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

by Charles Dougherty

  "You think he's a bully because of the way he raised his voice after he and Miriam went to their cabin?"

  "That, and his behavior toward her when she wanted to change their plans. You could see from her reaction that she was accustomed to him always having his way."

  "I felt really sad for her," Connie said. "She was so excited, and he just crushed that."

  "I have to wonder about his insistence on us taking the boat to New York, too. I mean, why not just drive up there and take one of the tour boats to see the Statue of Liberty?"

  Connie turned to face him, studying him in the dim light for a moment. "Is that your paranoia at work?"

  "I guess it could be. I'd rather think of it as the distillation of my years of experience at reading people. There's something off about the guy."

  "I can't argue with that," Connie said. "What do you think we should do?"

  "I brought the phone. Let's go sit on one of those benches in the little park over there and call O'Brien. We can tell him all about it; the insistence on New York does make me suspicious, even though he said this guy's clean."

  "You don't think he's part of this whole terrorist thing, do you?" Connie frowned.

  "We've observed some odd behavior in a short acquaintance. That would be one explanation, wouldn't it?"

  "You're going to make me as cynical as you are if you keep this up."

  "I'm not cynical. Being suspicious of odd behavior is normal."

  "You're right."

  "Are you saying you're suspicious, too?"

  "Maybe. I look at things differently, though. I have the sense that we're being manipulated; I've spent enough time pulling other people's strings to feel it when somebody tugs on mine. Let's make that call."

  Bill O'Brien sat at his desk munching cold pizza from the cafeteria downstairs as he thought about the call he'd just had from Connie and Paul. Based on their interactions so far and Paul's reputation in South Florida's law enforcement community, he had a great deal of respect for Paul's opinions. Although Sam Cohen's background check had not turned up anything unexpected, O'Brien had to agree that his insistence on taking Diamantista II to New York was suspicious when taken in context. He thought about the first bit of intelligence dealing with the threat of an attack on Manhattan. Clicking through the file on his computer, he found and replayed the YouTube clip.

  Listening carefully to the narrative, he realized that the threat had not mentioned July 4th; everyone had leapt to that conclusion. He wondered what other 'major holidays' were in July. After a search on the Internet, he was astonished at the number of established holidays that occurred in July. Based on the dates Paul and Connie had given him, he narrowed the scope to 11 holidays that occurred on July 29th or 30th. He had never heard of most of them, but one stood out. The United Nations had designated July 30th as the International Day of Friendship. The intent was to promote peace through understanding. It wasn't lost on O'Brien that the movable celebrations of Ramadan and Eid-Al-Fitr occurred in July, but the dates did not match this year.

  He turned to his file on Sam Cohen. He skimmed through the file, looking for anything he might have missed. He paused at the mention of Cohen's parents' death; they had been killed in an automobile accident during Cohen's freshman year in college. He made a note to check on their immigration records, and then he began to wonder how Sam had managed to get through school without his parents' support. According to the file, his father had been a cab driver, and his mother's occupation was listed as 'housewife.' It didn't seem likely that they were wealthy. He sent an email to a friend in the Chicago office, asking him to see what he could find out from the University of Illinois.

  He checked the time; it was after 9 p.m. He logged off his computer and cleared his desk. It was time for him to try to get some sleep. As he walked out, he wondered if he should have told Paul and Connie about the odd device that Ferraras had in his pocket. It looked like a smartphone, but it was some kind of data communications tester. The technicians hadn't figured out what it did, yet. He had not meant to keep it from them; it had slipped his mind. He decided it wasn't important.

  28

  “Any further thoughts on itinerary?" Connie asked, as the Cohens were finishing breakfast.

  "Jamestown must not be too far from here," Miriam said.

  "Not too," Connie agreed. "We could be there this afternoon; it'll take us around four hours."

  "And what about tonight? Will we stay there?" Sam asked.

  "Sure, if you want to," Connie said. "We can anchor in the river right off the monument."

  "Have you been there?" Miriam asked.

  "No. We haven't had a chance to explore this part of the Bay yet. Your charter took us by surprise," Connie said. "We've been focused on the places farther up the Bay, where the big settlements were."

  "Is there a way we can get ashore there?" Miriam asked. "I think it would be nice to approach Jamestown Island the way the first settlers did — from the river."

  "Hold on a second," Connie said, reaching for a cruising guide to the Chesapeake and flipping through it. "Yes. Looks like we could land the dinghy on a little beach near the monument. It sounds like there's not really a lot to see, though, compared to some of the other places."

  "I'd like to start there, anyway," Miriam said. "It's where it all began."

  "You're the boss," Connie said, smiling. "I'll go settle up with the marina while Paul clears away the breakfast dishes. We should be out of here in 20 minutes or so. That'll put us at Jamestown Island a bit after noon. Got a next stop in mind?"

  "How about St. Mary's City?" Miriam asked.

  "That's a little over a hundred miles from Jamestown," Connie said. "What do you think, Paul?"

  "Yes. That's about right. Figure around a 12-hour run, give or take, depending on the tidal current. That's what it took us coming down."

