A Blast to Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  Her companion could be the man he had glimpsed talking with her while she worked, but Amal wasn't sure. He hadn't paid much attention to the man. The man held her chair as she sat down. He was older than she was, handsome, with weather-beaten features and slightly curly black hair, shot through with gray. His eyes were a pale blue, almost gray, and looked cold and wary in his sun-browned face. Put a keffiyeh over his head, and he would be at home in the Middle East as well.

  Amal speculated that they might be fellow jihadists. Perhaps their boat was the one; maybe he would meet the woman soon in paradise. It was a nice thought to pass the time, anyway. His wristwatch beeped; it was just loud enough to hear over the background noise in the restaurant. It was time. He reached into his pocket with his right hand and pressed the button. He had three more hours to dream about the woman, and then he would be in paradise.

  "Have you spent much time in New York?" Paul asked, while they waited for their food.

  Connie shook her head. "No. I've never been here, except to change planes. I've never seen the appeal."

  Paul chuckled. "Me, either."

  "I guess we aren't city people," she said.

  "Well, I don't know about that. I always get a kick out of Miami; my job aside, I enjoyed living there."

  "I could see that," Connie said. "I like it, too. It's different from most big cities, though. I can't really put my finger on why, but it's got something that the others lack."

  "It does. I think it's because it's such a melting pot; I don't mean just the people that live there, either. It's the visitors, too. You can walk a few blocks and hear every language known to man, and the people are all having fun."

  "Dani refers to it as the capital city of Latin America; she says that culturally, it's not even part of the U.S.," Connie said. "I know she's joking, but still ... "

  "There's a lot of truth in that. More than you could know, without spending a lot of your life there."

  Their food came, delivered by a woman who was moving at double-time. She lifted their orders from her tray and set them on the table, each in the proper place, topped off their coffee, and asked if she could get them anything else. Without waiting for an answer, she put their check on the table and walked away while still talking to them.

  Connie laughed.

  "What?" Paul asked.

  "She just made me think of a customs officer in St. Barth's. Dani and Liz and I were in the office clearing out, back when I was on Vengeance, and he asked if we enjoyed St. Barth's. I said yes, and he shook his head and gave one of those Gallic shrugs. 'It is a ver' small place, ver' quiet. Too quiet for me. When I take my holidays, I like to go to New York. Big city, many people. Everybody push-push,' he said. It just hit my funny bone. It's one of those things I'll always remember about the French islands."

  "Speaking of the islands," Paul said, "what do you think we should do?"

  "I'm not sure what you're asking."

  "Well, we suddenly have a lot of time on our hands. I was upset when I saw how far behind the yard was on Diamantista II when we got there, but I never thought we'd be in the water and away this early," Paul said.

  "I know. I was thinking we'd get out of there after a few weeks, maybe do a little gunk-holing along the coast of Maine, and then head down to the Chesapeake and handle any last-minute stuff in Annapolis before we left in early November. I figured if we were lucky, we'd end up with a couple or three charters to keep us busy. Now we've got four months to kill before the end of hurricane season."

  "Right. It's early enough so we could pick our weather and chance it," Paul said. "Not that many storms make it up north this early."

  "Well, we could, but then what?" Connie said. "We'd be in the islands in the off-season. We probably wouldn't get much business, and we'd always be watching for a hurricane."

  "We could just cruise for our own pleasure," Paul said.

  "We could do that up here and not worry about the weather as much. Besides, I wouldn't mind exploring the East Coast by water. Chances of a few charters are probably better up here in the summer, too."

  "All good points," Paul said. "I guess New York's already wearing on me; I miss the laid-back world we've been living in."

  "Let's finish our breakfast and go back to the boat. You can make us a pitcher of sangria, and we'll sit in the cockpit with the charts and cruising guides and make some plans to be tourists. I've been wanting to see all the colonial-era seaports from the water; I've read enough about that part of our history to whet my appetite. We can find the best places and put together some charter packages for future summers; I think we could make a business out of that, at least in the Caribbean's off season."

