Bahama Breeze

by Eddie Jones

  Was he still on the island? Aboard the ship? Sipping piña coladas by the pool at the Sea Grape? For a government agency that prided itself on gathering intelligence, her small sector seemed to have wide gaps in their surveillance net.

  “Now?” Sonny called from the bow. He eagerly dangled the anchor over the bow rail. His color was better. His cheeks were beginning to turn pink, his nose, too. Under the sharp angle of the morning sun, with his tussled blond hair, he could almost pass for one of the older surfers she’d seen on her trips to Nags Head.

  Maybe, under different circumstances, she thought—like, if you weren’t dying—I might seriously consider your offer to get back together.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Well?”

  Anna nodded.

  Sonny released the anchor.

  She heard it splash and saw the rope slither across his foot, spooling out from the pipe in the deck, through the bow roller and over the side of the boat. She watched and waited until the end of the rope disappeared from view. “Don’t tell me you just lost our anchor,” said Anna.

  “OK, I won’t.”

  “Sonny!”

  “How was I to know it wasn’t tied off?”

  “It’s your rental.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, peeling off his shirt. “Water doesn’t look that deep.”

  But it was.

  22

  Tommy nervously entered the Oval Office.

  “Timmy. What’s up?”

  “Tommy, sir.”

  “That-a-boy,” said the President, whacking Tommy on the back.

  The door clicked shut behind him. Tommy had expected plush furniture with tasteful trimmings. What he found instead was a room full of manly things. Leather and wood, stone sculptures, bronze busts and a large portrait of Teddy Roosevelt.

  A pair of saddle seats faced the wet bar. On another wall were shelves of books. The room seemed less like an office and more a private study made for sipping whisky from heavy shot glasses, smoking cigars and telling bawdy jokes. A spittoon sat beside the President’s desk. In the middle of the Presidential seal was a stuffed armadillo with a golf ball in its mouth. The President rifled through a pile of papers on his desk, shaking his head.

  “Tim, you want my job, you can have it. I swear, some days I wish I was back in Amarillo piercing body parts at Redneck Ron’s Tattoo Parlor.”

  “No, thanks. I have enough problems of my own.”

  “Such as?”

  “It’s just a figure of speech, sir.”

  “Man says he’s got problems, I want to hear ‘bout ‘em. What’s bothering you, son?”

  “Work related, mostly.”

  “I heard that.” The President motioned toward a leather couch. “Sit, son, you’re making me nervous.”

  Tommy sat.

  “You know why you’re here?” asked the President.

  “I can make a guess.”

  “Do.”

  “It’s Boggs, isn’t it, sir?”

  “We’ve suspected that he’s been playing both sides. Double dipping. Burning the candle from both ends. Get the picture?”

  “He’s wandered off the range, is that it?”

  “Ha! I knew you were one smart cookie. Most folks come in here and don’t have a clue how to play ‘Cliché Charades.’”

  “My wife’s a literary agent. I get lots of practice reading manuscripts over her shoulder.”

  “Anyhow, the CIA Director called this morning with some story about how you botched this assignment with Boggs. If there’s one thing I can’t stand is a man who won’t take responsibility for his actions. You hear what I’m saying, Tim?”

  Tommy’s cheeks went flush. This is it. He’s called me in to demand my resignation. “Yes, Mr. President. I don’t know what to say. We…I—”

  “Ain’t nothing to say. The Director’s a weasel, everyone knows that. Takes credit when he don’t deserve it and blames everyone else for his mistakes. That’s why I’m putting you in charge of this Boggs mess. You report to me from here on.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I think.”

  “We got the intel this morning that pretty much confirmed what you already knew—that Boggs isn’t down there for some dead stripper’s ribbon-cutting ceremony. He’s dumb, but he’s not that stupid. Want to see the pictures?”

  “Of the stripper?”

  “No, son. Of Boggs and his shenanigans. I got prints of the stripper, too, but they’re back in the residency. It’s enough to turn your stomach.”

