Rodriguez was silent for a beat. “Do you have a business deal with some Russian?”
“Of course I do,” Hammond said. “Along with people in France, Germany, China, and a lot of other places.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just do your job, Arturo, and let me worry about the details.”
“I may decide to walk,” Rodriguez said.
“Your choice,” Hammond said, and he hung up.
The french doors in his office were open to the breeze off the lake. He got up and went out onto the balcony, where he leaned against the balustrade with both hands and stared at a small sailboat, its starboard rail awash as it tacked through the eye of the wind.
He wanted to escape, to run and hide, but out in the open. Among the players, his kind of people who spoke and understood the same language he did. The problem was there weren’t that many Bill Gateses and Warren Buffetts in the world, and most of them were in competition with each other, though it didn’t always show in public.
It was a serious game they all played, with money—intrinsically meaningless numbers in a bank’s electronic ledger—as the means of keeping score, big yachts and airplanes and fancy houses the only outward signs of their wealth.
In a couple of years, when Codecasa delivered the Susan P, he would be the king of the hill at Monaco and Cannes, at least for a while until someone else showed up with an even bigger, fancier yacht.
He turned away. If he lived that long, the unbidden thought came to his mind. His biggest deal ever was the one he could never tell a soul. The only people who knew besides himself and Susan were the assassins and Tarasov. Hopefully, McGarvey and his wife would never find out the truth.
Back at his desk, he took the Chinese ZTE sat phone with the Russian encryption algorithm from a drawer and put in a six-digit alphanumeric code that unlocked it and speed-dialed Tarasov.
The Russian answered on the first ring. “Good afternoon, Thomas.”
“We have a problem.”
“If you mean Kuprik, he is no longer an issue.”
“I just got off the phone with my financial adviser in New York who gave me the news.”
“If you mean Rodriguez, what does he have to do with this?”
“He and Kuprik had drinks together last night, and the cops are going over to his office to interview him.”
Tarasov was silent for a long beat. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You had Kuprik killed. Why?”
“Because he was indiscreet,” Tarasov said. “What does your adviser know about your little game?”
“Apparently, not as much as the ambassador knows or suspects about what you’re doing. He was the reason Kuprik was making inquiries.”
“How reliable is your man? Will he keep his mouth shut to the cops?”
“I think so, but he threatened to quit working for me.”
“You think or you know, Thomas? This is important for more reasons than just your little adventure.”
“I can’t guarantee him,” Hammond said without giving it a thought.
“Can you live without him?”
“No one is indispensable.”
“Me included?” Susan asked from behind him.
FORTY-FOUR
McGarvey felt a lot better after a few hours’ sleep and the breakfast of bacon and eggs Pete had fixed for them. He’d helped her clean up and then sat at the kitchen table overlooking the pool and beyond it the gazebo and the ICW as he unloaded and disassembled his Walther PPK with the well-worn handle, laying the parts and the bullets on a soft, lightly oiled rag.
Pete sat and watched him as he worked slowly and methodically. “It looks clean,” she said.
McGarvey smiled. “It is,” he said without looking up.
“I’ve seen you do this before other assignments. Are you just making sure of your equipment?”
“That, too, but it calms the nerves.”
Pete almost laughed. “You of all people don’t get nerves. It’s about the only thing about you I don’t understand.”
This time, he looked up from cleaning the already immaculate barrel with a short ramrod and a small piece of oiled, lint-free cloth. “But I do get nervous,” he said.
“Your hands are steady, never any sweat on your forehead, except for the time in Paris when you finally asked me to marry you.” She reached over and put two fingers over the inside of his wrist. “Heart steady, less than one beat a second. Yet you’re getting ready to defend your hearth and home—and me, from someone you think is damned good. Better than the first two.”
McGarvey simply nodded, because there was no reason to explain something to Pete that she already knew since the first time they’d come under fire what seemed like a century ago.
Pete looked down toward the ICW. “Lou has us covered in all directions, and if whoever is coming has decent intel, they might be aware of that fact. And even if they have no direct evidence, they know about you and about Otto, and you’re convinced that they’re coming, which means they probably have a plan for getting through whatever defenses are in place.”
“Which is why we’re going to start making it easier for them.”
Pete grinned again. “Why did I think you were going to say something like that?”
“Because we want this to be over with, and neither of us wants to sit around forever.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Soon as I’m finished here, I’m going to get the boat ready. You can bring one of the assault rifles and one MP7, plus some ammunition down and maybe some provisions. We’ll head out to the Gulf nice and slow and easy and putter around a couple of miles offshore.”
“For how long?”
“Overnight. If something hasn’t happened by then, we’ll come back here and get ready for Serifos.”
“Whatever it takes, we’re going to force the issue just like you did at the Pentagon and the White House, right?”
“I don’t want to keep our lives on hold waiting for something to happen. And I need to know why, as well as who.”
“We know why,” Pete said. “I knew it from the first day I met you.”
McGarvey said nothing, concentrating instead on finishing with his pistol.
