( 2011) Cry For Justice

by Ralph Zeta

  Without a specific location, finding any boat in Florida presented an enormous challenge even for government agencies with their vast resources. On any given day, well over a million Florida registered vessels were moored or cruising Florida waters, and if you counted the thousands of out-of-state and foreign vessels that visited the state each year, the numbers grew almost exponentially.

  When it comes to all things boating Florida is unlike any other state in the union; with its never-ending spectacle of gleaming Fiberglas, canvas, sail stays, outriggers, flying bridges, tuna towers, radars domes, outriggers, antennas, outboard and inboard engines, and nylon lines of every color, it is a place like no other. All this rumbling, meandering sub-culture of copper bodies, tattoos, surgically-implanted silicone aids and skimpy bikinis atop all manner of floating bling requires ample and appropriate dock space. And budget sailor or not, mega yacht, or johnboat, sail, paddle, or power, it mattered little, they all had one thing in common: the need to safely tie up. When it comes to dockage options, Florida has something to match nearly every sailor’s needs. There are over a million and a half slips located along both coasts and more along the panhandle, and that number doesn’t even include the untold numbers of privately owned docks available for the right price. The possibilities are practically endless unless you know where not to look. Concentrating on marinas that could handle a large, deep-draft sailer such as the Stella Maris mercifully reduced those numbers to something approaching manageable.

  Our search plan was simple: Sammy would check west coast marinas from Punta Gorda in the south and north to Pensacola, while I would focus on those from Key West around and up the east coast to Amelia Island, as well as the maritime brokerage industry.

  As far as I know, the quickest way to unload a boat like the Stella Maris, if that was Baumann’s chosen route, is through a yacht broker. They have the clients, the financing, and the capabilities to handle a sale quickly and efficiently. But more importantly, even if the boat was still unsold and moored at their docks, they would have a way of contacting the seller. I found an online database for boat brokers in Florida and began to work the phones. I spent the next two and a half hours reeling off the same line: had a motorsailer named Stella Maris tied up there recently a ninety-two-foot, blue-hulled two-mast gulet? I’d heard it may be for sale.

  The Stella Maris, a wooden gulet originally built in Turkey, is certainly not your typical sailboat. Gulets, traditional broad-beamed coastal sailing schooners, are common enough sight in the Aegean Sea and parts of the eastern Mediterranean, but they’re a rarity even in Florida waters. Gulets have a raised bow and comfortable wide stern, which makes for a great pleasure sailing vessel, since the broad beam gives them ample afterdeck space, suitable for entertaining a large number of guests, and plenty of room belowdecks for spacious cabins.

  My efforts didn’t pan out. The marinas that had serviced the Stella Maris in the past hadn’t seen her in months. The yard that had retrofitted her a few years ago had not seen her since. The rest of the brokers and marinas contacted had never laid eyes on her, but not surprisingly most were willing to offer a great deal on monthly docking fees with a one-year contract. And I could find no for-sale listings for a sailboat fitting Stella Maris’s description.

  I had assumed that after sailing it away from Mrs. Kelly’s Palm Beach dock, Baumann would have tied up somewhere convenient, where he could conceal the boat until he was ready to make his exit or sell it. Locate the boat; locate the man. So far, I had struck out.

  I did have to take into account the possibility that he may no longer have possession of the Stella Maris. It was too eye-catching for someone in his line of work. Keeping it would only make him stand out; people would remember a boat like that. The boat was also a quick way to raise cash. But even if he sold it, Baumann was an avid sailor, so he could well have bought a replacement maybe from the same brokerage outfit. These were large transactions and, therefore, generated a fair amount of documentation a paper trail that might led me to him. So the real question was, if he had indeed sold the boat, where?

  My cell phone began buzzing Sammy, reporting in. He had made hundreds of calls with no success. A few people would get back to him, but the bottom line was, no one had seen or heard of the Stella Maris. He had even called several dozen marinas as far west as New Orleans and Texas nothing, though a few enterprising dock owners had offered to buy the boat outright.

