Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  “Capt. Berg, may I present my friend Nanette . . .” Rayvon stumbled on the last name, which he finally said was Davis—an alias, I suspected—and nothing more until the conversation moved along. The woman was an investment wizard, Rayvon claimed. When he explained that she was the sister of a former business partner—strictly friends, of course—the name Nanette came back to me. The woman was Nanette Alomar, Leo’s wife.

  I suppressed a gag reflex when I stood to shake hands. “Nice to meet you,” I said as if it were true.

  It was quieter out here on the balcony. A salted Gulf Stream breeze spiraled up with the scent of frangipani and a hint of exhaust. Nanette took a chair across the table. To feel fortunate that she was sitting downwind from me was cruel, but I did. Way too much perfume.

  “I know I’m intruding and it’s all my fault,” Nanette said a little too gaily. “I ran into Ray in the lobby, and when he told me he was meeting with a . . .” She glanced to her left. “How did you put it, an international businessman? Well, I decided to be bold and ask for an introduction.”

  Over the candle separating us, Leo’s wife had an attractive face with smoker’s lines that suggested more than one addiction. Nervous, too. Too much busty posturing. Too much laughter from a suburban mother, whom, I hoped, had not been forced into an all-too-obvious role.

  Forced or not, that was the role she played when Rayvon left the table, saying, “Service always sucks here. I’ll get us a couple more drinks.”

  “So, Capt. Berg, where are you from?” she asked. We made small talk. It went on too long. Rayvon had struck up a conversation with the redhead at the bar. This gave Nanette time to say, “Such a coincidence, both of us staying at the same hotel. I’ve been here nearly a week.”

  “Oh?”

  “Looking for the right location. See, I’m opening an office in Nassau—as a consultant. Overseas capital flow. Bank contacts, mostly in the Caymans, which is the very best place in the Caribbean for . . . Well, why am I telling you?”

  She laughed. Adjusted her skirt. Beneath the table, her foot found mine. Lingered just long enough that it might be accidental, then she pulled her foot away. “I’m looking for clients, but only the right sort. Discretion is what I specialize in. I don’t suppose”—she was fumbling with her purse—“we could get together later for dinner? Or a nightcap? After your meeting with Ray, of course.” She had found a pen and started writing something on a card.

  “I fly out early,” I replied.

  Her pen paused at this possible slight. “Well, next time then. I’m a night owl, if you change your mind. Entirely up to you.” She folded the card twice and slid it across the table. “This is just between us, do you mind? I barely know Ray. Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea, now would we?”

  For the first time, I allowed extended eye contact. “Is a customs agent worth worrying about?”

  “In Nassau,” the woman replied, solemn, not flirtatious, “it can be very dangerous not to take them seriously.” Then she started to ask, “How much time have you spent—” when she noticed Rayvon returning from the bar. “Ray,” she called cheerfully. “I was just explaining to Capt. Berg that I can’t stay.”

  Nanette sipped her drink. More small talk, before she made her excuses and swayed away. Watching her, Rayvon confided, “My friend, I think she’s jiggy jiggy for you. And that pretty redhead over there? I know a place we could all go and have some real fun. You want me to call Nanette back? All you got to do is say the word.”

  The customs agent was a fixer man, proud of his contacts and power.

  I let him read my disdain. “Stick to business. What’s the update on Rev. Bodden?”

  The old preacher, Rayvon claimed, was just fine, back in his own home as of an hour ago. “He’s a stubborn ol’ gentleman, and I figured out your concern. Yes, I did, which I shared with the fellas sent to ask a few questions. Explained to them that Rev. Bodden preached the gospel of our Lost Tribe, Emperor Selassie, the Conquering Lion. Am I right or am I right?”

  “You’re a smart guy,” I replied.

  The customs agent took that as approval from me, a supposed Mossad agent. He lowered his voice. “Moe, you need something done, just tell me, understand?”

  I retrieved a small black satin sack from my pocket. It made an alluring clank when I put it on the table. “I’ve had these tested,” I said. “Test them again, if you want. Start-up money. Open it up. It’s yours.”

