The End Game

by Tod Goldberg

  “Glynn Wilson,” he said quickly, like he didn’t want Sam to hear it.

  “Glynn has been on my team for over a year,” Gennaro said, which Sam thought meant he was to be trusted, which would normally be the case except for that recoil. It made him think of Alex Kyle’s men, all of whom were now familiar with good old Chuck, too. He’d need to get a new name one of these days, but it was sort of like a nice pair of jeans. Once you get them worn in, it doesn’t make sense to get a new pair.

  Now, as they were cutting through the sea, Sam couldn’t shake the sense that things were askew with Mr. Wilson. It’s not like he wasn’t working hard-god knows they all were, even Sam, shuffling back and forth to either side of the yacht as they swung the sail in and out of the wind-but it was the fact that when Gennaro told them they could take a break, none of the others actually did. They talked amongst themselves about strategy, about reading the wind and the water, trading thoughts with Gennaro. Glynn was right there with them, but he was also working with something in his pocket.

  Sam made it a point not to pay much attention to the habits of men’s hands while in their pockets unless there was obvious danger, but in this case it wasn’t like Glynn was pacing in front of a preschool wearing a trench coat, which made it all the more curious. The more Sam watched Glynn, the more Sam began to think there was something very wrong with the fellow.

  So when Gennaro called the team back into action, Sam decided it would be wise to use some of his old training, though this was more the sort of thing he’d learned outside of the SEALs.

  If you want to pick someone’s pocket, the best method is to employ a team: One or two people to cause a distraction-like a fight or a fall-and another person to actually slip into the mark’s pocket or purse for the treasure. Or four people to bump directly into the person from all sides-like on a subway-while a fifth filches away.

  None of those options were available to Sam aboard the Pax Bellicosa, so if he wanted to find out what was going on in Glynn’s pocket, he was going to need to try a less subtle approach.

  He was going to have to knock him over.

  Casually, of course.

  The way a Swan picks up racing speed is by turning the bow of the boat into the wind and raising its large main sail, followed by raising the jib and cutting into the ocean currents. The team shifts side to side to make best use of weight distribution and usually, when there isn’t an uninvited guest aboard, it’s a choreography of brutal elegance as the team slides back and forth, braces the boat, controls the sails and crashes over the water.

  The first time, Sam watched Glynn carefully and saw that he was being very mindful not to bump his pocket while the other men were throwing themselves with abandon. On the second shift a few minutes later, Sam decided he’d find out just what was so important.

  As the team scurried across, Sam dropped an elbow-casually-into Glynn’s solar plexus, which caused him to double over in pain as he struggled for breath.

  “Oh, crap, sorry,” Sam said. He grabbed Glynn and helped him from crumbling down, while at the same time pushing the contents of Glynn’s front pocket out with an-accidental, of course-knee to Glynn’s thigh which Sam then strafed upward into his hip. If there was nothing of interest to be found in Glynn’s pocket, he’d apologize profusely to the poor guy. He really would. As it happened, if Glynn had the benefit of any breath, he would have howled in pain and surprise and he probably would have clamored after his silver BlackBerry, which was now skittering across the deck.

  “Oh, let me get that for you,” Sam said and dropped Glynn-not so casually-onto the deck, too.

  On the screen of the BlackBerry was a series of texts, the last of which said, I THNK HIS NAME IS VJIVL FIMNLERY. No one said it was easy to text one-handed while on a racing yacht, but Sam gave the guy credit for being close with the last name, anyway. And it wouldn’t take a CIA linguist to figure out Glynn’s finger was just placed one key to the side of his intended spot on the first name, at least. Sam couldn’t tell from the other name on the screen who Glynn was texting-it said TNT911, which was about as covert as calling yourself Saddam-but had a feeling it was probably someone working with Christopher Bonaventura. If he’d been fixing things, it reasoned he’d keep someone on the boat’s payroll just to make sure things went well.

