"The cops would never think I killed those four back there," she said.
"Which makes it my problem," said Remo, "if you spill your guts."
"I wouldn't tell them anything," she said defiantly.
"You say that now," said Remo, "but this isn't Washington or New York City. The police have different rules down here, and Daddy wouldn't be much help."
"He doesn't even know I'm here," said Stacy. "But you wouldn't hesitate to call him, would you, if you wound up in a jam?"
She glared at Remo and refused to answer him, changing the subject. "Have you found out anything so far?"
"It's too soon," Remo said. "I keep getting distracted."
"Right. And I suppose that's my fault?" Even as she asked the question, though, Stacy sounded remorseful.
They had reached the waterfront, and Remo led her toward the pier where the Melody was berthed. Stacy took one look at the gleaming cabin cruiser, frowned and said, "So this is how you're doing it? You plan to use yourself for bait?"
"Unless somebody else keeps luring the sharks away," said Remo. "Come aboard."
Chiun was in the main saloon, belowdecks, watching television. The selection had to have been abysmal, as they found him staring at an infomercial for an exercise device designed for toning stomach muscles, called the Ab Solution. Remo grimaced at a blond hard body with a thousand-candlepower smile and eyes that looked as if she was coming down from six or seven weeks on speed. The old Korean sat motionless in front of the plasma screen, surrounded by darkness, so motionless he might have been stuffed.
"Is that the best we have to offer, Little Father?" Remo asked Chiun.
"A moment ago this channel was showing a fine Argentinean drama," the old Korean said. "The moment you and the harlot stepped aboard, the signal went haywire and my lovely story of intrigue and romance was replaced with this!"
"You don't need an Ab Solution, Little Father," Remo chided. "Chiun, this is Stacy Armitage. Her father is the senator who turned the screws on you-know-who, who turned the screws on Upstairs."
Chiun never moved a muscle, but the TV abruptly went black. Stacy seemed to see the faintest reflection of a very lined face in the surface of the plasma screen, then the screen blazed back to life. The wizened Korean face was wiped out by a gleaming, muscular woman doing exercises. Even she looked uncomfortable using the Ab Solution, but every rep brought her large breasts, bulging out of their bikini top, looming into the camera lens. Her boobs filled the huge screen, forty-times life-sized.
"Shall I record it for you?" Chiun asked.
"No, thanks."
"The senator's trolloping offspring doesn't quite measure up, does she?" Chiun asked in Korean.
"That's enough." Remo steered Stacy out of the media room.
"He's a friendly old fart," Stacy said in a whisper. "You caught him at a bad time," Remo said. "He wants his MTV. M as in Mexican."
"Listen, do you think those guys tonight were ...well, you know?"
"Good citizens? The welcoming committee? Talent scouts? I'd vote for none of the above," said Remo.
"Dammit, this is serious. I need to know if they were in on what happened to Richard."
"It's a little late to ask them now," said Remo, "but I doubt it."
"Why?" she asked.
"It's just a hunch," he answered, "but they didn't have that pirate feel about them. Not a peg leg in the bunch, for openers. No parrots on their shoulders that I noticed."
"Very funny, Mr. Rubble."
"Call me Remo. If I had to guess, I'd say those four were city boys who didn't spend a lot of time at sea. In fact, I don't think they cared much for drinking water, much less sailing on it. What you did is set yourself up to be robbed and raped by some gorillas who had time to kill. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to hear they'd pulled that kind of thing before. But hijacking a ship at sea?" He shook his head. "It doesn't wash."
"Unfortunately, I believe you're right," she said.
"So, now that you've experienced the wild life, may I take it you'll be going home?"
"Did I say that?"
"Not yet," said Remo, "but I keep hoping for some evidence of common sense."
Her cheeks flushed pink at that, but Stacy swallowed the sarcastic answer that immediately came to mind. "My brother's dead," she told him, "and I want to find the men responsible. What's wrong with that?"