  Sammy came up with a new scenario: what if Baumann had already lined up a buyer overseas and sold the boat outside the country?

  Not what I wanted to hear, but I had to consider it.

  “You know, one of those private transactions that don’t involve deeds or documents we can track,” Sammy said. “Buyer flies in, pays cash, signs a sale document and just sails away. Maybe gives it a new name and paint job. There’s no way we can find out about a deal like that, chief. For all we know, she could be halfway to China by now.”

  He was right. The Stella Maris could be long gone, and without her, we were out of leads. My tired brain was on the verge of shutting down. I had to come to grips with the fact that I had no clue where to look next. Sammy said he would continue calling the few marinas left on his list, and ended the call. It was almost seven in the evening. I was tired, and my eyes burned with exhaustion. Feeling a sudden craving for food and a cold drink, I shut down the computer and left the office.

  I took the stairs down instead of the elevator. After spending most of the past three days sitting on my ass, I felt a bit sluggish. The activity would bring my numb legs to life. I crossed the parking lot carefully, keeping an eye out for spooks luring in the shadows. I was glad there was no black SUV boxing me in this time. I purposely dropped my keys near my car and ducked down, checking for anyone trying to sneak up from behind. I checked under the car wheel wells and the insides of both bumpers searching for carefully hidden explosives or tracking devices. The grimy underside seemed undisturbed, and nothing looked out of place.

  Was it just a severe case of paranoia taking over my psyche? Maybe. The addition of spooks to the mix somehow made me feel like I was under constant surveillance, like someone somewhere was watching my every move. It also made me feel like a target. I had learned long ago that if you were unlucky enough to step on the toes of overly paranoid guardians of the state who operate under the guise of national security, not much is out of bounds and, in their view, pretty much every action taken in pursuit of that lofty goal is justifiable. Yes, I had good reason to be wary.

  CIA or not, I had to figure out what was next for Baumann. The two capers I knew of must have taken years of careful planning. He was a shrewd operator: deliberate, disciplined, and adept at the art of being someone else. The asset-gathering part of his plan was over. At this stage of the game, considering the financial success achieved, it would be prudent for him to quit the scene. The bodies were piling up, and questions would soon arise. It was reasonable to expect the authorities to get involved soon and focus on him. That left him one sensible option: disappear. Like most crooks attempting to flee prosecution and remain safely away from the long arms of the US justice system, he would likely head to a country that had no extradition treaty with the United States or at least did not consider his crimes serious enough to warrant extradition. How would he leave the country? Normal travel options were out. To move and operate effectively within any country, you had to carry identification at all times. Passports and plane tickets left paper trails. Cameras at airports recorded images of all travelers. Border crossings were just as bad. In these terrorist-phobic times, documentation for international travel was more important than ever. Entry visas were recorded and reported, and customs forms had to be filled out and filed with the proper authorities. That left Baumann only two real options: charter a private plane or escape by boat.

  It’s a short twelve-mile sail to international waters. Sailing away to freedom was a simple matter of untying the boat and steering due east. A seaworthy craft in the hand
s of an able sailor opened up a world of escape routes. There were plenty of destinations within easy reach of south Florida, and from which Baumann could fly or sail anywhere in the world. My bet was he would choose an escape by sea.

  Over a grilled grouper sandwich and a beer at a local cantina, I mentally retraced Baumann’s path of deception as I knew it. I became more convinced of the man’s need for a hasty exit, especially after beating Amy the way he had. The police were now involved. He had no way of knowing if Amy was consciousness and had identified him as her attacker. He had to assume she would recover and and identify him to the police. And if he was to make his getaway in the Stella Maris, the boat had to be nearby. The strong storm that had kept me in port had surely kept him tied up, too. But the nasty northeaster was beginning to finally move farther south. The swells in the Atlantic would soon be tame enough for safe passage. Baumann would be making his move soon. He had no other options, which meant I was running out of time.

