Bluewater Bullion: The Seventh Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 7)

by Charles Dougherty

  "Pisces of Atë?" Dani asked.

  "Tha's the one," Samuel agreed.

  Dani and Liz exchanged glances as Samuel addressed himself to the rest of his beer.

  "Can I get you another one?" Liz asked, as he set the empty bottle down.

  "Thank you, Liz, but no. I mus' be going." He stood and tipped his hat again.

  Liz and Dani walked to the side deck with him. As Dani untied the dinghy, Liz said, "Thanks for visiting, Samuel. I'm glad I got to meet you, finally."

  "Yes. It was good to meet you, too, Liz. And thanks for the beer."

  "You're welcome, anytime."

  "Thank you. I wish you both a good evening," Samuel said as he started his decrepit outboard.

  "Nice guy," Liz said.

  "Yes, he is. He doesn't miss much, but getting information out of him can be taxing."

  "So, now we know. Marilyn is in league with Bond," Liz said.

  "Actually, we don't know that," Dani countered.

  "But ... " Liz started to object.

  "Come on, Liz. She's a beautiful woman, alone at the bar," Dani said. "So Bond talked to her. That doesn't prove they knew one another before."

  "You're the one who doesn't like coincidence. Why are you making excuses for her?" Liz asked.

  "I'm not. I'm just trying to stay objective. We know Thompson worked for Bond. To me, that's more suspicious than Bond hitting on Marilyn."

  "It looks like they're coming at poor Gerald from all sides," Liz said.

  "Poor Gerald?" Dani said, giving Liz a strange look and shaking her head.

  "I'm going below to start dinner," Liz said.

  "Poor Gerald?" Dani said again, as Liz stood up.

  "Guess I'm just a sucker for a pretty face," Liz said with a chuckle. "He seems like such a lost sheep sometimes."

  ****

  As Dani and Liz were finishing dinner, the satellite phone chirped. Liz picked it up and looked at the caller i.d. before she thumbed the connect button.

  "Good evening, Phillip," she said, as she put the phone on the table between them. "You're on the speaker."

  "Good evening. Am I interrupting anything?"

  "No. We just finished dinner, so your timing's perfect," Dani said.

  "Good. We may want to spend a few minutes talking this over. I got some new information on BSV, and ... "

  "BSV?" Dani asked.

  "Sorry. Bright Star Ventures."

  "Okay, got it. And?"

  "And the guy in the picture is named Alex Hart. We think he was with the CIA, but he could have been a contractor. There's no way to tell, and it probably doesn't matter at this stage."

  "We?" Liz asked.

  "Some of the people I used to work with. Hart turned up on operations that were run by a guy we knew as Jake Meyers. Meyers was the one who ran the BSV cover back then."

  "So the CIA is spying on our guests?" Liz asked.

  "Word is that Meyers retired, but who can tell. BSV might be his, or it might be that he just appropriated the cover. The rumor is he's been freelancing, doing corporate espionage. Maybe he ventures into some strong-arm stuff. He's got a network of people like Hart that he uses; it might be that they have some kind of loose partnership."

  "So where does that leave us?" Liz asked. "Any ideas on who they're working for?"

  "Not really, but whoever's paying their tab has deep pockets. I'm almost certain it's not the bookie you mentioned. Probably not the treasure hunter, either. You got any more on him?"

  "Yes. He met with Marilyn Muir today, and that Hart character searched her suite," Dani said. "I think ... "

  "Wait. Who's this Marilyn Muir?" Phillip asked.

  After they told Phillip what they knew of Marilyn and her connection to Yates, Phillip asked where she lived.

  "Yates said she lived in Atlanta, but he didn't know where she was from originally," Dani said.

  "And Yates is from Savannah, you said. What about Thompson?"

  "What about him?" Dani asked. "Yates said they grew up together."

  "Okay. So he's from Savannah, too. Know anything else about him?"

  "He was a SEAL," Liz said, "and he worked for Bond, don't forget."

  "Okay. There's a guy on the police force there that Paul hooked me up with before when we were trying to figure out what was going on with Connie a few months ago. I'll see what I can find out from him about these people. Can you think of anything else that might help?"

