by James Gray
“I’m hungry. Ronnie,” Barker said, suddenly, “go wake up Shirley. She’ll fix us all some breakfast. That’s what she’s here for.”
“Relax, Ronnie, I’ll check in on her. She was in pretty bad shape last night,” said Valeska and disappeared below. Barker snorted and spit over the side, then took a seat beside me and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Frenchman, so far so good. You’re probably a little surprised about Valeska. Sometimes she likes to play the role of a real little general, but she’ll be okay in a while. Right, Ronnie?” They laughed between themselves.
The day progressed as we slowly moved off the coast. The Island of Roatán was about fifty miles to the east. Off to the port side, there was the tiny Island of Útila, hardly visible in the haze. It was the most westerly of the Bay Islands. We were making good time.
Around 1400 hours, Dog and Ronnie took over, but instead of going to my cabin, I stretched out in the cockpit and watched as a few gulls played in the wind turbulence created by the boat’s passage. I tried to sleep, half-listening as Valeska talked on the satellite telephone in fluent Russian to her uncle.
As we approached the island, I could see several dozen luxurious homes that had been built among rolling hills and forests on the high cliffs; they had fine views of the turquoise sea below. These homes were in stark contrast to the poverty on the mainland. We followed the coastline, sailing past small private beaches and ample anchorage. It was late afternoon when Ronnie pointed toward the two poles that marked the cut in the reef. A short time later, Esmeralda slipped into a large lagoon where a smattering of expensive-looking houses lay hidden in the densely forested hillside.
“Well, we made it. Welcome to the pirate capital of the Caribbean, otherwise known as Port Royal,” said Dog. “See the barge on that point over there at the far end? That’s where we’ll tie up and dump our little cargo.”
There was a shed-like structure built further back, half hidden by trees, and behind that, an airstrip. We motored up alongside. Two islanders were waiting to take the dock lines. Near some large cargo containers that sat on the barge were tools scattered here and there. A stainless steel shotgun leaned up against one of the open container doors.
Valeska made the introductions. “Amigos, this is Jack Legris. He’ll be working for us as skipper on Esmeralda.” For some reason, the Dog seemed nervous. We shook hands, but the reception was cool. They quickly unloaded the merchandise and stashed it inside the waiting container.
“Dog,” she said, “call my uncle and make sure that the chopper will arrive on time. I don’t want any screw-ups.” The Dog scowled. It was clear that Igor wanted his niece to run the show.
Later she took me aside. “How do you like it so far? Easy, isn’t it? My uncle set it all up out here. Don’t worry about the shore crew; they can be trusted.”
“Yeah, but I bet that they were handpicked by Barker.”
“Yes, but we’re paying them.”
“What about the police or the navy patrol?”
“It’s simple: There aren’t any out here.”
“And the cargo? What’s the exact destination?” I asked, hoping for a real answer.
“That’s between my uncle and the pilot,” said Valeska. “They will be delivered to the excavation crew in La Mosquitia. That’s all that I can tell you. Jack, nobody knows more than is necessary. Tomorrow morning, we shall head over to French Harbour. That’s where we’ll meet up with my uncle.”
“I’ll be ready when you are.”
“Great,” she said. She got up and went over to speak with the shore crew who were clearing a small landing pad near the shed.
I napped on deck until Shirley woke me up to share a meal with Dog, Ronnie and Valeska. While we sat there devouring leftover chicken, I began to feel uneasy about Valeska. I decided to just do my job and forget about romance.
After the meal, while Valeska was inside the yacht’s main cabin going over some details with Barker, Ronnie and I managed to fix the mainsail roller mechanism. At one point, I could hear Valeska’s voice drifting out of an open deck hatch. She sounded angry. “My uncle knows what he’s doing. He’s handled this type of thing for years. So just follow the fucking game plan, Dog!”
Valeska was in control now. As she came up on deck, the breeze lifted her dark green linen skirt and I saw that she had a holster strapped around her thigh that held a jet-black 9mm pistol. I had to admit, she turned me on.