  I paid my bill and drove back home. The entire marina, and especially the dock, lay in the long shadows of waning sunlight and nearby lamp posts. Bold Ambition II was a sight indeed, with its towering outriggers and wide deserted flying bridge, the tall skeleton tuna tower jutting high above the sleek cabin, gleaming rocket launchers ready to accept nearly a dozen fishing big game fishing rods, and the array of antennas, radar and satellite domes all testament to a single-minded purpose: catching big fish far from shore, of fishing adventures yet to come.

  The marina was as quiet as a mausoleum. The thought made me pause momentarily and look around for anything out of place. I scanned the parking lot only a few parked cars and pickups, all fairly familiar sights to be sure, and no activity on the neighboring boats. I went inside Bold Ambition and turned on the lights. Nothing seemed out of place, so I took a quick shower, put on shorts and a comfortable T-shirt, grabbed a cold one from the fridge, and booted up the computer to check the e-mail. Same as always: an endless assortment of junk mail, a few e-bills, a note from Sammy bearing an attachment. And of course, nothing from Nora. We were history not much I could do about that so I moved on. I opened Sammy’s e-mail. The attachment contained pictures he had taken of the map in Elizabeth Gage’s home office the one with all the pushpins indicating Baumann’s travels for the past several years. I magnified the image of the map and looked for patterns in the scattering tiny colored pins. I tried to think like Kaja Slavik, taking into account all possible motives for these trips, his plans, his life of deceit, and his ultimate goal: a life of ease somewhere else, safely beyond the reach of U.S. authorities.

  I focused my attention back on Elizabeth’s map. Of all the islands within an easy sail of south Florida, New Providence, with Nassau, the capital city of the Bahamas, was blessed with plenty of marinas that could handle a large sailboat of Stella Maris’s size and much larger. Nassau also had the only large international airport in the Bahamas. I zoomed in for a closer view of the pins in and around Nassau. The concentration of pins around Nassau stood out like a beacon. They drew my eye to Paradise Island. Nassau did indeed make for a perfect gateway point. The sheer number of pins there could not be an accident there had to be a better-than-average chance the man was headed there. It made perfect sense.

  I checked the marine forecast next: northeast winds at fifteen to twenty expected tomorrow, swinging eastward later in the day. It was still very choppy in the Gulf Stream: twelve- to fourteen-footers and offshore buoys in the Atlantic Ocean were reporting swells ranging from twelve to sixteen feet, with a few sets reaching twenty feet and higher further south. The gulet was certainly not designed for such heavy seas. If Baumann was planning to make his exit on the Stella Maris, he’d have to wait at least another day. I booked a flight to Nassau.

  I was going on holiday after all.

  Twenty-three

  After booking my flight, I printed a directory of all the marinas in New Providence and Paradise Island as well as all suitable anchorage locations. I also took the time to fire off an e-mail to Sammy detailing my travel plans. My cell phone was active in the Bahamas, so he would have no problems reaching me there. I asked him to continue with the search for the Stella Maris as planned while I went to Nassau and had a look around.

  I was familiar with most of the marinas in Nassau, having cruised there many times. Quite a few offered suitable deepwater dockage. Of course, there were also plenty of anchorage opportunities in the protected waters between Paradise Island and the mainland of New Providence Island. If the Stella Maris had dropped anchor anywhere on the island, chances were better than average that someone somewhere had taken notice of the unusual vessel and probably talked about it to a buddy at a refueling or provisioning depot. After all, the Bahamas boating community, though small, was enthusiastic about everything boat related. It had already been a long day, and the next day promised to be no better so I decided to call it a night.

  The next morning, I woke well before sunrise. The prospects of at last locating Baumann made it all but impossible to sleep in. The strong likelihood of a face-to-face confrontation with Baumann, I have to say, propelled me in a dark malevolent way that was all too familiar. The prospect infused my bloodstream with just enough adrenaline to preclude any meaningful rest until the job was done. I grabbed a quick breakfast after packing a light bag with a change of clothes and a few toiletries. If I had to stay longer, I could always buy clothes. A little less than two hours later, I was inside the small Fokker turbo-prop commuter plane that had seen far too many hours of service and buckled into my cramped bulkhead seat.

