"Absolutely."
"Honey, you don't want us to catch you lying."
"Fuck you. How dare you threaten us? What are you, some kind of mafia?"
Was this the one who had bungled kidnapping Angela? Jim wondered. Or had they hired locals? Or bought cops to do it?
"You're lying. If Will Spark had sailed east like you say our people would have stopped him."
"It's a big river," said Jim. "A hundred miles wide. You'd need a lot of people on a hell of a lot of boats to spot one little sailboat."
"We have both." He turned to Stallone, who was hunched at his table, eyes flickering back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. "All right. We'll take them."
"Take us?" yelled Shannon. "What do you mean, 'take us'?"
Stallone said, "He doesn't mean take. He means buy."
STALLONE SAID, "SHOW me the money."
"Greg!"
Greg opened his windbreaker, pulled out an orange and blue FedEx mailer, and tossed it on Stallone's table. Stallone moved back as if fearing it would explode. "Open it."
Every child in the room eyed hungrily the switchblade that Greg flicked open to slash the envelope.
"Empty it."
Greg dumped the contents on the table. "Dollars," said Andy Nickels. "Like you asked."
Stallone nodded at the banded stacks of twenty-dollar bills.
"My father will pay you more," said Shannon.
He turned to her and again his straight white teeth gleamed. "When you get home, ski lady, perhaps he'll write me a check."
He looked up at Nickels. "I accept this money as ransom for you and your friend. A guide will lead you safely out of my barrio."
"What?"
Greg and Andy Nickels exploded into motion. Crouch-
ing, reaching down, spreading apart, each whipped a pistol from an ankle holster.
Children scurried. A box cutter laid a deep, red track across the back of Greg's hand; his gun fell to the dirt floor. Two razors brushed his throat, two his face.
"Tell them to stop," said Andy Nickels. Blood was pouring from his hand, too, but he still held his pistol leveled at Stallone. "Now!"
Stallone spoke to the children in Spanish, then said, "I instructed them to cut your balls off if you shoot me."
"Won't help you," Andy replied coolly. Blood was splashing on his shoes, but he held the gun rock steady and ignored the blades at his groin.
Stallone said, "Check out the ceiling." Nickels's eyes never moved. "Greg, what is it?"
Jim looked up and flinched. Children in the rafters were aiming short-barreled shotguns.
Greg said, "They've got sawed-offs."
Shannon said, "Stop. They're children."
"Do you know who you're cheating?" Andy asked Stallone.
Stallone pounded his chest. "Here, I am king. Here, you are nobody."
"They're little kids," said Shannon. "You want us all dead?"
Nickels put down his pistol and squeezed his flowing cut with his fingers. Small hands fished his switchblade from its pocket, his money, his cell phone, his wallet, and another gun.
Raging, Andy turned on Stallone. "I'm warning you one last time. If you cheat us we will hunt you to the end of the earth."
Stallone shrugged. "This is the end of the earth. No one who enters leaves unless I say so—no cop, no gang, no Yankee foreigner."
Nickels turned to Jim. "Give me Will Spark. Name your price."
"I already told you, Will is sailing east. All we want to do is go home."
"We will help you go home. We'll protect you from the cops."
Jim looked at Shannon. "Do you believe that?"
Shannon said, "No."
Stallone laughed. Then he said to Nickels, "My little friends will show you out—the long way."
He brushed aside their stunned thanks. "Surfers and skiers hang together. Besides, I keep the money."
"You saved our lives."
"Temporarily. I am king of a very small land. Outside my villa miseria, I am just another scavenger. You are safe only as long as you stay in my garbage dump. If you're going to leave, you must leave immediately. Ahead of those two. How will you get home to America?"
"We have a boat."
Stallone smiled. "The boat that sailed east?"
Jim nodded.
"Excellent. A criminal mind behind that baby face. Where is your boat?"
"A little north of San Clemente."
Stallone shook his head mournfully. "San Clemente is very far from my kingdom."
"It's about a hundred miles down the coast."
"I know where it is. . . . Have you any money?"
