by Glen Carter
“I can’t believe she actually kicked him in the walnuts,” Seth said. “Great money shot.”
“Woman’s got spunk. And by the look of agony on Montello’s face, good legs too.”
Both men laughed loudly.
The day before, they had gathered in Jack’s hotel room to watch President Denton and the Colombian president announce the capture of three of Colombia’s most feared drug kingpins. Jack smiled as Jeremy Rankin, quoting reliable administration sources, reported details of a cartel plot to overthrow the government and to install a dictatorship under the most ruthless of the country’s drug lords – Branko Montello. Rankin, in grave tones but quick to point out the exclusivity of his information, also quoted unnamed intelligence sources as saying the cartels may have been close to acquiring one or several tactical nuclear weapons. “This left the Denton administration with no choice but to act,” he reported, as though it was on his recommendation alone that the operation was launched. Rankin went on to say that secret elements of the army’s special operations 160th Regiment Night Stalkers, based in Fort Campbell, Kentucky, dropped Delta teams onto heavily guarded jungle fortresses. There they captured drug kingpins Zebe Bonito, Ungaro Alvarez and Branko Montello to whom Colombian authorities credit the assassination of another cartel leader, Carlos Ruiz of Medellin. An unnamed Russian operative, based in Cuba, who is believed to have been a central figure in the cartel bid to acquire nuclear weapons, was tracked down and “neutralized” by American forces. “The operation has effectively decapitated the leadership of Colombia’s cocaine industry,” Rankin reported. “No Americans were hurt or killed.”
At a news conference within minutes of Rankin’s live report President Frederick Denton also revealed that Colombia’s military forces, aided by American “advisors,” swept down on numerous Colombian drug labs responsible for eighty-five percent of the country’s cocaine output. Satellite photos, distributed to wide-eyed reporters at the White House briefing, clearly showed pinpoints of light that represented dozens of fires burning at secret jungle locations.
Off camera, and off mic, Paul Braithwaite, the president’s chief of staff leaned towards an aide standing next to him on the White House lawn and said, only half joking, “Cocaine just became the most lucrative substance on the planet.”
The two presidents fully understood the economic forces of supply and demand. Denton had already been informed of a huge jump in the street price for cocaine. Thus it was expected the drug industry would likely regenerate under new leaders hungry for even bigger profits. Still, Denton and the little Colombian president smiled broadly as they shook hands and committed their respective governments to “the continued eradication of the menace to Colombia’s democratically elected government and the peace-loving people of Colombia.”
That morning Jack got a call from Lou Perlman. They spoke for twenty minutes, and afterwards Jack spent a long time thinking about what Perlman had told him.
Seth didn’t notice that Jack was preoccupied. Instead he tossed aside a cocktail umbrella serving absolutely no purpose in his double gin and tonic and shifted his white form until it was safety hidden from the hard tropical sun. “Angels of Maradona,” Seth said, liking the title more each time he said it. “Two women who triumph over dark murderous forces and find each other. Forget the Emmys. This one’s an Oscar contender. You’ll write and direct. I’ll produce. What about it?”
“Not now, Seth,” Jack said, rising from his lounger and heading for the shallow end of the pool.
He stopped and turned. “It’s their story, not ours.”
On the third morning, they left Panama City. Seth said goodbye to all and boarded a plane to New York, while Mercedes was flown to Miami where Braxton’s people planned on debriefing her.
It was a short flight to Havana for Jack and Kaitlin, and after they landed, Jack was satisfied that no red flags had been attached to either of them. They were processed through Cuban customs routinely, and an hour later they reached Marina Hemmingway where Jack was now staring disapprovingly at the ring of slime that had attached itself to the smooth hull of his boat. He paid his slip fees and went to work. An hour after that he started her engine and steered Scoundrel through the entrance of the marina – towards home. It was good to be back aboard.