  It was enough evidence for Sam, but if it hadn’t been, Glynn’s sudden lunge toward him would have sealed the deal. Sam met Glynn with an accidental head butt to the bridge of Glynn’s nose, which caused the man to slam his head down rather brutally and to bite down hard on his tongue, severing the tip of it.

  Sam actually saw it cleave right off and land on Glynn’s shirt. Glynn saw it, too, which caused him to pass out. He fell backwards and Sam could hear the audible snap of Glynn’s arm. It wasn’t a compound fracture, Sam could tell that much, but by the awkward angle it was clear he wouldn’t be playing the violin any time soon.

  “Hey, Gene?” Sam said, once it was clear Glynn Wilson wouldn’t be getting up on his own accord, and once it was clear the rest of the team was rather perplexed by the bloody mess on the ground in front of them. “Looks like Glynn here had an accident.”

  Gennaro came over and regarded his teammate. “What happened?”

  Sam didn’t want to explain the intricacies of their issue in front of everyone, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “He fell,” Sam said. He tried to indicate with his eyes just what that meant. When that didn’t elicit any kind of response, he added, “while texting Christopher Bonaventura.”

  That did the trick.

  Late that night, Sam told all of us the gory details-the tongue issue was enough to get even Fiona slightly more agitated than a good fight story normally does-as we sat inside my loft. Down the block, the police were still investigating the untimely demise of Rob Roberge, so the street was lit up with halogens, which made the club goers waiting in line outside my window look surprised and bewildered. I wondered if any of them ever saw the sun.

  “Where is Glynn now?” I asked.

  “We took him to the hospital,” Sam said, “but ten minutes later, he was hailing a cab out front. I followed it to the airport. My guess is he’s on his way to Belfast.”

  “Lovely place this time of year,” Fi said. “I’d be happy to go and bring back pieces of him for you, Michael.”

  “I’ll pass this time,” I said. “What time do you need to be on the yacht tomorrow, Sam?”

  “We push off at noon,” he said, “but I’ve gotta be in the marina at nine. You know what Gennaro said? We win this race, everything works out, he’ll cut me a share of the purse.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I said.

  “It’s not going to work out?”

  “No,” I said, “you’re not sharing the purse. This whole thing is dirty, Sam. Once this race is finished, I have a feeling no one is going to be untouched. Not even Gennaro.”

  It was the sad truth of it all-if everything I thought we could set in motion actually worked, it would only take one person to roll to implicate Gennaro.

  The lucky thing was that one person was Christopher Bonaventura. And he wasn’t going to have room to roll. He might try, but it wouldn’t do him any good.

  “Your friend in the FBI might be interested in requisitioning a boat for herself,” I said. “Because I think she’s going to have a chance to bring down Christopher Bonaventura in a rather large kidnapping for hire scheme involving the Ottone family.”

  Our plan was going to be deceptively simple: Make Christopher Bonaventura’s men board the Ottone yacht forcefully. They’d be doing it for the right reasons-to save Maria and Liz-but for the wrong motivation, namely to keep Bonaventura from a murder rap. I had a feeling that Maria and Liz probably weren’t actually being held captive. It was Dinino’s ploy to convince Gennaro, but it seemed like an unlikely truth at the moment. Dinino wasn’t a crook. He was a businessman. A smart businessman. And a smart businessman doesn’t have a boat full of killers at his
disposal. He might have cameras. He might have a tech guy. But if he wanted to pull off this ruse to get out of his girl problems, like anyone else, he would limit the number of people on his team.

  If Maria and Liz had to die, he’d figure out a way to do it himself. Which meant poison, or drowning or something far less personal-or trackable-than a gunshot.

  “Darleen will appreciate that,” Sam said, which I took to mean Sam would appreciate the contact again. I guess he still wanted to clear some possible misconceptions up. “And those pictures you have of Dinino and the girl? Make a thousand photocopies?”

  “No,” I said. “I think we should time an e-mail to go out at about noon tomorrow. All the papers in Italy should do the trick, right?”

  “Just send it to one of those gossip blogs,” Fiona said. “It will be around the world in twenty seconds.”