"In theory, nothing," Remo answered, "but in practice ...well, you've seen how it plays out. You need some basic skills to go along with the enthusiasm, or you're just a sitting target."
"You could teach me," Stacy said, "and I can help you, too. You'll make a more inviting target with a woman on board ship."
"I'm guessing that you never had much problem with false modesty," said Remo.
"None at all," she answered, smiling for the first time in their brief acquaintance. "And you know I'm right. Admit it."
"Either way, it makes no difference," Remo said. "Do you have any other siblings, Stacy?"
"What?" She was confused by Remo's change of tack. "No, there was just my brother. What's that got to do with anything?"
"In case you didn't know, your father is the man behind this operation," Remo said. "He called in some markers with the big cheese and got things rolling. I don't imagine he'd approve my using you for bait. What do you think?"
"So you're afraid of him? That's it?"
"I have a job to do. Right now, you're in the way."
"I won't go back," she said. "You can't make me."
"Oh, really?" Remo let her see a twisted, mirthless smile.
The silence stretched between them long enough for Stacy to replay the alley scene in her mind and watch him kill four would-be rapists. Her voice was softer, carrying a tad less self-assurance when she said, "You wouldn't."
"Damage you?" He shook his head. "But I'll be glad to put you on the next flight to Miami, maybe call and have your father send down an escort. That should embarrass him enough to get him off his ass and make him take care of the problem. In the meantime, though, the men who killed your brother will have that much extra time for covering their tracks."
"You send me back, and I won't stay," she said. "I swear to God, I'll be right back here in another day or two. I don't care what my father says or does. I won't give up until I find the men who murdered Richard."
"And then what?" asked Remo.
Stacy held his eyes with hers. "I want to see them die. That's your department, I believe."
"If I decide to let you stay," said Remo, trying to ignore the little clucking sound Chiun was making in the media room, now two rooms away, "we have some ground rules going in. The first time you break one of them, I bounce your preppie ass back to D.C. Agreed?"
"Let's hear the rules," she said, then smiled.
Chapter 9
Remo and Stacy Armitage were window-shopping on Bay Street when Trade Winds Travel opened for business at 9:30 a.m. Remo felt rested and relaxed, despite Chiun's displeasure with Remo's decision to allow Stacy to travel with them.
"He doesn't like me, does he?" Stacy had asked over a breakfast of steamed rice.
"Chiun takes some getting used to," Remo said.
"That's okay. So do I."
Remo hadn't replied to that. Whatever happened, one way or another, he knew Stacy wouldn't be around that long.
The sole proprietor of Trade Winds Travel was a forty-something Englishman whose baked-in tan made him resemble a Hawaiian islander, until he opened his mouth. Long years of living in the tropics had done nothing to disguise the Cockney accent that betrayed his origins. His sun-bleached hair was showing threads of silver at the temples and receding slightly from a pointed widow's peak. The body underneath his lightweight cotton suit seemed fit enough, though he would never be mistaken for an athlete.
"Here, come in, come in!" he said as Remo followed Stacy through the office door, a cowbell clanking overhead. "What can I do for you this morning, aye?"
"Your poster advertise
s guided tours," Stacy said.
"That it does. You've got a sharp eye there, if I may say so. Howard Morgan, at your service."
"Remo Rubble, my wife, Stacy," Remo told him.
"Charmed," Morgan said. "Actually, we have several different packages available. If you require a boat-"
"We have our own," Stacy informed him, sounding just snotty enough for a well-bred child of privilege.
The travel agent fairly beamed. "That's all the better, then," he said. "Reduces overhead, you understand. In that case, I can fix you up with special maps, brochures and booklets for an independent cruise, if you want privacy. Guides are available on almost any island you may care to visit, and I can retain their services on your behalf, as well. We have them ready, that way, when you reach your port of call."
"No private guides?" asked Remo, sounding disappointed.
"Well, of course we-"
"And the extra crewman, darling," Stacy added. "Don't forget, you're on vacation."