  "I like that idea, skipper," Paul said.

  They finished their meal and Paul looked at the check. He folded it around a fifty-dollar bill and set his coffee mug on top of it. "We need to get out of here before we blow everything we've got," he said, winking at Connie.

  "I don't think we should stay just because we've paid for a slip through tomorrow night," Connie said. "The weather looks perfect for a run down the New Jersey shore to the Delaware Bay tomorrow. I think we should go."

  Paul poured more sangria into their glasses. "I can't argue with that. For that matter, we could leave now."

  "What time is it?" Connie asked.

  Paul glanced at his wristwatch. "Nearly noon, but there's lots of daylight left. We'd be well down the coast by the time it gets dark."

  "I don't know," Connie said. "What's the rush? I'm feeling the sangria, and I'm still tired from the stress of the last few days. I think I'd rather wait; let's get another good night's sleep and leave early in the morning."

  "Okay. I'm sure you're right; guess I'm just eager to get out of here, but I'm still tired, too."

  "You were going to call Luke," Connie said. "You forget?"

  "Sort of. I was hoping the Masons would show up and prove I was seeing conspiracies where there weren't any, I guess."

  "It's noon, Paul," Connie said, grasping his arm and turning his wrist so that she could see his watch. "They're 18 hours late. And from what Elaine told us, I don't think they're coming."

  Paul grimaced and nodded. "Yeah; stupid of me to hope it was going to go away. I'd better not waste any more time." He went below to make his call and came back to the cockpit a few minutes later.

  "Did you get him? Or was he off today?"

  "You kidding? Of course I got him. Holidays are a busy time for homicide detectives."

  "What did he think?"

  "Same thing we did; it's one more odd coincidence in a string of odd coincidences. He's going to call Elaine and ask her to email the files to him. He said he'd send somebody to pick up the thumb drive, but he didn't want to wait if he can get her to send them."

  "He took your hunch seriously, then?"

  "Yes, I think so. He says that O'Brien guy that we talked to is swimming upstream on this one, though."

  "What's that mean?"

  "The brass in Washington aren't buying it. They think O'Brien's overreacting." Paul repeated what Luke had told him about the YouTube video that disappeared.

  "Have they gotten anything from Mo and Abe?" Connie asked.

  "I asked Luke the same question. He hasn't heard anything, but O'Brien told him they were treating those two as terrorists."

  "Terrorists? They must have something on them, then."

  "Well, maybe. It's a convenient way to deal with them. If there's enough to raise the suspicion of terrorism, they can detain them damn near forever."

  "But what about their rights? Don't they have to charge them? Let them talk to a lawyer, or something?"

  "No. The PATRIOT Act did away with those rights for non-citizens, and our Chicken-Little government liked the result so much they extended it to U.S. citizens with the National Defense Authorization Act that Obama signed into law at the end of 2011."

  "But there must be some limits on that," Connie said.

  "Yes, of course. It's tempered
by the good judgment of the people enforcing the laws."

  "You're being sarcastic, aren't you?"

  "Yes, but also honest."

  "That sounds unconstitutional, Paul."

  "It does, doesn't it? The courts agree, when they get a chance, but they often don't get asked."

  "That's scary."

  "Yep. I guess the idiots that we've elected think it's less scary than terrorists."

  "So what's going to happen to those two kids?"

  "They'll probably spend a long time locked away without anybody knowing about it. You worried about them? I'm surprised at you. You were ready to shoot 'em the other day."

  "That's different, and you know it, Paul."

  When Paul took a sip of sangria and didn't answer, she said, "Don't you?"

  He grinned at her. "Yes. It's nearly two o'clock. What say we take a nap? Sleep off the sangria?"

  9

  “I was so stressed out bringing the boat in here the other evening that I forgot to be awestruck," Connie said, gawking at the sights in New York's harbor.

  Paul chuckled and took the helm from her. He saw the light of the sun's first rays bathing the Statue of Liberty. "Go get your camera; the light's perfect for a dramatic shot of the statue; she looks like solid gold right now. Who knows if we'll ever be by here again?"

