by Andrew Mayne
I ignore the men with the pistols aimed at me and swim toward the dive platform. Dad and George take the body onto the landing and then help me aboard.
After I remove my tank, I look out at the mini flotilla that’s surrounded us. There’re two Palm Beach sheriff’s office boats, a US customs craft, and a small coast guard ship.
“We’re towing you in,” says a man in a DEA jacket on the nearest PBSO boat.
“Like hell, you are,” says George. “You have no jurisdiction over us. Besides, we’re bigger than you.”
“Who the hell are you?” asks the DEA agent.
“I already told you, UIU.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Call the Florida attorney general.” Under his breath, George murmurs to me, “I hope Irene called her.”
The man lowers his megaphone and resorts to simply shouting. “Well, we don’t have her on speed dial. Why don’t we go into the harbor and straighten it out?”
“It is straightened out,” says George. “If you want, you can follow us back to our HQ and sort things out there.”
There’s a heated discussion on board the PBSO boat. A deputy sheriff calls over to us. “Are you George Solar?”
“That’s Captain George Solar of the UIU, as appointed by the governor of Florida.”
I hear someone groan, “Fucking Solar.”
More heated discussion takes place, and the PBSO boat pilot gets on the radio. A few minutes later, the DEA agent gets back on his megaphone.
“You can go, but you have to leave the body with us. Jurisdiction of that is very clear. It goes to the county medical examiner.”
“Fine,” George replies and kicks Raul’s body bag off the dive platform. “Come get it.” He turns to my father and says, “Take us home.”
“Jesus,” I whisper under my breath.
The whole thing is a pompous act, but it served its purpose. Once we’re out of range of the other boats, Solar says, “I hope I didn’t screw that up too much. Find anything?”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHART HOUSE
I scroll through the photos I took underwater on the television in the galley. Dad went to the grocery store to let us do our “cop stuff.” I think he mostly needed a break from the drama he has no control over.
George has the small blue wad I retrieved from Raul’s body in a plastic container and is using tweezers from a tackle box of forensic tools he keeps in his truck to unfold it. The scene reminds me of when I was a kid and we’d pull things up from wrecks, set them in tanks of water, and use toothpicks to carefully separate the dirt from the artifacts.
Our process wasn’t as thorough as my professor’s lab, but we were pretty good. Most of what we found were mundane objects like food tins, tools, and occasionally belt buckles and buttons. To my young eyes, they were every bit as cool as any emerald or ruby.
Probably the biggest disagreement I had with my grandfather and father was the fact that I was far more interested in where the treasures came from. I wanted to know about the people the gold was taken from.
I remember once looking at a crudely forged gold ingot my father found that still had Incan symbols on it. This was royal treasure that had been seized by the Spaniards and hastily melted down to be sent back to Europe, only to sink to the bottom of the sea, where it would be found hundreds of years later by other fortune hunters who didn’t care where it came from as much as where it could take them.
Of course, I didn’t complain too much when those questionable artifacts were used to buy me new school clothes or iPods.
“What’s that?” asks George as I stop on the image of the bullet.
“Check it out.” I show him the photo I took of the base of the bullet next to my measuring stick.
“That looks like an unusual size. Twenty-five?”
“Yep.”
“That’s the kind of thing a hooker would keep in her purse.”
“Or a spy,” I reply.
George thinks it over for a moment. “Interesting. Not your typical gangbanger gun. That’s for sure. Also not the kind of gun you have your security team use. More than a few dozen yards away, it wouldn’t be effective.”
I show him the photographic evidence of Raul’s torture and let him draw his own conclusions. For some reason, the images look more powerful now than when I was face-to-face with his corpse. That might be because my attention was focused on other things.
“Clearly they wanted to know something from him,” George says after reaching the last photo.
“But did he tell them?”
“Yes,” he replies, as if it’s the stupidest question in the world.
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because they killed him. If he hadn’t talked, they would have gone even further. I’ve seen much worse.” There’s a distant look in his eyes.
“So, who did this?”
He gives me the stupid look again. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Uh . . .” I try to think this one through. “Bonaventure?”
“Or one of his partners. Maybe a cartel enforcer they sent to find out what happened to their money. It’s probable that Bonaventure had Raul brought in to be questioned.”
“And they killed him right there in that house?” I ask. “That seems stupid on Bonaventure’s part. Especially leaving him in there.”
“It may not have been his choice. Imagine he loses his sub with the Mendezes’ money. What’s the smartest thing he can do?”
“Run,” I reply.
“Okay, second smartest thing. Call them as soon as it happened and tell them he needs help. The longer he waits, the more suspicious he looks. So they send him someone good at asking questions. Probably an ex–intelligence agent from Colombia or Bolivia.”
“What about Winston? Did they kill him too?”
“I didn’t get a good look, but he didn’t appear to have been tortured. I think at that point they knew what they wanted. He didn’t have it.”
“Or Stacey,” I add. “So, what is it they want?”
George holds up the unfolded rubber wad. It’s a latex glove. He swabs it with a Q-tip, then dabs the end with an eyedropper.
