whatever reason. You disagree, Paul?"
"No. I've been thinking about that. If they'd meant us personal harm, those two kids could have done us in before we even had a clue."
"But what about — " Connie started to say something but Paul interrupted.
"Abe's hormones got the better of him, Connie. I don't think that was part of the script. When I play back my recollection of that situation, I think Mo was as surprised as we were by Abe."
"That's an interesting observation," O'Brien said. "He actually said that he was about to try to help disarm Abe when you shot him; he guessed that you misread his intent."
"Yeah, looking back on it, it could have been that way. What do you think?" Paul asked, looking at Connie.
"Could be, I guess." She shrugged. "So you think we should go ahead and play tourists, Bill?"
"Yes. Even if they are after you personally, you'll probably be safer in public places than you would be holed up on the boat."
"Then that's what we'll do," she said.
Rashid waited in his room, wondering what he would find aboard the yacht. He didn't like improvising; he had been much more comfortable with the original plan. It was simple, with few opportunities for error. He had not allowed himself to dwell on what could have gone wrong that caused the 4th of July attack to fail. With nothing to do but wait, he now considered what could have happened to explain the failure.
According to the weapon's diagnostics, it had been armed and then almost immediately disarmed, and that had occurred on July 1st. The timing made no sense to him, nor did the fact that it was armed and disarmed. Abubakar and Mohammed had not been carrying a diagnostic unit, so they wouldn't have armed and disarmed it as a test, as he had done in Annapolis and planned to do here. It was conceivable that one of them had realized that capture was imminent and armed the weapon in accordance with their orders, but that didn't explain how it got disarmed. He shook his head, frustrated.
He was saved from further speculation by the buzz of his cellphone. He glanced at the display, reading the two-word message from Boutros, "All clear." He put on the blond wig and the wrap-around sunglasses, pocketed his phone and the diagnostic unit, and hastened from the room. The walk to the marina took him about three minutes. As he approached the dock, he spotted Boutros, lounging at an umbrella table by a swimming pool, pretending to read a magazine. They traded glances but gave no indication that they knew one another.
Rashid wanted to ask Boutros a few questions, but he wouldn't risk the two of them being seen together here at the marina. He would have to trust the fool. He had explicitly told him that he should not send the 'all clear' text unless there was some indication that the people were leaving for more than a few minutes. He focused on the task; his reluctance to trust Boutros was a distraction.
It was late morning, and none of the boats tied along the dock looked occupied. Rashid forced himself to walk at a normal pace; he didn't see anyone around but Boutros, but someone could glance out an office window and see him. He had to look as if he belonged there; he kept his eyes on his goal and swung himself aboard the boat as he had seen others do. He held his kit of lock picks in his hand as he bent to unlock the louvered teak doors that closed the companionway, the glare from their varnish almost blinding him. The lock was simple; he felt it release on his first stroke and pulled the doors open.
He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder as he went below, remembering to act as if this were his yacht. Boutros would call his cellphone if he saw the couple returning; with luck, he would have time to get clear. He powered on the diagnostic unit and crouched on the cabin sole, watching as the unit searched for a signal. As he expected, there was no network. He took the magnet from his pocket and ran it over the junction of the teak sole and the gleaming white fiberglass, watching his instrument, waiting for it to complete its routine.
24
Paul was enthralled by the collection of antique marine engines in the Calvert Marine Museum. He studied each one, reading the placards and touching the displays with reverence. Connie was amused by his intensity, but after a while, she became bored and decided to go outside and look at some of the antique boats. She thought pictures of them would work well in a brochure. She tapped Paul on the shoulder, startling him.
He looked at her with a sheepish grin. "Sorry," he said.
"No, that's fine. Take your time. I'm going out to the boat shed and take a few pictures, okay?"
"Sure. I'll come find you there in a few minutes."
When she got outside, she realized she'd left her camera on the chart table aboard Diamantista II. She thought about telling Paul she was going back to the boat for it, but then she decided not to. It wouldn't take her more than a few minutes to collect it and get back. He was still at the beginning of the exhibit on the engines; he'd probably be there until she dragged him away.
When she was looking at the map of the museum grounds a few minutes earlier, she had spotted a path that led from the museum to the dock where Diamantista II was tied. It was a shortcut, bypassing both the museum's entrance from the highway and the marina's driveway.
