Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  * * *

  —

  Rayvon called twice the next morning, a Tuesday, hoping to speak with his new and trusted friend, Morris Berg. Voicemail is not among my satellite phone’s options. I didn’t want Berg, my alias, to appear anxious, so I let it ring. Finally, in the afternoon, I answered, saying, “I don’t have anything solid on the biologist yet. I’ll call when I do.”

  “Cap’n Berg, it’s me, Ray—Agent Darwin from Nassau,” he insisted.

  “I know,” I replied, and hung up.

  I wasn’t as abrupt when Leo Alomar, formerly with the IRS, called. “Ray’s hounding me for information on the rich guy, the dude with the Learjet he told to spy on you. I’ve got to tell him something about the man. You both live on the same little island, how hard can it be?”

  “Not just hard,” I said, “dangerous.”

  “You’re saying you didn’t find out a damn thing?”

  “I’m saying I found out enough. Look, Leo, I’m sorry about your situation, but I had no idea what I was getting into until I started asking around about . . . I’m not going to say the man’s name. I want nothing to do with him or—”

  “Who, Moses Berg?”

  I cupped my hand around the phone’s mouthpiece. “It’s Morris, not Moses, and do not mention that name again—understood? I’ll hang up right now.”

  “Whoa! . . . Wait, Ford, you at least owe me for the heads-up about, you know, him. This dude, Berg, he’s really that bad? Come on, Ray will cut me out of the deal if I don’t—”

  “He’ll cut you out anyway,” I said.

  “Not if I come through. Listen, Ray’s including me again—told me what they got going on in the Bahamas, him and Ellis. Would he bother if he didn’t think I could help?”

  I replied, “That’s where you can help me. You don’t happen to have a picture of Ellis? Or at least what Ellis looks like? His size, his age—that sort of thing.”

  Leo’s reaction: What’s it matter? “Let’s stick with Berg for now. Moe . . . Morris . . . whatever his name is . . . Berg is the guy who’s gonna get cut out once he forks over the money to fund Ray’s project.”

  “Rayvon said that?”

  “No, but that’s the way that asshole operates,” Leo said. “I happen to know he’s getting very close to finding Jimmy’s ex-girlfriend. Find her, he’ll find Jimmy’s stash. But Ray’s not a money guy. Before he can screw Ellis and the Saudis, he needs a financial backer. A partner with a Learjet—that’s what I’m thinking.”

  I was in the lab, making notes on a legal pad. “Jimmy’s ex . . . Are you talking about the girl that you accused me of murdering? Lydia—”

  “Johnson,” Leo said, getting impatient. “A while back, before the really bad shit went down, I gave Ray a list of people Lydia had been seen with before she disappeared. Ford, you were at the top of the list. Then he found the security cam video of you and Lydia together.”

  “But you’re not sure it was me,” I said. “You told me that yourself.”

  “Which might save your ass,” Leo replied. “There are other names that Ray and his people are checking on. One is this old guy, a Bahamian preacher. He hangs out at the same mailboat dock where the security cam caught you and Lydia.”

  “It wasn’t me,” I insisted.

  “You keep saying that . . . Anyway, Ray finally got off his dead ass and had his people find the old preacher. Bingo! I gave him a winner, Ray thinks. But the old man won’t talk, so Ray flew to Nassau today to question the guy personally. Now do you understand why I need that information on the money guy and need it in a hurry?”

  I was starting to. The preacher’s name was Rev. Josiah Bodden. Tomlinson and I had met him in the Bahamas. Bodden was a good man, respected on the outback islands. Without him, Lydia Johnson and her nerdy husband-to-be—and their children—would all be dead.

  I said, “What’s Rayvon going to do, beat the information out of the preacher? That’s just nuts.”

  “There you go,” Leo said, “so’s Ray. I’m not asking you to get involved with the rest of it. Just tell me what you found out about Capt. Learjet and I’ll make Ray cut me in for a flat fee.”

  I put the pencil down. “Capt. Learjet—I guess that works, the guy we’re talking about . . . Well, here’s one way to explain it. Tell me what you know about Sanibel Island.”

  “Uhh . . . money, lots of birds and stuff,” Leo said. “Come on, man, stop with the guessing games.”