  "No, not really," Dani said.

  "No," Liz added. "Sandrine around?"

  "She's working late tonight. I'll tell her you asked about her."

  "Thanks, Phillip," Dani said.

  "No problem. I'll be in touch. Call if you think of anything."

  Chapter 22

  Marilyn sat on Vengeance's coachroof with her camera, her back against the mast. Her eye pressed to the camera's viewfinder, she was studying a boat in the distance. Before Dani had taken up their current heading, she'd had a clear view of the boat's transom. She'd been able to read the name then, confirming her suspicion that it was Bond's boat.

  "What're you looking at so hard?" Gerald asked.

  "Nothing. Just thought maybe that boat caught a fish or something. They're stopped dead in the water out there."

  "That must be some lens. I can barely make out that there's a boat on the horizon."

  "Well, it's my strongest one. I was hoping to get some shots of the sea birds out here, but I didn't think it all the way through."

  "How's that?"

  "I should have realized that I couldn't use this lens on a moving boat; it needs a tripod on a stable base to be of any use for photos."

  "Oh. That's too bad."

  "No big deal; I've got some other lenses in my bag."

  "Want me to go get it?" Gerald asked.

  "Later." She put the camera down beside her and turned toward Gerald, resting her head on his shoulder. "So tell me more about this book. What are you going to write about Phaedra?"

  "That depends on what we find, assuming we find her at all."

  "That's a romantic story, you know? About your great-great grandmother taking her family to her parents' place to escape the Northern troops."

  "It is, I suppose. It's easy enough to romanticize the old South, but I'm not inclined that way."

  "Why, Gerald?"

  "There was a lot wrong about their way of life."

  "You mean the slavery?"

  "Certainly that, but my ancestors weren't pro-slavery, especially. They were just caught in that whole economic trap. Slavery was part of it, but I get the sense that some of them weren't very nice people anyway."

  "Sounds like maybe you're not writing a romance, then."

  "No. There was more to the story than just the wreck. The branch of the family in Barbuda had managed to thrive in the post-slavery environment. I think my ancestors were ... "

  "Post-slavery? You mean, after the Civil War?"

  "No. The Brits abolished slavery in 1833. It took a few years longer in the colonies, but by the time of the Civil War in the States, there was a generation down here in the islands that had come of age without slaves."

  "So how did they work the plantations?"

  "They tried hiring the freed slaves, but surprise, surprise, they didn't want to work for their former masters. The planters tried all kinds of things — indentured servants, importing hired hands from India, you name it."

  "What did your family do?"

  "I'm not sure. That's what I'm trying to figure out. I think they might have turned crooked. I've had my suspicions that they were into smuggling and piracy. I'm looking for Phaedra in the hope that her cargo might shed some light on that."

  "So the story about your great-great grandmother's household goods is bogus?"

  "Maybe; maybe not. There are other indications that she and the rest of them were planning to move to the islands — old correspondence and scraps of diaries, mostly. If we find her china and silverware in the wreck, I won't be surprised, b
ut I'm betting we'll find other stuff."

  "Like what?"

  "Weapons, spices, who knows. The captain was named Zebulon Yates. He was part of the loyalist branch of the family. Rumor was he was a thief and a con man, not above luring a cargo ship onto some of these reefs and killing the crew so that he and his cronies could salvage the cargo."

  "You mean a wrecker?"

  "That, or maybe worse."

  "That could make a great story; why do you even need to find Phaedra? You could just make it up, couldn't you?"

  "Yes, but for one thing, I'm curious. For another, I'd like to have at least a shred of evidence to support my tale, because a lot of people, mostly distant relatives, aren't going to like it."

  "I can see that, I guess, but I think it's pretty cool. I like the idea of hanging out with the descendant of a pirate."

  ****

  "We'll take them offshore," Berto said. "The farther out, the better. You know where they go when they leave here?" He turned his dark, hooded eyes to Mickey.

  "N-no, n-not really." The word 'reptilian' popped into Mickey's mind as he averted his gaze from Berto's stare. The man reminded him of some deadly, humanoid lizard from a horror movie.

