When Dunne awoke, the sun had set, and the harbor glowed with the lights of the giant luxury yachts and racing sailboats stacked at the piers of the marina. He stood at the window in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, staring at the armada bought with wealth looted from around the world and moored here for safekeeping. He closed the blinds and examined his too-expensive room, which was decorated with photographs and memorabilia of the Aga Khan, who had made the Emerald Coast his summer playground and turned it into a hub for the unseemly rich.
From the moment Dunne had been invited here a few days earlier by a partner from the Clissold law firm in London, he had been struggling to understand the chain of communication that had led to his trip.
Dunne wanted to be the hunter, but someone, unknown, had pursued him. He had received an anonymous letter that revealed the coordinates of Jason Howe, the self-described cyber bandit who with his colleagues had turned Dunne’s life upside down. The letter promised to help Dunne right the wrong that had been done to him. But when Dunne had tried to locate the “meta-journalist,” using the anonymously provided information, he had been summoned to the biggest yacht in the fanciest harbor in the Mediterranean.
Dunne took a tiny bottle of vodka from the minibar, and then a second, and poured them over ice in a crystal glass. He took a long, burning swig, and another, and quickly drained the glass. He didn’t understand the story any better with the vodka infusing his brain than he had sober.
What was the chain of provenance? The vodka in the minibar was gone, but there was a half bottle of Chablis. Dunne drank it down and, just before midnight, fell asleep with a cool evening breeze on his flushed face.
* * *
Dunne awoke early; through a crack in the shades, the Sardinian sun was shining bright in his eyes. He went to the hotel gym and lifted weights for an hour; a woman in her twenties, dressed in a one-piece pastel workout suit, asked if Dunne could help her adjust the treadmill. Dunne shook his head and said he didn’t know how the machine worked.
The appointment was at ten aboard the Cosmos. An hour before, Dunne made his way downhill to the gleaming turquoise waters of the bay. The only things he took with him, apart from the clothes he was wearing, were electronics: a burner phone he was prepared to lose, and a few pieces of surveillance equipment, powerful but miniaturized so well that they were undetectable even to a practiced eye.
The marina had eight long docks, each accommodating a half dozen yachts. As Dunne walked seaward past the whitewashed splendor of the Yacht Club Costa Smeralda the boats became bigger and gaudier until he reached the last pier, where the mega-yachts were berthed. Under the yacht club’s blue-and-red pennant, he glimpsed a discreet price list. For boats over 180 feet, the cost of a slip was fifteen hundred euros a night.
Dunne surveyed the yachts moored at this last pier, facing the mouth of the bay and the rising morning sun. They were all giants, well over two hundred feet; each was painted in the too-bright colors that you see on race cars. A metallic silver yacht with a knife-edge prow stood alongside a grand blue floating palace with five decks stacked like a wedding cake. Next was a sleek black hull, clad with blackened windows, that looked like a twenty-first-century pirate ship.
Dunne stopped a marina dockhand and asked him where the Cosmos was berthed. The young man pointed toward the far end of the dock, where the very largest yacht of all rode in its slip. “Eighty-eight meters,” he said, as if that told you everything that mattered. That was nearly the length of a football field.
Dunne walked down the wooden planks of the dock. He was dressed in a blue blazer, white trousers, and a pair of white sneakers. He had shaved off his red beard. He looked almost like he belonged.
As Dunne approached the yacht, it seemed to get even bigger. The hull was a metallic gray, like smoke. The superstructure was a creamy ivory. There were four separate decks above water; two of them had small swimming pools. The bow of the ship was perpendicular to the water, almost a submarine nose; it looked like it could plow through a gale. Just aft from the bow was a helipad marked with a giant X.
At the stern, in pristine white letters against the gray hull, was the yacht’s name, Cosmos, and its home port, George Town, Cayman Islands.
Dunne stood looking up at this skyscraper of a yacht and didn’t notice, at first, an electric golf cart that was noiselessly approaching from the other end of the dock. The cart stopped next to Dunne and a tall, slender man stepped from the passenger seat. He was wearing matching powder-blue jacket and trousers with Cosmos written in script on the breast pocket.