"I have cash," said Shannon. Jim displayed his slashed pocket. "I lost mine."
"It happens," Stallone replied distractedly, pondering the problem.
"I have some gold Krugerrands in my pack."
"Gold is good. . . . There is a person in La Boca who drives a van to Mar del Plata. For gold he might take you. San Clemente is on the way. The party season is ending, but perhaps he has a shipment going tomorrow."
"What kind of shipment?" Shannon asked.
Jim said, "We don't want to know."
"Correct," said Stallone. "But first, somehow, I have to move you across the city to La Boca."
At dawn, thousands of garbage trucks began their daily shuttle between the city's residential and business neighborhoods and the shantytowns where they dumped their loads. One that trundled into Stallone's barrio full left still carrying a cardboard refrigerator box it had found on a prosperous street of fine old houses in the Recoleta barrio. Laid flat, hidden by the wooden sides of the truck from pedestrians and automobile drivers, it was visible only to the commuters peering down from the early trains streaming into Retiro.
The truck slowed at the bus station. Bolivian Indians loped alongside, throwing full garbage cans up to the catcher, who tossed them back empty. As they passed through the Retiro barrio, the refrigerator box was buried under office trash and restaurant waste.
Filled to the brim, the truck groaned on, carrying its reeking load through San Nicolas, San Telmo, and finally into the old working-class barrio of La Boca, where it disappeared into the dark loading bay of a vast city hospital.
The Fiat van that pulled out of the hospital moments later raced through La Boca and crossed an iron bridge over the Riochuelo. It sped south on Route 2, the main highway to Mar del Plata, Buenos Aires's playground on the Atlantic Ocean. Twice it was stopped by police, who greeted the driver like an old acquaintance, took their regular bribe, and waved him on.
He told Jim and Shannon that he was a university student and only dealt fadopa to his friends. Later, a couple of hours out of Buenos Aires, while rolling along the edge of the pampas, he admitted that he'd been out of school for some years. The economy was bad and he held down two jobs in addition to these distribution runs.
The third stop was at the hands of the provincial police, who were not at all friendly.
Still, coimas is coimas, the driver had assured Jim and Shannon, a bribe is a bribe. The notoriously greedy, corrupt, and brutal provincial police, he maintained, "aren't about to kill the goose that lays the golden egg, much less overturn the applecart by searching the goose's vehicle." His assurances offered little comfort to Jim and Shannon, who envisaged drug smuggling charges compounding their predicament.
Huddled under a blanket in the cargo bed, they listened fearfully to boots crunching gravel. The provincial police circled the van, banging on the sides, shouting. The driver sat quietly, humbly taking the abuse. At last they accepted his bribe and waved him on.
An hour later, Jim directed him to Captain Faveros's front gate. Shrubs, trees, and Faveros's mansion blocked the view of the Rio de la Plata, but Jim could smell the sea on the stiff wind. It was hauling around to the east, which wasn't going to make getting out of the estuary any easier. But tired as he was from the long, crazy night, the wind sped his pulse. Just a few more feet, a few more minutes, and they'
d be under sail.
The driver noted the ornate ironwork, the surveillance cameras, and the electrified fence.
He whistled appreciatively. "Cha masa. Mucho guita. Rich man."
Jim waited for the van to go before he rang the bell. Captain Faveros came down the driveway in an open jeep.
"I see you were successful, my young friend. Buenas tardes, senorita."
Jim said, "Captain Faveros, this is my friend, Shannon Riley."
Faveros hesitated when he saw Shannon's crutches. But he bent low over her hand to kiss it. "Welcome, Senorita Riley. Come in, come in."
Jim felt an intense relief as the jeep rounded the first curve in the driveway and they were no longer visible from the road beyond the locked gate. He said, "Could you drive us right to your dock?"
"You must have lunch. My wife is much better today."
"Thank you, Captain. But we have to sail immediately."
"I would recommend you wait. The wind has shifted. There's a cold front approaching.
You might encounter the pampero. Stay the night. Sail in the morning."
