by J. C. Fields
As he gazed skyward, a question without an answer lodged in his thoughts. He ran the frequent conversations held with Geoffrey Canfield over in his mind and the same question kept popping up. How was Canfield mixed up with Reid and Gerlis? The answer eluded him.
He lost track of time until he heard the sliding glass door open and then felt Nadia’s arms around his waist as she pressed herself against his back. “You must be getting cold. Come in, Michael.”
“I can’t figure it out.”
“What?”
“Why or how Canfield became involved with Reid and Gerlis.”
“You may never know. Canfield is dead.”
Wolfe twisted around in her embrace to face her and wrapped his arms around her. “Is he?”
She did not respond, her attention on his eyes.
“Gerlis faked his own death. Maybe Canfield did as well.”
“Michael, you are making no sense. How can you fake a heart attack?”
“Easy. There are drugs that mimic the symptoms. I’m sure Geoffrey knew more than one physician who could be bribed to sign the death certificate and then have a body cremated in his place. London is full of homeless, nameless souls who die on the streets every day. Once a body is cremated, it destroys all the DNA for comparison.” He paused. “It just takes money.”
“Did he have money?”
“Not that I knew about. But he always told me to put money away for a rainy day. Which I did. I’ve been out here thinking back on some of the numerous conversations we had while sipping Scotch in his library. I recall him mentioning a lifelong dream.”
“Which was?”
“Retiring to a warm island in the Caribbean.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you believe he is alive?”
“The more I think about it…” He nodded.
“A lot of possibilities there, Michael. It would be like, as you Americans say, looking for a needle in a hayloft.”
“Haystack.”
“Whatever. Where would you start looking?”
“Geoffrey is an unapologetic anglophile and he hates being cold. He’ll be in a warm part of the world still under the jurisdiction and sovereignty of the United Kingdom.”
“Does England still have colonies?”
“Not like a hundred years ago. They’re more protectorates than colonies.”
“So where would that be?”
“The Cayman Islands.”
“Why there?”
“A few minutes ago, I remembered a conversation he and I had one evening. His consumption of Glenfiddich that night was profound. He was quite drunk, actually. During one of his inebriated soliloquies, he waxed poetically about the state of British affairs. It was during this particular monologue he mentioned something he had never spoken of before.”
She snuggled closer to ward off the cold breeze swirling around the deck.
“He told me about making a bid on a small cottage in West Bay. He never mentioned it again, so I don’t know if he bought the place or not.”
“How would you find out?’
“The only way I can think of would be to go.”
She smiled. “I could work on my tan.”
“Yes. You do look sexy with tan lines.”
She hesitated. “Michael, how do we get to the Cayman’s without flying?”
He smiled and hugged her tighter. “Several years ago, I heard about an old friend who operated a charter boat service out of Key West.”
“Won’t that be expensive?”
“Probably, but I bet I can make a deal with him.”
She buried her head against his chest. “I am cold.”
“Let’s go in.”
Chapter 25
Key West, FL
M ichael Fuckin’ Wolfe, how the hell are ya, son?”
Wolfe extended a hand to Chief of the Boat Rufus Carroll. “I’m good, Chief. How about yourself?”
Chief Carroll, to everyone who knew him, hated his first name and seldom used it except on official documents. Standing just under five-foot-ten and in his late fifties, he still had broad shoulders and a trim waist. He was dressed in grease-smeared overalls, a sleeveless T-shirt displaying deeply tanned biceps and forearms with a lifetime of tattoos collected from different locales around the world. His longish gray hair, swept back and tied in a ponytail, plus his sea and sun weathered face gave him the appearance of a man ten years older.
“I couldn’t be better unless there were two of me.” He turned his gaze to Nadia. “And who is this lovely young lass?”
Nadia smiled and offered her hand. Wolfe introduced her. “Chief, this is my wife, Nadia.”
Carroll shot a quick glance at Michael and then returned his attention to Nadia. “I can see Michael got the better end of that deal.”
“Nice to meet you, Chief. Michael has told me a lot about you.”
“I doubt he told you everything, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But then I can tell you tales about him that’d curl your hair.” He paused and looked at Michael. “You didn’t come all the way to Key West to chit-chat. What’s on your mind?”
“That’s what I like about you, Chief. You don’t care much for social niceties.”
The older man shook his head. “Don’t have time for them. What’s up?”
“Do you still do charter work?”
“Never stopped.”
“How much to take us to Grand Cayman?”
“How long you want to stay?”
“Couple of weeks, maybe less.”
Carroll crossed his arm and looked at Nadia and then back to Wolfe. “Cheaper to fly.”
“Don’t want to.”
The Chief stared at Wolfe for a long time, his brow furrowed and arms still crossed. Finally, he relaxed and smiled. “If it was anybody but you, I’d say, hell no. But I owe you. Let’s say five thousand for the two weeks.”
“Four.”
“Forty-five”
“Done.”
Two Days Later
“I like the name of your boat, Chief.”
“So, do I. Escape seemed like the right metaphor.” He glanced at Wolfe, who was standing next to him on the bridge. “Why am I taking you to Grand Cayman?”
