Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller)

by Hamric, Zack

  CHAPTER 22

  Three o’clock in the morning. Tasha called me to the deck for my turn on watch. A tough time to stay alert in the near darkness with only your own thoughts and the red glow of the instruments to keep you company. We had just hit our waypoint west of Cuba and turned south on our run toward Nicaragua. Five hundred fifty miles to go before reaching our destination in the jungle-somehow it didn’t strike my fancy as an appealing destination. Dolce Vita continued slipping through the swell with only a faint hiss and occasional burst of spray as the twelve ton boat pushed the water aside on its passage through the night. The boat was completely dark while Tasha slept except for the faint glow of the chartplotter and the nav lights.

  I welcomed the solitude. It was what I needed most right now-time to be able to slowly put together the shattered fragments of my memory. It was almost like putting together a complex puzzle. There would be a fragment that I would try to fit, twisting it, turning it and trying to figure out where it fit in the bigger picture. Finally, it would slide into place and suddenly I could assemble it into another fragment. I was finally beginning to understand the details that were part of my life over the past couple of years, but it was like reading the biography of a stranger.

  I had found enough time to dig through the files on my computer hard drive for the past few hours. Those three hours below deck squinting at the computer screen left me hanging over the rail violently ill with mal de mer for two hours after that. Apparently, even though I was a sailor, that didn’t guarantee any immunity from seasickness. I searched further in the medical kit until I found wrist-bands for motion sickness and bonine pills-problem solved. That research helped me to at least piece together some timelines and names to work with. There was apparently an agent named Miller whom I exchanged emails with regularly. There was an obvious bantering tone that ran through those emails as well as an over-riding tone of professionalism that was present. He was clearly someone I had known well and probably been friends with over some period of time. His last emails to me on Monday had voiced an obvious concern because I was missing. Those emails rang true to me-this was someone I worked with who was genuinely worried that I had disappeared. For now, I would take that at face value until I learned differently or discovered who in the government had ratted me out to Popov. I had no idea of what to expect once we arrived in Nicaragua, but I knew the key to my survival was to treat everyone as an enemy until proven differently.

  I turned my thoughts to Tasha for a moment. There was definitely a mutual attraction there, but some things didn’t make sense. I could understand her rescuing me the night in the club. That was an impulsive act where she reacted and didn’t really have a chance to consider the consequences. Her joining me on this trip to Nicaragua was another matter entirely. I was beginning to have doubts myself about this trip; every day that went by brought questions about why I had embarked on it and whether I had a chance in hell of actually surviving it.

  No telling what Tasha’s story really was-there seemed to be a hidden undercurrent that I was missing. There was her familiarity with weapons, her coolness in the life threatening situations we had already encountered-none of these things made any sense given what I knew of her background. Most civilians simply didn’t react this way. Patience, I counseled myself. If I were still alive at the end of my first day in Nicaragua, many of my questions would be answered.

  CHAPTER 23

  The conference room was almost unrecognizable. After two weeks of working on the case, the empty pizza boxes and half empty coffee cups were fighting for space with the stacks of printouts taking up every square foot of horizontal space. “You see anything yet?” Rivera asked as he interrupted Miller who had been intently studying two large flat panel monitors for the past couple of hours.

  “Nothing yet,” replied Miller as he rubbed his eyes. “I wish we had more than one Keyhole Satellite in the area. We’re so damn low on the list of priorities, we were lucky to get a feed from the one that is usually tasked for drug interdiction in the Caribbean.”

  “I’ve heard about the technology, but have never seen any pictures from them,” said Rivera leaning over to get a closer look.

  “There are actually quite a few military satellites up there-I’m not even sure exactly how many. You can be sure any time you see an unannounced launch from Vandenburg or Canaveral, it was probably a military satellite. I still can’t believe the detail you get on the new generation K12. Those telescopes are like the Hubble only pointed in our direction instead of into space.” Miller scanned through the images on his computer that had been automatically saved in the last pass.

  “This should give you some idea,” he said pulling up an image and zooming in at the maximum resolution.” It was a shot of a large sailboat motoring south through the Caribbean. As he zoomed in, more detail was revealed until they could finally see the people on deck.

  “That is amazing-not only is that a woman lying on the sundeck, but she’s blonde and topless with a really nasty sunburn,” Rivera said with a boyish grin as he enjoyed his moment of voyeurism.

  “Yeah, but the downside of the technology is that it’s a really big ocean and it’s very difficult to find something as small as a sailboat in the two hour time window when the satellite’s overhead. We can see objects up to a hundred miles on either side of the satellite track, so we should be able to intercept them at some point if they’re headed south. We have surveillance on an area covering about five hundred miles by two hundred miles. If they ducked up north to the Keys, we’ll never find them with all the boat traffic and marinas scattered everywhere. I have to assume they’re headed south, so we’ll just keep looking until they cross our grid.”

  “In the meantime,” said Rivera. “Any progress on Popov?”