  “The photos of the stripper?”

  “No! Of Boggs.”

  “Are you saying Boggs has gone over to the other side?”

  “We’ve known for some time he planned to sell out his country. He was just waiting for the right buyer. But now things have gotten worse.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, how could things have gotten any worse?”

  “Got the latest figures this morning. His polling numbers are in the double digits. That can only mean one thing. He’s eating into my south Florida base. The only way he’d be able to do that is with money, and lots of it, and we both know he doesn’t have the base to bring those kinds of bucks. Plus, he has those nuclear launch codes on his cell phone. Bet you were hoping to keep that little secret to yourself.”

  In fact, he was.

  “I’ve talked it over with some key personnel—mostly my campaign manager and the precinct captain in Dade County. We all agree. Boggs has to go. Have your people work up a scenario where Boggs takes an ugly spill, like on one of those little scooter bikes. Or better yet, a diving accident. I know you have him under surveillance. Probably got your best man on it.”

  “It’s a woman, sir.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Our man in the field. He’s a woman.”

  “Oh, for the love of Pete. I’m all for non-discrimination in the workplace, but this transgender business has gone too far.”

  “Sir, I meant that our agent in the field is really a gal. A female. Professional data analyst.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It is? Why?”

  “Why? ‘Cause I like women, that’s why. What red-blooded American male doesn’t?”

  “I can think of several men I know who―”

  “Let me stop you right there, Tim, before you embarrass yourself. The point is, I hate to see us lose a highly qualified and probably underpaid counterintelligence agent on account of Boggs, but sacrifices have to be made during tough times like this.”

  “Sacrifices, sir? How do you see this playing out, sir?”

  “Can’t tell you that. It’s classified. But until we get this little problem put to bed, I want you in those meetings in the Situation Room. I like your style. You know how to hang back and listen. Not like my CIA director who’s always running off at the mouth and offering advice, even when I don’t ask. Now run along. And remember. Don’t say a word of this to your agent in the field. The less she knows, the better.”

  “But sir, if we are planning to make a move against Boggs, my agent needs to know. Otherwise, there’s a good chance she’ll step in and protect him. That’s what she’s trained to do. And without a full assessment of the situation she could be putting herself in harm’s way.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Now, Tim, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the Bishop from Bongo about some aid shipments he’s re-routing to his kinfolk in Kinkasha. Say that three times and see if you don’t want a strong drink. I’ll meet you in the Situation Room after lunch. And remember. Not a word to your gal.”

  Tommy exited the Oval Office. He powered up his phone and checked messages. Another from Agent Fortune. Poor girl. She must be wondering where her back up is. He erased the message and went looking for a pastry cart.

  23

  Three left messages and still no word from her boss. This wasn’t like him, Anna thought, powering down her sat phone. She wondered if she should try Boggs’s cell, maybe call some of his s
taffers, though Anna had no idea how she’d identify who was who in his contact list. Staring at the dark screen, she decided against powering it up. The less her fingerprints were on this, the better.

  Peering into the clear water, she searched for Sonny. No sign of him or the anchor. She dragged a dive tank into the cockpit and hastily threaded the regulator to the valve, turned the knob and heard a short whistle of air. Snatching her bag from the bunk, she wedged herself into the forward cabin, closed the door and pulled on her bathing suit. On the way back through the salon, she picked up fins, mask, and a snorkel.

  To the east and north lay a low bank of clouds. She felt anxious this far from land. If the seas kicked up, they would have a very interesting time trying to pick their way over the shallow reefs that lay between them and the island. The smart thing to do would be to motor to the island and keep trying to find Boggs. But her whole career was built on doing the smart thing, and look where it had gotten her. Predictably alone. Perhaps it was time to try something unrehearsed.

  Making a slow three-sixty scan, she studied the sky. The sun was almost directly overhead, the sky a bleached denim blue. But those clouds and the way they seemed to be clustered together bothered her. A burst of air off the stern broke her concentration.