  "So it would take us a whole day to get there?" Miriam asked, a frown on her face.

  "Yes," Connie said.

  "And a day ashore. There's not time for that," Sam said. "I have to get to New York."

  Miriam's frown deepened. "Sam, are you sure you can't — "

  "Miriam!" he snapped. "We've discussed this already."

  She nodded.

  Paul dried his hands on the dish towel and said, "I want to walk up to the office with you, Connie."

  Connie looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

  "Maybe there's a place up the street to grab a quart of oil. I used our last one to top up the diesel yesterday," he said, giving her a surreptitious wink.

  "Okay, let's go, then," she said.

  Once they were several paces away from Diamantista II, she asked, "What's up?"

  "He's a real bastard," Paul replied.

  "Yes. So?"

  "I feel sorry for her."

  "I do too," Connie said, "but — "

  "Let's run at night," Paul said. "Weather's nice. There's not much to keep them at Jamestown. If they held their shore time to a few hours, we might make St. Mary's City not too long after midnight. We could sack out while they tour the place the next morning."

  "You're an awfully nice guy, Paul, to think of that. I'm willing if you are."

  "She needs somebody to do something nice for her. That's all. If they were experienced at chartering, they'd have probably told us that's what they wanted anyway, so it's no big deal."

  Connie reached out and took his hand, giving it a squeeze as they walked up the ramp to the office. "I'm a lucky girl," she said.

  "I'll be glad when this one's over," Connie said, speaking in a soft voice, close to Paul's ear.

  They were sailing north up the Bay, passing Wolf Trap Shoal light, about 40 miles south of the mouth of the Potomac. Their guests had retired to their cabin an hour earlier, tired from the trip up and down the James River to Jamestown.

  "I will, too," Paul said. "Why do you suppose she stays with him?"

  "Hard to know," Connie said, "but it makes me sad to see her so subdued."r />
  She and Paul were behind the helm, sitting hip to hip in the cool evening air, chilled a bit by the east-northeast breeze. She felt the phone in his pocket vibrate.

  "That a phone call?" she asked.

  Paul shifted his weight and extracted the phone, studying the screen.

  "Email from O'Brien," he said, keying in the passcode.

  "He's working late," she said, as Paul opened the email. "What's on his mind?"

  "He says they're still looking into Sam Cohen's background. They can't figure out how he could have afforded to get through the University of Illinois on his own after his parents died."

  "Scholarship?" she asked.

  Paul shook his head. "Says he was an 'indifferent' student."

  "How did he get into law school?"

  Paul shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe he worked a while first, or something."

  He was silent for a few seconds, reading the rest of the email. "Now, that's interesting," he said. "O'Brien says that since the Cohens joined us, no one has logged into the tracking site to check our position."

  "What could that mean?" Connie asked.

  "That's what O'Brien wants to know. That kind of coincidence really bugs people like me and him."

  "It's been, what? Twenty-four hours?" she asked.

  "Yep. Give or take. He says they were checking roughly every four to six hours, before."

  "Is he suspicious of Cohen, do you think?"

  "O'Brien's a good cop. He's suspicious of everybody."

  "Just like someone else I know. What are the chances you'd make some instant coffee for me?"

  "Good idea; I'm on it. We've got a few hours yet." Paul stood up and stretched, moving out from behind the steering pedestal. He stepped softly to avoid making noise that would disturb their guests in their stateroom below the cockpit. He froze on the bridge deck, not moving.

  "What's going on?" Connie asked, as Paul sat back down next to her. She had watched as he stood with a foot on the companionway ladder staring down into the galley for at least a minute before he had returned to her side without going below.

  “One of the Cohens was crawling around on the cabin sole in the dark."

  "What? Which one?”

  “I can’t be sure; it was too dark, but my bet’s Sam.”

  “Why would he do that?"

  "Good question. Should we ask him?"

  "You're the cop. You think it's a good idea? Or should we just keep an eye on him and see what else he does?"

  "You're learning," Paul said. "Shall I go make that coffee?"

  "If you think it's okay. Could he have done something to the boat?"

  "I'll check it out. I don't think so, though. He wasn't moving around much, and there's not really anything that's vulnerable where he was. He was kneeling on top of the lift-out panel for the fuel valve access."

  Paul went below and turned on the dim red night light over the stove in the galley. While he waited for the water to boil, he took the penlight that they kept in the galley and inspected the area where Sam Cohen had been. After a methodical examination, he shook his head and put the penlight back in its place. He poured boiling water into the mugs and switched off the red light. Picking the mugs up, he turned and set them on the bridge deck. He climbed the ladder and picked one up, passing it to Connie before he retrieved his own and resumed his place beside her.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "No clue."

  "Maybe he dropped something earlier and was looking for it," she said.

  "But why so sneaky?" he asked. "If he was looking for something, why wouldn't he just turn on a light? That's what anyone else would have done. One more piece of odd behavior. This bastard's up to something."

  "You going to email O'Brien?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Soon as I finish my coffee."

