Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  “Oh, come on!” Wainwright exclaimed. “You’re a high-priced killer, so don’t try laying on any ethics crap. Now explain your interest in my wife and why you saved my life tonight.”

  “Gladly, but first may I freshen your cocktail?” He got up and took their plastic cups from them.

  “You know, pal,” Wilson said, “although you’re an excellent host, you fail miserably in the tell-it-like-it-is department. How about we stop chasing this story around the bush and get everything out on the table?”

  “Well, aren’t you just the cutest cliché conglomerate? So many clichés, so little time.”

  After handing the two men fresh drinks, Amiti spent the next few minutes, uninterrupted, explaining his current contract.

  “In essence, it’s piecework. The more Murtagh mob members I eliminate, the more my client is willing to pay. I refer to this as the ‘broad-spectrum pest-control program.’ It might seem repellant to some, but it has distinct advantages to society in general. After all, look at the billions of dollars your country has spent on behalf of the war on drugs. Consider too that this war has been a complete failure. Did the US not learn the lesson of prohibition? One would assume not!”

  Wainwright threw his hands up in the air. “Terrific, so you’re going to wipe out the drug dealers, collect a fat fee, and head back to Tel Aviv, all the time thinking you’re some kind of hero. That’s pure, unadulterated bullcrap!”

  “Yes, yes, and no, in answer to your several questions. My work is surgical in nature. Several unsavory types and associated minions will no longer conduct business of any kind. There will be no blowback to my client from any quarter, and I’ll collect a substantial honorarium for services rendered. As to my destination after the completion of the contract, unfortunately it isn’t the promised land of my people. Also, it is not something you have a need to know about.”

  “Great, but the authorities will still get you. No matter where you go, they’ll find you and bring you to justice.”

  “Thank you, Investigator Wilson. Without dedicated public servants like you, I shudder to think where this world would be.” Amiti turned to Wainwright. “Garth, with your permission, let’s avoid discussing my fugitive status and focus on your wife’s location. I have a proposition that might help you with that. But first I’ll have another Scotch. Then I’ll describe my solution to both of our endeavors.”

  Amiti sat down with his refreshed single-malt. He reached to the side table, removed something from the drawer, and handed it to Wilson, who sat closest to him.

  “These are keys to your rooms. Rudy keeps several rooms available. It avoids the need for our guest to be registered here.”

  He outlined a plan that would accomplish his assignment as well as Wainwright’s goal of finding Lacey. If everyone agreed to the scheme, they would leave the following night.

  Wainwright and Wilson told Amiti they liked the general idea, subject to a more detailed explanation tomorrow.

  “I’ll ask Rudy to return your rental jeep to Avis. You won’t need it any longer.”

  “Who’s Rudy?” Wainwright asked.

  “You’ll meet Rudy and José Vasquez in the morning. The two men are brothers and will be our support staff. They live in Monterrey and are splendid at their jobs. Listen, it’s getting late. I suggest we continue after we all get a good night’s rest. This was a full day; don’t you think? Stealth assassinations are so energy depleting,” Amiti quipped, then quickly added, “Theirs, not mine. Good night, gentlemen. Sleep well.”

  THE THREE MEN RECONVENED in Amiti’s room at 7:00 a.m. for a planning session and equipment orientation. Amiti rolled out a set of blueprints on the table. “The first order of business is to become familiar with the layout of the yacht. Her name is Spoiled Yachten. Catchy, yeah? Just a bit of the ol’ Murtagh sense of humor.”

  Amiti pointed out the various compartments. “I was fortunate enough to acquire the specifications and blueprints. I don’t know the location where they might be holding Mrs. Wainwright. However, it won’t be much of a task to narrow our search to the most obvious places: staterooms, storage hatches, and lockers.”

  Wainwright asked, “How were you able to get the plans for this mother of all yachts?”