  “I’m trying to educate you about the sort of people who live here. The Learjet types have been coming down since the fifties. Look up Bay of Pigs invasion and the CIA, then type in Sanibel.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pay attention,” I told him. “Search the internet. Type in assassination attempts on Fidel Castro. Add waterboarding and the hunt for Osama bin Laden. A couple of U.S. presidents and I don’t know how many directors of major intelligence agencies live or vacation here. There’s a saying on this island: You can’t tell a spook by his cover, but you can by his tan.”

  “Spook, sure.” Leo thought that was funny until he realized I wasn’t kidding. “Whoa! You’re saying Ray’s new buddy, Capt. Learjet, is—”

  “I’m not done,” I interrupted. “Harder to find, but the information’s out there if you dig deep enough. It has to do with an organization called the Mossad.”

  There was a silence. Leo was putting it together. “You’re screwing with me.”

  “Nope.”

  “The Mossad? Geezus. Okay, yeah, I’ve heard of it. Jewish . . . like, a spy agency. Wait . . . An Israeli spy lives on . . . Oh, this is bullshit.”

  “Morris Berg is an international investor,” I replied. “He has connections I want no part of. Why do you think nothing comes up on the guy on the internet?”

  That’s all that Leo or Ray, the Nassau customs agent, needed to know about Ray’s new and trusted friend.

  “I’ll be damned,” Leo said in a musing way, but he was impressed. “My god, Ellis and the Saudis on one side and that dumbass Ray has gone and gotten himself hooked up with a captain in the goddamn Israeli Mossad! Damn, Ford, those are the dudes that assassinate people, right?”

  “Pass it along,” I said, and hung up.

  Immediately, I called Tomlinson and told him about my concerns regarding Rev. Josiah Bodden of Cat Island, Bahamas. My pal knew the old man a lot better than I. They were both Freemasons, a secret fraternity that, supposedly, had deep roots in the islands.

  “Brother Josiah,” Tomlinson groaned. “I’ve got to warn him. Damn, you know how tough it is to get a local on a landline down there in the islands. And Josiah doesn’t own a cell.”

  “You’ve got to do something,” I told him.

  “For sure, man. So . . . what I’ll do is start with the Masonic Lodge in Nassau. Get the word out. Yeah, that’s my next play! Let the brothers know the Right Reverend Bodden needs looking after.”

  I switched off the ringer and finished what I was doing, which was getting the lab in order for an extended absence.

  An hour later, Tomlinson came flip-flopping up the steps in sync with the first distant boom of afternoon thunder. From his body language, I knew something was wrong.

  “Josiah’s missing,” he said. “I got someone on the pay phone at New Bight—you know, where the mailboat lands? Last night, the old man went out hunting land crabs and didn’t come back. People all over the island are looking for the poor guy. Doc, what do you think we should do?”

  “Pack a bag,” I told him.

  My pal grinned in agreement. “Yeah, right, man. We gotta move fast on this one.” He began to pace, then muttered, “Crapola. I can’t leave today. Delia and I are supposed to go sailing tomorrow. Her dad’s in a bad way, and I don’t want to go off and leave the poor kid. Unless—” He snapped his fingers. “Can she go with us?”

  Bad idea, I
told him. It took a while to explain the situation. “Two separate factions are figuring out where Jimmy dumped that gold. They’re both dangerous. With that much money at stake, I don’t think Lydia or the preacher will be safe until someone derails both factions.”

  “Derails?” Tomlinson didn’t like the word. “Amigo, you’re not going over there, you know, to snuff someone?”

  He had to repeat the question. “Snuff?” I chuckled. “Don’t be so dramatic. There’s a better way, yeah . . . In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t think of it before.” A possible solution had just come to me. “You’re the philosopher, you tell me—how much money is enough money?”

  “Huh? I don’t see where this is headed. For one person, you mean? Amigo, with my inheritance, I’ve got more than I can ever use.”

  “For a normal person, I mean.”

  Tomlinson found some humor in that. “Well, the rule of thumb is, when people start buying cocaine, they have way too much money. If you need me, I could fly over commercial on Thursday, maybe Friday.”