As she rounded the last bend in the path, she realized that she could reach Diamantista II without using the main dock; there was a ladder down from the end of the path to a floating dinghy dock that was attached to the far end of the dock where Diamantista II was tied. As she climbed the ramp from the dinghy dock to the dock where Diamantista II was, she could see into Diamantista II's cockpit.
She was surprised that the doors to the companionway stood open. Paul had been the last one aboard; he must have forgotten to close and lock them. She walked down the dock, won
dering whether to mention it to him. She decided against it. He was a fanatic about that kind of thing; it had to be his police background, she figured. Anyway, she knew he'd be upset with himself. It would be better not to say anything.
As soon as the diagnostic routine was completed, Rashid swiped the magnet along the joint in the cabin sole again, disarming the weapon. He felt some relief. He wouldn't know for sure until he uploaded the log to his computer and analyzed it, but the system appeared to be working normally. He thought it might be possible for someone to disable the weapon and leave all the diagnostics intact, but the log should give some indication. He would be able to tell if anyone had tampered with it since his last diagnostic routine in Annapolis. He put the diagnostic unit in his pocket and mounted the companionway ladder. Before he climbed into the cockpit, he caught a flicker of movement at the far end of the dock, the end opposite from where the dock met the shore.
He thought for a second. Anyone at that end of the dock either came from a boat or walked past Boutros. People on boats weren't of any concern, and Boutros had not called, so he should be safe enough. He climbed into the cockpit and closed the doors, bending down to lock them. When he stood up, he saw the woman coming toward the boat from the wrong end of the dock. The look on her face told him that she had seen him. He ran through his options, reminding himself that harming her would jeopardize the mission; they needed her and the man to get the boat to New York. He struggled for a plausible explanation for his presence and couldn't think of one, other than petty thievery. A thief would be intent on escape in this situation; that would serve his needs as well. The woman had sprinted along the dock and stood glaring at him, her jaw clenched. Her behavior was puzzling to him; why wasn't she yelling for help?
He glanced over and saw Boutros watching them. He hoped Boutros would stay calm and fade away in the confusion. He vaulted the lifelines, landing on the dock a few feet from the woman. She shifted her position, putting herself squarely between him and the shore. He would have to brush by her, perhaps knocking her down, but that was okay. It was still consistent with the behavior of a thief. He was unnerved when it registered with him that she looked far too relaxed and in control. She should be frightened. He looked into her eyes and saw no fear, only cold calculation. Who was this woman, to confront a man this way? He feinted to the side, but she didn't move; she wasn't fooled. He needed to rattle her, but he couldn't hurt her.
He yelled with all the volume of his lungs, throwing up his arms and lunging at her, expecting her to give way so that he could dart past her.
Connie was determined to take this intruder down. He was by himself, and he was no doubt shaken by being caught. Assuming that his presence was related to whatever Abe and Mo were doing, he might be armed. She watched him, staying out of striking distance. She would force him to commit before she attempted to take him. She could see his thoughts racing as she held his eyes; she knew that her stare would upset him. Men like him expected women to be intimidated. Staring into their eyes was a trick she had learned from Dani.
She stayed still, waiting for him to make his move. She knew he wouldn't stand there for long; there was too much chance of someone coming along and interfering. By putting herself between him and his escape route, she was forcing him to attack her. She hoped that no one got in her way by trying to help; she relished the chance to release the stress that had built up, and this jerk was a perfect outlet.
The scream surprised her, but the lunge was what she had been waiting for. He led with his right leg, throwing his arms up to brush her aside. She stepped out to her left front with a shuffle, putting herself outside his outstretched right arm. When his weight was on his right leg, she dropped to her left, pivoting on her left foot and driving the sole of her right foot into his right knee with all of her weight. She heard the satisfying crack as his knee bent the wrong way. He collapsed to the dock, his scream becoming one of agony.
She stepped back, centering herself again, preparing to finish him with a kick to the side of his head. Before she struck, he yelled something in a foreign language. She recognized the last words as "Allahu akbar." Then he convulsed, his back arching, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. In a few seconds, he was still.
Surprised, Connie stepped back and pulled her phone from the pocket of her shorts, her first thought to call Paul. As she waited for him to answer, she became frustrated with this man at her feet. There was no way to get answers from him now.
25
Paul arrived at Diamantista II out of breath, having sprinted the whole way. Connie stood alone on the dock, her phone still in her hand. The man was motionless at her feet.
"You okay?" Paul asked, hugging her.
"Fine. He never touched me." She told him what had happened, including the man's final yell.