  Six freshly minted ingots, two troy ounces each, glittered in the big man’s hand. His eyes widened. “Oh, my, my—these here be the brightest of lights, brother. For true? Where’d you—”

  “Street value,” I said, “the legitimate way with fees, you’re looking at sixteen to eighteen K. With the right connections, more like twenty. Or would you prefer the low end in cash? I can do euros or dollars.”

  The man’s big hand squeezed shut. “You say they good, my brother, they good. Trust is what we already proved, ain’t that right?” He had an equally big white smile. “You got more of these? Reason I ask is, I can get us the best price anywhere, including New York. That’s something we can discuss in the future, huh?” The hand opened again for closer inspection. “No mint marks.” Rayvon thought for a moment. “Could cause a problem, Moe—what with there being no provenance. Where’d you say you had these tested?”

  “We found Jimmy’s gold,” I replied. I watched those words register, before adding, “My associates took just enough for a sample and expense money.”

  “Whoa! Hang on. You only had, what, a week to—” He was suddenly irritated. “Moe, without telling me? Man, what’d you do, melt down some coins? Ain’t right, dude. Tell your friends that’s just stupid, in my opinion. Coins from Spanish times, they in good shape, they worth twice the weight of these if you know where—”

  “What you’re holding is untraceable,” I interrupted. “What’s smarter, you think? Risking arrest or a nice, clean profit margin? My associates found most—maybe all—of what Jimmy stole. Three or four tons is the figure most often quoted. We don’t give a damn about coins. The melt-down price is close to two hundred mil. Now the challenge is how to salvage it all and stay under the radar.”

  Rayvon sensed his control slipping. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. With me in charge—a man in my position?—that problem goes away. For an outsider such as yourself, though, Moe . . .” He gulped half of his drink and squared himself to face me. “Yeah, my government would be all over you and your people. What I’m suggesting is, we sell the coins. Buyers come through here all the time, no fees, no taxes. We split four hundred mil instead of—”

  He stopped midsentence when he noticed me shaking my head. “Think about it,” I said. “What I’m trying to explain is—no, you tell me—how much profit is enough profit?”

  He sat back, looked at me like I’d gone soft. “You kiddin’? Man, there’s no such thing as too much. I thought we was on the same wavelength regarding that matter.”

  “Apparently not. The difference between a businessman and a thief is, people like me choose the safest approach. You need to change the way you think, Ray, because, fact is, we don’t really need you anymore.”

  I watched the custom agent’s face change. He started to get to his feet. I waved him down, saying, “Relax. You’re in for the whole ride. A deal’s a deal.”

  He was furious, but played along. “But see, where you wrong is, you do need me. Bahamian customs agency, man, we do shit to folks stealing our national treasures that newspapers never find out. I mean nasty shit.” Staring, he added, “Anyone else but you, my brother—’cause of what you just said—I’d be worried about some kind of con job.”

  I nodded at the little black satin bag. “I just gave you twenty thousand in gold. That strikes you as a con?”

  The man seemed to have forgotten the ingots in his hand. “Well . . . no, as long as they’re—”r />
  “Have them tested,” I said again. “Deal is, you get thirty percent, same as me. Expenses come out of my associates’ end and they keep the rest. Sound fair?”

  Rayvon did some quick math and was stunned. After what I just told him, he didn’t expect anything close to a profit share of sixty million plus. But still he had to say, “I thought fifty percent is what we discussed, but, yeah, that’ll work, thirty off the top. You sure your people are cool with this?”

  “Doesn’t matter what they think,” I replied, “because it’s fair. You forget what I told you the day your Harley was stolen? Being straight with the people I do business with is the cheapest investment I know.” I placed a twenty on the table and signaled the bartender. As I did, Nanette’s folded card went into my pocket.

  “Whoa, brother! You leaving? Come on, lighten up. We got us cause to celebrate.”

  I was on my feet. “Only when we’re done. Get us a boat. Make sure it has a derrick rated for at least a thousand pounds. Just you and maybe one other crew. Today’s Wednesday, so let’s say by Sunday latest. A boat with government markings—that’s important. Can you do that?”