Later on, while I was going over the charts again in my cabin, there was a knock. I opened the door and the woman slipped inside. “You must think that I’m a tyrant. Don’t be misled. I’m just trying to put Dog in his place. I’m sorry if I am being too direct with the orders, but for now, that’s the way it has to be. I’ve got to make this work, so please, just play along like you’re doing, and it will all make sense later. My uncle is counting on me, and I am counting on you.”
“I’m doing my best to adapt, Valeska.”
“Be patient, Jack. I promise, things will improve. I am just trying to stay on top of the situation. There are some changes about to be made, and after that, things will be much easier. I want to be close to you, Jack. I know that we can do great things together. Just give me a chance to prove it. Believe in me; all I ask is for some time.” She left via the narrow corridor that led to her cabin and closed the door. I was left without a clue. I decided to bend with the wind and let things work out by themselves.
Around 2300 hours, deep thumping of helicopter propellers began to drown out the sound of distant surf. The dark-colored chopper landed on the dimly lit landing strip. In only ten minutes, the cases of weapons were all loaded inside. The helicopter took off and flew toward the Mosquito Coast.
The next morning, we moved the boat out of Port Royal and headed to French Harbour, about ten miles to the west. The wind was blowing hard as I unrolled the sails and, after they’d been trimmed, Esmeralda took off. We were travelling an easy ten knots.
“This is the way it should be,” Valeska said. “Jack, you’ve given life to this boat. It’s wonderful!”
There was a gust of wind and the big yacht heeled over. The bow dipped into a wave sending a shower of spray up and over the deck.
“Yes! I love it!” she exclaimed.
Esmeralda was really cooking now, hard over and beating into a twenty-five knot breeze. “She sails pretty good for a cargo ship,” I said and then looked at Barker sitting alone in the vast cockpit, seemingly lost in thought. I didn’t care. The bow plunged again and the vibration made the ships bell ring loudly. Another gust of wind hit and Esmeralda heeled over until turquoise seawater spilled up over her leeward deck.
The Dog shouted over to me, “Jesus, Frenchman, you’re going to tip the damn thing over.”
“No way, man, this is a sailboat and it’s got to react to the wind. That’s the way it works.” With another gust, the boat heeled over even more. The beer cooler slid across the deck and stopped at Barker’s feet. A wall of salty spray flew up and over the entire yacht and completely soaked Ronnie, who was wedged in a seat up on the flying bridge.
“Hey, Frenchman, you’re going to sink us!”
I eased off a little until the yacht straightened up. “Is that better?” I winked at Valeska. She was standing just beside me and feeling just as high as I was. “Here,” I said to her, “take the wheel.” I moved over.
“Are you sure?”
“Try it, just keep it straight. There’s no danger.”
She wrapped two hands on the big wheel and spread her feet. “Wow.”
“Keep going. You’re doing fine.” I was right behind with my hands on her waist. “Don’t worry, it’s not going to capsize. Steady as she goes. That’s it. You’re a natural.”
“Jack Legris, this is amazing and so are you.”
“I’m not too sure about me being amazing, but at the moment this entire yacht is in your hands, so enjoy.”
I looked over at Barker as he sat rigid on the cockpit seat. I th
ought that he would boil over. “How long are we going to continue on like this? We’ve got to get to French Harbour before dark,” he said.
“We can’t go any faster than this. We’ve reached hull speed; even those two big engines downstairs couldn’t get us to move this fast. So relax.”
Another curtain of spray flew up and doused the Dog. His Hawaiian shirt was soaked. “Ah, shit, Frenchman. She’s driving this thing worse than you were.”
Valeska and I laughed at the same time.
“You’ll have to get used to this, Barker. It’s what life on a sailboat is all about.”
I went over to the winches and adjusted the sails while Valeska hung onto the wheel. By the contented look on her face, I knew that she had crossed over into a new territory. That was good, because despite everything, I was, for one more time, beginning to wish that we could escape together. But before that happened, I had work to do.
