Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  This required Ford to return to the car and make a call on his new BTC throwaway phone.

  When the sun was lower, he rigged the fly rod and waded toward the estate, ready to put on a show if anyone questioned his motives.

  * * *

  —

  The motives of two men in dark suits slogging after him, water to their knees, were obvious, although best ignored. From the mangroves drifted a pointillism of cloud shadow that stirred a wake beneath a cloudless sunset sky.

  A school of bonefish. Big-shouldered fish, long-bodied, dense as lead.

  “Sir . . . hello? Que onda, amigo!” One of the security guys tried to get his attention, mixing English with Spanish.

  Ford, stripping line, nodded eagerly and began to false-cast.

  “Mister, we speaking for you!” The second man’s voice was more strident.

  Ford’s green 9-weight line carved a question mark, then launched a tufted hook ahead of the schooling fish. The men stopped and watched the tourist, in his baggy, bulky vest, squat low. Watched him twitch the line, then lift a rod that bowed with sudden impact.

  “Got one.” Ford grinned, but sobered when he saw the bonefish—a big one—rocketing toward the men. For an instant, they froze . . . time enough for fish and line to thread between one man’s legs. He whooped, leaped like he was protecting his nuts from a baseball, and fell. Funny, had he not surfaced wielding a mini machine pistol.

  Nope, it was funny. Hilarious, his partner thought. No pretense of English now. Pure barrio Spanish. “You little pussy girl-boy,” he howled. “Afraid a fish gonna bite your wee-wee off?”

  The man with the gun was soaked. A little stunned. “Goddamn, bro. Thing run right for my cojones, and you laughing? Shit.”

  His partner tried to imitate what had happened. A prissy ballerina leap, saying, “Yeah, but you recover smooth, man. Ready to shoot that fishy if the bitch comes after your wee-wee again.” Staggering, it was so funny, and he nearly fell himself.

  After years working in Latin America, Ford’s mind shifted easily into Spanish. Whether to reveal this or not had to wait until he landed the fish. If he landed it. The bonefish had sizzled off a hundred feet and the reel was hot to the touch.

  Ten minutes was enough to forge a temporary bond with the guys, land the fish, and remove the hook. “How much do you think it weighs?” he asked in Spanish.

  “Nice one, man. But we got bigger in the ’Dor. You know El Salvador? The ocean, man, we got all kinds there.”

  So that’s where they were from. The smallest, and sometimes meanest, country in Central America. It explained the gangbanger tats their jackets could not hide. But not the coiled earbuds. Or the heavy weaponry that was illegal for all but government-sanctioned agents.

  “Never got any farther than Costa Rica,” Ford replied. “I spent a month at a gringo Spanish school.” He talked about the mountains there, the women, then offered the rod. “Want to try?”

  “Can’t, amigo, we working, you know? Go ahead, we already wet. And it’s fun watching you.”

  “Ask the man some questions, too,” the other hinted. “I can search him if you too busy talking shit.”

  Ford appeared confused for a moment. “Oh,” he said, “you’re police of some type. Here, I should’ve realized.” From a pocket he handed over a plastic bag that contained his embossed research permit and a tourist fishing license purchased his first day in Andros Town.

  The security guys conferred long enough for Ford’s frazzled bonefish fly to be replaced with a new speck of tuft and Mylar.

  “Says here you a fish doctor—that right, sir?”

  “Just a biologist, down here on a research project,” Ford replied. “I’m supposed to be working, too, so don’t tell my boss you caught me having fun, okay?”

  One of the men liked the slyness of that. “Sneakin’ out but part of your job, far as the boss concerned. Yeah, that’s cool. In El ’Dor—this is when I was a kid—we caught a hell of a lot of corvina just walking the beach. Hand lines, bro. Didn’t need no fancy rods. Talk about good eating.”

  “What about catching gallo in the surf?” Ford asked. “Costa Rica, they’d tail right along the beach.”

  “Rooster fish, oh hell yes. But the Rica don’t compare to the size we catch. Seriously, amigo.” He took another look at the embossed papers, then said, “Wow. The dude’s got permission from the Crown. Like the Bahamas government, you know?”