“Please, Mr. Dunne,” said the man. He spoke with a slight German accent. “Where’s your luggage? I’ll help you get it aboard.”
“I didn’t bring any luggage,” said Dunne. “Are you Tom Goldman?”
“I’m Rudy, the steward. Mr. Goldman is on board waiting for you. We’ll get you clothes. What size are you?”
“Large,” said Dunne. The steward was still looking at him expectantly. “I’m a thirty-two waist, thirty-four inseam, forty-two regular jacket. You want my hat size?”
“The hats are adjustable, sir.”
Rudy escorted Dunne down a red-carpeted gangway to the floating sundeck attached to the rear of the boat; they passed through a hatchway, broad as the door of a two-car garage, that opened to the interior. An elevator took them up a floor to a lower salon that looked aft to a teak-lined pool; small wooden plaques pointed toward a beauty salon, a screening room, a gym, and a spa.
The steward motioned Dunne toward a circular stairway that rose to the main lounge. It looked like the lobby of a futuristic boutique hotel. There were twin white-marble cocktail tables, each with a bouquet of fresh irises; three white silk couches framed the seating area; and behind them along the walls were modern abstract-expressionist paintings with bold vertical strokes of color that matched the tint of the flowers. Beyond was a dining room with a white stone table, set amid walls of honey-colored marble.
Dunne stopped to admire the flowers. As one hand stroked the purple petal of the iris, the other attached a translucent sticky microphone to the inside of the ceramic vase.
Crew members, dressed in the same blue livery as Rudy, were standing midway through the gallery. Dunne looked for his host, but the room was empty except for the staff. He turned quizzically to the steward.
“Mr. Goldman is upstairs one more flight, in the master salon,” said Rudy. “He thought you would enjoy it there.”
The stairway was between the living and dining rooms. It was made of plexiglass and conveyed the sense of ascending through space.
At the top of the stairs stood a man in faded khaki shorts, a slim white T-shirt, and sandals. He looked like a beach boy more than a mogul. He waited for Dunne to climb to the top of the stairs, and then extended his hand.
“I’m Tom,” he said warmly. “Thanks for coming so far to see me.”
Goldman was a slim, sculpted man of medium height. He had an easy smile and his skin glowed with hydration and good health. His face was smooth and unlined, his hair sandy blond in a brush cut, his teeth perfect and immaculately white. He looked to be in his late thirties, but it was hard to be sure; he could have been a decade older than that, but he was so well maintained that the aging process seemed to have been suspended. He spoke with a cosmopolitan American accent that connoted good education, but not a geographical place.
Dunne looked at this sunny lawyer, thought about all the dark things that had happened to him in the last two years, and made himself a silent promise not to forget his desire to avenge the past.
“Nice boat,” offered Dunne. “You’re Jason Howe’s lawyer, I take it.”
“His legal representative, let’s say. But we’ll get to all that, I promise you. Relax, chill out. You’ve come a long way and you’re on the nicest yacht in the prettiest port in the Med. Enjoy. What the hell, eh?”
“What the hell,” repeated Dunne.
Goldman motioned for him to sit in one of four white leather ch
airs that surrounded a table set with another lavish bouquet of flowers. On all four sides of the room were windows looking out on the azure harbor. It was a cloudless day; the electric blue of the sky met the sparkling sapphire of the sea at the far horizon.
As Dunne was taking his seat, a woman dressed in a form-fitting, low-cut version of the blue Cosmos uniform entered the room with a tray of fresh-squeezed fruit drinks.
Dunne asked for water and a double espresso.
“You’re making a mistake, my friend,” said Goldman. “After a long flight, you need some Vitamin C. I’ll have them make you a mixed-berry cocktail.” He nodded to the woman with the tray. A few moments later, the cocktail appeared.
“I’m a prisoner in paradise,” said Dunne, taking a sip. The casual bonhomie was getting on his nerves.
Goldman laughed. He turned to the steward and whispered a command. In the next moment, the hull of the great vessel began to move. The crew down below had cast off the lines, and small thrusters nudged the ship gently out of the slip; then the great, churning propellers under the hull began to drive her toward the open sea.