"Right you are," said Remo, thinking that it would have sounded better on a polo field or at a posh New England country club.
"We rather wanted to relax," he told the travel agent. "It's our second honeymoon, you understand."
"Of course," said Morgan. "Say no more. If all you're wanting is a man to navigate and help with basic sailing chores, and not a chef or anything like that..."
"Sounds perfect," Remo said, giving Stacy a squeeze for emphasis.
"Sounds marvy," she concurred. "In fact, we have a friend back home who hired a guide in Puerta Plata, several weeks ago. A young man named... Enrique something, I believe it was. He simply can't stop jabbering about their trip and all the things they saw. Our friend, I mean. I don't suppose...?"
The travel agent's face was blank. "Well, I can try, of course, um. But I have to tell you that Enrique is a fairly common name in these parts, much like Henry in the States."
In fact, it was Henry, in Spanish, but Remo saw no point in showing off his meager knowledge of the language. "It's not important," he told Morgan.
"I'm sure anyone you have on staff would be quite satisfactory."
"We aim to please, sir. Tha's a fact. When did you wish to start?"
"As soon as possible," Stacy said. "Hopefully today. Tomorrow at the latest."
"I'd best get started calling, then. On live-aboards, your average local costs twenty-five to thirty U.S. dollars for a day, with the arrangements worked out in advance. Have you considered how long you'll be visiting the islands?"
"Oh," Stacy said, "a week or two. No one's expecting us at home until the Dickens party on the twenty-ninth."
"Well, then, I'll see what I can do. I'm sure that we can find you someone suitable, perhaps by early afternoon."
"Outstanding," Remo said.
"Terrific," Stacy echoed.
"It's traditional to barter prices with these islanders, but I can do that for you, if you like."
"Sounds good to me," Remo added.
"Me, too," said Stacy Armitage.
"In that case," Morgan said, beaming, "I'll get to work right now and hope to be in touch with you, say, noonish?"
"Noonish would be lovely," said Remo. He knew the moment it came out that it didn't sound quite natural. Note to self, he thought. Don't use the word lovely when undercover. Or ever again, for that matter.
The travel agent blinked, but kept his own broad grin, and waved in parting as they left his office. "Smart-ass!" Stacy muttered, as they crossed the busy street.
"You mean I wasn't marvy?" Remo pulled a sad expression.
"He's dirt, Remo," Stacy said. "Couldn't you smell it on him?"
"That's your basic island hygiene, I'm afraid. Manana for the shower, if you get my drift."
"Terrific. Now I'm working with a stand-up comic."
"You're not working, Stacy," he reminded her. "You're just along for the ride."
"Oh, really? Do you think you could have hooked old Howard, if you didn't have your 'wife' along to keep you company?"
"We'll never know," said Remo. "But the little woman needs to mind her manners, or we may be headed for a quick divorce."
THE HARDEST PART FOR Howard Morgan still came down to setting up the raids. He loved the money; that went without saying, or he never would have started in the first place. He had even managed to develop a facility for blocking out its source, once the deed was done and he had banked the cash. By that time, with a few stiff rum-and-colas underneath his belt, Morgan could tell himself that it was simply business, nothing that should prey upon his mind.
It was a different story when he actually met the victims, though. He had to deal with them as human beings when they stood before him, face-to-face, conversing in the queen's own English. There was nothing to be done about it, then, but to put on a stalwart face and do the job that he was being paid-and very handsomely, at that-to carry off without complaints or needless questions.
Even so, the faces haunted him sometimes.
It helped that they were always rich beyond his wildest dreams, a trait that helped set them apart from normal human beings in the travel agent's mind. And it was better yet when they came off as bloody snobs who didn't give a damn about the common man, as long as they were able to enjoy their luxuries without restraint. Rich Yanks, at that, most of them. The Americans were worst of all when they had extra money in their hands, unable to resist the urge to lord it over those less fortunate. Loud shirts and too much jewelry, cleavage that owed more to surgery and silicone than Mother Nature. Bloody idiots, the lot of them.