  The next morning, at sunrise, I turned my little Maule amphib east. By noon I was across the Gulf Stream, thirty miles out from Cat Island. Somewhere down there among the blue lagoons and strands of beaches was Staniel Cay. Hannah, our son, and her friend Birdy would arrive there the next day.

  SIXTEEN

  On Cat Island, I cleared customs as Marion D. Ford. That afternoon, I caught a commercial hop to Nassau, where I used a different ID to register at the Grand Hyatt on West Bay.

  “Welcome to the Bahamas, Capt. Berg,” the clerk said with a smile right out of the brochures.

  In the lobby I bought a cheap BTC mobile phone and a prepaid card. Used it to text Rayvon with the name of the hotel and told him to meet me at the Jazz Bar. The message was signed with the initials M.B. The customs agent called when I was in the shower. I let it ring. Three attempts later, I answered, saying, “What didn’t you understand about meet me at seven? Not cool, Ray.”

  I sat with the phone to my ear at a quiet patio table. Within view was an acreage of swimming pool that, in color, could not compete with the tumescent blues of Nassau Bay. A fleet of cruise ships, framed by palms, spilled out a nonstop flow of tourists, ant-sized, given the distance.

  “This better be important,” I added. “I’m in a meeting.”

  Flustered, Rayvon replied, “But, man, Capt. Berg . . . I mean, why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Nassau? Coulda waited and flown over together in your plane . . . And, hey, I’d of had something special waiting for the two of us, know what I’m saying?”

  His deference was striking. Leo, obviously, had passed along what I’d inferred about the Mossad agent, Morris Berg.

  “That’s another thing,” I said. “I never mentioned my Learjet. Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “I’ve got my sources, sir,” the customs agent said. Proud of himself for what, in his mind, had been a lucky guess. Did I need anything? he wanted to know. The inflection hinted at women, drugs—anything at all. Just name it.

  “A couple of things,” I replied. “A boat. Can you requisition a vessel from Bahamian customs? Doesn’t have to be big. In the thirty-foot range, with a derrick. Oh—I need a picture of Ellis Redstreet. Text whatever you have as soon as we hang up.”

  That threw him. “Ellis . . . Yeah, I think I might know who you mean.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Rayvon. I’m not going to warn you again.”

  “Okay, okay, brother. But one of our government vessels, that’s not . . . Well, of course I could, an officer of my rank . . . But there’d be a lot of paperwork. And”—he gave it a beat for emphasis—“certain people in my government would have to, you know, be compensated.”

  “I’m aware of that. The seed money will be provided.”

  “Yeah? Okay, then. What, exactly, we gonna do with this boat?”

  I said, “My associates have confirmed that you’re on to something good. If we’re going to do business, you have to trust me. See you at seven.”

  “Whoa! Don’t hang up, Moe . . . Can I call you Moe? . . . What I’m wondering is, that salvage project we discussed? It might be a few days or so before we know the exact location. Not a problem, understand. There’s an old gentleman who . . . Well, none of your concern . . . But I don’t see the rush for me requisitioning a government vessel—”

  “Josiah Bodden?” I interrupted.

  The customs agent didn’t know what to say. I let it sink in. “I’ve got my sources, too. In the last twenty-four hours we’ve learned a lot more than you realize, Rayvon. And the deal is, no one gets hurt unless I say so. Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Not cool, Ray,” I said, and hung up.

  When he called back, I answered by saying, “Lie to me again, we’re done. Rev. Josiah Bodden—where is he?”

  “Moe, my friend, I don’t know who you . . .” The customs agent lost his nerve. “Okay, yeah, the old man. I learned he has important knowledge regarding our project. So I instructed certain associates in my government to detain the man for—”

  “You detained Josiah Bodden?” This was said softly but as a warning.

  “Yes, Capt. Berg. For questioning.”

  “You idiot. He’s not just some old man. Are you out of your . . .” I exhaled a long breath. “You, of all people, the Lost Tribes of Israel? You have no idea who you’re screwing with. So what you’re going to do is, let the Rev. Bodden go. Make the calls, whatever it takes. Now! And he’d better not be hurt.”

