by Glen Robins
Chapter Eleven
Los Angeles, California
June 15, 6:45 a.m. Pacific Time
McCoy found Crabtree in the hallway, stirring cream into a cup of coffee fresh out of the vending machine. 1100 Wilshire Boulevard’s finest. Without so much as a glance, Crabtree greeted him with a hearty “Good morning, Spinner” long before he had entered the customary range for such a greeting, the distinctive clacking of his cowboy boots on the linoleum having given him away.
“I wish it was good,” replied McCoy. “Have you seen what’s going on in the Caribbean?”
“What? You mean that tropical depression off the coast of Cuba that turned east and is heading toward our man?”
“Yeah, that one,” said Spinner.
“It doesn’t look good, does it?” said Crabtree, shaking his head.
“No. A small boat advisory has been sent out. All small craft have been warned to leave and avoid the area, but Collin seems to be heading straight toward it―again,” said McCoy.
“I know. I saw that, too. Can’t say it surprises me. Maybe by now he considers himself invincible.”
“Well, either that or the fact that there are four armed men onboard . . .”
“Maybe. Unless it’s part of a hoax intended to throw us off.”
“That’s a long way to go for a hoax, don’t you think?”
“Who knows? Got any brilliant ideas on how we’re going to bring him home safely?” asked McCoy.
“I just got off the phone with the Coast Guard. They’ve got their hands full already trying to prepare for potential rescues and/or evacuations. They don’t have the resources to go that far out of their jurisdiction to chase a guy we claimed was dead.” Reggie grimaced as he spoke these last words.
“Can’t say I blame them. Cook’s not their priority. He’s ours. Maybe we can get some help from the navy,” said McCoy.
Crabtree took another long swig of his coffee, stared at the contents of the cup, and winced.
“The US Navy?” said Crabtree.
“Yeah, the navy.”
“You think we should ask the navy again? Remember how the navy searched the same boat last month and found nothing?” said Reggie.
“We need the SEALs to go in and do a rescue,” Spinner said. “That’s Collin’s only chance.”
“Then his chances just went from slim to zero,” Reggie said with a sigh. “They couldn’t get there in time if they tried. Plus, there’s no way we’d get that requisition through the ranks. Come on, be serious.”
“Maybe Lancaster’s got some magic up those British sleeves of his.”
Crabtree nodded his head slowly as he thought about the overly ambitious Nic Lancaster in London. “Let’s see if he does.”
****
Western Caribbean Sea, 310 miles south of Grand Cayman; 100 miles north of Providencia Island
June 15 10:07 a.m. Caribbean Time
The Admiral Risty sliced swiftly through the gentle swells on its southerly course under full sail, having left the doldrums behind in the early hours of the morning. With a gentle breeze blowing, she was able to maintain a speed of fifteen knots without the use of her engine.
Even though they were moving, and the hijackers had been placated, Captain Sewell’s face sagged. With no sleep and the constant strain of being threatened by men armed with semi-automatic weapons and short tempers, his mood was foul. He remained silent and distant, working through the loss of Tog and figuring out the best plan to get rid of these criminals.
The ascending musical scale of a phone’s ring tone rose above the flapping of the sails and the rush of the wind. Stinky retrieved the phone from his hip pocket, pulled its antennae to its full length, and cupped his hand over it as he spoke his greeting. He listened for a moment. “OK,” he said, and held the phone toward the Captain. “My boss wants to speak to you.”
The Captain eyed the thick satellite phone and took it from Stinky’s outstretched hand. “Gordon Sewell here,” he said.
“Captain Sewell. It is a pleasure to speak with you. I will be brief as I am sure you are presently occupied with the demands of piloting your craft.”
“What is it you want?” said the Captain, not bothering to hide his disdain.
“Captain, the safety of my men is of utmost importance to me, as I’m sure the safety of your men is to you.” The boss spoke with a high-brow, proper tone and precise pronunciation, showing his British university education. It bothered Sewell from the get-go.
“What’s your point?” asked the Captain, cutting off what he supposed would be a long-winded soliloquy.
“My point is, sir: you are heading toward very dangerous conditions. I’m sure you are aware of the storm mounting in the Caribbean, to your south and east.”
“I am aware of it, yes.”
“Good. Then I would like to know your plans to keep my men and yours safe.”
“We are heading to the Island of Providencia. The island is mountainous, especially on the north end. Along the northwest side of the island is a harbor that should provide a safe place to anchor and wait out the storm. I am heading there.”
“Why not turn west toward Nicaragua?”
“The Nicaraguans have been notoriously unfriendly toward sailors. I’d rather not end up in one of their prisons. Providencia is roughly the same distance and with the prevailing winds and currents, we will arrive there faster and with fewer worries,” explained the Captain.
“That’s very good, Captain,” said Penh in a condescending tone. “I hope for your sake and the sake of your men you know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t need a coward like you to tell me over the phone how to run my own ship,” barked the Captain.
There was a pause on the other end. When Penh spoke, his tone was even and controlled. “You are angry with me, though we have never spoken to each other before.”