  Jackson swatted at a fly that buzzed around the remains of his room service breakfast. They had met in his suite and ordered food, having the waiter set the table on the patio overlooking the beach. The fly moved over to investigate a globule of bacon grease on Berto's plate.

  Berto's right hand, resting on the table, appeared to twitch, and Mickey realized that he'd caught the fly in midair. He was quiet for a moment, studying the insect, its wings now caught between his index finger and thumb. With another barely perceptible motion, he tossed the fly into the air and then brought his palm down, smashing the insect into his plate. Mickey and Jackson both jumped in their chairs at the crash of the dishes as they clattered from the impact of Berto's palm.

  Berto picked up his napkin and cleaned his hand, his eyes focused on the remains of the fat fly that were smeared across his plate. Looking up, he said, "You don't know. You never followed them." He shook his head, making a clucking sound with his tongue.

  "You found a place to rent a boat, right, Mickey?" Jackson asked.

  "Right," Mickey slid his chair back and started to get up. "I'll call them right now."

  "Sit down," Berto said in a barely audible voice. "We don't rent a boat. That leaves a trail."

  "B-but, we're just going to ask them a few questions, right? A trail won't matter," Jackson said.

  Berto shook his head, making the clucking sound again. "After they answer my questions, we won't need them."

  "We don't know that they had anything to do with ... "

  "Shut up. We know enough about them. After they answer my questions, the ones that are left aren't going to be happy with us. We don't ask questions and then leave people who can talk."

  Jackson looked worried. "I don't want to be part of ... "

  "I said, 'Shut up!' I'm trying to think of why I need you two piss-ants. You got my boy killed." Berto watched Jackson's larynx bob up and down as he gulped. "I don't want more grief from Gail, so don't make me do you along with Yates and his bunch. I got enough trouble with her. You in, or out?"

  "Okay, okay. We're in, right, Mickey?"

  "Right, Marc."

  "That's better. I like for people to be committed, not just involved. See, the bacon and eggs we just had?"

  "Yeah," Jackson swallowed audibly.

  "The chicken that laid the eggs, now she was involved. The pig that the bacon came from? That pig, he was committed. See what I'm sayin'? Commitment, that's what I want from you two from here on out."

  "Fine, Berto. I'm committed," Jackson said.

  "I had you figured for a pig all along, just like your sister; it runs in your family. What about you?" Those cold, flat-looking black eyes flicked toward Mickey.

  "I'm in; I'm a hundred percent committed."

  Berto laughed when he saw Mickey shiver.

  "Don't be so nervous, boys. This'll be good experience for you, to see how it's done."

  ****

  "The guy you told us to watch out for the other day — Mickey Semmes?"

  "Yeah. What about him?" Jones asked.

  "He met them at the airport. They're staying at that same place on the beach where those two guys who disappeared were staying."

  "Any clues on what they're up to?" Jones asked.

  "Yeah. They had breakfast on the patio outside Jackson's room. I had a great shot with the parabolic mic — recorded the whole thing. The new guy that's with them? Not Jackson, but the other one. He's calling the shots. I've sent you the audio file. You listen to it yet?"

  "No. No time yet. Cut to the chase, Alex."

  "Yeah, okay. They're going to intercept Vengeance and question everybody aboard. Yates, Thompson, and the two women. Then they're ... "

  "What about the Muir woman?" Jones interrupted.

  "No mention of her, but she's out on Vengeance with them again today."

  "Okay. Any idea what she did yesterday?"

  "Nothing. She hung out in her suite, mostly. Took a walk by herself. Had her regular dinner with Yates. Took him back to her room for a couple of hours."

  "Okay. Back to Jackson and company. They're going to question everybody. Then what?"

  "Sounds like they plan to waste them afterwards."

  "We can't let that happen if we want that gold. You see a way to stop it?"

  "Yeah. We can deploy the team you sent in; take them out before they get to the yacht. You want them for any reason?"

  "No. Just take them out of play. Permanently."

  "Okay. Hang on ... email just came in. We got an i.d. on the psycho."

  "What psycho?"

  "Sorry. That's what the team's been calling him. The new guy with Jackson and Mickey Semmes."