  “Nothing yet,” Davis said. “We’ve been running some undercover agents inside his clubs in South Florida and surveillance units on the outside. He’s been a no-show for almost a week now. Looks like he’s been holed up at his place on Fisher Island ever since the shit hit the fan and he still hasn’t surfaced for air. We even tried to run down his attorney again, but no luck there either. His office said he left the country for a few days and they wouldn’t be able to contact him-not too sure how he did that legally because his names not showing up on any passenger manifests. The guy completely dropped off the face of the earth.”

  “Screw this,” said Rivera. “I can’t stand sitting around waiting for something to pop-let’s drop in on the guy and see if we can shake him until something rattles.”

  “I’m in,” said Miller. Davis nodded silently and all three walked to the elevator.

  “I’m gonna hit the john, back in a minute,” said Davis taking a right turn as soon as the elevator arrived in the lobby.

  “Might as well,” said Rivera. “Probably the last chance we get for a while.” Rivera walked into the restroom, stepped up to the urinal and focused his attention on the sports page conveniently posted so you could deal with the necessities of nature and get your sports fix at the same time. King James definitely joining the Miami Heat. Like I can really afford the tickets. I bet that bastard Popov has season tickets.

  One last shake for good measure and Rivera stepped back out into the hall following the unwritten code that a man never waits inside the restroom for another man to finish his business. Besides, Davis was securely ensconced behind the stall door and judging by the sounds emanating from within, he was going to be a while.

  A couple of minutes later, Davis reappeared and they headed out to Rivera’s unmarked unit in the middle of the blazing hot parking lot.

  “What genius thought of buying black undercover cars for Miami?” groused Davis fumbling with the air conditioner to overcome the sweltering heat that was radiating from the car’s interior.

  “A few more minutes and you might actually quite your bitching,” said Rivera with a smile as he sped south down A1A. It was actually less than twenty minutes when Rivera pulled up to a nondescript
three story metal building alongside Biscayne Bay. There was an oversized forklift carrying a twenty-six foot Century center console fisherman it had just retrieved from the bowels of the building. The driver expertly wheeled the ungainly load to the water and smoothly dropped it into place along the dock.

  “Looks like our transportation has arrived,” said Rivera as he scrambled aboard and secured the boat to the dock with a spring line and a stern line.

  The agents glanced at each other and stepped aboard without a word. Rivera fired up the twin Mercurys and smiled as they responded with a resounding deep-throated rumble. Miller glanced over at Rivera. “Good to go?” he asked as he held the line.

  Rivera nodded, Miller flipped the line off the cleat and they slowly motored out of the marina. Within a couple of minutes, Rivera reached the open expanse of Biscayne Bay. “You guys hang on,” Rivera said as he shoved the throttles forward.

  Within a few seconds, they were cruising at thirty-five knots down the largely empty bay. On most weekends, there would be hundreds of boats filled with booze and near naked women out enjoying the Miami sun, but during the week there were only a few charter boats out. Davis and Miller held tightly to the T-Top as the sparkling water sheeted off the bow in an iridescent spray.

  “So, would you mind giving us a clue? If I had known we were going fishing, I’d have worn my shorts and picked up a couple of six-packs,” said Miller.

  “No fishing today, but we just might end up with a little shark,” said Rivera taking a hard right as he steered into the channel between Rivo Alto and Belle Isle. “I figure the odds are good that Popov is paying a little retainer to someone at the ferry dock to give him some advance warning if anyone’s comes over to the island to see him. Instead of hitting him head on, we’ll be pulling up to the dock just like any other boat visiting the marina at Fisher Island-should give us a better chance of catching him by surprise.”

  “Sure hope it works,” said Davis as he braced himself for another sweeping turn to miss a sandbar. Within a couple of minutes, Rivera was leaving Star Island to starboard and passing under the Macarthur Causeway. Everyone involuntarily ducked as they roared under the bridge with seemingly only inches to spare. As soon as he cleared the bridge, Rivera eased back the throttles and slowed the boat to ten knots.

  “Crossing Governor’s Cut,” Rivera explained. “ Take a look to your right.”

  It was like an endless parade of floating metal islands bearing down on their tiny craft. “All the cruise ships come out of Governor’s Cut. This is the busiest port in the world for cruise ships. You better damn well stay clear when they’re coming out-takes those ships a half mile to stop even at slow speed.” They managed to weave a path through the outgoing traffic and circled to the right around Fisher Island. As they swung around the west end of the island, it seemed like the entire area was filled with identical condos in buildings ranging from four to ten stories in height.

  Davis shook his head. “All that money and everyone of them looks exactly the same. I don’t get it. Me-if I had that kind of money, I’d be living in a custom house on the beach, not stacked on top of a bunch of other rich people in a cookie cutter condo.”

  “Yeah, I think it’s more about the prestige of living there with the rich and famous. Can’t say it would be to my taste either,” said Rivera as he approached the cut for the marina. Rivera took a left past the rock breakwater into the marina. There was a moment of silence as they took in the sight. They were flanked on either side by a hundred fifty foot Feadship and an even larger Bennetti. Flanking them were any number of smaller custom built yachts.