"Allahu akbar," Paul mused. "Wonder what else he yelled? Did you notice anybody else around when you came down the dock?"
"No. I found a shortcut from the museum; I came onto the dock at the outer end. I suppose someone could have been ashore, watching, but I didn't see anybody."
"You only hit him once?"
"Yes. Kicked his knee out. I was going for the side of his head when he yelled and arched his back. He started jerking and foaming at the mouth like he was having a seizure of some kind. Should we call the cops?"
"O'Brien. We'll let him take care of it." Paul took the phone from her hand and scrolled through the directory. While he waited for the connection, he said, "Sounds like he might have killed himself. Once you immobilized him, he knew he was caught."
"O'Brien," came the voice from the phone.
"Hey, Bill. Paul and Connie. We've had a little, um ... situation develop here." Paul summarized Connie's story. "What should we do?"
"The first couple of agents just called," O'Brien said. "They just passed the northern city limits; should be there in a matter of minutes. I'm going to hang up and call them. If the locals show up before they do, just wing it for a minute or two and try to keep 'em confused until the cavalry comes, okay?"
"Got it," Paul said. "Talk later."
"I wasn't going to kill him," Connie said. "I was angry, and I meant to do him some damage, but I wanted to make him talk."
"Uh-huh," Paul said. "You didn't kill him; nobody dies from a broken knee."
"But how did he ... " she shook her head.
"Probably a cyanide pill, or a fake tooth, like Mo and Abe," Paul said.
"But it was so quick," she said.
"Ten or fifteen seconds is what I've read. Could have been something else, but that's the old standby."
Paul dropped his arm from around Connie's shoulder and moved to block the couple in casual attire walking down the dock. As they got within a few yards, the woman said, "Paul Russo?"
"Yes, are you — "
"We're your security detail. All hell's going to break loose in the next few minutes; somebody called 911. Can you and Ms. Barrera get lost until we sort this out?"
"Sure," Paul said. "We'll just go back to the museum. Do you — "
"Go. We know how to reach you."
Paul nodded and took Connie's hand, intending to lead her down the dock.
She shook her head and said, "Other way. Come with me," leading him back to the shortcut she had discovered.
Connie and Paul spent the rest of the day in the museum, returning to the boat in the late afternoon. O'Brien had called as they were walking back to the marina.
"We don't have much on the guy," he said. "We found the motorcycle in the parking lot of the motel closest to the marina. The desk clerk recognized him from a photograph; he was registered as Gabriel Ferraras, same as the registration of the motorcycle, but he doesn't exist. His address is a strip shopping center in Fort Lee; nobody around there recognizes him. We're backtracking the Ferraras identity, but it's not going to do us any good. Oh, and your hunch was on target, Paul. The poison was potassium cyanide — same as your two crewmen. Probably the same dentist, from what th
e preliminary post mortem shows. These guys were serious."
"You think he was alone?" Paul asked.
"No. The desk clerk at the motel saw him having breakfast with another guy, also on a motorcycle. He's disappeared, of course. I'll email you the facial composite for the second guy when we get off the phone."
"Was he staying in the hotel?" Connie asked.
"Yeah, but both rooms were in Ferraras's name. No clue as to who this guy is."
"Fingerprints?" Paul asked.
"All over both rooms, but no matches. We're still waiting on Interpol, but something tells me there's no match in their system, either."
"Did he leave any clues on the boat?" Connie asked.
"No. Just a few prints where you'd expect them from someone who went below; handrails, countertops — you know. We brought in the same team that went over the boat at the Naval Air Station yesterday. Nothing's changed that they could find."
"What do we do now?" Connie asked.
"Whatever you'd normally do to kill time until you pick up your charter in Norfolk, I guess. We got a court order that gives us access to the tracking information, by the way. We still want to keep an eye on the boat, so keep that in mind as you plan your itinerary, okay?"
"Sure," Paul said. "Does your court order give you access to data on who's tracking that unit?"
"Yeah, for all the good it does. We got a bunch of IP addresses, but they all trace back to VPNs."
"VPNs?" Connie asked.
"Virtual Private Networks — it's an easy way of hiding your online identity. You log on to the VPN and it gives you a new IP address, basically whatever you want, and then you go to whatever website you want to look at."
"There's no way to get past that?" Paul asked.
"No easy way. We can get court orders, but they're using a different VPN every time and probably moving around to boot."
A Blast to Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series Page 17