The swab changes to a dull orange. He places it next to a small chart.
Police departments use residue kits like this to see if someone recently fired a gun. They’re also similar to the swabs the TSA uses on luggage at the airport.
“Gunpowder?”
“Tri-acetone tri-peroxide. TATP.”
“Like plastic explosive?” I ask.
“A do-it-yourself kind. Terrorists love it—if it doesn’t blow up in their faces. You found this glove in his pocket?”
“Yeah. Deep down. Like he balled it up and shoved it in there in a hurry.”
“Curious.” George taps his fingers on the counter as he stares into space. “Why did Raul have to handle explosives?”
“Maybe they were shipping them somewhere?”
“I don’t see Bonaventure screwing around with that. Besides, that’s not the kind of thing you make to export out of the country. We try to keep that kind of thing from getting in.
“Let’s figure out the org chart here. At the top we have K-Group making introductions, providing cover and guidance. Below we have the Mendez cartel and Bonaventure. The Mendezes supply the cocaine, and Bonaventure launders the money. He may also help them get it into the country. He’s working both ends.
“To facilitate his little pipeline, he hires Winston to build him a stealth narco sub. Winston works with Raul.
“Bonaventure, being the paranoiac he is, wants to keep the circle tight. This means that he might also use Raul to help him load the sub.”
“He’d also need someone to do maintenance, check the batteries, that kind of thing,” I add.
“Good point. He needs either Raul or Winston there when the sub comes and goes. Probably Raul, because he doesn’t want to be seen with Winston. Or at least not have a rumored drug-runner handyman seen in h
is neighborhood. Does this track for you?”
“Absolutely.” I don’t think I would have put it together like George, but it makes sense. He’s also had decades of experience dealing with operations like this.
“So,” says George, “what was Raul up to with explosives?”
I was expecting him to lay it out for me. He wants me to explain what Raul was up to. Okay . . . um . . . why did he have explosives?
“Did Raul know Bonaventure was in trouble?” I ask.
“Everyone did.”
“All right, but he kept showing up for work. Why? Was Bonaventure paying him that well?”
“Or was he paying him that poorly?” George replies.
“Wait? What? Oh shit.” It hits me. Damn, I’m slow. “Raul made a bomb. A small one.”
“Why?”
“To sabotage the Kraken. He wanted to sink it so he could recover the money.” Winston’s assistant had a half-billion reasons to sabotage it.
“Okay. You know boat stuff better than me. Why didn’t Raul just reprogram the thing or hijack the controls?”
I shake my head. “Winston didn’t trust anyone. Maybe he put all the controls inside sealed compartments and never let Raul near any of the frequencies. Bonaventure probably had him watched closely. Maybe even videotaped the whole procedure. Interesting . . .”
“Might be why the Mendezes left him alive,” George replies.
“Maybe it was the proof Bonaventure showed the cartel? Maybe they watched the tape and saw Raul acting suspiciously?”
“Could be. So, Raul puts an explosive on board. Timed or remote-controlled?”
“My bet is timer. Radio control would be dodgy underwater. They probably had a timetable for the delivery. Raul could have put a timer on it to go off at a certain point so he’d know where the sub sank.”
“Why didn’t he tell them under duress?” asks George.
“Maybe he did and got the math wrong?” I pull out my phone and look up the weather for a few days ago. “We had more rainfall last week. That meant the currents were stronger on the canals. I think they did an Everglades release too. That could screw up a small wreck’s location by several miles. He may have told them exactly where to find it, but it wasn’t there.” I open up a cupboard and start pulling charts out and setting them on the table.
“What are you doing?” asks George.
“Trying to figure out where it is.”
“It could be anywhere. You don’t even know where it was heading.”
“South?”
“The Intracoastal goes all the way to New York. Or the thing could have gone out to sea, right?”
“Maybe . . .”
“How many wrecks are there within a twenty-mile radius of here?” he asks.
“Thousands,” I reply.
“And you want to set sail and try to find it? Is this how your family plans all your expeditions?”
“More or less,” says Dad from the sliding doors to the deck.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
RIPTIDE
Dad takes a beer out of the fridge and goes down the steps into his cabin. I think he’s already resigned himself to the fact that I’m going to be my own McPherson. He’s already watched two sons take jobs on land. It’s only a matter of time before the seagoing renegade tradition of the McPhersons comes to an end—unless he can convince Jackie to become a Somali pirate.
I turn my attention back to the map of Florida on the table. Little red marks with numbers indicate potential wreck sites—ones you won’t find in books. These are places where Granddad, Dad, and Uncle Karl thought we might find the remains of lost ships.
The problem with searching for wrecks is that the ocean has a habit of spreading things. The seafloor, far from being a fixed object, is a constantly shifting landscape. Dunes form and fall like the shifting sands of the desert.
One of the best times to go look for something is right after a hurricane. That’s when you go to known wreck sites and see what’s been unearthed after thousands of tons of sand have been swept away.