The French Harbour entrance was easy despite the absence of channel markers. With the sails furled, I slowly motored Esmeralda deeper into the bay and through the narrow pass into a lagoon, where a small marina was located. The docks were completely protected from all weather, and there were armed guards at each end of the property. Once we were tied to the dock, Dog, looking perturbed, called for a taxi and left.
“He’s gone to get the Jeep,” said Valeska. “I’m going to meet Uncle Igor at the airport and take him to the hotel.”
I was a little surprised. “He won’t stay on the boat?”
“He prefers his privacy. You and Dog can meet us around 7:00 this evening at Rick’s American Restaurant. He knows where it is.” She left me at the dock and walked up the path to the yacht club, where another taxi was waiting.
While Shirley washed down the deck, I went for a walk to check the place out. There were a few other sailboats dockside, belonging mostly to retired Americans who’d settled in for the winter. It appeared to be a tame place, exactly the kind of setup I always tried to avoid while cruising on my own boat. I strolled up the hill and had a beer at the yacht club bar. The view was perfect.
I could see Esmeralda innocently tied up to the large visitor dock in the lagoon below. It was about three times the size of any other boat in the harbor. She looked like a rich man’s toy. Another hidden detail: the boat was loaded to the gunnels with Barker’s own private collection of assault weapons, enough to scare off anyone who got too close. There was absolutely nothing to draw suspicion. I took out my small camera and took a few photos. They would come in handy for my magazine article.
After a long walk down a narrow road that looped through some posh properties, I went back on board Esmeralda just before dark, only to come face to face with Barker. “You’re supposed to stay on board. We keep watch 24–7 on this boat.”
“Barker, my orders come from Valeska, not you.”
The Dog backed off. “Suit yourself. Dinner with Zarkin is around 7:00.”
“Yeah, I know. Valeska told me.”
“Hmm, you two are becoming quite a team. I wonder how long it will last?”
Then the phone rang. Barker answered and went outside. “Know where I’ll be. Don’t fuck up,” was the only thing I could make out. He came back inside, poured himself a stiff drink and disappeared into his cabin.
I had a shower, put on some clean clothes and joined Barker on deck, where he was talking with Shirley. When she saw me, she lowered her eyes and went inside without a word.
“Ready?” he said.
I nodded. “Where’s Ronnie?”
“He’s on his way. Let’s go, the boss is waiting.”
We left the marina in the Jeep, heading east along the island’s main road past the small port town of Coxen Hole. The road narrowed, snaking toward the highlands that formed Roatán’s center. As we bounced over pockmarked asphalt, the Dog shouted over the racket of our thick-treaded tires. “This road is hell, especially at night.”
We passed a slow-moving pickup truck and barely missed an oncoming tourist bus. As we climbed into the hills, the air became cooler and drops of rain started to bounce off the windshield. We reached the highest point on the road, and then we started travelling downhill. The Jeep’s tires hummed as our speed increased.
“When did you meet Zarkin?” I asked.
“About five years ago, on a plane coming back from Miami. I told him what I had discovered in the jungle and he decided to get involved. We’ve been working together on this thing ever since, and now it’s finally starting to happen.”
A couple of kilometers later, the Dog swung the Jeep down a narrow lane, through thick jungle foliage. He parked beside several expensive cars. On a hill sat a large white clapboard house with a screened-in balcony. Its wide veranda offered a magnificent view of the sea. Inside the restaurant, because that’s what it was, a few gray-haired clients were seated at the bar, drinking beer and getting older by the minute. On a massive TV in the corner, the Giants were playing the Bears.
The bartender recognized the Dog and pointed us to a table on the outside deck, where a large man in a white suit was sitting with his back to us. His cigar sent up a veil of bluish smoke.
Valeska leaned against the railing, relaxed in a tight black dress and simple necklace of white pearls. She looked stunning. I caught a whiff of expensive Chanel as she kissed me on each cheek.