“You send your monsters here to my boat with their guns. They intimidate and kill innocent people. I suppose they did so at your command, as if this is some sort of play and we are merely characters on your stage. Why don’t you come here and do it yourself? I tell you: it’s because you’re not man enough. You are a coward.”
Again, Penh waited before answering. “You think shooting of one of your men was unwarranted? If that is the case, I suggest you bring it up with your passenger, Mr. Cook. He could have avoided such violence had he made different choices.”
This time Captain Sewell was silent, so Penh continued. “Yes, that’s right. Your friend, Mr. Cook, has possession of a large quantity of my money. I gave him a choice to hand it over peacefully, but he chose not to cooperate with me. He chose to allow your crew member to be shot while he refused to speak the truth.”
“That’s rubbish. He is an honest man.”
“Maybe in some circumstances he is honest, but when it comes to money, he’s certainly not. You see, Captain Sewell, Collin Cook stole millions of dollars from me. I simply asked him to return it. That’s all. When he refused, my men showed him the consequences of his poor decisions. Now that he knows just how serious we are, I expect that when we get to Panama, he will give me back my money so that you and your crew can continue living. Any deviation from that course will bring about more severe penalties.”
“You’re threatening me? On the phone? First your boys murder one of my men. Then they dump his body in the sea―no proper funeral or last rites, no last words or memorial service. Complete disrespect. That is an insult. It is unacceptable to me and to my men. Now you call to threaten me?” The Captain’s icy demeanor sparked to a flame of indignation.
“Captain Sewell, let me remind you that you are in no position to raise your voice to me or to lecture me about what is acceptable and what is not. My men have boarded your ship and have taken necessary actions to secure your cooperation because you have been harboring a known criminal, a man wanted by the FBI and Interpol for crimes against the United States and Great Britain. He has stolen millions of dollars from
me and you have protected him. Did you expect to do so with impunity?”
“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know anything about the money or the crimes you say Collin has committed. And I don’t care. He is my client. He pays me to take him sailing. That’s how I make my living. I don’t judge,” the Captain said, clipping his phrases to keep his emotions in check and to ensure he didn’t say too much.
“I’m sure that is not how the authorities will see it, Captain. You are aiding and abetting a known international fugitive. There are laws against that.”
“I know nothing about his background. I only know that he is a good client and he pays well,” the Captain said, trying to force calm.
“He pays you well because he is using my money,” Penh replied through clinched teeth. After an audible intake of air, he continued. “Very well. We’ll let the authorities deal with that portion of your involvement, if they so choose. I will deal with my own immediate needs by making this a business transaction. I will pay you $250,000 to take my men safely to Panama. Once my business with Mr. Cook is complete, you and your crew will be paid handsomely for your trouble and you will be allowed to carry on as you see fit.”
“What about Mr. Cook? What will become of him?” asked the Captain.
“Mr. Cook is none of your concern. I am now your client. I will be paying you for your services, not Mr. Cook.” The man’s tone was firm and commanding, as if the decision had already been made.
Before the Captain could argue or reject the offer, the line went dead. The Captain pulled the phone away from his ear and studied the screen. He shook his head and frowned. “Damn him!” The Captain continued to hold the phone while he steered until Stinky put out his hand and motioned for him to return it.
****
London, England
June 15, 7:45 p.m. London Time
It had proven to be a day filled with futility and frustration for the ever-hopeful rising star on Interpol London’s Cyber Crime Task Force. Nic Lancaster, working on his fifth cup of coffee since mid-afternoon, leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms and torso. He hadn’t left his cube since lunch other than short bathroom breaks, a couple of trips to the vending machine for coffee and junk food, and a jaunt to the lobby downstairs to pick up delivery food. An open bag of Walker’s Worcester Sauce Crisps―smoky bacon flavor―and a can of Dr. Pepper sat on one side of his computer monitor, a Styrofoam box of cold, half-eaten fish and chips on the other.
Despite his focused efforts, he had no progress to report. A text message on his phone from Alastair stared at him mockingly. He typed and backspaced repeatedly, trying to devise a clever response that would be truthful, yet optimistic. In short, he had contacted every branch of every military he could think of, as well as every American and British law enforcement agency listed. None would agree to hunt the ghost of Collin Cook. He was dead, remember. The only positive note he could sound was that the Colombians had a naval vessel in the area ready to assist distressed craft in the vicinity surrounding the Caribbean Islands they controlled, including Providencia, the closest habitable land to Nic’s last ping of Collin’s secret phone. The Colombians indicated that if there was an emergency, they would do what they could to help, but would not promise anything specifically. That was something, at least.
After a dozen attempts at crafting just the right message, Nic was finally satisfied with what he had typed: “Cook nearing Providencia Island. Colombian naval cutter in the vicinity. Could intercept our man within hours if an emergency were to arise.” He pressed “Send” and drew a deep breath. A whole day’s work and that’s all you’ve got to show for yourself. Pathetic.
