Ariel's Island

by Pat McKee

  I eyed Cabrini as he turned to focus on the map, again looking down, but not before he gave me a suspicious sideways glance. Placido continued. I turned my attention back to the charts.

  “The landing strip runs down the middle of the island on the highest and flattest ground. At the end of the strip is a hanger for the jet, a dormitory for the pilots, fuel tanks, and a couple of golf carts for travel to and from the house. The main house and caretaker’s cottage are here on the west point of the island, about a mile from the strip. They overlook a small natural harbor with a wooden dock, boathouse, and a sandy beach.”

  Cabrini’s curiosity overcame his pique.

  “That’s it? No other development? What about access?”

  “None. And this harbor is the only point on the island that’s readily accessible. The rest of the island has mangroves right up to the shore line. This makes securing the island easier. There are buoys 500 yards out surrounding the island with an electronic tripwire that alerts the caretaker when boats come close. They seldom do; only the occasional fisherman the caretaker runs off with his ancient shotgun.”

  Cabrini was frustrated.

  “How can we even get on the island, much less rescue Melissa?”

  “Well, the easiest thing to do would be to drop me off outside the buoys and let me swim to shore. I’m a strong swimmer, and on shore I can climb through the mangroves. That at least gets us on the island.” I felt heroic.

  For a moment Cabrini stared at me like I was an ingénue, then broke the silence.

  “The reason the buoys are set 500 yards off shore—and Placido, correct me if I’m wrong—is because it’s very unlikely anyone could swim that far to the island without being attacked. These waters are some of the most shark infested in the world. I’d say you’d only get about 100 yards before you’d have a lot of attention from a big bull or an even bigger tiger. You’d probably be lunch before you could get back to the boat.”

  “That was one of the selling points of the island when my father bought it years ago. We have a natural security force constantly patrolling the waters around the island. My father, your grandfather,” Placido inclined his head toward Cabrini, a word, a gesture, an attempt to bring him into the fold, “was assured that the island wouldn’t become a rendezvous for lovers or a hideaway for rumrunners so long as he secured the harbor, and that is why the caretaker’s cottage is located just behind the main house, overlooking the only access point to the island.”

  I couldn’t help myself and had to get in the last word.

  “I thought you said you went diving in Bimini. Weren’t there—”

  “Yes, of course, there were plenty of sharks. But an experienced diver on a reef is in far less danger from sharks than a casual swimmer thrashing about in the shallows and acting like wounded prey. And I’m afraid we don’t have time to turn you into an experienced diver.”

  Bastard.

  “Let me continue the description of the island.” Placido bent over the chart as though he were separating warring siblings.

  “The main house is Bimini Plantation style, rather simple, and other than the caretaker, we’ve not found it necessary to maintain full-time security on the island. That’s not to say Anthony hasn’t brought security with him, and he usually travels with a bodyguard who we should assume is serving as Melissa’s baby sitter. The good thing is we know Anthony hasn’t yet dropped the ruse that he’s protecting Melissa, so she has the run of the island—she even has her cell phone—which Anthony monitors constantly. I think Anthony feels he cannot let Melissa know he intercepted Paul’s text message to her, ‘Anthony knows,’ without Melissa becoming at risk for escape, and for now he wants to hold her, if for nothing more than as bait for me. He no doubt suspects, though he doesn’t know for sure, that his attempt at murdering me has been unsuccessful.” “So how do we communicate with Melissa without Anthony knowing?” Having already displayed my ignorance, there was no need for me to seek to disguise it any longer, and I now drove forward, intent upon asking every question that popped into my mind, intent upon not becoming shark food or worse for want of asking the right one.

  “Ariel.”

  Cabrini appeared puzzled. This was one time I had a leg up.

  “How does Melissa have access to Ariel without Anthony knowing?”