The side of Wolfe’s mouth twitched. “Someone I know is hiding there. I need to talk to him and find out why.”
Carroll chuckled and looked ahead. “That was a bullshit answer. Want to try again?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Very well.”
Silence fell between the two men as Escape made its way toward the western side of Cuba. Carroll nodded at Nadia sunbathing on the bow. “She’s a beautiful woman, Michael. Think she’ll take her top off?” He smiled mischievously as he said it.
The twitch returned. “Yes, she is and no she won’t.” He turned to his friend. “You’re becoming a dirty old man, Chief.”
“Becoming?”
They both chuckled.
“I noted a slight French accent.”
Wolfe smiled, “Her father was a diplomat. She grew up in France.”
Carroll’s eyes lit up and he laughed out loud. “You are so full of bullshit. You never were good at lying.”
Wolfe stared out over the open sea. “She is from France, but I met her in Israel. Someone tried to kill us in Barcelona a few years ago and now I’m trying to find out why.”
“Enough said. I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
Grand Cayman Island – Twelve Days Later
“If he is alive, Michael, maybe he is somewhere else on the island.”
Wolfe and Nadia sat at a table outside a small cafe watching tourists meander in and out of shops, bars, and restaurants. Nadia sipped tea and Wolfe drank strong bitter coffee.
Wolfe shook his head. “If he’s alive, he’ll be here.”
“You’ve checked property records with no luck.”
With a grin, he looked at her. “Are you forgetting we have different names now?”
<
br /> Chuckling, she lifted the tea to her lips. “Oh, that. Forgot.” She glanced around and then turned back to Wolfe. “We are scheduled to leave tomorrow. What are we going to do then?”
He remained quiet, concentrating on something across the street only he could see. Standing, he reached into his jean’s pocket and threw a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Let’s go.”
She followed him as he hurried across the busy avenue and fell into a purposeful stride on the sidewalk. “What is it?”
His only response was to quicken his pace. When they arrived at a dingy bar, he stopped before going in. Turning, he smiled. “Wait three minutes. If I haven’t come out, head inside and find me.”
“What is it?”
“I think I saw him. I just have to make sure.”
“Three minutes?”
He nodded and disappeared inside.
While his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he heard numerous conversations in distinct British accents. With a slight smile, he realized the establishment catered to expats from the United Kingdom. He spotted Geoffrey Canfield sitting at a table in the back looking straight at him. A wide grin was displayed on his ex-controller’s face as he raised a high-ball glass and motioned for Wolfe to join him.
As Wolfe approached, Canfield stood and offered his hand. “‘Bout bloody time you figured it out, Michael. I was starting to worry.”
Nadia stood outside the bar, sweeping the area to make sure no one paid too much attention to her. When her mental clock told her three minutes elapsed, she entered the bar and stood still. After the bright Caribbean sunlight, the darkness and loud conversations assaulted her senses. As her eyes adjusted, she saw Wolfe hunched over a small table at the back of the crowded room, conversing with an older man. She made her way toward the table, gathering looks and stares from the inhabitants, all of whom stopped their conversations as she passed.
As she approached, Wolfe noticed and motioned for her to join them. Both men stood and Canfield offered his hand. “You must be, Nadia.”
“And you must be Geoffrey Canfield.”
“But alas, I am.”
They all sat and Wolfe said, “Geoffrey goes by Greyson Collins here on the island.”
Nadia smiled. “At least you can still use your monogrammed shirts.”
Canfield’s eyes sparkled and he chuckled. “Yes, we have to maintain a bit of decorum even when away from civilization, don’t we?”
She returned the smile and nodded.
Wolfe picked up the conversation. “You were about to tell me why the big charade.”
After the older man sipped his drink, he took a deep breath. “Yes, I was.” He paused. “Where are my manners? You don’t have a refreshment, Nadia.”
“No, thank you.”
Pressing his lips together in a grimace, Canfield studied his glass as he turned it clockwise. “Rather embarrassing, I must say.”
“Geoffrey, you’re stalling. Who threatened you?”
“That bastard Gerald Reid. It wasn’t a threat—the bugger actually had someone try to kill me. I got lucky, Michael.”
“Why did he want you dead?”
“Because I know too much about him and his Israeli pal, Asa Gerlis.”
“Did you know Gerlis staged his own death?”
Without a change in expression, Canfield shook his head. “Not surprising. How?”
“Photoshopped his own image onto the body of some poor soul being beheaded.”
The older man grimaced. “Dear God.”
Nadia spoke next. “There is speculation he was a Russian mole within the Mossad and staged his own death to go back to Russia.”
Canfield gave a slight nod. “He was a bloody Russian. But he wasn’t a mole. He’s a greedy bastard with a deep hatred of the communists.” He paused. “He was executing his escape plan. I’m surprised Reid hasn’t done it yet.” Canfield noticed his drink was empty and searched the room for the barmaid. He saw her and waggled his glass. She smiled and went to order him another. He turned back to Wolfe and Nadia. “Reid is such a bastard.”
“Geoffrey, you’re dancing around something. What are you trying to say?”