  Amiti smiled. “I told you my client has many business interests. One of them is the company that built this yacht. Our friend Murtagh paid more than eighteen million dollars for her when they laid her keel. That was in Lurssen-Werft, Germany, in 1978. I guess you can see why my client might want to own a boatbuilding company, yes? According to the spec sheet, her length is 58.6 meters. That’s one hundred ninety-two feet to you Yanks. She boasts a thirty-six-foot beam and draws just over eleven-feet of water. She weighs in at 1.2 tons, with two twin-screw diesel engines which can run flat out at twenty-six knots all day long.

  “The yacht is flagged to the Isle of Man. Anything else you might need is in the small print on the bottom of each page.” Amiti flipped one of the large sheets. “This one is the electrical schematic. The next one appears to be the plumbing layout and specifications. The rest are similar specialty trade sheets.”

  Wainwright, Wilson, and the Assassin spent several hours studying and memorizing the blueprints.

  “Nice work, Amiti,” Wainwright said. “There’s nothing I like more than working with a professional—even a professional like you. These blueprints will make planning our operation so much easier. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a small question. How the hell are we going to get anywhere near this floating palace to execute your plan? This baby has radar, sonar, and undoubtedly very sophisticated armament systems. The prints show a helicopter landing pad, for Christ’s sake.”

  Amiti nodded. “Yes, those chatty radio calls we monitored? Quite convenient that Murtagh has a heliport on board for delivering groceries and picking up laundry, wouldn’t you say?”

  “How sure are you that Lacey is in the Gulf of Mexico on this boat?” Wainwright asked.

  “In this business, as you well know, Garth, there are no absolutes. There is supposition and suspicion. Take your pick.”

  “Okay. If your suspicion/supposition is correct, and assuming we can get on board, how do we get Lacey off the boat and home?”

  “Mr. Wainwright, that isn’t my assignment, as you’ll recall. If you decide it’s prudent, both of you are welcome to accompany me on this adventure. While fulfilling my contractual requirements, we might affect a rescue and return your wife.”

  “Oh, I get it, Amiti. Wilson and I tag along, helping you do your dirty work and hoping Lacey is alive and can be rescued. And we’ll just have to take your word that she might be on board. You’re one slick sonuvabitch.”

  Wilson had been carefully listening to their exchange. “What’s obvious to me is that this is a suicide mission.”

  Wainwright didn’t respond to Wilson’s comment directly. “Look, Amiti, my time in the navy taught me a few things, and one of them is never to volunteer for suicide missions. We should let the FBI take the yacht. They’ll have the Mexican Coast Guard or Navy grab that sucker faster than you can say, ‘More matzo, please.’”

  Amiti laughed. “Thank you for that poorly presented Passover pun, Garth. Should any authorities—US, Mexican, or European—be alerted to my presence, this mission and your wife’s safety would be jeopardized.”

  “You said earlier that you wanted to help us get Lacey out,” Wainwright said. “Okay, then we do it your way.”

  It was past time to break for the noontime meal, and Amiti was hungry. “Gentlemen, why don’t we resume this discussion in a more comfortable venue? In more pleasant surroundings, we might find sustenance for us weary warriors.”

  Amiti seemed to know his way around the nicer sections of Monterrey. He was soon handing his Bronco key to a restaurant valet. The place fulfilled all Amiti’s selection criteria: ambience, quality service, and as they were soon to discover, fantastic Mexican cuisine.

  The place was small, as restaurants go, but the feelin
g was more intimate than cramped. Patrons sat in large red-leather-upholstered booths. After ordering for the table in impeccable Spanish, Amiti told the two more about his assignment.

  “I’m contracted to take out Murtagh and his top lieutenants. I must disrupt the chain of command, so to speak, by eliminating any and all leadership successors.”

  “How is this mission being financed?” Wilson asked. “How much and by whom?”

  “I’ll receive a substantial fee and reimbursement for my expenses,” Amiti said. “Those I am fronting, so my out-of-pocket on this venture continues to be rather large, even for me. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not at liberty to disclose my client’s name.