  His partner, the one who’d fallen, didn’t like the sound of that. The machine pistol had disappeared into a holster. He eyed the biologist while tugging a cuff over a tattoo that took a moment to decipher. It was an elaborate insect with pincers—an ant.

  Ford took pains not to notice by concentrating on another school of bonefish.

  “We gonna have to search him anyway, Tito,” the man said, and motioned to the dock and buildings across the bay. “Can’t say who’s staying there, sir, but they important dignitaries. You have a problem with that?”

  “Help yourself.” The biologist, in his baggy vest, still holding the rod, spread his arms and waited, which struck Tito as a waste of time and embarrassing.

  “Man, this ain’t no airport,” he said to his partner, then asked Ford, “Bro, you carrying any weapons or shit?”

  “Well . . . yeah, guess so.” That startled them both until he starting plucking items from his vest . . . nail clippers, pliers, a sharpening stone, a forceps-looking instrument for removing hooks.

  “Like we’re damn TSA,” Tito said. “Come on, Phillipé, let the man fish.”

  Phillipé, the humorless one with a tattoo of an ant on his wrist, stared and stepped closer. “Take off the vest, please, sir.”

  Ford did, handed it over, and continued to watch a school of bones mudding toward Donner’s boat—no movement aboard, but a flurry of activity among the buildings above. Stick figures on the move. Dust from a pickup truck that sped soundlessly inland. Also audible was the distant warble of a siren.

  A radio squelched. Tito touched a finger to his ear and said, “Repeat that, please.” He nodded, listening. “Yeah . . . yeah. No . . . just a turista fishing. Shit, you kidding. Don’t let them in. We’re on our way.” Then spoke to his partner in a rapid guttural language that was K’iche’ Mayan.

  Phillipé tossed the vest back to the biologist, both guards suddenly in a hurry. “That’s private property over there,” he said. “Stay away, understand? I don’t care who you are.”

  Ford asked, “Is something wrong?” It was pointless, over the noise of men trying to run in shallow water. Unnecessary as well. He didn’t speak K’iche’ but understood a phrase commonly used in Guatemala during the revolution: Get-a’bal chee-wah!

  It was a command to attack or flee from an enemy—in this case, probably a Bahamian police car at the front gate requesting permission to enter.

  Tito and Phillipé had approached him from behind but were returning to the compound via the shortest route possible, through the water. It was an opportunity to learn the terrain. Midway, sand became muck. The man with the unusual tattoo fell again. West of the point was a tidal trench, where the current swept seaward past the rented yacht. They were smart enough to skirt it and scramble up a limestone bank into trees, where there was probably no fence.

  Ford continued to cast like he was pursuing another school of bonefish, but fixated on the boat. Someone was aboard, no doubt about it. Twice, curtains in the main cabin parted, then quickly closed. Trouble was, neither he nor his contact in Nassau had proof that a kidnapped child was being held there.

  Legalities had to be considered. His contact was a Bahamian “diplomat,” not a cop, so they’d come up with a plan. If the principals in residence had nothing to hide, a constable would be allowed through the gate without a search warrant. If not, tougher venues of access could be pursued.

  Either way, they h
ad to spook Efren Donner from a private dock into open water. Maritime law allowed a nation’s Coast Guard to board and search any and all vessels under the flimsiest of pretenses. “Safety equipment,” was the standard fallback. A faulty life jacket had helped detain far more felons than heroin or RPG rocket launchers found later in a ship’s hold.

  On the ridge near the houses, a dust contrail revealed the truck Ford had seen earlier. It was returning from the front gate unaccompanied by a Bahamian squad car—usually a white midsized Jeep. No surprise, not after hearing Tito say, “Shit no, don’t let them in.”

  Still no activity above deck on Donner’s boat. This was troubling. Twelve-year-old boys made noise. They were in constant motion. It suggested the boy was either not aboard. Or incapacitated. Or dead.