“Not proud of it.”
Wolfe rolled his eyes. “What is it, Geoffrey?”
“A long time ago, Reid, Gerlis and I made a deal with the devil.”
Chapter 26
Somewhere in Howell County, Missouri
G regg Simpson wasn’t a developer, nor was he even a real estate broker—he was a newly recruited member of Gerald Reid’s anti-terrorist group. His record search at the Howell County Court House had one objective in mind—find a specific piece of property. With information provided by Robert Benson to Kendra Burges during interviews at FCI Edgefield and then Benson’s subsequent death after being released, Reid dispatched Simpson to Howell County to search for the location of the property. These events were the first clues as to the possible whereabouts of Michael Wolfe.
Simpson looked up from the computer screen and smiled. Turning to the young woman with bored eyes attending the reception counter, he said, “How do I make a hard copy of a file?”
She did not return the smile. “Just press the print screen button at the top.”
“Thank you.”
Twenty minutes later, he walked out of the courthouse with locations of five pieces of property matching his search parameters, all neatly printed at the expense of the Howell Country Courthouse.
After five years as an Army Ranger, Simpson had decided he needed one more adventure and made an application to the CIA. After interviews with several lower-level agency functionaries and finally Gerald Reid, he had been offered a position. Slender and athletic, with dark brown hair and a perpetual two-day beard, he was, at best, nondescript—another reason for his hiring.
With a vague description of the property supplied by Benson, the first two properties he searched were quickly dismissed due to a lack of an old cabin on the land. The third location contained an updated cabin which appeared to be built in the late 1800s. This piece of property he scrutinized closer. After driving the Jeep north thirteen hundred yards, he topped a small rise in an open field and saw a sight which piqued his curiosity. Nine hundred yards down the sloped pasture, he saw what appeared to be camouflage netting. With a slight smile, he accelerated the Jeep toward the spot. As he grew nearer, the area morphed into a door on the side of the hill.
The second he stopped the vehicle in front of the camouflaged entrance, a pair of motion-detector security cameras started recording his arrival at Michael and Nadia’s underground home. The images were downloaded to a server within the house which immediately backed them up on a cloud-based file system. The software controlling the cloud-based system sent an automated text message to a preprogrammed number.
The owner of the earth-sheltered home received an electronic notification before Simpson could even step out of the Jeep.
Grand Cayman Island
Michael Wolfe glanced at his cell phone after feeling the vibration of an incoming text message. He smiled and returned the phone to his cargo pant pocket, his attention again focused on Geoffrey Canfield. “Sorry for the interruption. What do you mean a deal with the devil?”
“Ever hear of a retired United States general named William Little?”
Wolfe’s ability to hide his emotions with a practiced neutral expression failed him. His body stiffened and he narrowed his eyes.
Canfield nodded. “I take it you have.”
After glancing at Nadia for a split second, Wolfe cocked his head to the side as he said to Canfield. “What about him?”
“How much do you know?”
“I’d rather hear what you have to say.”
Canfield nodded. “Little began his career in the army after graduating from West Point. His rise to command level was more meteoric than most careers, not because of ability, but because your country’s military felt it needed more diversity. He proceeded to have a lackluster and, many would say, unchall
enged career, until Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm.”
Nadia asked. “What happened?”
“General Little’s true personality made itself known.”
Without taking his eyes off Canfield, Wolfe said through clenched teeth, “I was there.”
“Yes, I know. You also may have been involved with some of his disastrous operations without knowing it.”
“I was.”
“Then you know most of the ones he initiated resulted in high casualties with little strategic gains.”
Wolfe could only nod.
“I was with MI6 at the time attached to a SAS squad as their intelligence officer. Some of the lads were coming to me complaining about Little. So, I started a quiet inquiry.”
“What’d you find?”
“The man was corrupt and self-serving. He surrounded himself with junior officers who were just as ethically challenged as he. They all profited from the war.”
Wolfe knew all of this, but remained quiet.
“After we liberated Kuwait and pushed Saddam Hussein’s forces back into Iraq, General Little quietly went back to the states for a brief tour at the Pentagon. The brass quickly discovered how inept the man was. He left the military and moved abroad to the island of Madagascar. He claimed his early retirement was due to the passing of a rich aunt. He explained, to those who would listen, she left him forty million dollars. No one could determine if the aunt ever existed. With an inheritance that large, he also inherited a large tax bill. He never paid the IRS. Since Madagascar does not have an extradition treaty with the US, he spent the next twenty-two years becoming quite the influential person in the small country.”
With Wolfe remaining quiet, Nadia asked another question. “Did something happen to him?’
Canfield almost smiled but hid it with his hand. “He was assassinated by a sniper in May of 2014.”
No comment came from Wolfe.
Canfield continued, “He was standing on his veranda when his head suddenly disappeared in a pink mist of blood and brain tissue. His security detail could not find the sniper hide until they extended their search out beyond 800 meters. At a distance of 1600 meters down the beach, they found it. I’m told it was an extraordinary shot. Not too many men have the skill set or ability to do that, Michael.”