“I didn’t know we were going for a cruise,” said Dunne. “Lucky me.”
“Cosmos at sea is an experience not to be missed,” said Goldman. “Do you know what the root of ‘cosmos’ means? Probably not, nobody studies Greek anymore, not even the Greeks. The word means both ‘world’ and ‘order.’ I like to think of the two of them together. World order. Isn’t that reassuring?”
“Not necessarily. Who owns the boat? Would that be you?”
“Certainly not. Don’t be ridiculous. It belongs to one of our clients. The client lends it to me when it’s not in use.”
“Who’s the client, if I may ask?”
“Of course you can ask, but I can’t tell you. Won’t tell you. If you checked the boat’s registry, you’d find that it’s owned by a trust in the Cayman Islands. The trust has a number of beneficial owners.”
“How congenial.” Dunne squinted at his host. He took another sip of the berry drink, at once sweet and tart. His eyes panned slowly across the sunny, floating lounge to his genial, smooth-faced host.
It was too perfect. Dunne wanted disruption.
He took the crystal glass holding the dark red juice and let it fall to the polished teakwood floor of the salon, where it splintered into a dozen jagged pieces. Sprays of juice stained the white fabric of the couch and the bright paper on the walls.
“Oops,” said Dunne. “I dropped it.”
Goldman shook his head, but his composure didn’t break.
Two stewards emerged quickly from the pantry, as if summoned by the sound of the breaking glass. One began sweeping the shards into a stainless steel dustpan; the other doused the spots on the furniture and walls with cleaning solvent.
In the commotion of the cleanup, Dunne removed from his blazer pocket one of the tiny electronic devices he had brought with him and, as deftly as a magician, placed it invisibly into the fabric of the couch.
“That was rude, and unnecessary,” said Goldman evenly, as the cleaners retreated. “I can see why you got in so much trouble at the CIA. You’re an impulsive, angry man. But I will admit, that’s why you interest people like us. You’re a man with flair.”
“Bullshit,” said Dunne. “Who the hell are you? I go looking for Jason Howe and you come out of the bubble-gum machine. You keep talking about ‘us’ and ‘we.’ Do you represent Howe or not? He’s an anarchist punk. What would he have to do with the billionaires who own this boat?”
Goldman kicked off his sandals and crossed his bare legs on the white leather chair.
“You need to calm down, Michael, or this will end as unhappily as your other adventures. Mr. Howe is not available. Our law firm was retained to represent the interests of him and his associates, which were larger than the little collective you visited in Italy. That chapter is over. It’s time to turn the page, don’t you think?”
“I’m ‘interested’ in him because he destroyed my life. Or tried to. He found every secret I had and exposed them all on his websites. He hurt the people I loved the most. I have business to settle with him. And with his associates, and their lawyer. That’s why I’m here.”
Goldman shook his head. “You’re like a dog chasing a car. What on earth will you do if you find him?”
Dunne was silent. He didn’t know the answer.
“I have another proposition for you,” said Goldman. “It’s revenge of a different sort.”
“What’s that?”
“Come work for us. Help tend the machine. It’s not what you think. I promise. We can make all your other problems go away.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Dunne shook his head. “Have you Botoxed your brain? You work with the people who tried to ruin my life. Why would I have anything to do with you? I hate you.”
“So sad. You don’t even know who we are.”
Dunne stared at him with a combination of indignation and curiosity.
“What’s this about? I don’t get it. Why are you pitching me, of all people?”
“Because you’re the best. That’s what your former colleagues such as George Strafe think, or so I’m told. They say you’re the best person to keep this precious technology out of the hands of the Russians and Chinese. You’re still a patriot, surely.”
Dunne cut him off.
“What do you know about Strafe?”
“Nothing.” Goldman backed off, after dropping the card. “I’m just a London lawyer. A name-dropper, with a big boat. Don’t mind me.”
Dunne kept silent. There was too much he didn’t understand. He gazed out the broad windows of the salon. Cosmos was moving rapidly through the twin points that formed the harbor and toward open water. The yacht, under full power now, steered north toward the lighthouse at Capo Ferro at the northern tip of the island.
