JET, no. 3

by Russell Blake

  “Where do we leave the car?”

  “They’ll take care of that – they’ll return it to the rental agency so your credit card doesn’t get shut off.”

  “Same plan on the weapons?”

  “Yup. Over the side.”

  David paid the bill, and a few minutes later, they were pulling into the parking lot near the marina.

  “A dinghy will take us out to the boat,” he explained. “It’s sitting just outside of the harbor mouth so it doesn’t have to deal with the police. He’s already been cleared.”

  They parked where they had been instructed to, and Jet shouldered the weapons sack. A chubby man with a shaved head met them by the dock and wordlessly directed them to a waiting inflatable near the end of the long row of sailboats. The motor was putting quietly. The man helped them in, and then climbed in himself after untying the line. Soon, they were tearing over the water. Halfway across the harbor, Jet tossed the duffle overboard and watched it sink out of sight into the depths.

  The fishing boat was a creaky commercial scow that smelled of decaying fish and oil. They sidled up to it, and Jet and David climbed onto the transom as the craft bobbed up and down on the gentle swell. A swarthy seaman pointed them below deck to the bunks, and before the dinghy had pulled twenty yards from the stern, they were moving, bow pointed northwest to where Cyprus jutted out of the middle of the Mediterranean a hundred and sixty-eight miles away.

  The crew stayed above deck, avoiding any contact with Jet and David, which was fine by them both. The stink of the vessel was bad enough without having to contend with curious fishermen. Jet stowed the backpack she had bought earlier, which served as a combination travel purse and clothes bag, and climbed into the lowest of the bunks – little more than stained wooden slats with squalid foam mattresses. The ancient diesel engine thrummed steadily, and the gentle rolling motion was vaguely relaxing.

  “I hope I don’t catch something lying on this,” she remarked.

  David smiled before climbing onto the bunk above her.

  “Probably unlikely that there’s anything worse than fleas or lice. You should be good.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “No need to thank me.”

  Her eyes drifted shut as she dozed, and the next thing she knew, she was being surprised awake by someone shaking her. She bolted upright, only to see David’s face near hers.

  “We just got the word. The Cyprus boat should be on top of us in ten minutes.”

  She rubbed her face and nodded. “It’s really been nine hours?”

  “They say you never sleep as well as you do on a boat.”

  Jet rose and used the little toilet and then retrieved her bag, joining David at the base of the ladder that ascended to the main deck. They climbed the rungs and emerged into the first glow of dawn, the orange hue of the sun rising on the horizon creating a dazzling display on the water.

  In the distance they could hear the chanting of big motors moving toward them, and they watched as a sixty-foot euro-styled motor yacht pulled alongside, bumpers in place to prevent the hulls from scraping. There appeared to be only two men on board the new arrival – the captain and a deckhand, who lashed a line around a stanchion and gestured for them to come aboard. Jet hopped easily from the fishing boat over to the motor yacht. David threw her his bag and made the leap, wincing as he landed on the far deck.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, concerned that he was clutching his stomach.

  “Just a little reminder to be careful. It’s nothing.”

  She looked at him skeptically, and then turned to the deckhand.

  The man tossed off a salute. “Allo. Welcome aboard. We will be near the island in three hours, and then I will take you to the marina in the tender. This boat will remain at sea until nightfall. I hope you are hungry. I have prepared a fruit plate and some pastries, and there is fresh coffee brewed.”

  Jet noticed he didn’t offer his name, and didn’t ask theirs.

  “Thank you. We’ll just go inside, then,” David said.

  As they carried their bags into the salon, the big boat surged forward, accelerating until they were cutting through the beam sea at a steady twenty-two knots. The anonymous deckhand poured them coffee in tall non-spill thermal cups and then made for the stairs to the bridge to join the captain, whom they hadn’t seen as anything other than a silhouette from the fishing boat.

  The two craft couldn’t have been less alike. Whereas the commercial trawler was all peeling paint, rust and malodorous rot, this boat boasted highly polished exotic woods, leather sofas and plush carpeting. The air-conditioning hummed silently, keeping the interior of the salon at precisely seventy degrees.

  “I could get used to this,” Jet commented.

  David nodded. “You don’t want to know what it cost.”

  “What do we do once we’re on Cyprus?”

  “Make our way to Larnaca airport and get away from this region of the world. I don’t know what the schedule is for flights to Belize, but my sense is that most of them go through the United States, so we’d be better advised to fly through someplace with less sophisticated computers, just in case my mug is on Interpol. Same for the connection from Cyprus. Maybe through Milan or Madrid or Athens rather than France, Germany or Britain.”

  “Into where? Mexico City?”

  “Seems like the most prudent hub, and from there we can fly into any number of nearby cities – Cancun or Chetumal being the most obvious.”

  Jet sipped her coffee and watched the foaming water race by the windows.

  “We’re going to be traveling for at least another twenty-four hours. Did you get any sleep on the boat?” she asked.