  They were under power; there wasn't enough wind to sail. They had decided to wait until they were well out into the upper bay to make sail anyway. Aside from the worry of dense traffic in the confined waters, they wanted to take in the sights without being distracted by tending the sails.

  Paul kept a wary eye on all the boats that were racing around them, smiling at Connie's running commentary on her photographs. By the time she decided she had enough and put her camera down to pour them coffee, their satellite phone rang. She handed Paul his mug and picked up the phone, studying the display.

  "Don't recognize the number," she said, as she raised the phone to her ear and pressed the connect button.

  "Hello?" she said.

  "Is this Ms. Barrera?"

  The voice was familiar, but she couldn't connect it with anyone who usually called on the satellite phone. "Yes. Who's calling, please?"

  "This is Bill O'Brien, Ms. Barrera, from the FBI. We spoke the other day, with Luke Pantene?"

  "Oh, right. I remember now. Sorry, I didn't place your voice."

  "No problem. Luke gave me this number; he thought I should call you and Mr. Russo direct."

  "Yes, that's fine. Should I switch to the speaker? Paul and I are just passing the Statue of Liberty. We're on our way out of New York harbor."

  "Are you two alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Then yes, go to the speaker. I'd like to talk with both of you."

  "Hang on." As she pressed the speaker button, she said, "Bill O'Brien, from the FBI, Paul."

  "Good morning," Paul said. "How can we help you?"

  "Luke thought I should call you direct; he didn't feel like he was adding anything at this point."

  "That's fine. Did he tell you about our guests not showing up?"

  "Yes. We've done some work on that already. I just have a few questions for you, Mr. Russo, if it's okay."

  "Sure. Can we drop the formality? Paul and Connie would do for us."

  "You bet. I'm Bill. Luke's told me about you guys, and I took the liberty of asking a few questions about you from the SAC in Miami. Sorry to invade your privacy, but I needed to know who I was dealing with. He had good things to say about you."

  "Okay," Paul said, looking at Connie and shrugging. "What can we do for you?"

  "Luke passed on the information you got from the charter broker. Elaine Moore? That's her name, right?"

  "Yes," Paul said.

  "How well do you know her?"

  "I've dealt with her for a couple of years," Connie said, catching Paul's eye, a slight frown on her face. "Why?"

  "I don't know much about that business, and a couple of things struck me as odd about the transaction. Have you checked her references?"

  "Yes," Connie said, at Paul's nod. "She's a friend, and she's well thought of in the business. She represents friends of ours, too; they've used her service for years. They recommended her."

  "Would your friends be Ms. Berger and Ms. Chirac? On Vengeance, I think Luke said?"

  "Yes," Connie said.

  "They're pretty new at this, too. Anybody else recommend her?"

  "Yes. Ms. Berger's father and his partners have used her for around 20 years; they have several yachts in the Mediterranean. Big ones — you know, that charter for maybe $100,000 per week and up. What's your problem with Elaine?"

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that there was a problem with Ms. Moore. As I said, I'm a stranger to this business you're in. The Masons booked this through her and wired her a $35,000 deposit, all with no paper changing hands, and she didn't get any kind of identification from them. The whole transaction happened on line. Then she wired you $30,000. It just seems a little loose, that's all."

  "Yeah, okay," Paul said, seeing the color rise on Connie's cheeks. He put a hand on her arm. "I can see that, but it's pretty typical in this business. Elaine's got a good track record; check her out with the locals down in Florida. I worked with her a time or two when I was still on the force in Miami. I'm sure Luke will tell you the same. What have you found that's ruffled your feathers so?"

  "The big thing was the trail for that $35,000 wire transfer. Or I should say the lack of a trail. It came from a bank in the Bahamas."

  "They're usually pretty cooperative," Paul said. "Or used to be, when I was working."