“You’ve never been afraid of stepping on toes, anyone’s toes; it doesn’t matter to you. Weaver, Putin, Kim Jong-un. If something is wrong, you want to make it right.”
“Tilting at windmills. Been doing it all my life.”
“Not that at all, my darling. Don Quixote was a knight with rusted armor, something you’re not. But maybe it’s time to hang it up.”
He knew where she was going, and he put up a hand to stop her, but she overrode him.
“Listen to me, Kirk. You’re not a young man now.”
“Only fifty.”
“There are kids out there half your age with twice the reflexes.”
McGarvey shrugged.
“Sooner or later, you’ll be a millisecond too slow, your aim off by just a tenth of a centimeter, your sense of justice will blur your judgment at the wrong time.”
“You’re right, of course. But here we are,” he said. This time, when she started to object, he overrode her. “And I don’t want you in the firing line if … when that happens.”
“Too bad,” Pete said, rising. “Finish what you’re doing, and I’ll get our things together.”
“Lou, what’s on our perimeter?” McGarvey asked.
“Boat traffic is moderate on the ICW and light in the Gulf as normal for this time of year. Some noncommercial aircraft traffic from the Venice airport. My threat level assessment is at less than 5 percent.”
“How about foot traffic on the beach and vehicles on the road?”
“Some beach activity around sunrise this morning and only some local road traffic, including several lawn care people and a Frontier Cable Systems maintenance van. I verified a work order.”
“We’re going sailing. Should be leaving within the hour.”
“Where’s Otto?”
“Mary made him go home to sleep. They think it may be a busy evening.”
Pete was just leaving the kitchen, but she stopped and turned back.
“What do you think?” McGarvey asked.
“Insufficient data. But a night attack would be optimal.”
“Too optimal?”
* * *
McGarvey—barefoot, wearing swim trunks, no shirt, his prosthetic leg obscene looking in his mind—went down to the Whitby ketch tied to the dock. Unlocking the hatch, he went below, checked the status of the batteries on the automatic charger—they were full—and by long habit powered up the VHF radio and switched to the NOAA weather channel for this area of the coast that included inland waters as well as those in the Gulf out twenty nautical miles.
Topside again, he took the sail covers off, starting with the mizzen aft and then the main. When he’d bought the thirty-year-old yacht several years ago, he’d opted to stick with hand-raised and reefed sails rather than the electrically operated in the mast self-furling sails. Keeping systems simple meant that at sea, out of the range of marinas, fixing something that broke was possible.
A pair of Jet Skis came up from the south, and standing at the main mast, McGarvey watched as they approached. The drivers appeared to be boys, possibly teenagers.
“Lou, evaluate the Jet Skis approaching.”
“Rentals from Sporty’s in Venice. Roger and Benjamin Kaplan, brothers with Michigan driving licenses.”
“Are there any other marinas with boat rentals either north or south of my position?”
“Yes. Several dozen.”
“Threat assessments?”
“All at less than 5 percent.”
“Tell me when any assessment exceeds that number.”
“Yes.”
* * *
Pete came down with a small, two-wheeled pushcart of the type usually found at marinas, filled with food and drinks, and handed the bags and boxes across to Mac, who took them below. When they were finished, she went back to the house for a second load as McGarvey stowed the steaks, drinks, and other perishables in the galley’s large cooler.
Topside again, he started the diesel and checked over the transom to make sure that the cooling water was flowing before he went onto the dock and released the spring lines, leaving only the bow and stern lines.
By two thirty, the rest of the provisions, plus the weapons and ammunition, had been loaded, and Pete stood holding the bowline. Dressed in short jean cutoffs and a light gauze shirt tied at the waist over her bikini, she seemed eager.
“Are you ready?” McGarvey asked.
“Let’s get it done,” she said.
FORTY-FIVE
Sporty’s Marina was right on the Intracoastal Waterway, a short distance from the inlet that ran out into the Gulf. A dozen Jet Skis for rent were lined up in knee-deep water just off the narrow beach, and business was fairly brisk with a number of boats of all sizes and types under way.
A hundred meters or so south, just across from the inlet, a dozen or more small powerboats, including several Jet Skis, had pulled up at a small island. A small crowd of people had brought everything from barbecue grills, coolers, and beach umbrellas to even a boom box or two ashore and were partying.
“Looks like they’re having fun,” Li said as they parked and went down to the Jet Skis.
“Lanling gongren,” Taio said dismissively.
“We’ve always been blue-collar workers, only now we have money.”
“We have work to do, so keep your mind where it belongs. We’ll play later.”
A young salesman with sun-bleached blond hair, wearing flip-flops, board shorts, and a bright Hawaiian shirt mostly unbuttoned came down to them, a big grin on his face. “You guys want a couple of Doos, or do you want to ride tandem?”
“We’d like to rent two for the half day,” Taio said. “Something fast.”
“Sure thing. You’ve ridden before?”
“First time.”