  “Here’s your rope,” called Sonny, pulling himself up the swim ladder.

  Without a word, she took the line and walked it to the bow, tying it off. Instantly the boat began to hobby-horse on the gentle swells.

  “Anchor’s set,” he called from the cockpit. “Made sure of it.”

  Anna pointed to the clouds. “I think we should be going.”

  “Nonsense. We can see the island from here. I’m wet and you’ve already got one tank ready. I say we cool off. There’s some great coral formations down there.”

  “I’m working. Remember?”

  Ignoring her, he rigged his tank and strapped on a weight belt, tested the fit of his mask and pulled on fins. “Coming?” Muscles swelled as he lifted his dive tank.

  Sighing, she spat into her day-glow-green mask and rubbed saliva around the glass, rinsed the residue, and positioned it on her head. Wedging her feet into the flippers, she tensioned the straps and added a weight belt. Sonny helped guide her arms through the tank’s straps. Together they slid under the lifelines, flippers pointed down. Pressing the mask against her face, she fell forward into the water.

  The current carried her from the boat; the weight belts took her down. She tested the air in her tank. Bubbles clouded her vision. She settled into a pattern and began to inhale slowly. Sonny floated several feet above, the sun’s reflection forming a halo around his dark silhouette. What a goofball, coming all this way to tell her he was dying, and to break her heart again by leaving just when she wanted him to stay.

  Sonny kicked toward her, pointing to the bottom.

  Anna followed, descending slowly.

  She stopped every few feet to clear the pressure in her ears, motioning for him to do the same. She hovered about twenty feet from the bottom, watching sea fans wave. Beams of sunlight filtered through the blue water, illuminating small ridges in the sand where currents had scoured the bottom. How could anyone believe this beauty, this amount of detail, could be created by random chaos and chance? Though she could not see the currents carrying her over the sands, they were real—as real as the hand of God gently pushing her toward Sonny and the decision that would break both their hearts.

  She checked her gauge and pointed to the needle. She flashed ten fingers three times indicating thirty minutes.

  Sonny nodded.

  A school of grouper darted past. Giant starfish glowed bright against the sand. Sonny pointed over his shoulder and kicked away. She followed, her gaze darting left and right. To be hit by a barracuda could be fatal. No way they could get medical assistance this far out. Anna heard the faint whistle of her regulator, saw bubbles escaping as she dropped into darkness.

  They’d reached the edge of the reef. A few yards beyond, the ledge dropped into the abyss. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sonny waving his hands excitedly and pointing toward a large fissure in the coral. Kicking over she swept her gaze inside, under and around the crag.

  There, crawling away, was a lobster the size of a poodle. She hung there at the entrance for a few moments watching its antlers probing the water, trying to detect her movements. Gradually she became aware of a low humming sound, like the deep, muffled revolutions of a ship’s engine.

  She tapped Sonny’s wrist and pointed upward.

  He nodded toward the other side of the ledge and kicked away.

  She waited, refusing to follow. Checking her air gauge, she peered over the edge but saw no sign of him. Minutes passed. The humming grew louder. The upwelling of currents sweeping up from the ocean’s depths chilled her. This was exactly what she’d feared. That he would abandon her at the moment she needed him most. Just as he had before. Just as he would again when the cancer claimed the last of his Sonny smile.

  At last, Sonny came rocketing up from the deep and passed her as he kicked toward the surface. She followed, breaching the waves.

  “Are you stupid?” she asked, ripping off her mask. “You never leave your diving partner! Ever!”

  “Saw something shiny,” he said, propping his mask on his forehead.

  “When I say it’s time to go, we go. No questions. Do you have any idea what would have happened―”

  “Here,” he said, handing her what appeared to be a small chunk of coral.

  “If you’d run out of air, there would have been no way for me save you.”

  “Look at it!”