  I arrived at Nassau International Airport barely three hours after sunrise on a clear, sparkling day. The stiff northeastly breeze kept the humidity at bay and made for a relatively comfortable morning outdoors. More importantly, a wind like that churned up the ocean enough to keep most pleasure boats close to port and that included Baumann, too. That bought me another day to find the bastatrd. Half an hour later, I had cleared immigration and customs and was driving a rented white Jeep Wrangler, windows down and reggae tunes thumping from the radio. I was headed for Paradise Island.

  Last night before hitting the sack, I had called an old acquaintance in Nassau: Paul Lespiere. We had met years ago on Peter Island, British Virgin Islands, when he was the assistant manager of a four-star resort there. Paul relocated to the Bahamas ten years ago, when he was named general manager and vice president of the newest, most expensive beach resort and casino in Nassau. I had hoped he could accommodate me on such short notice.

  I reached him on my first attempt. Yes, of course I could get a room! Whatever I needed. And I simply must be his guest for dinner. I told him I’d love to, but it would have to wait until I concluded the business that brought me here. He understood, and we left it open.

  I drove up the perfectly manicured coral driveway to the seaside resort. The place was abuzz with activity and purpose: excited vacationers pouring out of white shuttle buses; others, with long-faced kids, obviously leaving the resort; hotel staff members in crisp white Nehru jackets over khaki slacks. I asked a valet to keep the Jeep nearby, handed him a twenty, and went inside.

  The interior of the enormous main building was colossal in both size and scope. It was obviously built to recreate some artist’s idyllic version of an underwater palace at the center of a lost watery kingdom. There were expansive columns supporting elaborate beams of a gigantic scale decorated in the soft pastels of the rainbow. A colossal stained glass and copper copula high above allowed filtered daylight into the surreal world beneath. Splendid bronze and copper chandeliers in appropriate proportions dangled from the unlikeliest of places. Soft music emanated from hidden speakers and worked like magic to mask the din of hundreds of happy excited voices and twice as many flopping flip-flops, shoes and heels trampling the polished travertine floors. Over the elaborate balcony rail overlooking the expansive lower level, I could see gigantic glass windows that offered an unreal view into a world of blue and aquamarine, an unfamiliar world filled
with rare and magnificent sea creatures. The total effect of beams, light, colors and images, I suspected, overtaxed the senses in an unexpectedly gratifying manner and prompted the visitor to expect more and spend more. The effect was mesmerizing, I had to admit. I even found myself momentarily buying into the fantasy.

  My room, on the seventeenth floor of the West Tower, had two spacious balconies. And should I ever tire of the unimpeded ocean view, I could retire to the living/dining area and separate bedroom complete with a king-size bed, fifty-five-inch flat-screen TV, separate sitting area with overstuffed chairs, walk-in closet, and marble-clad bathroom.

  I changed into the typical mainland wannabe fishing attire of white long-sleeved fishing shirt, khaki shorts, white sneakers, and blue Dodgers baseball cap. I had even brought along a pair of aviator sunglasses with the mandatory retainer strap and, of course, an eager smile. I grabbed the printout with the list of marinas and a map of the island and headed out the door.

  ***

  By two in the afternoon, I had visited five of the seven marinas on my list and driven all the roads that afforded the best views of the navigable waters separating the narrow sand spit known as Paradise Island from the bigger island of New Providence. I had spoken to every deck hand and boat dweller I could find. No, a blue-hulled gulet like that hadn’t tied up here or, more precisely, “No, mon. Not seen nothin’ like that.” No one had seen the motorsailer anywhere.

  I had two more marinas left, but they were the least promising. Being smaller, they afforded less in the way of concealment to someone primarily interested in hiding a large vessel. Tired and hungry, I drove to a waterside restaurant where I could count on fresh seafood, always grilled to perfection. It was expensive and a bit of a tourist trap, but the impeccable service and the view of the turquoise waters from almost every table in its expansive split level and perfectly air-conditioned interior made up for it.