  Josiah Bodden would not react kindly if he knew. Earlier in the day, the man had offered his 28-foot Mako after learning the black-hulled yacht was in Cutlass Bay.

  “Don’t need the po-lice to do what you know is right,” he’d said. Then had added a quote from Psalms. Something about God had trained his hands for war if revenge was justified.

  The old preacher’s statement regarding police was now moot. The same with the question he’d posed: Was it better to wait for a search warrant or go after the boy alone?

  That decision had already been made.

  * * *

  —

  Ford landed two more bonefish, the last just after sunset. There was sufficient light to convince an observer that he was an affable fool who—probably for foolish reasons—chose to disappear into the mangroves rather than follow a path to the road.

  On the hike in, he’d hidden a waterproof bag. Fishing tackle went into the bag. Equipment he might need added weight to the vest, but not enough to arouse suspicion in a security guard who’d already searched it.

  Ford stayed in the mangroves. Used the cover to move closer to Donner’s boat. By dark, he was in a makeshift stand with a view. Below deck, lights flicked on, lights blinked off. Shadows glazed curtains in the main cabin, but still no activity outside.

  An hour passed. Mosquito netting made it difficult to use an NV scope, which had to be pressed to the eye. So every few minutes he would swat and fan, then take another look. Star-black water was illuminated as if by a dazzling green sun. On the ridge, windows came alive with miniature people. Beams of infrared light guaranteed he was not the only one equipped with night vision.

  Security at the compound included some modern toys.

  Josiah had provided a handheld VHF radio, which was analog. Ford hadn’t bothered to switch it on. Under ideal conditions, its maximum range was five miles at best. And what kind of idiot would respond after kidnapping a child and possibly two adults? After swatting more bugs he decided, what the hell, and hailed the boat by its cliché name on channel 16.

  “Break-break for the vessel, Island Time. Island Time, do you read?” Twice he repeated the message.

  In the main salon, a light came on. Curtains rustled.

  Donner was monitoring the radio.

  Ford tried again, saying, “Hailing the vessel Island Time. We have confirmed visual contact. Repeat, your location has been confirmed. Skipper, request you switch to channel twenty-two alfa and stand by for further instructions. Copy?”

  A Coast Guard boarding party would have made a similar request prior to searching a private vessel.

  Curtains parted. A man’s faced peered out. Then a lot happened fast. The cabin door opened and Donner stepped out, obviously wary. He signaled to someone inside, and Ford got his first look at Lydia Johnson. She appeared too tiny to warrant the attention of two nations—and possibly more, if he was right about a Salvadoran connection.

  What happened next was difficult to watch. Donner summoned the woman aft, where a rubber dinghy was tied. When she balked, he threatened her with a fist. No . . . the butt of a small pistol. It was enough to convince her. She dropped out of sight as if falling to her knees. When she reappeared, a small, bald man was at her side.

  Ford threw off the mosquito netting and watched Dr. Leonard Nickelby. The man moved like a cripple. Had to be helped down onto the dive platform, then into the rubber boat. Lydia hovered like a nurse while Donner started the engine and drove them ashore at top speed.

  Where was the boy?

  On the dock, three men wearing suits appeared. They, too, had been monitoring a radio. Not unexpected. What Ford hadn’t anticipated was a device that instantly triangulated the location of his handheld VHF. A laser beam swept the water at his feet before he switched it off. He grabbed his bag and started inland through a tangle of roots and limbs. In a mucky area of briars near the path uphill he dumped the radio after powering it on.

  Buy myself enough time to find the boy, he thought.

  A more subtle finesse was backtracking through the mangroves to the water, a custom dive mask and snorkel ready to go. It was a move no one should have expected.

  One man did.

  Ford’s dive mask was fitted with a mount for underwater night vision. He had clamped the NV monoc in place when a familiar voice said from the bushes, “Went off and left your fly rod, amigo. Figured you’d be back.”

  Tito, a broad silhouette, stood behind him to his right. No flashlight, but a similar scope on a headband that masked one eye. Then Tito saw the elongated tube that was a silencer aimed at him and realized the biologist wasn’t easily surprised.