  In Rayvon’s head, it was party time, his attention back on the redhead at the bar. “Hell yes, bro, whatever you say.” He pantomimed putting a phone to his hear. “Hit me up, man, anything you might need.”

  I waited until I was in the elevator to unfold the card. Nanette had written her cell and room number. The only surprise was that Rayvon carried a lot of last-minute weight with hotel management.

  The woman’s room was next to mine.

  * * *

  —

  There are a lot of little tricks regarding personal security in a hotel. Techniques that employ discreet alignment or cardinal bearings are as low-tech as they come. Because they’re old school, they’ve become simple, unexpected tools in an age of electronics-savvy bad guys.

  One look at my door, I knew someone had been inside. The corner of the Do Not Disturb sign was no longer discreetly caught in the doorjamb.

  Okay . . . the maid had come in to turn down my bed. A caution flag, nothing more.

  I entered and did a quick walk-around as I unbuttoned my shirt. One by one, I clicked off small inconsistencies. It was possible the maid had moved the water bottle I’d left a thumb’s width away from my computer’s USB port. Same with the drawer I’d left open a quarter inch. But why was the pen atop my carry-on bag no longer pointing precisely north–south?

  Someone had searched the room. And they’d had some training.

  In my head, the caution flag signaled full alert. It caused me to test my damaged left arm, as I already did a dozen times a day. With some effort, I could touch the back of my head, but movement was slow, fingers numb.

  Not good.

  Hidden aboard my plane on Cat Island was a 9mm pistol, but I’d flown commercial to Nassau. A gun was too obvious anyway if my visitor had planted a camera. So, carrying an innocuous little Benchmade pocketknife, I checked the bathroom before brushing my teeth. Next, the bedroom of my spacious sixth-floor suite.

  My visitor had done a thorough job. Left everything as neatly as I’d left it. Almost.

  A final concern was a spy camera. In my bag was a DefCon Hunter Sweeper, palm-sized. I switched off the lights and activated the unit. Tiny red LEDs pulsed as it scanned for transmitters and wireless cameras. The micro-pointer singled out a USB charging plug with a full view of the room.

  Okay. I hefted my bag, carried it into the bedroom, and showered. Returned and placed the bag squarely in front of the USB mini lens.

  It was now safe to inspect my laptop. In Systems Library, I opened Console, then User Diagnostics. At 16:23 hours, someone had awakened the screen by opening it. Twice they had attempted to hack my entry password, but wisely chose not to risk a third attempt.

  An hour before this failed breach—around 15:00 hours—I’d been at the pool on the phone with Rayvon. The man worked fast. And the power he wielded, even here at a five-star hotel, was disconcerting.

  Finally, I deployed my Iron Key firewall data. Someone had attempted a systems dump via USB, which had temporarily put my computer on lockdown.

  I was not dealing with clandestine pros, but they certainly were not amateurs. These were dangerous people, Leo, the disgraced IRS agent, had warned. Sleazy, too, as I soon found out.

  Nanette tapped on my door at a little after 9. I had just changed for dinner. Through the peephole, she appeared to be wearing only a towel. No, it was a swimsuit, a gauzy black one-piece. She feigned surprise when I opened the door. “Oh my god, Capt. Berg. I had no idea. This is so embarrassing.”

  She claimed that she had stepped out for a late swim and the door had closed before she realized she’d gone off without her key or phone. “I can’t go to the lobby like this,” she said, “and I, well, I panicked. Would you mind calling the desk?” I didn’t respond immediately, so she added, “Or I guess I could wait out here, if you have company. But I’ve got to get into my room.”

  “Come in,” I replied. When she ducked under my arm, I got a whiff of vanilla perfume and alcohol.

  How far was Leo’s wife willing to take this?

  She didn’t appear to know where the camera had been concealed, but was, perhaps, looking for one as she entered. Her eyes moved from wall to wall as she said, “I had no idea your room was next to mine. God, so embarrassing. But better, I guess, to look up and see you than some stranger, huh?”