Jack thought again about Raspov and wondered whether he’d told him everything. What if? What if those tactical nuclear weapons had already been seeded? What if those safe houses across the United States were already bristling with enough destructive power to annihilate entire cities? It was crazy just to think about, Jack decided. Crazy to believe anything that came from Raspov’s mouth. Whatever the truth, it had died with Colonel Dmitri Raspov, 2nd directorate, KGB.
Jack didn’t argue when Kaitlin said she wanted to help sail Scoundrel from Cuba to Miami. She was lazily steering the boat when Jack emerged from the navigation station down below. He looked at her earnestly. “Some bad weather headed for the Florida coast.”
Kaitlin gave him a doubtful look. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” he said, feigning hurt. “Probably best if we spend one more night in Cuban waters, head across tomorrow.”
“If you say so, skipper.”
Jack watched as the anchor slipped silently beneath the surface of still blue water and plunged six fathoms to the sandy seabed. The anchor caught, swinging Scoundrel on an invisible current until her bow pulpit was pointed directly at Florida. Kaitlin disappeared below, leaving Jack to contemplate a strip of sugary white which stretched for miles. He listened peacefully to the surf as it slapped lazily on sand that had rarely seen a footprint. Jack breathed deeply the salt air and thought about everything that had happened. He’d been lucky. Everyone had survived. Even his boat was safe. Docking in Cuba usually meant the automatic seizure of American vessels but Braxton had fixed things. “As far as the customs boneheads are concerned you were feet up, drinking pina coladas in the Cayman Islands. Don’t sweat it, it’s taken care of.”
Jack watched the sunset while sipping iced tea and listening to Kaitlin rummage around down below.
Music began to play and a second later Kaitlin climbed through the companionway wearing a white two-piece bathing suit that glowed against her olive skin. She freed her long hair, looked at Jack through half-closed eyes and smiled.
Jack stared at her too long and grinned sheepishly. “Here’s to reunions,” he said, raising his glass to her. “And second chances.”
“Both,” Kaitlin responded, tapping her glass against his.
They sat for a second in silence, until Kaitlin turned to him. “My father said he was pretty hard on you.”
“You could say that,” Jack said. “But who can blame him?”
“No, Jack, that wasn’t fair,” Kaitlin said. “He was a shit about it and he knows it. He’ll apologize with a great big bear hug when we get home – or else.”
“Wonderful,” Jack said, forcing a smile. “I can hardly wait.”
Kaitlin tilted her head to stare up at the darkening sky. “He also said my funeral got rave reviews and that you ruined a good suit of clothes and some city shoes.”
Jack laughed. “It wasn’t actually a funeral. There was no body. Thankfully you were still in possession of it. You’ll get my bill for a new suit.”
“Stop it,” she said, slapping his arm. “I know it must have been difficult. I’m sorry.”
Jack turned serious. “What can I say? Father Doherty was at his best. I was at my worst. And, by the way, it wasn’t your fault.”
The wind rustled thick woody leaves on shore. Palms bowed gently as if bidding them farewell. About a hundred yards to port a tiny piece of ocean parted to reveal a pair of dorsal fins which flashed dull grey-white against the water’s mirror finish. The dolphins whistled, and then vanished as quickly as they’d appeared.
The CD changed to something with a sexy Latin beat.
Kaitlin stood, and without a word, dove into the water. Jack was worried until a minute later
she popped up at the boat’s transom, spitting water with a wicked smile. “Come on in, Doyle, the water’s gorgeous.”
Jack leaned over the back of the boat, looking gloomy. “You know I can’t swim.”
Kaitlin kicked off from the boat and treaded water. “Second chances, remember?” she said with an impish grin.
Jack disappeared down below and returned a moment later wearing swimming trunks. He climbed onto the swim platform and nervously studied the water as though it were some ancient bottomless well.
“Come on, Jack, I’ll save you.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Jack Doyle, fearless slayer of dictators and despots, afraid of water.”
“Hussein can’t swim either.”
“He swam the Tigris, Jack.”
“So he did.”
“Just jump, silly.”
