by Gunn, Autumn
“There’s no need to search the room,” Frost said as he continued to eyeball the room. “We’re interested in a craft identification number.”
“Don’t have a boat,” I said.
There we were. All three of us in the living room. A triangle. The game of cat and mouse had begun. Frost opened it up, as he should. He’s senior and a man dealing with a man. I wasn’t sure if Abbey was along for the ride to gather some experience or if she was actually going to get her hands dirty with this one. Probably depended on how deep they got. They seemed tired. It made sense. What in the hell were two pale, DEA agents doing on a sun scorched Greek holiday island full of jet set multimillionaires, fashion models, gay partiers, and a few backpackers thrown in here and there for good measure?
“Mind if we take a load off?” Frost asked.
“No problem,” I said. “Here or would you prefer to take in the view outside?” Even though there was a pristine white cabana perfectly shaded with ocean breezes I knew the answer. They would want to keep their business indoors.
“In here is fine,” Frost said.
“Make yourself at home,” I said. “Beer?”
I walked towards the kitchen separated from the living room only by a two-seater bar.
“No, thank you,” Frost said.
I grabbed a cold beer and took a swig. If I had opened a can of worms that was going to take some time to close at least I wanted to have a drink first.
I walked back into the living room. The agents both sat there staring at me. I walked back to the bar and grabbed a stool. Took it to the living room and sat down.
Frost had pulled a chair from the desk in the corner and put his back to the wall and his butt in the seat. Abbey had opted for the couch. A good choice. Maybe too good. It was comfortable and she looked in need of a nap. We were in a triangle again. Staring at one another.
“You go by Zamora. Is that correct?” Frost wasn’t wasting any time.
I was looking at Abbey. She was beautiful. I couldn’t make her out for English or American. Maybe a mix of both. Claire Abbey sounds very English, but what would she be doing working for the DEA partnered up a guy with a name as American as Bill Frost?
I took a break from checking out Abbey and looked over to Frost. I nodded, although why I wasn’t sure. It was apparent they already knew that much. No point in trying to deny the obvious, nor did I care to.
This rental is registered to a Williams. Jason Williams,” Frost said. “Mr. Williams paid with cash for three nights and said he might request to extend.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Tonight’s that third night.”
“I know.”
“Well?”
I just stared at Frost. Didn’t change my expression at all. Let him ask the questions.
“Plan on leaving tomorrow? Maybe even later today?”
“Not in my plans.”
“What is in your plans?”
“Don’t have any. My plan is not to have a plan much these days. Just take things as they come.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
I never liked that question. Seemed pretentious like the one asking it was being condescending to your current situation.
“Really well,” I said.
“Who’s Williams?”
“Well, there are probably a lot of Jason Williams.”
“And which one are you pretending to be?”
“White chocolate.”
Frost looked at me blankly. I didn’t take him for much of a basketball fan and my suspicion was confirmed.
“White chocolate?”
“White chocolate was his nickname. He was a point guard in the NBA. He was so fluid and had such moves they called him white chocolate. He valued showmanship quite a bit. Some people think he was incapable of making a routine chest pass.”
“And what about you?”
“I disagree. Saw him make plenty.”
“Not that, Mr. Zamora. Showmanship. Do you value showmanship?” Frost seemed to be growing frustrated. It seemed like an odd question, but I could see where he was heading.
“A guy who uses an alias to check into a private bungalow owned by a Greek lady who doesn’t speak English wouldn’t be the type of guy to value showmanship. Too much at least.”
“At the dock?”
“Come again?” I didn’t see where he was going.
“This place is near impossible to find. Not on any online travel booking websites. Not even Airbnb. The only way you can find it is at the dock. That and you have to know Greek to speak with the lady who manages the place.”
“Or how to communicate with your hands.”
“Is that how you found it Mr. Zamora?”
“Nope. I met a couple Italian girls on the Blue Star Ferries on the way over from Athens. They know somebody that stayed here once. Said it was really nice. I took their word on it. Worked out fine.”
Claire Abbey hadn’t taken her eyes off me. I couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed. She probably thought I was toying with her boss. Or was it the guy the agency had partnered her up with? Her thoughts about me currently depended on her thoughts towards Frost. Not that I cared either way. What I did care about was learning more about her. That seemed odd considering I was hoping they would leave as soon as possible.