  “It works quite simply. I send a text message to her from my cell phone and Ariel changes the source of the message so that it appears to be coming from one of Melissa’s friends. But that is not the trick. The message is changed in a fashion that it doesn’t appear to be unintelligible ciphers but rather as harmless chatter. So a message from me that Melissa reads as, ‘We will rendezvous on the island tomorrow at 10 a.m.,’ will appear on the cell phone—and to Anthony or anyone else who intercepts it—as a message, say, from an old college friend, such as, ‘Hey, Melissa, when will you be back in NYC?’

  “On Melissa’s side of the communication, her phone is programmed to recognize her thumbprint. So long as Melissa has her right thumb on the screen of her phone, text messages appear as they’re intended, but the moment she takes her thumb off the screen, they revert to a harmless state created by Ariel.”

  “So, we’ve worked out transportation and communication. We still need to get on the island, grab Melissa, and get off. Given that the island is impregnable, I’d say that’s a significant problem.” I turned to Placido. “And you’ve already agreed we just can’t sail a boat into the harbor and pick her up.”

  “No. What I said was, ‘We can’t sail Hector’s boat into the harbor.’ If we did, Anthony would shoot us all before we could get to Melissa. There’s a packet boat out of Louis Town on North Cat Cay that comes to the island every morning bringing mail and supplies. Since there’s a commercial airport on the north island, we frequently use the boat as a taxi for our guests; we know the operators well, and it’s not unusual for them to ferry people and things back and forth to the island for us. Paul, this is where you—”

  “Looks like I’m going for a boat ride.”

  “Right. I’ll arrange to have you ride the packet boat to the island. Neither Hector nor I can go to the island without being recognized. But Anthony has only met you once, and with your current disguise and unkempt state he won’t recognize you, at least as long as you don’t attract a lot of attention. I’ll tell the captain you’re an electrician we’ve hired to do some work on the island. You can act like you’re one of the crew when you get there and help them to off-load boxes of supplies. Anthony usually doesn’t bother himself with the delivery of supplies. It’s unlikely he’ll even see you. As soon as you are on the island you can disappear, and I’ll arrange a meeting point with Melissa.”

  “Assuming Anthony isn’t on to me and doesn’t have his bodyguard shoot me, that only gets me on the island. How do I get Melissa and myself off the island?”

  “Can you pilot an airplane?”

  “Surely you don’t think I could fly that Gulfstream off the island. Hell, I’ve spent most of my life in a law library, not flying jets.”

  “Not the jet. We keep a single-engine floatplane just off shore to island hop. It’s very simple to fly, and I use the plane all the time. If you could pilot the floatplane, it’d be easy to get in the air before anyone knew, and you could land at Louis Town. We can rendezvous, and Hector can have us back to Miami in the hour.”

  Placido looked away and shook his head, a look of disappointment overtaking his face. “I told Melissa she needed to learn to fly it, but there always seemed to be someone willing to do it for her . . .”

  “Sorry. That won’t work for me either. What’s Plan B?”

  “What about a fishing boat? Can you manage one of those?”

  “I can run a fishing boat.”

  “OK. Then here’s what we do. Usually there’s a small fishing boat in the boathouse, though sometimes it’s sent for repairs to the marina a
t Louis Town on the north island. I’ve already checked with the marina; the boat has just been serviced, it’s fully gassed, and is sitting in the boathouse on the island. Melissa says that Anthony has the keys to make sure she doesn’t try anything, but she wouldn’t anyway. She’s never piloted a boat, and even though running a small boat isn’t difficult, she’d risk getting hopelessly lost trying to get to Louis Town or back to Miami without having sailed the route before. The marina has an extra set of keys, which I can pick up before you get on the packet boat. We can go over the charts with you, but on the trip to the island you’ll have to watch for landmarks so you can find your way back. Otherwise, you and Melissa will both get lost.”

  “What about giving me one of those charts to take?”

  “I will, but they aren’t much help in the mangroves. You’ll just have to pay careful attention.”

  “Got it.”

  “When you get on the island, you stay out of sight after the boat leaves. Make sure Anthony is well-settled, and Melissa will meet you in the boathouse. Jump in the boat and make a run for the marina. The two of you can be back at Louis Town before anyone knows Melissa’s gone. From the marina, Hector will bring us all back here in his boat. If necessary, we can outrun any pursuit.”