  Rayvon was getting panicky. “You mean, he’s one of . . . Capt. Berg, I swear, I had no idea. The old gentleman, I was told, fishes for a living and used to preach at some no-account church. That he’s nobody with no money or—”

  “You heard wrong,” I said. “We don’t need him anymore. Same with Jimmy Jones’s ex-girlfriend. She’s dead—as of this morning.”

  A long silence was followed by, “Oh. Then you must know where Jimmy—”

  “We do,” I said. “Tonight, bring a briefcase. Something you can lock to your wrist.”

  “To the bar? For . . . What are you talking about?”

  “Compensation,” I replied. “Start-up money. I’m trusting you with a retainer. And your pal Ellis and the Saudis are no longer involved, is that understood?”

  “Uhh . . . yes, sir,” Rayvon responded.

  “Especially Ellis Redstreet,” I said. “He’s out. Permanently. I need whatever you can tell me about his personal habits. His daily routine—that’s important. Think you can manage that?”

  “His daily routine,” the customs agent repeated, aware of what that might mean. “Capt. Berg . . . Moe . . . all you got to do is say the word and I can take care of that matter personally.”

  After we hung up, my cheap little BTC mobile pinged with Rayvon’s number. Two photos—one was a group shot from the Jimmy Jones salvage days, the other had been cropped to isolate the Australian.

  Ellis was not Hannah’s type—long blond hair, tats on his neck, a thin cigar dangling from his lips. This was reassuring. Even so, I forwarded the photo to Tomlinson. My pal’s special relationship with Hannah’s mother might confirm that Ellis was not the man who Hannah had been dating.

  Next, via encrypted satellite phone, I messaged my State Department contact, Hal Harrington. In part, the message asked if we had a trusted asset embedded with the U.S. Department of the Treasury.

  If we did, great. If not, that was okay, too. I was improvising, manipulating key players. I wanted Rayvon and the others to give in to greed and hang themselves. For me, this was a moonlighting project. It was backyard chemistry, not a precisely planned assignment. If people like Rayvon and Ellis fell for the ruse, all the better. If not, busting bad guys in the Bahamas was not my job.

  * * *

  —

  At the hotel watering hole—the Jazz Bar, it was calle
d—the music was too loud. Gaudy Miami architecture struggled but failed to re-create the boom town intimacy between the Bahamas and Florida during Prohibition.

  Hotels, like everything else in the hospitality biz, are desperate for an identity. It’s getting tougher and tougher for mega companies to convince clients that their travel experience is real, not a Disney PR contrivance.

  The only reality I was aware of was moonlight, a half-filled room, and the redhead eyeing me from the bar. The bartender noticed. He crossed the room, leaned in, and spoke confidentially. “Sir, I believe the lady is alone this evening if you’d like to sit next to her. She’s, uhh, a guest of the hotel, of course, not what you might be thinking.” The man’s voice was deep, melodic, formal, from the days of the Brits.

  I reached into my pocket. “Looking after your customers. Very thoughtful.”

  “My job, sir. In Nassau, a night so beautiful, no one should be alone. And I couldn’t help notice that she seems interested in . . .” He smiled. “Well, what’s the harm in helping nice folks meet for the evening?”

  The twenty in my hand disappeared into the bartender’s with the deftness of a magician. I said, “I’m expecting someone. Works for Bahamian customs, but I doubt he’ll be in uniform.” After describing Rayvon, I added, “I’m going to move to the balcony. Would you show him out and see that we’re not disturbed?”

  “My pleasure. May I ask the gentleman’s name?”

  When I told him, the bartender’s congenial manner vanished. With it, I suspected, went his invitation to meet the vacationing redhead. “As you say, sir.”

  He sniffed, pivoted, and was gone.

  Interesting. The staff here knew the corrupt customs agent. They did not approve.

  No wonder. Rayvon’s swagger when he finally appeared, a thirtyish blonde on his arm, would set anybody off. And I’d been wrong about the uniform. He was in full dress, with gold epaulettes and trousers bloused. The woman struck me as a tourist from Minnesota rather than a pro, despite her low-cut, bouncy red cocktail dress and glossy heels. They both carried drinks in plastic cups. Dark liquor, whiskey or rum.