  Reluctantly, she held the crusty object up to the sunlight and studied it. “What is it?”

  “A wedding band, I think.”

  “It’s a rusted bottle cap, you idiot.” Anna handed him the artifact and, twisting around, made a slow scan of the empty ocean. “Sonny?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a ring. See, it curves—”

  “Sonny?”

  “Here, let me knock off some of the coral.”

  “Sonny?”

  “Yeah,” he said, still banging his new treasure on her tank.

  “Where’s our boat?”

  24

  “You did set the anchor, didn’t you?”

  Sonny looked hurt. “Said I did, didn’t I? You sure you tied the rope off tight?”

  She gave him that look—the one she used at the office whenever anyone questioned the results of her analysis. “Just find the boat, OK?”

  “Shouldn’t be that hard. Has a pole sticking up from it.”

  She remembered the last time she’d been lost at sea. She’d gone fishing with her dad. She couldn’t have been more than eight-years-old at the time. A storm had come up as they were racing to get home, and the rain caught them before they reached the inlet. She’d lost sight of the cottages and hotels, so she’d stood on the bench seat that spanned the back of the motorboat, straining to see any sign of land. A large wave had slapped the boat, and suddenly she was in and under and gone. It happened so fast she hadn’t even had a chance to scream.

  When she finally surfaced, she saw the back of her dad’s boat chugging away and him still hunched over the console, trying to read the soggy chart.

  The water had been frigid. She remembered wondering why her dad didn’t turn around and return when she screamed. He was supposed to protect her. That’s what dads did. Even when everyone else turns on you, dads take care of their little girls.

  “Ditch the tanks,” said Sonny. “We’re going to have to swim for that island and they’ll only slow us down.”

  “They’re charged to my credit card!”

  “And you’ll return them, just not now. I’ll leave them on the reef near where we found this.”

  He unbuckled the straps and helped her out of the dive vest. Giving her a thumbs-up, he slipped under water. She floated on the surface, her face in the water, watching his bubbles until he swam out of sight
. Kicking her legs to stay afloat, she wished now she had a life jacket. That’s what she remembered most about the accident with her dad’s boat—how she’d felt floating in the water and screaming for him to come back. When at last she’d heard Daddy calling her name, she thought he was just short of divine. Would she have felt the same way if she’d known he was having an affair with his secretary that weekend?

  Sonny surfaced, rolled onto his back and floated away, kicking through the water at a leisurely pace.

  “This would be a whole lot easier if we had life jackets,” Anna said.

  “No it wouldn’t. Only slow us down.”

  “Well, I wish I had a life jacket.”

  “Here, lay on your back and kick, like me. It’s a lot easier.”

  After a few strokes, she settled into a more leisurely pace. The sun warmed her face. She tasted the salt on her lips and imagined she was at the beach, floating on an air mattress.

  “A few years ago I was coming back from the Gulf Stream,” Sonny said. “Me and some co-workers were part of a fishing tournament. We’d just landed a tuna. A big one. Four-hundred pounder. Big enough to put us in first place. We brought that fish alongside of the boat so I could gaff him. Was leaning over the starboard rail, waiting. Just then, rain starts. It came out of nowhere. Sort of what we’re about to experience. Visibility went to zero.”

  “Are you slowing down? Because if you are, you need to stop talking. I think those clouds are getting closer.”

  “A Japanese fishing trawler slammed two anchor flukes into the side of our vessel. Seven men went into the water. Boat went down in three minutes. Trawler kept right on chugging away. Didn’t see that first fish for about a half an hour. Big one. A thirteen-footer. You know how you know that when you’re in the water?”

  “I think I’ve heard this story before.”

  “By measuring from the bulb to the tip. What we didn’t know, what we wouldn’t find out until later, was that our captain was so torn up from a bout of bad sushi that he was in the head during the collision. Hadn’t even had time to send a distress signal. Tournament director didn’t even report us overdue till after happy hour.”