  “Be cool, bro. Just want to discuss the situation. You put that can on a Glock? A Beretta maybe, huh?”

  Can was security-speak for a baffled sound suppressor.

  “A Sig 9,” Ford said. “Tell me now if your comm system is transmitting. I’d rather run than shoot you. It’s something you’d have to experience to understand.”

  “Radio’s off, amigo,” Tito said, nodding like he did understand. “This is just you and me. I like Sigs, the trigger especially, but the whole double-action thing, you know? So I had to get used to this.” He patted an unseen holster, meaning a Glock, which was common in the trade. “You really a biologist?”

  Ford hoped the guy’s calm, easygoing manner signaled the possibility of a deal. “If I was smart, I’d ask for your weapons,” he said. “What would you do?”

  “Shit, man, it was me? Go home, get drunk, and be out first thing looking for a new place to fish. But not here.” Tito referenced window lights across the bay. “You ever do security for a dictator? Some of the dudes he hires . . . man, I don’t know. I’m starting to wonder myself if the money’s worth prison in the States. Or worse. You know the expression ‘Send El Caucho’?”

  Caucho was a cheap plastic raincoat. Ford said, “To keep the blood off. What, they always send someone with a machete? Your partner Phillipé would probably be good at it.”

  “Marabuntas,” Tito said, which was the name of a street gang and also a predatory jungle ant. “Yeah, MS-13, it’s the way they do things, man. Old-school, the Indio way. Hang a man’s head on a hook, light candles all around. Spooky shit I didn’t spend seven years in Armada Recon to learn. Not just Phillipé either—all them out there looking for you.” He shrugged like it was out of his hands. “As you know, a man’s got to make a living.”

  It was a subtle proposition. In response, Ford holstered the pistol and said, “Let’s find a place to sit down. I’ve got bug spray if you need it.”

  Tito used what was left in the can while he explained. At sunset, he’d watched Ford through binoculars and had to wonder why a scientist carrying papers from the Bahamian government would crawl into the mangroves instead of using a footpath.

  “So I come here to check while the others staked out a white Toyota near the road. I found this where you dropped it.” He handed over a Sage fly rod case. “A man casts as good as you, I knew you’d be back. As for your other intentions . . .”

  It was his way of referencing a high-tech dive mas
k and a sound-suppressed pistol.

  Ford nodded toward dock lights that glistened a quarter mile away. “A boy was kidnapped yesterday. I think he might be aboard a boat anchored over there.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Some view kidnapping as a crime.”

  “Hey, the only reason we’re talking is I got a three-year-old at home, so go easy on something I don’t know nothing about. I’m talking about the man paying me. Are you here because of him and his junta miembros?”

  “Nope. Absolutely nothing to do with whoever it is you were hired to protect.”

  Tito laughed. “Man, you are so lucky, if that’s true. You talking about the gringo movie director’s boat, huh?”

  “He’s the one. Efren Donner. I don’t suppose you went aboard and—”

  “A maricón like that, who cares? He’s bad news, bro. Showed up uninvited but didn’t bring nothing to the party. Like an insult, understand? That shit don’t fly with a certain generalissimo, so maybe what happens to the dude is El Caucho gonna pay him a visit. That’s all I can say unless we can, you know, work something out.”

  “We can,” Ford said.

  They did.

  * * *

  —

  On his belly, he crabbed through the shallows to a trench where the tide swept seaward past Donner’s boat. No need to swim. The current pulled him along, just a portion of his stocking cap and mask showing. At the channel’s edge was a sandy delta where night herons, spooked by the intrusion, growled like lions and vaulted skyward.

  On the dock, a security guard lit a cigarette, indifferent to the behavior of birds.

  Ford used his feet as rudders and caught the boat’s swim platform before the tide could vent him past the dock into the channel. For a minute or so, he waited in the crackling silence of barnacles, then pulled himself aboard. Slipped over the transom and didn’t stand until he popped the cabin door, pistol drawn. Master switches were on the wall to the right. He killed the lights and again waited in silence for someone inside or ashore to react.