“We spoke with the Coast Guard soldier. Summerset was his name,” she stated. “You called in a favor. Asked if he could provide the info on a craft identification number. Said you knew it was a private registration. That or at least nothing government related.”
She didn’t seem accusatory. She was just stating facts. If I were her I’d want to wrap this up as soon as possible too. Get in my swimming suite and make it to the seaside to soak up some rays, especially if I was pale. At least we had a common interest. Or at least that what was I was going to tell myself. I held her look. Didn’t reply.
“We’ve been watching that vessel number. We set up an alert if it came up in any attempts to search. Google searches. CIN tracking sites. Government computers. I think you get the idea,” she said. “Once Summerset typed in that last number he was a sitting duck. I was speaking with him less than three minutes later. He was definitely taken off guard. Said he was just curious.”
“Aren’t we all.” It was a statement. Not a question.
“As far as the people in this room go, yes. Other than that, I really don’t know. And of course if I did I wouldn’t be able to say.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“That’s what we want to know.”
“And you tracked me down how?”
“It wasn’t easy. We had help.”
“Summerset?”
“No. He’s got your back. He didn’t want to give you away.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“True. Especially considering you haven’t seen him in so long.”
“What makes you say that?”
“We can put the pieces to a puzzle together pretty quickly, Mr. Zamora.”
“And what puzzle is it that you’re looking to solve with this CIN?”
“The first puzzle is why you called it in. The second is why you care. The third is how you’re involved.”
“Is this kind of like the three strikes rule?” I said.
“Something like that.”
“So three strikes and I’m out?”
“Maybe you won’t take any strikes. Maybe you won’t swing and miss. Maybe you’ll swing and knock it out of the park.”
“A home run.”
“A home run,” she said.
“For me or for you?”
“We don’t know yet. Hopefully for both of us.”
“So you like baseball?”
“I’ve seen it before.”
“Live or on the tube?”
“Both.”
“With the name of Claire Abbey I wasn’t sure if you were English or American.”
“And now you know
?” She asked in an irritated tone.
“No, but at least I know you know about baseball.”
“And English women don’t know about baseball?”
“Most women I know don’t know much about much.”
“Is that supposed to be funny or misogynistic?”
“Tragic actually. If you ask my mother and friends at least.”
“How so?”
“They think I’m just wasting my time with big boobied bimbos who want to have some fun.”
“What do you say to that?”
“I say what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing inherently. If everybody’s happy then it’s their business, right?”
“Exactly what I’m thinking right now.”
“Except when business concerns others.”
I didn’t say anything. Just admired Claire Abbey. I liked her style. She let her boss take the lead. Making him feel comfortably superior. When things started to stall she jumped in. Not to save the day. Just to cut to the point. Contrary to some of my recent choices in play dates, I like a woman who can just get right to it. Challenge me verbally and mentally. Or at least give it a go.
“A random guy calls in a CIN,” Abbey said. “Why in the world would he do that? Well, maybe he got in some sort of argument with the guy. Maybe he’s just jealous of the guy. Maybe he wants something the other guy has,” she said.
“Maybe he’s in the market for a boat and he just found one he likes,” I said.
“Or maybe it’s not the boat. It’s the person, or persons, on the boat. But since you’re interested in the CIN, then I’m guessing it’s a specific person. Probably what is, or appears to be, the owner of the boat.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. She’s trying to set me up. If the boat is involved in some sort of government work then that boat is probably her friend. That by default doesn’t work well for me. On the other hand if the person in that boat isn’t on friendly terms with Claire Abbey and Bill Frost, then we might see eye to eye. To stick with the sports analogies, we’re on the same team.
“Have you seen the view from the cabana?”
“Saw it on our way in,” she said.
“Did you like it?”
“Not as much as you did two nights ago,” she said. “The two Italian girls. The housecleaner heard noises all night.”
“She wasn’t here.”
“She stays just down the hill. Noise travels farther at night.”
“Did the girls sound satisfied?”
“Immensely.”