  "Where'd the i.d. come from?"

  "That hacker we use. He's into the DEA's facial recognition database. Roberto Rodriguez — that's the psycho."

  "Who is he?"

  "DEA thinks he's responsible for all the coke that moves into Florida from South America. The guy, Rigo, who's missing?"

  "Yeah. What about him?"

  "He's Roberto's son."

  "Okay. That's all good to know, but it doesn't change anything."

  Chapter 23

  Rodriguez, in a rigid inflatable boat with Mickey Semmes and Marc Jackson, was scanning the horizon looking for Vengeance. Rodriguez had secured the use of a drab looking, dark gray Zodiac RIB that had a military air about it. It had been waiting for them at the dinghy dock in Jolly Harbour, left there earlier in response to a whispered telephone conversation that Rodriguez had with someone during breakfast.

  Rodriguez took the controls and they idled out of the harbor, obeying the five-knot speed limit to avoid attracting attention. As they left the harbor entrance, Rodriguez opened the throttle slightly, bringing the boat up onto a plane. The two big outboards hummed softly.

  "It's damned quiet," Jackson remarked, surprised to be able to speak in a normal tone of voice and make himself heard over the engines.

  "Stealth. Same as the DEA uses," Rodriguez said. "Gotta fight fire with fire."

  "Did you get guns, speaking of that?" Jackson asked.

  "Yeah. In here." Rodriguez patted the side of the steering console, which enclosed a sizable locker.

  "You check?" Jackson persisted.

  Rodriguez turned to face him, frowning, the muscles in his jaw jumping. "I ain't gotta check, asshole."

  "Okay, okay. Sorry."

  Rodriguez stared at him until Jackson looked away. Mickey sat braced in the vee of the boat's bow, sweeping the horizon with a pair of binoculars that Rodriguez had passed him.

  "Any sign of them?" Jackson asked.

  "Not yet," Mickey replied, "but they can't be too far. I checked on boats like that. They only go about eight or ten knots."

  "They could be miles ahead of us," Jackson sai
d. "You have any idea which way they usually go?"

  "Toward Barbuda," Rodriguez interjected. "We'll find 'em."

  "How do you know they'll go toward Barbuda?" Jackson asked.

  "I got confidential sources, like the cops say. Quit worryin'; we gonna find 'em, no problem."

  "We should have left earlier, like I said last night," Jackson said.

  Rodriguez throttled back to idle speed.

  "What are you doing?" Jackson asked.

  Rodriguez, ignoring Jackson's question, shut off the ignition and pulled the keys from the control panel. He sorted through the keys, selecting one that he used to unlock the locker in front of him. He reached in and withdrew a pistol. Turning toward Jackson, he grinned as he raised the pistol.

  "W-wait!" Jackson protested.

  With a loud crack, the pistol bucked in Rodriguez's hand. As Jackson's head exploded, Rodriguez cackled. "Hollow points, Mickey."

  Mickey nodded and turned his attention back to looking for their quarry.

  "You don't say much," Rodriguez said as he returned the pistol to the locker. "I like that. Your boss, he talked too damn much."

  Mickey lowered the binoculars and turned his head to look over his shoulder at Rodriguez and nod.

  "Good man, Mickey. Come back here and take the wheel. I'll take the glasses."

  Mickey nodded and stepped back to the controls, handing Rodriguez the binoculars as they passed. Rodriguez put a hand on Mickey's shoulder, stopping him midstride.

  "You know how to drive this thing?"

  Mickey nodded.

  "You any good?"

  Another nod.

  "Where'd you learn?"

  "Four years in the Coast Guard. I'm better than good. Done this before."

  "I want to come up alongside them fast and tie the boat off; both of us get aboard before they know what's happening and leave this thing trailing behind. Can you do that?"

  "No problem."

  "I might have work for you after this, if you do good."

  "Thanks, but I was Marc's partner."

  "So? You gonna try to avenge him or somethin' stupid like that?"

  Mickey laughed. "No. I have a book to run now. Thanks for the offer, but I've got a lot invested in this, and you just solved one of my most vexing problems. Marc's bad judgment has cost us a lot of money and aggravation over the years."