  Miller looked about in amazement. “I was in St. Tropez a few years ago on a cruise. I’ve never seen so many expensive boats in one place until now.”

  “I happen to know the guy who owns that boat,” Rivera said pointing at the Bennetti. “Hard to believe you can sleep at night knowing you’re paying for a twenty man crew and an eighty million dollar boat. No thank you, I think I’ll be happy to keep my little boat.”

  Rivera maneuvered up to an empty berth on the visitors dock. Before he even had a chance to turn the motors off, a deckhand wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt showed up looking over a list of names on his clipboard as he asked, “Excuse me sir, but did you have a reservation with marina operations?”

  “How about this,” said Rivera holding up his badge. “Think you might be able to work us in?”

  The deckhand thumbed the transmit button on his headset, spoke into the microphone and a minute later, the marina manager rolled up in an electric golfcart. “How can we help you gentlemen today?” he asked with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  “We need to speak with someone who is a resident here. An hour and we’re out of your way,” said Rivera as he produced his badge for the marina manager. “And if you don’t mind, we’ll borrow one of your golf carts.”

  “Take this one,” the manager said as he stepped from the cart.

  “Thanks, and according to my map, the condo we’re looking for is in that direction,” said Rivera indicating the eight-story building that was barely visible through the palms. Davis and Miller piled aboard and Rivera floored the accelerator on the golf cart.

  “Hey, eight miles an hour. You think maybe we should fire up the siren?” asked Davis as he leaned back in the seat and took in the view.

  “Nope, I think we can do without it this time,” said Rivera. “And besides, we’re already here.”

  Everyone stepped out of the cart and strode into the marble clad lobby of the condo. From the patterned marble flooring to the ornate fluted limestone columns, the building spoke of elegance and money. After pushing the button for the elevator, the trio stepped inside and the polished brass doors closed silently behind them.

  “I’m not sure what kind of reception we can expect here,” said Miller. “He may just shut us down and insist on his attorney being present before he says anything. Let me take the lead and we’ll see what we can squeeze out of him.” They stepped off the elevator and knocked on the door of the penthouse suite.

  Within a few seconds, the heavy rosewood door swung open to reveal the most striking woman Rivera thought he had ever seen. Almost six-feet tall with black hair reaching down the middle of her back. Her face, with its aquiline features and piercing blue eyes could have been on the cover of any fashion magazine in the country. That he could handle-but the sight of her wearing a sheer beach cover up backlit by the auburn sun streaming in from the lanai was leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Rivera struggled to avoid stammering like a schoolboy.

  “Aaahh..I’m Detective Rivera. We’d like to speak to Popov,” Rivera said as he tried unsuccessfully to avoid leering at the woman leaning with one arm delicately poised against the doorframe.

  “I’m Katarina,” she said with a slight Russian accent. “I’m sorry, but you just missed Popov. Bastard was supposed to take me to beach. Instead, he run out the door a few minutes ago like he in big hurry.”

  “Which direction did he go?” asked Rivera while watching Miller’s face beginning to turn red with frustration at being thwarted again.

  She shrugged her shoulders with disinterest. “Don’t know, but he leave keys to Mercedes, so he probably went to boat at marina.”

  “Which boat?” asked Rivera trying to refrain from grinding his teeth as he waited for her answer.

  “Come, I show you, darling” she said as she stepped to the sliding doors. Pushing aside the vertical blinds, she pointed out into the ocean. They saw one of the super yachts they had passed as they came into the marina just clearing the point at Governors Cut.

  “Let’s go,” said Miller. “They have a little bit of a head start, but we should be able to catch him with your boat in a few minutes.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Looks like we just struck out for the day.” said Rivera as he watched the helicopter on the aft deck of the yacht with its rotors slowly beginning to rotate. A few seconds lat
er, they could see a figure in the distance climbing into the passenger seat. As he stepped into the helicopter, the man waved in a gesture that must have been for their benefit-Rivera couldn’t see clearly at that distance, but he would have taken bets that Popov had just flipped him off. A minute later, the helicopter lifted off the deck and flew to the east over the Atlantic.

  It was a dejected group that returned to the marina a few minutes later. The same manager was still waiting there beside their boat. Rivera started to step into his boat, thought about it and fished out a five to hand to the manager saying, “Appreciate your help today.”

  The manager pulled a wad of hundreds out of his pocket, wrapped the five around them and said with a smarmy smile, “Anytime-any friend of Mr. Popov is a friend of mine.”

  There was little in the way of conversation on the way back to the marina where Rivera stored his boat. Miller finally broke the uncomfortable silence. “We’re at a dead end up here. Everything points to Popov and Escabado both heading south and probably Kyle as well. We’re too far out of the action to be able to do anyone any good. I’m moving this operation down to Honduras-we have some intel resources already in place that we can use.” He turned his attention to Rivera. “If I can get you temporarily tasked to our group, would you be interested in working with us? Until we can identify our security leak, I don’t want to involve anyone else from any federal agencies.”