Jim saw little choice but to be up-front and hope that the retired officer was still in absolution mode. And that confession went both ways. "Captain Faveros, I have to tell you, the police are after us. We did absolutely nothing wrong, but the sooner we're out of here, the better for us. And you."
"Not to worry. I'll telephone my friend the district commander."
•
"It's the federals from Buenos Aires."
"I see."
"If we leave immediately, no one will know we were here."
Captain Faveros drove in silence toward the water but stopped the jeep before the dock was in view. Jim's heart jumped. There was a patch of empty water where he had anchored Hustle.
"Where's my boat?"
Faveros ignored his question. "You must realize, it would be my duty to report your presence."
"I swear to you we did nothing wrong."
"That would not be for me to judge, though I have no doubt that you are a good person."
He drummed the steering wheel for a moment. "Both good people." Then, with a per-plexed glance at Shannon, he spoke decisively: "What you tell me explains what I've been hearing on the marine radio channels this morning. They are looking for your boat."
"Who?"
"Once I heard the name of your boat, I switched on all my radio scanners—VHF, SSB, and a certain cellular telephone scanner that civilians and even retired officers are not supposed to possess. Interestingly, it is not the navy that is looking, nor the policia, but, shall we say, 'private interests.' Certain fishing boats—smugglers—even a customs cutter that I happen to know is crewed by thieves. It appears there's a sizable bounty."
Jim heard him through a roaring in his ears. Would the McVays ever give up?
"May I ask—without prejudice—did you steal your yacht?"
"No! Who's offering the bounty?"
"Those on the radio were circumspect, of course, but I've learned that there's a Taiwan freighter standing off the coast.
And several other Chinese ships have reported ETAs to Puerto Buenos Aires—more than one would expect ordinarily, though they could be explained by the harvest. . . . I took the liberty of taking your boat off the mooring."
"Where is she?"
"Right there." Faveros put the jeep in gear and drove to the dock. "Behind mine."
Then he saw her, squeezed between the dock and Faveros's huge schooner. Only Hustle's mast would be visible from the water, bracketed confusingly by the schooner's. You would have to come within a hundred feet to distinguish the sloop from the bigger yacht.
"It is known who I am," Captain Faveros said. "No one would dare to come too close.
You'll be safe till dark." "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you helping us?"
Captain Faveros tried to meet Jim's eyes but couldn't. He looked out at the Rio de la Plata—oddly tan-colored as thickening high clouds obscured the sun—then down at his polished shoes. "I truly believe that I am not really a bad - person. I know that I cannot undo my mistakes. Nor can I repress them. Perhaps if I can help you—and if you are truly innocent—God will return me to my son's heart."
Faveros was practically begging Jim to ask for more help, believing that the more he helped, the quicker he would atone. Even in retirement, the wealthy naval man seemed somewhat connected. Argentina may have become a democracy, but everyone feared that the military still had teeth—and the cops were corrupt. Could Faveros use his influence to get them onto a plane to New York?
Jim felt Shannon's gaze and he was struck by how totally responsible he would be for her safety, her life, once they set sail. Was she, too, wondering whether it was more dangerous to flee than to take their chances with the authorities?
"What do you think?" he asked Shannon.-.
"I can't believe you sailed all the way across the ocean on that."
Jim had always thought of Hustle as big—bigger than the Barbadian fishing boat, bigger than Margaret's outboard canoe. But now, huddled in the lee of Faveros's enormous yacht, Will's sloop looked quite small and insignificant.
What would happen if they were arrested? The first thing the cops would do was separate them. But if they took their chances on the boat it would be just the two of them—the "
adventure" he was supposed to have alone, they would have together, an "adventure" that would define them one way or another.
"She's a solid boat," he said firmly. And Faveros chimed in, "I would imagine she is very forgiving."
"Very forgiving," said Jim, wondering what the naval veteran had picked up to guess that Jim was really still an amateur with little more than half a crossing under his belt—less than a week single-handed without Will's yakking in his ear.