Jack clamped his eyes tight and jumped. He sank like a stone. The water pressed against him as he descended through its cooling layers. Strangely, he didn’t panic. In his mind Jack saw his father on the day they launched his boat, the same schooner Argus’s brother Aiden ran aground at Sable Island while Jack’s father was too sick with the flu down below to save them. Caleb Doyle is smiling. “One day she’ll be yours, Jack. When you’re grown you’ll be skipper.”
“I’ll take her to the other side of the ocean, Dad,” Jack had said to him that day. “I’m gonna take Kaitlin to find her mother.”
Jack was about to inhale his first deadly mouthful of water when a hand locked on his arm and pulled him upwards. When he broke the surface, Kaitlin was laughing.
“You’re a good man, Doyle,” she said. “But you can’t swim worth a damn.”
“I told you,” Jack coughed. “Thanks for rescuing me.”
Kaitlin pulled him closer. “No problem. Now we’re even.”
In that moment Jack knew it was real. Something permanent. Kaitlin was smiling – he was smiling – happy. Music drifted over the transom and they came together, their bodies turning slowly in magnetic embrace.
Kaitlin whispered in his ear and Jack finally understood what she had always meant to him. Jack felt Kaitlin tighten her hold, drawing him even closer, her hot breath against the side of his neck, their bodies weightless. Kaitlin began to hum, a soothing vibration that tickled his neck. Jack felt the softness of her breasts press harder against him. She felt him as well. He moved her to the swim platform and with one hand lifted them both from the water. Jack stood and pulled every inch of her into him. She warmed him, swept trembling hands onto his shoulders, and looked deeply into his eyes. “The first time I wore a dress it was for you,” Kaitlin said. “Argus was flabbergasted.”
“It was red, right?”
Kaitlin frowned. “No, dummy, pale yellow with blue lilies, and I had dog poop on my shoe.”
“Ah, yes, I remember it well,” Jack said, as he dipped his head and kissed her deeply.
EPILOGUE
The moon was his only company as Jack swung Scoundrel around the point of land that stretched across the opening of Ragged Hole Bay, and even it was preparing to call it a night. Far in the distance, buoys that reflected bright shades of red and green funneled navigators to the government wharf and the glimmering lights of Bark Island.
Jack heard stirring, muted voices in the darkness down below. A moment later Mercedes’ face emerged into the early dawn. There was warmth in her smile, and contentment, which Jack realized he had never seen before.
Mercedes pulled a sweater over her head and shook loose her long hair. “Good morning,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Or nearly morning.”
“Sleep well?” Jack handed her a thermos, which she took gladly, and poured a good measure of steaming coffee into its plastic top. “Like the dead,” she answered, frowning at her choice of words.
After leaving Cuba, Kaitlin and Jack sailed lazily towards Miami. Kaitlin’s memory was fully recovered and X-rays revealed no permanent damage, though a navy neurologist at the base where Mercedes had undergone hours of exhaustive debriefing explained there might be headaches.
It took seven days, with Kaitlin and Mercedes aboard, to reach Bark Island. The two sisters spent long periods of time together while Jack sailed the boat and tried to stay out of their way. Jack was happy the trip was nearing an end.
Mercedes followed his gaze towards the shoreline, where tiny flickers of light signaled early risers and the home she had never known. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “But…”
“But scary?”
“Yes, a little bit.”
“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “How many men lose a daughter and gain two in return?”
Mercedes puckered her lips as if calculating something. “This arithmetic is good,” she replied.
Scoundrel rose and fell on a shallow swell. A light wind filled her canvas, and now and then Jack hardened her mainsail to keep her slicing through the water at a decent clip. They swept past a channel marker, its red light blinking in a nether world that existed between dark and dawn. Jack couldn’t wait any longer to ask her about the money. “Fifty million dollars is an obscene sum of cash,” he said quietly.
Mercedes looked at him, giving nothing away in her expression except the absence of surprise. “Yes it is.”
They looked at each other, both sipped on their steaming brew. Then Mercedes turned away. “I know what you’re wondering,” she said. “Why did I do it?”
“Maybe you earned it.” Jack shrugged. “He was quite the bastard.”