“Maybe you want to start at the bottom, not the top, if you know what I mean.”
“We drive Augustas back in New York,” Li said. “I think we can handle ourselves.”
The salesman was impressed. “Go for it,” he said. He pointed out a pair of Kawasaki machines at the end of the row. “You want speed, you can take the 310LX. They’re total monsters. But even with three people, they still top out above seventy.”
“Fine,” Taio said.
“Cash or plastic?”
“Do you take American Express?” Taio asked.
“Is the pope Catholic?” the salesman asked.
They went up to the office, where they both had to show their Schilling driver’s licenses and sign the rental contract, which included a waiver of liability for personal injury. The four-hour rental fee was high, plus a $500 damage deposit for each machine.
Li had wandered off, and as Taio’s card was being run, she came back with a couple of bottles of water and two waterproof plastic pouches for their cell phones. “Add these,” she told the salesman.
He grinned. “Included.”
Taio signed the charge slip, and the salesman got a couple of keys attached to wristbands with eighteen inches or so of flexible tubing and walked them back to the machines.
“Actually, pretty basic to run these things,” he said, climbing aboard one of them. He put the key into the ignition, and the machine kicked off with a husky snarl. “If you fall overboard, which can happen, the wristband will pull the key and put the machine in dead slow in a small circle so you can get back to it. Don’t mess with the system. Okay?”
Taio and Li nodded.
“They’re like bikes, except for steering. You don’t have to lean into a turn as hard as you do with a bike, but you have to keep the engine running no matter what. Chop the power and you lose steering.”
He cut the engine, got off the machine, and handed them the keys. “Take it easy at first until you get used to how they handle. But hey, this is Florida—have fun.”
* * *
The Whitby, with a five-foot draft, which was a little deep for Florida and Bahamian waters, was a joy to handle even in stiff winds and fifteen-foot seas, which McGarvey had encountered twice on the way across the Gulf Stream from Florida’s east coast to Freeport in the Bahamas.
When he had bought her, his wife was alive, so he’d named the boat Kathleen.
After her death, he’d toyed with the idea of renaming her, but when Pete came into his life, she had insisted that he not do it.
“It’s bad luck,” she’d said.
“It doesn’t bother you?” he’d asked. He was still confused in those days about what he should be doing.
Pete had looked into his eyes and smiled. “Bother me that you named a boat after your wife? Of course not.”
Mac, at the wheel in the center cockpit, got on the VHF radio and called the tender as they slowly approached the Blackburn Point Bridge. “Blackburn Point Bridge, this is the sailing vessel Kathleen approaching from the north for an opening.”
Several other boats were already gathered and some circling on either side of the bridge, waiting for an opening.
Pete, who had sailed aboard only three times before but who was a fast learner, leaned against the coaming above the hatch, studying the small bridge through binoculars. “She’s on the bridge.”
This tender was a pleasant woman, unlike one a few years ago who’d thought that every boat driver who wanted the bridge opened—her bridge—was nothing but a pain in the ass.
The tide was running out, and Mac had to put the boat in reverse to hold his position as the bridge slowly swung open, and because of his size held there to let the smaller boats go first. When it was their turn, he barely nudged the throttle, and they were squirted through the narrow opening and out the other side, where he lined up between the red and green markers, putting him in the middle of the channel.
> It was a little more than five miles to the Venice Inlet, which would take them out into the Gulf—which, at the slow speed they were making, would take at least an hour.
The afternoon was lovely, a light breeze from the west, a relatively low humidity, and eighty-four degrees under a perfectly clear sky. On days like this, things didn’t go badly. Or weren’t supposed to, and yet McGarvey had the gut feeling that whatever was going to happen would happen before the day was finished.
Pete put the binoculars back in their box just inside the open hatch and turned to face her husband. “It’s close, isn’t it?” she said.
“I think so.”
Pete got her phone, put it on speaker mode, and called Otto, who answered as usual on the first ring.
“Are you guys on the water?” he asked.
“Just went through the Blackburn Point Bridge, and Mac’s internal radar is humming. Do you have anything for us?”
“Nothing specific, but there is a lot of boat traffic; anyone passing you could take a shot, and at that range, they couldn’t miss.”
“Lots of witnesses,” Pete said. “And the guy would have to make his getaway.”
“Whoever it is has a plan. These kinds of guys never do anything without thinking about all the possibilities. Take care.”
“Will do,” Pete said.
“Keep a close watch on the house and perimeter,” McGarvey said. “We’re going to anchor just offshore.”
“Daring him to shoot,” Mary broke in.
“We’ll be ready.”
“Stay frosty,” Otto said, and Pete hung up.
The navigable channel here was narrow, though the mostly shallow waterway itself was wide, in some places a couple of hundred yards. Big houses with expansive lawns and marked channels that the owners had paid to dredge and keep open led from the ICW to docks where their toys were up out of the water on lifts. There was a lot of money in this part of Florida.
“Do you want something to drink?” Pete asked.
Gambit Page 19