"Actually," said Faveros, "I would imagine you could foul up—and persist at it for some time—before she betrayed you." He seemed to be rethinking atonement in light of the complications of harboring fugitives. In fact, he looked immensely relieved when Jim called to Shannon, "Shannon, let's get aboard." He seized Captain Faveros's hand and shook it. "Thank you for your help. We'll leave as soon as it's dark."
"If there is anything I can do?" Faveros asked politely. Jim was eyeing the schooner's fat hull like a pirate. "Let me buy some diesel."
"Well, yes, of course. We can pump it over from my yacht."
There was a garden hose coiled neatly on the dock, for washing the decks. "And would it be possible to fill my water tanks?"
"Yes, of—excuse me." He touched the beeper on his belt, snapped a cell phone from the holster, and punched a reply. He listened, his expression darkening. "Si . . . si . gracias."
He holstered the phone and turned angrily on Jim.
"The police have arrested a drug smuggler who claims to have dropped you at my gate.
They're coming now."
Jim scooped Shannon off the dock and swung her over the safety lines and into the cockpit. The boat was trapped in the spiderweb of the schooner's mooring lines.
"Help me cast off," he said to Faveros.
Captain Faveros said, "Show me what's in your bags." "No drugs."
"Show me!"
"Make it quick!" Jim whipped off his backpack and dumped the contents on the cockpit bench. Shannon did the same.
Faveros stepped aboard and rifled through their things. He seemed glad to find no drugs but was not apologetic.
"I had to know," he said. "I will not be played for a fool." Now he sprang into action. He jumped to the dock, untied his yacht's stem line, and, nimbly crossing both boats' safety lines, carried it across Jim's afterdeck and onto his.
Jim got his engine started and ran forward to untie his bowline. By the time he got back to the cockpit, Shannon had finished repacking their bags and stowed them out of the way.
Standing on the afterdeck of his schooner, Captain Faveros leaned his weight on a boat hook and poled off of Jim's hull, widening t
he slot in which Hustle had hidden. Jim engaged his propeller and backed out.
Faveros secured his stem line and climbed into his jeep. "I'll keep them at the gate," he called, "as long as I can. Bon voyage. Look out for the pampero."
WHAT'S A PAMPER0?" asked Shannon.
Jim was driving, looking over his shoulder, as the diesel engine roared its slow six knots.
They were a mile from Faveros's dock already and still no cops. The view of the coast was broadening behind them. He could make out the town of San Clemente. Which boats in the town's fishing fleet were angling for the bounty? Did the cops have a boat? He picked up the binoculars and focused on a yellow vessel putting to sea.
"Hey, Captain. What's a pampero?"
"Local storm. Squalls come screaming off the pampas. Will said they're a real bitch.
Humongous gusts and sheets of rain."
"Would it hide us?"
"If it doesn't kill us."
"While hiding us from the people who want to kill us." Jim looked at her and they both laughed.
She looked as frightened as he did, and as worn down by the long, hard night, but she pointed happily at the band of water broadening between them and the shore. "Neat boat, Captain. Would you show me around?"
"I'll show you how to steer. It's hazing up. After another
mile, when they won't be able to see us from the beach, we'll get some sail up. Here, scoot around beside the wheel. . . ."
It was humbling to see how fast she got it. She did very little oversteering and in minutes was laying down a respectable wake. Jim jumped below and brought up the storm jib.
"What's that?"
"Storm jib. All this pampero talk is making me nervous. So's that sky."
To their left, west, was a tangled checkerboard of bright white clouds on a field of black.
"Wow. That's weird. It was blue a minute ago."
Ahead the sky was bright blue. To the right, the low coast
of the inside of Cape San Antonio was almost invisible.
Shannon looked back. "There's a yellow boat following us." "Yeah, I've been watching him."
It was catching up, probably making a third again their speed. Already he could distinguish its round bluff bow and boxy cabin in back. When he got the storm sail banked onto the jack stay and its sheets led back to the cockpit, the shore behind had disappeared in haze. He thought he could make out Punta Rasa lighthouse at the tip of Cape San Antonio. But the yellow boat was close enough for him to see that it had a stubby mast.
Buried At Sea Page 30