  “A dangerous world,” I agreed. “Want me to call the desk?”

  “I can do it. You’re probably on your way out.” Her eyes settled on the mini bar. She looked up, already a little drunk, and gave me a bold, smoky look. “Or we could have that nightcap, Capt. Berg. Probably not a good idea to swim at night anyway. You know . . . because of sharks . . .”

  I thought, How damn sad, but said, “Sure. We can talk.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Tomlinson arrived at the sun-bleached airstrip at New Bight, Cat Island, before noon two days later—a Saturday.

  “I’m stoked about seeing Josiah,” he said, shouldering a red, yellow, and green Rasta bag. “Does he know you’re the one who got him sprung? I’m still not clear about the details.”

  He had asked the same thing last night on the phone. During the last two days, we had kept each other updated. I’d shared info about the local players and just enough about our objective to prepare my pal for his role when he arrived. In the same conversation, he had provided welcome news: Hannah’s mother had confirmed that her daughter’s new friend was not Ellis Redstreet.

  What Tomlinson might know—if his biological daughter had bothered to tell him—was that Delia had called me several times. Usually late, the only time reception was passable here, midway down the Bahamian chain. Cat Island is fifty miles long, rarely more than two miles wide, sparsely populated and far off the tourist trail.

  “I haven’t spoken to Josiah,” I said, “and keep my name out of it when you do. The less he knows about my deal with Rayvon, the better . . . Is that all your luggage?”

  He replied, “Dude, I can’t lie to a Masonic brother, you know that. Hey”—we were walking toward the parking lot—“you got anything to drink? I could go for a couple of Kaliks about now. What’s the beach like? A swim would be nice, too.” Tomlinson was in tropic travel mode. Eyes a tad brighter, a bounce to his step.

  “Shallow up,” I told him. “The car’s over here.”

  It was a breezy trade winds morning. Temp, low eighties, a wisp of lingering noctilucent clouds adrift in the jet stream. There were more stray chickens than cars in the gravel lot outside the airport terminal, which was one room with a window AC, seating for eight.

  “Put your stuff in the trunk,” I said. “We’ll stop at the store on the way.”

  Our Toyota was a patched-up rental with a nav system that insisted we were somewhere
in midtown Tokyo. A clone of most vehicles on the island—and there weren’t many. I waited until the engine was started to talk. “I left a message for Josiah at the mailboat office. Hopefully, he’ll meet us at the wharf this afternoon. I said around two. If not, we’ll have to track him down because we need—”

  “I know, I know, his boat,” Tomlinson said. “I still don’t know if Rayvon’s people beat the crap out of the old guy when they questioned him. Geezus, the least you could’ve done is brought me a roadie.”

  “We need his local knowledge, too,” I said. “Most of all, his church congregation’s approval. We’re screwed if he says no. Or we’ll have to do the salvage work at night.”

  “Marion, chill. This idea of yours about how to end the battle over that missing gold, it’s so simple, no wonder I didn’t come up with it. No one gets hurt or killed, and Lydia will be left alone.” He looked over and grinned. “How much money is enough money?—dude, that is a very heavy abstraction. Clean, like a razor exposing the soul. You have actually evolved beyond greed.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I said, and meant it.

  The only store for miles was Cindy Moss’s grocery, north on a narrow road that ran the length of Cat Island. I’d already bought supplies for the beach house I’d rented. Tomlinson needed a cooler, ice, and a twelve-pack, so I waited outside.

  My BTC cell phone rang. When I answered, Rayvon said, “It’s about time,” meaning it was his third attempt this morning. “Got the report back. Twenty-two-karat, bro. The shit’s real.” He was referring to the gold ingots. Seldom have I heard a grown man giggle, but he did.

  “What about requisitioning a government boat?” I asked.

  That was a problem. I could tell by his airy optimism. “Oh, I’m all over that. I’ve got a line on a forty-one trawler, commercial, out of Hawksbill. It’s only a thousand bucks a day. There’s no crane, but it’s got outriggers—you know, those booms that netters use. We can rig something. It’s a short run to Cat, so how about we meet tomorrow afternoon?”