Goldman leaned toward his guest solicitously.
“Let’s relax. Too much business is a mistake at the beginning of a meeting. Your stateroom is on the deck below, just forward of the dining room. Freshen up. Get changed. We’ll go for a swim, and have some lunch, and then we’ll talk.”
Rudy showed Dunne to his room. It was a small suite, with a sitting room opening onto a bedroom done in blue and white: blue-veined marble on the walls, white linens topped by a blue twill spread. Laid out on the bed was a small wardrobe. Trousers, shirts, sweater, all made of the finest Italian fabrics. At the foot of the bed was a royal-blue swimsuit.
Dunne stripped and walked to the bathroom. Like everything else in this fantasy vessel, it was perfectly crafted, with a double sink, toilet and bidet, and a massive tub and shower. When he returned to the bedroom, Dunne put on his swimming trunks and sandals and a cotton piqué polo shirt. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes so that he could think.
When Dunne felt the boat begin to slow, he roused himself from bed and went back on deck. The crew had maneuvered the giant craft into the bay of an offshore island. The water was a shade of iridescent green; truly, an emerald coast. The crew dropped the anchor and opened the back hatch to launch the motorboat, Jet Skis, and other paraphernalia of wealthy leisure.
Goldman beckoned from the lower deck. He was dressed in a bathing suit, a baggy shirt, and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. The launch pulled aside the stern, and Dunne and his host sped off with a rooster plume of wake behind them toward the beach. Goldman turned toward him and spoke above the roar of the outboard motor.
“Isn’t this better than being angry?” said the smiling lawyer.
“Who said I’m not angry?” answered Dunne.
25 Costa Smeralda, Sardinia – June 2018
Tom Goldman tossed a bag of snorkeling gear to Dunne and grabbed a set for himself as the motor launch idled just offshore. They waded a few dozen yards through the low surf to a crescent beach ringed by rocks and low brush. The cove was deserted, other than the giant gray yacht anchored a half mile offshore. Goldman put on his fins, mask, and snork
el, and Dunne did the same. The water was so clear that the black damselfish darting past might have been in an aquarium. Before Goldman fastened his mask, he called out to Dunne. “The octopuses are harmless. But stay away from the jellyfish. The medusa. They’re nasty.”
Goldman paddled off, and Dunne followed. His host was a strong swimmer. Dunne watched him drive through the green bay toward a cluster of undersea rocks a hundred yards away. As they neared the formation, schools of fish skittered past in regimental colors: the pink horizontal stripes of the porgies, black zebra stripes of the combers, and speckled gold of the royal dorade. Goldman dove toward an octopus hidden among the rocks and came so close it flared a tentacle. Dunne followed him down toward the creature, which retreated deeper into the rocks.
When they surfaced from the underwater grotto, Goldman spotted the fins of two bottlenose dolphins breaking the water in the seaward channel and drove toward them with his flippers; Dunne raced alongside him. Through the clear water, they could see the big creatures plunge toward the bottom and then power up to the surface to leap in tandem before descending again. The two snorkelers followed them for as long as they could, but the dolphins were stronger and sportier than the humans.
They swam for more than an hour, evading several red-tentacled jellyfish drifting toward them as they neared shore. When Dunne emerged from the water, he peeled off the mask and fins and collapsed, spread-eagled, on the sand. He closed his eyes and let the sun bake his pleasantly exhausted body. It had been a miserable, enervating season for Dunne. The sun, seawater, and intense exercise felt like an escape from a dark place into the light.
* * *
Back at the Cosmos, a magnificent lunch awaited them. It was served under a white awning on the top deck, behind the captain’s wheelhouse. Dunne was ravenous. He attacked the oysters first, then the crab and shrimp, and finally a grilled branzino flavored with lemon and garlic. The steward poured a first-growth Chablis and kept refilling the two glasses until they were halfway through a second bottle. As they ate, Goldman talked about his adventures snorkeling and scuba diving around the world.
The Paladin Page 14