  She was right. It would only take moments for Dinino to be cut out of his own family. The speed of the Internet would convict him long before a court. And the men he was dealing with would have their own justice, too.

  “What about the girl?” I said.

  “It would be the best thing for her,” Fiona said. “If she’s been used, the authorities will be able to keep her safe.”

  Maybe. For good measure, we’d send her photo to the FBI, too.

  “See,” Sam said, “you’re a friendly guy. Helping out someone you don’t even know and will never meet. It’s a nice way of building relationships, Mikey. I bet in no time you’ll be just like me. Friends in every corner of the universe. Help your reputation in international circles. Maybe prevent a couple attempts on your life.”

  “I don’t see that happening.”

  “Just saying,” Sam said.

  “Were you able to get me a boat for tomorrow from Virgil?” I said, speaking of friends I didn’t want.

  “Yeah. About that. Virgil said he got a good deal on a classic. Said it isn’t sleek, but it’s fast.”

  “Sam,” I said.

  “It’ll be fine,” he said. “You can depend on Virgil.”

  It was true. I just didn’t want to have to.

  “We just need something that can close a gap if a problem goes down,” I said. “Fi, you comfortable with this?”

  “I’m comfortable knowing that tomorrow at this time I may have shot at something,” she said.

  “Well, anyway, Virgil’s happy to help,” Sam said.

  “He’s not coming, is he?”

  “Well, that was part of the deal,” Sam said. “I told him it was an important mission. He’s good in a fight, Mikey.”

  True enough. But Virgil was also one of the people who attracted problems. And my mom.

  “I’d like to avoid feeling… uncomfortable,” I said.

  “I hear you,” Sam said.

  I didn’t think he actually did, but it was a moot point now. Virgil was coming.

  “When did Gennaro last talk to his wife?”

  “This evening. She still thinks everything is fine.”

  “Good,” I said. “If she never knows, even better.”

  “Mikey,” he said, “listen. You get into international waters tomorrow, and Alex Kyle will take his shot.”

  “I know that,” I said.

  “And maybe ten or twenty others.”

  “I know that, too,” I said.

  Outside, the halogens clicked off and the once bright street fell into its usual darkness, which meant it still had the periodic blue glow from inside the club, but was otherwise now just a street, not a crime scene. Whoever had taken out Rob Roberge didn’t even want him thinking of hurting me, much less doing anything to hurt me. If I left the waters of the United States, it wouldn’t just be the people who burned me who’d be upset, it would possibly be plenty of other organizations, both known and unknown, who would scramble the appropriate response.

  I needed to make this happen tomorrow with a minimum of collateral damage, to say nothing of sparing my own life.

  “He’ll wear floaties,” Fi said to Sam, “in case I need to throw him overboard.”

  14

  A popular misconception is that spies are always armed. The spies we all know-James Bond, Napoleon Solo, Jim Phelps, even Maxwell Smart-didn’t just have guns, they also had cigarette cases that turned into grenade launchers, belt buckles that were also lasers, cars that doubled as nuclear submarines, watches that contained antishark sonar and tuxedos that morphed into rocket packs.

  The truth is that spies are rarely armed. Operate in a country like China and be found with a gun on your person and you’re going to prison. Chinese prison. Get found in Russia with a gun on you, you’re likely to find yourself breaking ice in Siberia.

  Gun laws in Florida aren’t exactly friendly, either. No American state looks kindly on people shooting up city blocks, and diplomatic cloak only goes so far if you happen to embarrass the right people. Generally, the government doesn’t want its people to be aware of the fact that counterintelligence is going on right under their nose. Get arrested for carrying in Miami and you’re likely to stay in jail until your handler can figure out a way to fake your death. You’ll get out eventually, but it might be no easy task.

  Being a burned spy carries no such assurances of safety from criminal prosecution. Shoot someone in broad daylight and people are going to ask questions.

  I might have guardian angels, as Alex Kyle said, but even they answered to someone; someone who likely would not want to answer to widespread carnage on the streets of Miami.