Frost rolled the dials on his combo lock into place. The satchel snapped open. He removed a bunch of papers inside one of those plastic paper holder things you use in elementary school. The ones you use to show the teacher in a way to say that this is valuable stuff. More important than the normal homework you just shove in your Trapper Keeper with the red sports car on the front. It looked like printouts. Most were black and white, but there were some in color. Photographs.
“You were a SEAL.”
I could see my name on a few of the sheets. I’m sure he wanted me to. That and some headshots and a shot of me on the terrace from this morning. I was hosing myself down with some fresh water after the swim. Nude of course.
“Those aren’t going to TMZ are they?”
“Is there a market for Zane Zamora nude photos?”
“Only on Tinder,” I said.
“Navy SEAL for seven years,” Frost said. “The more dangerous, the more likely you were to be there. Seems you have a special liking for the Middle East.”
“A lot of danger there.”
“Danger and bad guys. And the Middle East is just a boat ride away from where we are now.”
I didn’t say anything. A friend from Recces once told me over beers in a Joburg township that Americans don’t know their geography. Apparently Frost didn’t get that memo.
“But I don’t have a boat.”
“Plenty of accommodations. Some inter-service rifle championships. Multiple confirmed kills of Somali pirates at sea in heavy winds and choppy conditions. Apparently you’re the best of the best when it comes to sniping,” Frost continued.
I wanted to say, that’s right! But I didn’t say anything.
“And then suddenly a promising, more than promising actually, career all thrown away.”
Again, I said nothing.
“What happened?”
“Who said anything happened?”
“Why would a man who had built such an incredible and distinguished life for himself, a man who was at the top of his game, let it all go?”
“Who said I let anything go?”
“What happened then? Why did you walk away?”
“That right there is the problem,” I said. “I didn’t walk away. In the SEALs opinion I limped away.”
“Not following you,” Frost said.
“Unfit for duty. Too many hits to the head or something like that.”
“Says here head, shoulder, back, femur, ankles, feet, hands. At one time or another you’ve pretty much broken everything.”
“Twice,” I said. “Most things broken twice.”
“And they let you go because of that? Your scores were still off the charts.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“If you have to ask then you already know,” I said.
“And you hold a grudge?”
“Not at all. They made a decision. That’s their right.”
“So you’re not the type to hold grudges?”
“If you’re referring to the guy on the boat it’s not a grudge.”
“What is it then?”
“I’m not accustomed to seeing ghosts on days other than October 31st.”
“Come again?”
“I saw a dead man on that boat. I wanted to find out how he became undead.”
Frost dug inside his satchel. He pulled out a stack of photos. I thought he had already emptied his satchel. I guess he had more. He held up a photo. It was a picture of a Latino somewhere drinking a coffee with another guy. They were wearing white linen.
“Your holiday photos from Cuba,” I said.
“Not quite. See the guy to the right of the Latino guy?”
“They both look somewhat Latino, but yes, I see the guy on the right in the photo.”
“Turkish. We’ve been watching him like a hawk. He’s a big time drug runner. Looks like now he’s stepped up his game even further.”
“How so?”
“The migrants. The ones without money are desperate. They’re stuck in Syria fearing that ISIS is going to swoop in and make them part of their program. That or the government is going to mandatorily enlist them to fight ISIS. They don’t want either of those options. The ones with cash? They already took off.”
“Seems like they still are. Saw a ton of them in Belgrade this summer.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. You saw the first few waves. Now we’re looking at the late movers. The ones who didn’t have the money to get out while it was still relatively doable. Now they’re resorting to more desperate measures.”
“Such as?”
“Drug mules. The Syrians are being used as drug mules from Afghanistan. They pack their bags full of heroine and send them on their way. The first leg is by car. Syria to Turkey. Izmir specifically. There they ditch the car for little to no money, but it doesn’t matter. The Turkish guy you saw in the photos. He meets them there and arranges bus transport to Bodrum. From Bodrum they transport the drugs across the sea to Kos in Greece, but the Greeks don’t want them.”
“But the Greeks want that euro cash so they have put on a happy face.”
“Exactly. And they don’t want those euro fines for not providing adequate facilities or showing a sympathetic face to the global TV cameras so they bite their lips and just transport them across the sea to Athens. From Athens they set off walking again.”
“Taking the Balkan route to and
through Belgrade.”