  29

  Sam woke up to the soft rattle of Diamantista II's anchor chain being payed out. He heard the diesel auxiliary engine and reasoned that they must be in St. Mary's City. He felt around, finding his cellphone on the shelf next to his berth. He was puzzled; it wasn’t quite where he had left it. He figured it must have shifted from the motion of the boat. Glancing at the display, he saw that it was 1 a.m.; he had a strong cell signal, as well. He could tell from Miriam’s breathing that she wasn’t asleep, but he didn’t want to talk to her — not after their recent disagreements about the trip.

  After tossing and turning for a few minutes, he knew that sleep wouldn't come. He had a lot on his mind. The deal in New York would be the culmination of years of hard work. He had been struggling for recognition for so long that he had wondered if it would ever come. His parents would be proud.

  The creation of Israel had wrecked their lives, forcing them to move to the U.S. By the time he was born, they had established themselves in their new surroundings. To all appearances, they had assimilated. They did not associate with other Palestinian refugees, but kept to themselves. In the confusion after the war, they had often been mistaken for Jews who had escaped the Nazis, and they did nothing to dispel that idea. It caused them fewer problems. They were not religious, but their hearts were aligned with the Palestinian cause. Sam had distanced himself from the vocal anti-Israel elements, as they had.

  He had even married a Jew; his parents would not have been any more pleased at that than Miriam’s parents had been with her choice of spouse, although for different reasons. He wondered how her parents would react when his coup came to their attention.

  For that matter, he wondered how Miriam would react. She had no idea what he was up to. He was tired of her endless arguing, but her orthodox Jewish background had been an asset in his quest.

  His feelings for Miriam were mixed; he didn't hate her, but love wasn't part of his feelings for her, either — not for many years. There were always other women; he took comfort where he found it. With that thought, he drifted off to sleep.

  "The weapon has passed its final round of tests," Kareem said. "I received a message from my agent just minutes ago. The next step will be to place it in New York and arm it."

  The Caliph studied him for a moment before he asked, "And where is it now, the weapon. You are still tracking it?"

  Kareem took a deep breath, tired of the old man's insistence on repetitive explanations. "It's in a place called St. Mary's City, in the state of Maryland, and no, we are no longer tracking it. I explained that to you yesterday. We have a trusted agent escorting the weapon now; we can rely on his reports."

  "Why not track it to be sure he is honest?"

  "Our computer expert thinks that someone is aware that we were tracking it. They can't tell who or where we are, but they can tell that someone is tracking the vessel. Since we have no need to track it any longer, we do not wish to give them any more information to work with. The more data they have, the greater our exposure. Or so I am told, Excellency."

  "Where is this place, St. Mary's City? Is it far from New York?"

  "No, Excellency. It is about 90 miles southeast of Washington, D.C., and about 200 miles from New York. There will be no problem; the agent has scheduled the delivery to coincide with our plans."

  "I don't like it."

  "I'm sorry, Excellency. What would you change?"

  "We don't know this agent. How can we trust him?"

  "He is an asset of our strongest supporters; it has taken over twenty years to establish his cover. He is above suspicion. That they would contribute such a valuable man to our cause is a mark of the trust that they have placed in us. We must repay that trust in kind. Any added surveillance on our part might draw attention to the agent and betray their support."

  "He will certainly die in the blast; he can't be traced to them."

  "It would seem so, Excellency. Even so, we must respect their wishes to keep their participation secret."

  The Caliph gave a harsh, forced laugh. "They will try to take credit for our success."

  "Perhaps, but I think not. This will cripple the Great Satan, but it will n
ot destroy the U.S. I believe our allies will wish to maintain the illusion of friendship with our common enemy."

  "You had best pray, Kareem, that there are no further disruptions to our plans. I will not allow another failure to go unpunished. You understand this?"

  "Yes, Excellency."

  "It looks like we'll have to motor most of the way to New York," Connie said, stretched out in their berth with her head on Paul's shoulder. "The forecast is for almost no wind for the next several days. We might catch a little sea breeze once we get to Cape May, but probably not enough to shut down the engine and sail."

  "Guess that's summer in this part of the world," Paul said. He glanced at his watch. It was a little after one a.m. They were both still wound up from the sail into the St. Mary's River. "How's our fuel, by the way? We've been motoring a lot more than we usually would."

  "It may be tight getting to New York," Connie said. "I've kept a running estimate, but I really don't know this boat yet. I'd say we've got a minimum of sixty gallons — maybe closer to 70, but if we have to motor for more than thirty hours from here, we could run out."

  "We'd better find somewhere to fill up, then," Paul said.

  "Yes. I'd actually like to make the run to New York under power, starting with a full tank. That would be a nice, long run at steady R.P.M. We can fill up again when we get there and get a good idea of how much we burn per hour."

  "Right. That should give us a good average number."

  "I don't remember seeing a fuel dock at the 79th Street Boat Basin," Connie said.

  "Neither do I. There has to be one somewhere close by. We'll check in the morning while the Cohens are ashore. You thinking we should fill up before we get to the C&D canal?"

  "We should be okay to get that far, and that's an easy fuel stop. Anywhere else would be pretty far out of the way."

  "You figuring on leaving and running overnight when they're done here? That would put us in the Canal during daytime."