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “For many of us.” Mercedes lowered her eyes to a spot on the deck, apparently not willing to say any more about him.
Jack could only imagine the tragedy which would haunt her, always, the people who had died as a result of Montello’s brutality. He exhaled on crisp air, deflecting the ghostly images of Govia and the nuns of Trinity.
“I have plans for the money,” Mercedes said after a moment. “But not what you think.” It was a secret known only to Mercedes Mendoza that Swiss National Bank in the Grand Cayman Islands had already begun dispersing the money. None would be kept. Mercedes had provided a list of organizations involved in the care of children, the thousands of orphans created by the insane cycle of violence in her homeland. The bank was to contact each of them with an unbelievable endowment, though none was to be told the name of their benefactor. New orphanages would be built, food and clothing would be paid for, and scholarships would be established for university educations. As Mercedes and Selena had intended all along “dirty money would be made clean.” Mercedes wasn’t ready yet for the tears she would shed for her dead friends, the mother she never knew. That would come later. So much had been stolen from her, but now Mercedes had the duty to make sure those lives weren’t wasted. She promised that the Trinity orphans would be taken care of immediately, the ten children who were forced from their beds by brutality, including a small girl with a one-eared bear. Dominique’s heart would grow strong because of the incredibly costly operation which Mercedes and Selena had secretly paid for. That money had come from Selena’s bank the first time they were angels. The Trinity orphans would have a new home soon. They would grow up healthy, a new generation, maybe a peaceful one. Silently Mercedes prayed for it. “Fingers crossed,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.” Mercedes smiled. “I was just dreaming.”
They glided past buoys, one by one, sentinels leading them closer to land. A foghorn sounded in the distance, too far away to tell where, more a beckoning than a warning.
“What about you, Jack?”
Jack thought about that for a moment. Lou had informed him the senior anchor job was about to become available, if he still wanted it. Jack looked at her and smiled. “There’s someone I plan to finish falling in love with,” he said. “And she’s about to get a promotion, if she wants it.”
The sound of wind and waves washed over them. The moon seemed a worn decoration now on the remnants of night, a
smoldering reminder to Jack that the radiance of his ambition had never seemed so cold. A fire without warmth, he thought as he captured the last of the heat from his thermos. “The network will have to wait,” Jack told her, “likely for both of us.” Jack swung the boat’s bowsprit ten degrees to port. In another minute or two he’d reef the sails and fire up the engine.
“Good morning, everyone.” Kaitlin emerged from the companionway and moved to Jack, snuggling into him to stay warm against a cool grey mist that materialized like gauze in the fading darkness.
Jack felt her tremble, and squeezed gently.
For a moment no one spoke and Kaitlin reached out to take Mercedes’ hand. “There’s something I want to show you,” she said. Kaitlin placed a small object in her sister’s hand. It was a tiny gold locket.
Mercedes looked at it with surprise.
“Open it,” Kaitlin said.
Mercedes opened it. Inside was a small heart-shaped photograph which brought a smile to her face, immediately. “Eva,” she said.
“And her two babies,” Kaitlin added. “I am the oldest as you can see.”
The two of them laughed heartily. Mercedes brought the locket to her chest and gave Kaitlin a sisterly peck on the cheek.
“You wear it,” Kaitlin said. “I have my memories.”
“Thank you.”
They sailed for another five minutes, expectation gathering in all aboard, until life appeared in the distance.
Kaitlin looked towards the wharf and their home, a home where Argus, their father, was waiting. A moment later, as the last of the wind abandoned the boat’s sails, Kaitlin saw him. “Oh, God,” she mewed, breath trapped somewhere at the bottom of her throat, hands pressed to her mouth as tears spilled downward.
Mercedes saw him too, and smiled at her sister.
Jack grinned widely and reached down to start the engine. It caught immediately.
Argus O’Rourke stood at the end of the dock, steady as the granite that ran for miles along the rocky coastline. In his outstretched arms were two burning lanterns, not one. They swayed slowly in a signal as old as fathers and the fathers before them.