  Use a gun in international or domestic waters, however, and it’s an entirely different standard, particularly if you’re on one boat and the person you’re shooting at is on another. You can be tried as a pirate. Contrary to Jimmy Buffett songs and Disney movies, this is not a good thing.

  Piracy laws over the course of the last five years have been modified so that you’re not just committing maritime crimes, you’re actually being looked at under a standard normally reserved for terrorists.

  Which is why I wasn’t about to put myself in that situation. But was happy to put Alex Kyle and Christopher Bonaventura there.

  It was eleven forty-five a.m. and Biscayne Bay was filled with boats-pleasure yachts, sailboats, catamarans-and revelers. The marina at the Southern Cross Yacht Club was alive with partygoers. The Hurricane Cup, racing from Miami to Nassau over the course of two days, was a traveling party. It started here, in Miami, and over the next twenty-four hours on the open sea, boat to boat, it kept on.

  The course was buoyed so the racers would know where to go and the partyers would know where to park. From Miami to Nassau harbor, drinks would roll down throats, money would change hands, and for most people worth millions of dollars, nothing would seem untoward.

  Sam was aboard the Pax Bellicosa, but someone important was missing. “Dinino is nowhere,” Sam said when he called from the marina.

  “What do you mean nowhere?” I asked.

  “Gennaro says he’s always right in the marina for a launch, playing the big guy, but he’s not here.”

  It didn’t make sense. He would either be watching the race or..

  Up above, I heard the familiar whoop-whoop of a helicopter-there were several in the air covering the event, which made things even more likely to be newsworthy today-and a thought occurred to me.

  “Why don’t you ask Gennaro if the family has a helicopter,” I said.

  “You think he’s flying to the Ottone yacht?”

  “That would be my play. Kill the girls himself if he has to.”

  “Not even Bonaventura would let him do that,” Sam said.

  “That’s the hope,” I said. In the background, I heard an announcement telling all the racers to make final preparations. “You better get moving.”

  “Right. And hey, Mikey?”

  “Yeah Sam?”

  “If it turns out everything is aces here,” he said, “I’m just letting you know I’m prepared to give a portion of my cut of the winnings to a charity of your ch
oice.”

  “Still not happening,” I said and hung up. The reality of the situation was that I wasn’t convinced Gennaro could win on his own regardless. Once everyone was safe, once he knew his wife and child would be fine and that he wasn’t looking at running from Christopher Bonaventura the rest of his life, the odds were that he’d relax, lose that laser focus of fear and would probably just race.

  In a fairytale, he’d win. But I felt I knew Gennaro now and if he said he wasn’t as good as the best on the water, I was inclined to believe him.

  A large, all black party boat came up along our stern, rock music blaring. I looked and saw bodies writhing on the top deck. It was as if a nightclub sprung out of the clear blue ocean. No one seemed the least bit concerned about anything, which is perhaps because they hadn’t yet noticed the rickety boat from the mid-1970s floating nearby, the only passengers Fiona and me… and Virgil.

  “Thanks for inviting me to the party,” Virgil said.

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  We’d departed from South Beach hours before but were just a few miles outside Government Cut, waiting for the racers to launch and come our way. They all moved at the same leisurely pace until they hit the open water and then the competition actually began. The first leg out of Miami was strictly show. A floating nightclub would only go so far. Right here was about the limit.

  Our main goal was just to locate the Ottones’ yacht. Now more than ever, with the idea that Dinino might be aboard, I needed to make sure Bonaventura’s men got there. They might kill Dinino, but they’d never touch Maria and Liz.

  The yacht was due to come through this shipping lane any moment now en route to the mouth of Government Cut for Maria to see her husband, which was her ritual. There was only another eight miles of sea between here and international waters, which meant I had a very narrow amount of ground to work in. I was confined to Miami by the government, but I was also confined by my enemies.

  Both would shoot me.

  Not much of a party.

  “How’s your mom doing?”