He emailed Crabtree and McCoy a similar message. Crabtree’s reply was quick and to the point. “We’re not getting any cooperation on this side, either. With a storm on its way, seems likely they are heading toward safe harbor at Providencia, don’t you think?”
“Yes, that seems likely. I’m not having much luck either, but it’s more than we had at the start of the day. Besides, Providencia is not that large an island. Shouldn’t be that difficult to find a sailboat with four gunmen aboard,” Nic typed.
“Depends on getting some assistance finding them,” Crabtree replied.
“That is a bit of an inconvenient truth at the moment. I’m trying to sort something out. Good news is the storm is not yet getting any stronger as it moves westward.”
“Saw that, too. Let’s hope for the best, but some predict the warmer waters to the west will give it more strength. Something to watch, for sure. Keep me apprised, will you?”
“Roger that,” Nic’s email read. He sent this last message, then stood and surveyed the vast, open office. Only a handful of other cubicles had lights on in them. Working late didn’t bother him so long as it moved him toward his goal. He couldn’t help but wonder if this Collin Cook case was going to help him rise or bring him down. “Follow your instincts,” he had been told so many times in his training. “A good detective has good instincts. Develop them. Trust them. Follow them.”
Six weeks after receiving the assignment to bring in Collin Cook, Nic’s confidence in his instincts was at an all-time low. He was out on a limb, as they say, all by himself. Words from another lesson he had heard so many times from his father echoed in his mind: “The path to the top is going to be lonely.”
Chapter Twelve
La Jolla, California; Scripps Cancer Research Center
June 15, 12:20 p.m. Pacific Time
Lost in thought, Emily’s heels beat a steady rhythm on the short pile carpet as she marched down the hallway from the lunchroom. She carried her tablet in one hand and a Tupperware container she had retrieved from the refrigerator in the other. Lunch would be a quick salad from home eaten alone at her desk while she analyzed data. The usual.
In the lunchroom, she had realized she had nothing to drink. One of those all-natural juices from the machine sounded good, but she had no money with her. She strode back to her office, then realized she had left her purse in her car, so she tramped out to the parking lot. Crabtree and McCoy’s early morning interrogation yesterday had thrown her out of her morning ritual, not only yesterday, but today as well. Their insistence on providing her protection had proven to be a distraction this morning as she watched the two young agents in the gray Taurus park right behind her car. She had felt their eyes on her as she got out of the car, which apparently made her leave her purse behind.
She shuddered at the thought of her privacy being invaded as she crossed the asphalt toward her white BMW. The two agents were still there, still watching steadfastly and dutifully.
As Emily retrieved her purse, she couldn’t help but notice how the sun shone and a pleasant breeze blew in from the ocean. The morning’s fog had dissipated, replaced by a lazy, inviting warmth. The weather was too perfect not to enjoy. On days like this, Emily often took her work outside during lunchtime. The problem was the two FBI guys.
The younger one in the passenger’s seat sat up as she approached and elbowed his partner, whose seat was partially reclined. Leaning forward, the young agent kept a hawk-like watch over her as she gathered her purse from her back seat. She smiled and waved at him as she turned back toward the building, pointing at the purse and shrugging. He blushed and waved awkwardly in return. His half-asleep partner slugged him in the arm and chided him. “Don’t do that. You’re a professional, for Pete’s sake.”
Emily stopped by her office to retrieve her Tupperware and tablet, then to the vending machine in the break room, then out the back door toward the tree-lined walking path across the street from the Scripps facility. The weather was just too inviting; she had to get out and enjoy it without the company of the two armed agents. Several hundred yards down that walking path were a handful of benches that bordered a grassy field that she frequented on days like this. She needed some fresh air and right now a good stroll in the warm sunshine away from watchful eyes sounded like the perfect solution.
****
As the driver approached the Scripps campus along North Torrey Pines Road, the passenger told him to slow down. “You won’t believe this,” said the younger man. He pointed the phone’s screen toward the driver, who ignored it.
The driver’s eyes were fixed, studying something through the window. “I believe what I see,” he said, as he pointed straight ahead. A sandy-haired woman, wearing a beige silk blouse and maroon pants that shimmered in the sunlight and flowed as she hurried along, was exiting the building through a side door halfway down the block.
The driver waited at the stop sign and watched as their quarry stalked away from the campus, glancing anxiously behind and all around before stepping into the crosswalk not more than a hundred yards ahead of them. The tattooed driver stepped on the gas. As the van moved closer and she approached the halfway point of the intersection, a look of panicked recognition overtook her countenance. She stopped in her tracks, mouth agape, as she recognized the speeding van and its occupants.
The driver looked at his passenger as he stomped on the gas. His young partner was already preparing himself to jump out of the van. He had a cloth in his hand and was pouring the solution onto it. Emily began to run from them, but the driver crossed the lane toward the opposite curb, cutting off her route to the walking path and the relative safety of the small clusters of midday walkers. She burst into a sprint as best she could in her dress shoes, but she didn’t get far. Shock and terror had stolen most of her breath, making it impossible for her to scream loud enough for anyone to hear.