  “Some. Not a lot. Someone had to keep a lookout and make sure the crew didn’t try to sneak in and ravish you.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, we have three hours to kill. I’ll bet this thing has some seriously nice staterooms. Locking staterooms.”

  “Always thinking of me. You suggesting I try to get some sleep?”

  She stood and moved toward the front of the boat.

  “Something like that.”

  Chapter 24

  Terry Brandt watched the feed from the analysts and spotted another blurb on the search term he’d selected. He quickly scanned the summary and closed his eyes before reaching for his encrypted line.

  “It’s me. I’m starting to see chatter on the encampment in southern Belize. We need to meet. Soon.”

  “Does now work for you?” the voice on the phone asked in a neutral tone.

  “Fifteen minutes. The usual spot.” Terry terminated the call.

  He was stirring sweetener into his coffee at the Starbucks three miles from headquarters when he sensed a presence behind him.

  “Five bucks for a cup of coffee. This society is doomed,” a deep baritone lamented from over his shoulder.

  Terry didn’t comment, but instead walked up the stairs that led to the secondary seating area. A few students were huddled over their computers, taking advantage of the wireless facility. Other than that, in the middle of the afternoon, they had the place to themselves.

  “I’ve been asked to provide what amounts to intelligence and logistical support to our rogue Mossad operatives, and I agreed to do so, but I want to understand how far I should be prepared to go,” Terry said after the two men had taken a seat.

  “I would say that you should provide all reasonable support. Give them what they need, and then sit back and see what happens.”

  Richard Sloan held a key position at the Defense Department. Theoretically, neither man was even remotely responsible for any sort of an active op in Belize. But in practice, both were not only cooperative with each other’s agendas, but also enjoyed substantial financial reward from bending the rules to the whims of powerful corporate interests with expansion plans that required exceptional levels of understanding from the nation’s armed forces and intelligence ap
paratus. Between Sloan, Terry and a few select others, they represented a powerful secret affiliation of like-minded men, unified by the most powerful bond in existence: cash.

  “He asked about weapons.”

  Sloan nodded. “It would be hard to take on an armed camp without weapons. Who do you have in the region?”

  “That’s not the problem. We have plenty of contacts in Honduras. It’s lousy with guns from the millions we and the Russians shipped there. I just question how much active support we want to provide. If the shit hits the fan and anything leaks out about this…”

  Sloan moved closer to Terry and leaned in.

  “All facts aren’t going to become known. I would say no harm could come from you making an introduction. Provide some sat photos. These are small things. You know the strategy. If they’re successful in stopping whatever our Russian friend is up to, then we’ll be in a position to win. If they aren’t, then we’ll still win, only via a different route. But we have to manage things so we appear to be disinterested observers.”

  Terry nodded. “Of course. Is there any chance we get sucked into this in an official capacity later?”

  “None at all. We’re just trying to grease wheels here. Sort of like benevolent guardian angels. We can’t appear to intercede or favor anyone, and we have to be able to claim ignorance no matter what happens.”

  Terry switched gears. “What do you make of the death of the governor general?”

  “A stroke of good luck. If the Russian is successful in his scheme, he believes he’ll get the concession for the new field and that the current interests in the region will be rejected. But I’ve already had assurances that the new governor general, a gentleman who’s predisposed to our preferences, will request British and American troops to help the beleaguered nation battle the drug cartels responsible for the heinous violence – that’s in actuality the Russians. That will result in a U.S. military presence in Belize for the first time, and will pave the way for U.S. companies to help the country extract and refine its oil.”

  “Grigenko will go nuts. That’s a double cross…”

  “Indeed it is. But nobody said life was fair, and it’s not our deal – we never gave Grigenko any green light to pull this stunt. Once the governor general has made the request for assistance, you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, and it’s a fait accompli. Doesn’t matter what deals the Russian had before with the prospective new administration, the following one will trump it and set in motion a completely different course than the one he’s banking on. A course that’s good for us.”

  “And if the pair is successful?”

  “Then the governor general will take actions that still ensure our interests prevail. Either way, we win.”

  “If that’s the case, then why help the Israelis?”

  “The Russian is getting too big for his britches, and if someone can cut him off at the knees, that saves us the trouble down the road. He’s pissed off the wrong people. But the important thing from our perspective is that we don’t really care who wins. Either outcome will result in a positive for us.”

  Terry took a swig of his nonfat soy latté and shook his head. “Kind of astounding that coffee is more expensive than gasoline.”

  “So’s bottled water. Amazing what you can convince people to spend their money on, isn’t it?” Sloan sipped his tea.

  Terry studied Sloane’s expression. “We didn’t have anything to do with the late governor general’s untimely demise, did we?”

  “Of course not,” Sloan said, his face stony, impossible to read. “Is there anything else?”

  Terry’s stomach lurched at the response. He was almost sure the man was lying.

  “Not really. I just wanted to hear it straight from you.”

  “Have no fear, Terry. This is just another skirmish – a relative non-event. Oh, and funds will be transferred to the usual account tomorrow. As always, the group is grateful for your efforts.”