  "That's true. They traced it to a numbered account in the Cayman Islands, and then it got really murky. But that's not all. The account in the Bahamas was closed by that transfer; and it was a new account. Somebody opened it, did this one deal, and closed it. Same thing with the account in the Caymans. Lots of people try to hide money from the IRS, but that kind of fast movement is an indication of something more sinister."

  "Yeah, I agree," Paul said. "What about their address and phone number?"

  "The street address is for a house in Laurel, Maryland, that belongs to a bank; it's been vacant for a couple of years. It was a foreclosure, but there's no sign that Eric and Catherine Mason had any connection with it. We can't find any such couple, either. Births, marriages, driver's licenses, car registrations, nothing, nowhere in the country."

  "The phone?" Paul asked.

  "Burner cell phone. It was part of a shipment that was sold to a fly-by-night dealer who works out of a storefront on Canal Street."

  "Canal Street? In Manhattan?" Paul asked.

  "Yeah. And as best we can tell, it was never used."

  "You guys ran that all pretty quick," Paul said.

  "Yeah, well, we're pretty rattled."

  "Get anything out of the two kids?"

  "No. They clammed up right away. They may figure out it's not worth it after a while and start cooperating, but right now they're not talking."

  "Are they still under arrest?" Connie asked.

  "They're still being detained. Their status isn't clear. DHS has them, somewhere. We've questioned the families, but they don't have a clue about what those two were doing. They're distraught; good people, but they feel like they lost their kids a couple of years ago. They didn't even know they were back in the States. We've been in touch with them before this. You knew those guys were on a watch list, right?"

  "Yes, Luke told us."

  "Do their parents know you're holding them?"

  "At this point, I don't even know we're holding them, Connie. I'm serious; those kids are in the twilight zone as far as the law's concerned."

  "So have you got what you wanted from us, Bill?" Paul asked.

  "Yes, for now. I mostly wanted a sanity check on the Elaine Moore thing. She checks out, by the way. But I had to ask, just the same. I think your suspicions were on target, Paul. I just can't figure out what those kids we
re going to do once they got you and your boat to Manhattan. Where are you guys headed?"

  "Annapolis. We're going to spend some time on the Chesapeake," Connie said. "We've got a few things to get taken care of on the boat, and we're thinking about trying to build a summertime charter business along the East Coast, so we want to explore a little."

  "Sounds like a great life. You got any more guests lined up?"

  "No, not yet. We got kind of a late start for this season. Most people book pretty far in advance," Connie said.

  "We thought we were lucky on the Masons," Paul said. "But now I'm not so sure."

  "Maybe you were," O'Brien said. "Lucky they didn't show, that is. If you get any more bookings, please call me as soon as you can. I'd like to vet them for you; make sure they're not connected to whatever this mess is, okay?"

  "We'll do that. Is this a good number?" Connie asked. "The one on caller i.d.?"

  "Yes, but jot down my cell number, too. It's personal; you can reach me on it anytime, night or day. It's 202-732-5313."

  "Got it," Paul said.

  "Anything else?"

  "Yes. Give me a call on that cell number when you get to Annapolis. I'd like to meet you guys, maybe have lunch or something."

  "Okay, we'll do it," Paul said.

  "Have a safe trip," O'Brien said, and disconnected.

  Faisal sat in the back room of the Internet café in London, his headphones covering his ears. He had disconnected from the man in Syria who funded his operation almost an hour ago, but he liked the way the earphones muffled the sound from the main room beyond the flimsy door to his office. He sensed from the call that something was wrong; the man had seemed agitated this time, where he normally conveyed a sense of icy control.

  In keeping with the man's penchant for secrecy, he had not shared more than necessary with Faisal. It had been necessary for Faisal to see the video that he had planted for the FBI to find, though, so he had some idea of what was happening.

  The day after uploading and deleting the video, he had received instructions to check and report on the location of a specific satellite tracking device. Faisal didn't know what he was tracking, but he suspected that it had something to do with the nuclear weapon that had been mentioned in the video. If the tracking device wasn't with the weapon, then perhaps it was on the delivery vehicle.