  “That said, I’ll require you to trust me. The elements of the plan will be revealed to both of you on a need-to-know basis. I keep my own council; not even my client knows—or for that matter cares—how I accomplish the assignment. If you don’t want to trust me, this is the opportunity for you to say so and leave.”

  Amiti saw Wainwright fidget some, thinking. Wilson, however, remained calm and relaxed. Will these two perform at the level of professionalism this mission requires? Amiti wondered. He had invited one pro and a semi-pro into his confidence and proposed that the three of them mount an operation. Working with others—besides BJ, that is—was something he never did. While Wainwright was properly motivated, could he be counted on to perform? Only time would tell.

  And Wilson. What was his reason for being here? Lacey? That was his stated purpose. But this was dangerous and a whole lot more complicated than what a DA’s investigator normally would do.

  What choice did Amiti have? He needed qualified, trained manpower to pull off this assignment. At least Wainwright could be relied on to help save Lacey.

  Risky business, this, he thought. Yeah, but do I want to go back selling farm combines? No way.

  “My information comes from a reliable source,” he continued. “Lacey was spotted in the company of Murtagh and his men. They carried her onto the yacht. It’s your choice, my friends. Come or not, as you prefer. I’m unconditionally committed to taking out Murtagh. He and your lovely wife are on the yacht.” He turned to Wainwright. “If you’re not there, who will protect Lacey and bring her home?”

  Wainwright had no choice but to do as Amiti said. He had to place his life in this killer’s hands and go along with his plan. “Yeah, I’m all in. You can count on me to do my part.”

  The waiter arrived with a trayful of platters. Wainwright couldn’t understand the Spanish when Amiti was ordering, but he recognized the delights on the plate. The waiter’s presentation of the enchilada plate with rice and beans was theatrical as he placed the food in front of Wainwright.

  As the men began to eat, Amiti continued with his briefing. “We’ll parasail onto the Spoiled Yachten’s heliport just before 0300 hours. Rudy’s cousins, Diego and Hector, will create a distraction off the bow. Everyone aboard will be drawn to that. The moon will be in the waxing crescent phase tonight, and cloud cover is expected. José has prepared a special harness arrangement. Attached to the tow boat, it’ll take us from the beach to the Spoiled Yachten. We’ll be airborne for approximately one hour and forty-five minutes. It’ll be cold, so wear your long johns under your jumpsuit.”

  BACK IN HIS ROOM, AMITI handed each of them plastic-wrapped bundles of clothing.

  “Some vital pieces of equipment are in your rooms. The police scanners are preset to the frequency we’ll use. We’ll be talking to each other and monitored by Rudy Vasquez. And you’ll each also find a pair of night-vision goggles.” Amiti retrieved a pair from the duffel bag at his feet. “Wear them when we take off from the beach. Rudy’s cousin, Armando, will zap the electrical generators and fry the batteries on the Yachten before we land. I don’t know how he’ll do it, but if it works, we’ll have a huge advantage with our goggles in the dark. If the boat is still lit when we land, ditch the goggles. Rudy’s brothers will be driving Zodiac inflatable boats and generally making a nuisance of themselves, they’ll distract those on the Spoiled Yachten while we land on her top deck. After we drop off the towline, the towboat will join in the fun with the Zodiacs.

  “It would be ideal if we had time to practice the parasail-landing technique, but since we’re going tonight, that’s not possible. What we do have is an hour with José, our rigger and towboat driver. Later today, José will give you instructions for take-off and landing.” Amiti paused, considering the face of each man, searching for understanding or commitment. “Pay close attention to him; he’s an experienced parasailer.”

  “While we’re airborne,” he continued, “there’ll be nothing to do but worry. Don’t! That’ll only distract us and do absolutely no good. Instead, think through the next stage. On landing, each of us will have his own assignments. These are detailed in the information packets I gave you with your jumpsuits. Study them thoroughly before your meeting with José. He’ll answer any questions you might have.”

  “Well, I have one now,” Wilson said.

  “Yes, Renato?”