  Terry was low-key about his occasional windfalls, but they helped his lifestyle. With a wife, three kids, private schools and a substantial mortgage, he was usually strapped. An extra tax-free hundred grand a year nobody knew anything about enabled him access to the platinum-level escorts that he couldn’t have dreamt of on his pay grade. And the world was being kept safe for capitalism. Everyone got what they needed out of the deal.

  Terry stood and, without saying any more, descended the stairs and left the establishment, walking slowly to his car.

  Sloan waited five minutes and then departed by the rear entrance, making a stop at the bakery next door to get a chocolate chip bagel for a pre-dinner snack.

  Neither man had any guilt about renting his station to shadowy representatives of mega corporations. After all, the same companies paid hundreds of millions every year to lobbyists to push for amendments to legislation that would have cramped their style, or to agitate for this country or that to be invaded or overthrown. All Terry and Sloan were doing was taking a small slice off a loaf that had been their good fortune to be offered. If it wasn’t them, it would just be someone else. You couldn’t fight human nature.

  Pragmatism was the philosophy of survival, and Sloan had learned the hard way that any other belief system was misguided foolishness. He’d watched enough of his more ethical peers fall by the wayside during his career. Let someone else save the whales or protest injustice. His stay on the planet was scheduled to be all too brief, and job number one was to get what he could and make himself happy.

  When it came down to it, well-intentioned ideologies were developed for those without access to money.

  Fortunately, he had access.

  End of story.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jet and David pulled themselves up onto the dock at the St. Raphael resort marina and waved goodbye to the deckhand, who was already gliding away in the tender, returning to the yacht a few kilometers offshore. The water was dead calm near the island, and within a minute, he diminished into a dot moving out to sea.

  They shouldered their bags and walked to the main hotel building, where they could get a cab. No customs or immigration officials were in evidence, and whether that was typical or had been arranged, they didn’t know, but they were grateful for it. From this point on, things would get easier – it wouldn’t be necessary to skulk around.

  Cyprus was a good choice as a gateway. A member of the European Union, the island nation was a business and banking center, and had a decent number of flights departing any given day. They could blend into the crowd of business or holiday travelers and not raise any eyebrows – key to a safe getaway from the region.

  They approached the waiting taxi line, and a bellman blew his whistle, signaling the next in the queue to pull forward. The trunk popped open, and they dropped their bags in, and then gave the driver instructions to take them to the airport thirty miles away.

  Traffic was sparse along the well-maintained road, passing through modern towns as well as villages that had been there since before the birth of Christ. The driver had the radio on low – listening to music that sounded like someone had tied percussion instruments to a cow and set it running down an alley. Jet took David’s hand and leaned into him as they watched the rugged countryside go by.

  Once at the airport, they booked a flight to Madrid that was due to depart in an hour. They carried on their bags and submitted to the cursory and uninspired security precautions before settling themselves into their seats near the front of the plane.

  Soon they were airborne, watching the island disappear beneath their wings as they banked west on the long route to Europe, the surface of the Mediterranean shimmering in the sun’s glow.

  They dozed en route to Madrid, and David seemed better rested once they landed. After checking the departure schedule, they bought tickets on an Iberia direct flight to Mexico City departing the following day – the first nonstop available.

  The eleven-hour flight to Mexico City was unev
entful, and customs posed no problem. Within a few hours, they were boarding a flight to Cancun. From there, they would take a bus to the border, a six-hour ordeal, and then fly from Corozal to Belize International Airport, where they would rent a car and drive the hundred miles south to Punta Gorda. With any luck, they would make it by dark.

  When they got off the plane in Cancun, the heat and humidity slammed into them, and within minutes, their shirts were soaked through with sweat. As David checked with the information booth on flights to Belize City – on the off chance one was departing that day –Jet chatted with a friendly baggage handler about the weather and the road to Chetumal, on the Belizean border. When David returned, he had a grin on his face.

  “We’re in luck. Flight leaves in two hours to Belize City. An hour flight versus seven hours of bus and prop plane hell. I’m going in to book the tickets. There’s an internet café inside – can you go online and see about rental cars and hotels?”

  “Sure. I’m guessing there aren’t a lot of choices in Punta Gorda. What is it, population sixty-five hundred?”

  “If that. But I looked before, and there’s a handful to choose from. Pick something private,” he said over his shoulder before disappearing into the terminal.

  She located the computers and booked a Jeep, and then searched for hotels. As she had suspected, the options were limited, and she eventually selected one a few blocks north of the cemetery, on the water. Even if they weren’t there for pleasure, it would be consistent with their cover to play the role of tourists on a romantic interlude.

  Which brought her up short.

  Feelings had been rekindled in her that she’d believed long dormant, and if anything, the attraction between them was more powerful than ever. She hadn’t pressed him on the idea of a future after they dealt with Grigenko, but it was on her mind. Would it be possible to settle somewhere and have a normal life together? Something that didn’t involve being on the run, or killing, or being ready to bolt at a second’s notice? They hadn’t discussed it, but with all the downtime she’d had traveling, an image of a life as a couple had gelled in her mind and now seemed attainable.