  Placido looked at us both, Cabrini and me, previously battling egos, now brought together by a plan that seemed plausible. The three of us went over every detail of the plan several times, until we felt we’d covered all contingencies. The greatest unknown was the dash back. I’d be on my own, and there was always the chance Anthony could run us down in another boat. Or just shoot us.

  By the time we finished, it had already been a long day for me; I’d been up the entire night before, driving south. The sun had fallen below the tree line, and the light shining through the stained-glass windows of the library dimmed and mellowed. I was the first to toss in the towel.

  “Gentlemen, we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow. We need to be on the water at first light to meet the packet boat on time. I suggest we grab something to eat and get some rest.”

  After a dinner of delivery pizza and imported beer, Cabrini led Placido and me to bedrooms on either side of his on the second floor. I was reminded of the ancient dictum, “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.” The only thing in doubt was what Cabrini considered me. I was not yet willing to accept Placido’s assurances of Cabrini’s good faith, not without a lot more evidence. I lay in bed assured only of a restless night.

  This was the second night in the last week I was to spend in someone’s beachfront mansion. Had I just looked around while at Fowler’s, I might’ve picked up on the electronic surveillance outside the house and been more circumspect in my conversations with Melissa. But who could’ve known even the beach was bugged? I should have. I should’ve realized things were not as they seemed the minute I left the guardhouse and drove over the bridge, the minute I saw the grey lenses blinking from every corner in Fowler’s cottage. If I had, maybe three men would still be alive, Melissa wouldn’t be held on an isolated island, and I wouldn’t be running from the law and throwing away my career. I wasn’t going to have regrets about my second chance to reconnoiter an ostensible ally. I decided to get up once I’d given Cabrini and Placido an opportunity to fall asleep.

  I popped up with the moon shining into my room. There was no need to turn on a light. I’d check out the office just off the library Cabrini took us through this afternoon. It was close enough to the kitchen that if I was caught I could feign having lost my way heading for a late-night snack.

  All of this was far easier to conceive of than to accomplish. Everywhere I stepped, each tread in Cabrini’s new waterfront home buckled and creaked as if it were a dusty hundred-year-old mansion. I felt as if I’d announced my intentions at the top of the stairs, and each step down made a different sound until I reached the bottom and my hammering heartbeat took over the clanging and banging. I expected Cabrini would come out of his room any moment.

  Down the stairs and into the library I paused to look around, the moonlight through the stained-glass windows casting a different light from the sun this afternoon, the volumes now appeared uniform, arrayed row after row around the room, level upon level to the darkened ceiling, a tomb enclosed with books, yet one slight opening on a far wall indicated the entrance to Cabrini’s personal office. I crept across the expanse of the library and pushed the door open the rest of the way without a telltale creak.

  Inside there was a desk scattered with bills, a checkbook, unopened envelopes with bank logos, and a stack of reports from an investment firm. I picked up one of the envelopes. It was addressed to Hector Cabrini, Number 12, Morasgo Way, Key Biscayne, Florida. Cabrini actually lived here.

  Trinkets and personal memorabilia covered the rest of the surface, a couple signed baseballs, paperweights of various sizes and shapes. I picked up an engraved cut crystal in the shape of a pyramid: “Hector Cabrini – Million Dollar Verdict Club. Florida Bar Association.”

  Behind the desk was a shelf of photos of Cabrini with buddies sailing, fishing, some with local politicians. There were several of Cabrini at various ages with a pretty, petite, dark haired, woman whom I took to be his mother. She looked a lot like an older Melissa, though there was no blood relation between the two—at least that I was aware of. There, in front of all the photos, in a much smaller frame was a recent snapshot of Cabrini with a beautiful young lady in a loving embrace, arms around each other, cheek-to-cheek, facing the camera, all smiles. It was Melissa. The date signature on the photo was just one year ago, in the heat of the litigation that Cabrini had engineered to steal all her father had worked for, to steal all Melissa stood to inherit.