Fortunately, we don’t need a hurricane. The Kraken is probably still sitting on the floor in the open. If it’s in a canal, it could be in less than ten feet of water. If it’s in an inlet or the ocean close to shore, the depth still wouldn’t be that great. It would be an easy dive—if we knew where to look.
I draw an X on the part of Turtle Isle where the Kraken docked. I then place another X on the location of the secret shipyard.
“Our only two known locations,” observes George.
“So where to now? It could be anywhere between here and Colombia.”
“I don’t think he was sending it there. Maybe he was doing the money handoff, but if he put incriminating info about K-Group inside the sub, he might have planned on fleeing,” he replies.
“And you’re sure his ship has been under surveillance?”
“Constantly. In fact, I suspect he used the Good Fortune as a distraction while using the Kraken. If he sent it to the Bahamas, DEA and coast guard would shadow it.”
“So where was the Kraken going? Another location?” I ask.
“You’re Bonaventure. Where would your safe house be?”
“My safe house is my boat—when it’s safe. Is the Good Fortune his only ship?”
“That we know about. If he’s using another vessel for running money and drugs, he’s got it under another name.”
I think about where we found the Kraken hangar. “If he used that Belgian guy for the house above the sub tunnel, then he could have a boat under a different name.”
George nods, encouraging me on.
I think about how we took to the sea after Uncle Karl’s trial. “Well, if I could use a boat, I’d do it. You don’t have to deal with TSA or immigration like with air travel. Customs or coast guard might board you, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to slip through—or hide on a big boat if they’re looking for you.”
George considers this for a moment. “So you think Bonaventure has a second boat.”
“I think it’s a possibility.”
“We could search records and look for connections, but if K-Group doesn’t know about it, then you can bet he’s hidden it well.” George leans back and stares at the ceiling. “Okay, McPherson, how do we find Bonaventure’s other boat? Assuming he has one.”
“I don’t know.” I glance around the interior of the Fool, trying to pick out what this boat has in common with all of Dad’s previous ships.
There’s the DVD player with his stack of movies. Some are new, and some he’s watched over and over again, like Last of the Mohicans.
On the bookshelf, the predictable Dad library of Tom Clancy and Brad Thor thrillers.
What else? The cupboards have photos stuck to them. A few are faded, but I can still make out my big teeth as I grin at the camera, wedged between my brothers on a float when I was ten.
Visible through the open door of the cabinet is Dad’s jar of Red Vines and chocolate chip cookies—the soft kind. Bringing any other type aboard is grounds for getting thrown overboard. In the refrigerator will be his favorite Jamaican beer.
“What are you thinking?” asks George.
“Dad always keeps the same foods on board. I’m sure I do the same. I don’t think that’s much help unless we can hack Amazon and see what’s been delivered.”
“In a perfect world. Although . . . interesting.” George thinks something over. “You know, we once had a fugitive and no idea where he went to. He’d fled with a few hundred thousand dollars and could afford to lie low for a long time. His one problem was that he had tons of allergies and needed prescription medications. We tried to subpoena pharmacy records, but that came up empty. Then I decided to follow his mother one day. I watched her go to a pharmacy, then to a mailing store. I went in after her and was able to get a look at a mailing label. It wasn’t on a package yet, so it wasn’t an invasion of privacy . . . whatever. Anyway, the meds were going to a small town in Georgia. I drove u
p there myself and busted him at a motel.”
“But finding Bonaventure isn’t the problem. At least not right now,” I point out.
“Fair point. Is there anything else he’d need to have on the boat?”
“I don’t know . . .” I take out my phone and connect it to the television. “Let’s take a look.” I do a search for Bonaventure and pull up his Instagram account.
“I’ve been through there,” says George. “Maybe another pair of eyes is a good idea. He only posts a couple of times a year. He’s also careful to turn the location off.”
Most of the photos are of his dogs at his estate, views from the back porch, and a couple of party scenes.
I scroll farther down and find some images on board a yacht and get excited.
“That’s the Good Fortune. I checked,” George says.
I flip through a few other photos on the boat. Some have attractive women sunbathing or smiling next to Bonaventure.
“What about them?”
“Models from South Beach. Party girls.”
“Yacht girls.”
“I don’t think they work on the boat,” George replies.
“Oh, they work the boat. Don’t you know what yacht girls are?”
“I’ve lived a sheltered life.”
“That’s a lie. Yacht girls are models and actresses—aspiring, some professional—that spend part of the season working on boats as . . . well, hanging out in bikinis.”
“You mean hookers,” George says bluntly.
“Not necessarily. Usually the arrangement is that they’re paid to be aboard while the boat’s in the Caribbean, Cannes, Ibiza, wherever. If they hook up with someone, that’s extra work. Some do it. Some don’t. I had a friend who did that. She swears she just sunbathed and danced. Anyway, these women look like yacht girls.”
“And do they get repeat customers?”
“I assume so,” I reply.
“Interesting. I can’t see Bonaventure letting them take photos on the other boat. Or do anything that leads back to him.”
“True. But that might help us. We could talk to some of these women and find out if they’ve ever been on another boat with him where security was extra tight.”