  “What will we do if we encounter some of Murtagh’s muscle? He mimicked a left-handed Tom Burgmeier pitch. “Do you want us to throw rocks or what?”

  Amiti grinned. “You must have been a cop before you joined the DA’s office. Am I right?”

  Wilson nodded, losing some of the animosity toward him.

  “You’ll each be issued one of these.” From the duffel bag at his feet, Amiti pulled out an Uzi auto machine pistol with a sound suppressor. “They’ve sold ten million of these, and you can bet there will be several aboard the Spoiled Yachten. This is a .45 ACP Uzi with a twenty-two-round magazine. We’ll carry extra magazines in our jumpsuits. Between us, we’ll have close to four hundred rounds to take care of whatever we run into aboard that boat.

  “And thanks to some friends in the Austrian military, each of us will also carry a .9mm Glock 17. There’s a seventeen-round magazine in the pistol, and you have two extra mags in your rooms, along with your weapons. With one additional round in the chamber, the three of us will have a hundred and fifty-six rounds of superior handgun stopping power.

  “Together, we’ll have enough firepower and ammunition to kill everyone on that boat, should it become necessary. And gentlemen, it will be necessary. There’s only one friendly on board: Lacey Wainwright. We’ll leave with her and set the Spoiled Yachten on fire as we go.” Amiti smiled widely. “Personally, I’ve never set fire to an eighteen-million-dollar yacht. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Sounds like you have been looking forward to this,” Wainwright said. “What would you have done if Renato and I had declined your opportunity to help you kill off the bad guys?”

  Amiti paused for a beat, more for effect than for thinking. “Well, in that case, I’d have asked Rudy if he had more cousins.”

  Amiti was the only one who laughed.

  “You’ll find a duffel like this one in your rooms,” he went on. “The duffel contains both weapons and magazines for them. Also, in the duffel, you’ll find your scanner and headset attachment. You’re both experienced with firearms. Familiarize yourself with these and the radios before meeting José back here in two hours. We’ll have time to nap before the drive tonight, so use this time to study everything.”

  Both men left for their respective rooms. Wainwright unlocked his door and started to sit on the bed. But he stopped when he saw it was covered with the equipment, weapons, and ammo they would use this evening.

  Killing is something Garth Wainwright does not take lightly. He assumed Wilson shared his concern about this mission. If bad guys were killed while he was rescuing his wife, he’d be okay with that. But Amiti’s goal was to wipe out everyone on that boat, then destroy it.

  What exactly is bothering me about what I’m about to do?

  He didn’t know the answer, and this time, it had nothing to do with amnesia. What was bothering him was the vision of the engagement he saw in his head. His mental picture was of the three of the
m swooping in from a black, moonless sky. After a smooth landing on the deck of the luxurious ocean-going yacht, the three Birdmen, as Wilson had dubbed the fliers, move stealthily, mowing down everyone they encounter. Most of the people on board wouldn’t be moving about at that hour. The invaders would step into the yacht’s cabins, find the occupants in bed, and slaughter them in their sleep.

  Nothing he’d experienced in Nam was like what he was imagining. Maybe the ’68 My Lai massacre, but Wainwright hadn’t been anywhere close to that tragedy, thank God.

  His fine-tuned sense of right and wrong was offended by the lack of justice. Even though there wouldn’t be any saints on that yacht, he was uncomfortable where this plan would lead. He eased his mind somewhat by accepting what had to be. There’s no other choice, not if I want to save Lacey, he thought, then went to work checking his weapons.

  LACEY WAS NO LONGER bound and was allowed to walk on the saloon deck in the mornings. Several days had passed since she had been brought here by helicopter. The crew allowed her these “privileges” when Murtagh was off the boat. He had to be gone now because they treated her with polite indifference as opposed to the cruel meanness displayed for Murtagh’s benefit.

  That night, the thug who always brought her meals to her—new with Murtagh as far as she could tell—entered her compartment. He carried no dinner tray. Instead, he held a hypodermic syringe in one hand and a bottle of alcohol in the other. Oh, God, Murtagh must back!