  I slipped back up the stairs, fearing discovery with each step and creak, crawled back into bed, pulled up my laptop, and queried Ariel. Placido hadn’t yet trusted Cabrini with Ariel and her formidable abilities. Ariel would know the relationship between Melissa and Cabrini. Ariel would know whether I had anything to be concerned about. Ariel would know. And she would help me. Because Placido told her to.

  Seventeen

  My eyes adjusted to the early morning darkness. At the end of Cabrini’s dock was a fifty-foot sailboat, blue above the waterline, teak deck and trim. The shackle on the halyard clanged against the mast as the boat rocked at its mooring to the rising tide. I recognized it. The photo of Cabrini and Melissa I saw in his office had been taken on the deck just outside the main cabin.

  “The Tempest.” Cabrini had walked up behind me as studied the sailboat. “Easily capable of crossing the Atlantic. One day I’m going to sail her to Venice, dock at St. Mark’s Square, and toast a Bellini at Harry’s Bar.”

  “It doesn’t look like something we can rescue Melissa in.”

  “No, not the Tempest.” Cabrini gestured behind me, to the right of the dock. “That’s what we’re going to rescue Melissa in.” I could make out something low and long on the water, a split windshield, looking like the cockpit of a Formula 1 race car. There were four seats, two in front and two directly behind. The rest was almost 40 feet of engine.

  “Donzi 38 ZR Competition. Over 2,000 horsepower. It is the fastest pleasure craft on the water. To find anything faster you would have to buy a racing boat. And then there wouldn’t be any room to take passengers.”

  “How fast?”

  “Top speed, almost a hundred miles an hour. But we won’t be going that fast. We’d consume too much fuel and attract too much attention. We do not want to pull into Louis Town and set off alarms.”

  “This thing will attract attention just idling into the harbor.”

  “You’ll be surprised. This boat isn’t unusual for Bimini.”

  Placido joined us on the dock. He had abandoned his wino disguise, and appeared more the fishing captain. Cabrini was dressed as the laid-back pleasure boater. I was the odd man out, still in my guise as Agent Grey—jeans, T-shirt, ball cap, boa
t shoes, now the hired help to be transported to the Milano family island as an electrician. I was in danger of letting my class resentment bubble up yet again, feeling used as a type, a pawn once more in the Milano family chess match. But that was what I signed on for, and I needed to accept my part or the entire operation would fail.

  Cabrini insisted we each wear a helmet and lifejacket. The helmets were fitted with two-way radios so we could communicate, but there was little talk among us. Once under way it was next to impossible to be heard over the engines and the pounding of the hull.

  Seated behind Cabrini and Placido, I was left to my thoughts for the hour, trying to make sense of the more-than-cozy pose in the photo of Cabrini and Melissa taken during the SyCorAx litigation when Cabrini was attempting to steal Melissa’s birthright, when I was fighting him for what I thought were the interests of the Milano family. I was now on yet another errand for the Milanos, this time ostensibly to save Melissa, from what and for whom was less clear than when I set out. Since I left Frederica Island, the circumstances surrounding Melissa, Placido, and Cabrini had gotten more complex. Melissa was not just some smart, beautiful, rich woman who needed help finding her father and escaping her uncle; she seemed in league with the very one who was the agent of her uncle’s schemes and her father’s demise; not just in league with him, but perhaps even more involved than I wished to venture. Chivalry, like Fowler said, frequently goes unrewarded.

  Cabrini was right about one thing: I was surprised when we pulled into Louis Town. In addition to a dozen custom fishing boats now docked for the summer and used to troll for marlin and tuna in cooler weather, there were several sail boats and motor yachts at their berths that looked easily capable of cruising their owners in style from here to Europe. But the predominant craft were the 40- to 50-foot cigarette boats favored by drug runners, a half-dozen of them cruising the harbor at any moment, screaming their exits once past the no-wake-zone. There was so much testosterone on display it was not difficult to remain low-key even in Cabrini’s Donzi as we idled into the marina.