Good riddance, Morgan told himself.
And still, he hesitated when it came to picking up the telephone.
It got a little easier each time, of course, and that was somewhat troubling in itself. The sense of guilt was almost welcome, when he started working with Kidd and Teach. The pangs of conscience had let Morgan tell himself that he was just as much a victim as the rotters who were vanishing at sea. He suffered just as much as they did-more, in fact, because it was his fate to live with guilt and spend his blood money on women, cigarettes and liquor that would surely do him in one day.
But nowadays, the guilt was fading fast, depriving Morgan of his rationale, the taste of martyrdom that made it possible for him to face his mirror in the morning. Lately, it disturbed him that he didn't think about the dead as much as he once had; they didn't haunt his dreams compulsively, but only dropped in on the odd occasion, like a bout of indigestion after he had eaten too much curry down at Singh's cafe.
He sat with one hand on the telephone and thought back to the very start of it. He had been gambling heavily in those days-one bad habit he had managed to get rid of, more or less-and had run up a monstrous debt with certain gentlemen of leisure who were known to settle their accounts with violence when the money they were owed was not available. The night they came for him, Morgan expected them to break his fingers, possibly his legs, as well. He doubted they would kill him, though he couldn't rule it out entirely. Even so, he had been stunned when one of them-the slugger, Berto something- had informed him that his debt was paid, and that he would be hearing from his nameless benefactor soon. Relief had metamorphosed into panic three days later, when a man who introduced himself as Thomas Kidd walked into the Trade Winds office, introduced himself as Morgan's brand-new business partner and proceeded to describe the scheme that would enrich them both. Kidd was essentially a pirate-hence the name, which Morgan took, and still believed, to be a "clever" alias-who had grown tired of cruising aimlessly among the Windward Islands and decided he would benefit from working with an agent who could tell him when fat targets were abroad, and where they could be found. Morgan assumed that he wasn't alone in serving Kidd, that there were others like himself in different ports of call, arranging "guided tours" and sending wealthy yachtsmen to their fate.
It helped, as well, to think that there were others doing what he did, sharing his guilt. Somehow, Morgan believed it would be worse by far if he alone served Ca
ptain Kidd. How could he ever hope for absolution if he was the only one involved?
No matter. He was in too deep to back out now. It would have meant abandoning his home and business, the bizarre but comfortable life he had constructed for himself since he had moved from Kingston, six years earlier, and settled in at Puerta Plata. Unlike Berto and his fellow sportsmen, Kidd and company would not be satisfied to rough him up, if Morgan tried to go back on his bargain. They would kill him instantly, without remorse; of that fact, Morgan had not the slightest doubt.
He had considered fleeing, simply cleaning out his bank account and running for his life, but there was still the niggling question of exactly where to go. Morgan was pushing fifty, and his best years were decidedly behind him. In his heart, he knew it was too late for him to start again, rebuild himself from the ground up, as he had done so many times before. This time was all or nothing, simple logic telling him that it could come to no good end.
The good news was that Kidd had always paid him promptly, and in full. Sometimes, he even got a bonus, when the targets he set up were fat enough. Whatever else Kidd and his buccaneers might be, Morgan could never fault them on their generosity.
It was bizarre, in fact, the way Kidd and the handful of his men whom Morgan had been "privileged" to meet behaved themselves. He knew that they were thieves and killers-more than likely rapists, too, if not a great deal worse-but there was still a kind of Old World pride and honesty about them. On the rare occasions when he spoke to Kidd these days, Morgan couldn't help feeling that he had to have stumbled through a time warp and been dropped into the middle of another century. The way Kidd talked, the way his mind worked, it was like a glimpse back into history, when sea wolves plied the blue Caribbean at will, and free men rarely worried much about the long arm of the law.
Morgan dialed the contact number he had memorized. He wasn't meant to know who picked up on the other end, but he had done a little homework on his own and come up with the name, regardless. It was always the same voice that answered, with its Yankee twang.
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