“Well, well, you’re a little late, gentlemen.” Zarkin stood up and we shook hands. His grip was firm, and when he pulled his hand away, I noticed the sparkle of a diamond ring. The man was certainly over eighty, older than I’d expected. Otherwise, he appeared exactly as I had imagined: aristocratic and very elegant. He had a pencil-line moustache and fine gold-rimmed glasses on his hooked nose.
Valeska smiled at me and put one hand on her uncle’s shoulder.
“Please have a seat,” he said. “I’ve heard good things about you, Monsieur Jacques. I’m glad you’ve decided to help us out.” Though spiced with a Russian accent, Mr. Z’s English was near perfect. The bartender brought over a bottle of ice-cold Veuve Clicquot and poured us each a glass.
“Nothing but the best,” said Zarkin. He had overdosed on Azzaro cologne that blotted out Valeska’s fine fragrance. Even the bougainvillea and orchids that grew nearby were having a hard time. “I understand that you are a Frenchman from Canada.”
“Not exactly a Frenchman. I’m from Québec, a Québecois. There’s a difference.”
“All the same race of shit-disturbers,” said Dog.
“Come on, Dog, you can do better than that,” Valeska objected.
“I find Canadian politics most amusing,” said Zarkin. “You live in the best country in the entire world yet some people want to separate. Those separatists should try living in Russia for a while and compare lifestyles. I wonder what they would think then.”
“Yeah, it’s a never-ending story and another reason why I left,” I said.
A king-sized order of langoustine arrived at our table with a bottle of Chardonnay on ice. We ate slowly as we made each other’s acquaintance. Seeing Zarkin and Dog together for the first time made their business partnership seem odd.
After a while, Zarkin said, “I raised Valeska after her father was murdered. Although our family had money, we were Sandinista supporters. We went through difficult times, misunderstood by both sides. It cost us dearly. Things are better now.”
The Dog smiled a little foolishly and glanced at his watch.
“I propose a toast to our new skipper,” said Zarkin,
The Dog shot me a cool glance from across the table. As the meal progressed and the wine flowed, he became bolder. He had a bone to pick with Zarkin — over money, naturally. Eventually, he stood up and left the table. He went to the bar.
“He’s an impatient and dishonest man, and someday he’ll pay for that,” said Zarkin as he watched Barker disappear. He wiped his brow with the table napkin. “Jacques, I’m glad that you are going to be skipper of Esmeralda. Valeska felt you’d be the perfect man for the job an
d I trust her judgment. The timing is perfect. We need someone who knows what he is doing, a man we can rely on. I think a fellow like you will make the difference to our little organization.” He looked at me square in the eyes.
“But there are a few things that I can’t quite figure out,” I said. “Do both you and Barker own rights to the land where the ruins are?”
“They are now in the company’s name. We are co-owners. He found the place, but I am the financier. Without my money, there would be no project.”
“And without his discovery, there would be no project?”
“Exactly, but things will be different soon. I’m going to buy him out, you know — as they say, make Barker an offer he can’t refuse.”
“But, Señor Zarkin, he’s not going sell; he wants it all.”
“Maybe so, but there are other ways that may help that scoundrel pack his bags. However, before it comes to that, I will take him to court. I have proof that Barker has been cheating us on the renovation costs. He’s colluding with Rackman, and they’ve been skimming off the top for months. They both are a liability to the project. I need people that I can trust completely. I have a lawyer building a case that will prove that Barker is a fraud. In fact, I can have him arrested any time I want and he knows it. Barker will sell, I am sure of it.”
Valeska looked at me, then at her uncle. “Uncle Igor, careful, he’s coming back to the table.”
Barker crossed the floor while he talked on his cell phone. There seemed to be a problem on board Esmeralda. “Okay, just shut down the main circuit breaker. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up. “Ronnie says there’s a strange smell coming from one of the electric panels. Something is overheating. I have to go back and take a look. You’ll have to find a taxi.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
“No, no, don’t bother. Stay here and enjoy yourself. I’ll look after this with Ronnie.” With that, Barker hurried out of the restaurant, but Zarkin didn’t look worried. Valeska seemed strangely distant, or lost in thought.
