A Blast to Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series

by Charles Dougherty

  Sipping the cold liquid, he had watched as one of the men left the boat and walked up the dock to retrieve a canvas tool-bag from a white van. The legend on the side of the van advertised the sale and installation of marine satellite communications systems. He had called the telephone number on the side of the van, feigning interest in having one of their systems installed on his own imaginary yacht.

  He had worried that he didn't know the terminology well enough to be convincing, but the woman on the phone seemed to accept what he told her. He supposed that she wouldn't risk offending a potential customer.

  "Sir?" she asked, in an expectant tone.

  He realized that he had missed something while his thoughts were wandering.

  "Sorry," he said. "I was distracted. Could you repeat what you just said, please?"

  "It's okay. I just asked if you'd like for me to schedule a visit by one of our engineers. There's no obligation, and then we could give you an accurate estimate of the time and expense."

  "Oh. Thanks, but I'm not quite ready. I just got here; I have several things to take care of."

  "You don't need to be there, sir. All our people are bonded and insured, and all the marina managers know them. You could just leave your keys — "

  He disconnected the call. He had been pondering a way to get aboard the vessel; he only needed a few minutes. He picked up his backpack and took it into the men's shower room, entering a vacant stall and closing the door. He took a short-sleeved, blue oxford cloth shirt from the backpack and held it up; he'd stolen it from the coin operated laundry at a motel up in Delaware two days ago. It was a little rumpled, but it would do. He saw the monogram over the breast pocket. "Eric," he read in a whisper. "Eric." He would have to remember to answer to that name if someone spoke to him.

  He changed into the shirt and rummaged in his bag again, pulling out a blond wig with a short, loosely tied ponytail. He put that on, using a small hand mirror as he adjusted it. He put his old shirt and the mirror back in the bag and took out a spiral notebook and a carpenter's 12-foot retractable measuring tape. Going back outside, he put his backpack in one of the panniers on his motorcycle and locked it.

  Whistling a nondescript tune, he ambled down the dock, eyeing the boats. When he reached the big white one, he paused and opened his notebook, pretending to look for something as he studied the two men aboard. He took out a device that looked like a smartphone and pressed the screen a couple of times, watching the display. What he held was a diagnostic device for the nuclear weapon's trigger module. If it was armed, the trigger module established a wireless network, similar to Wi-Fi, but more powerful and on a different frequency.

  When he found no signal from the trigger module, he moved closer to the boat. He saw that two of the workmen on the boat had noticed him. One was hanging in some kind of canvas seat about halfway up the shorter of the two masts. The other man stood in the cockpit, watching him approach. He nodded as they made eye contact.

  "Good morning," he said. "Owners aboard?"

  "No. Sorry," said the workman in the cockpit, turning to face him.

  "That's okay, then. I just need a couple of quick measurements below." He started to step aboard, but the workman blocked his way.

  "You check in with the office?" the man asked.

  "Nobody's there right now."

  "They'll be back soon, I imagine. It would be better if you — "

  "Aw, come on man. I got a bunch of boats to get to this morning. Only need a minute; you can keep an eye on me, can't you?"

  "Who'd you say you worked for?"

  "Sorry," he said, stepping forward and extending his hand to shake. "I'm Eric, from Sami's Marine Interiors."

  "Jim," the man said, taking his hand. "I haven't heard of your company."

  "Yeah, we're kinda new here. We've been working mostly in New York and New Jersey. I just drove down to do a couple estimates, you know. Tryin' to get some business down here."

  "Well, okay, Eric. Come on aboard. Dave's working below decks." He turned and stuck his head in the companionway. "Hey Dave, Eric's comin' below to take some measurements, okay?"

  "Yep. I'm just puttin' things back together. No problem," the voice from below deck answered.

  The man with the ponytail went down the ladder, looking around at the plush interior of the boat, all gleaming varnish and white paint. He saw that the man called Dave was working at a panel above the chart table.

  "Hey, Eric. What're you guys doin' for these folks?"

  The man with the ponytail looked around quickly, searching for an answer that wouldn't give him away.

  "Carpets," he mumbled.

  "Geez, over all this gorgeous varnished teak and holly sole? That's crazy, man. Guess it's their boat, though."

  "Yeah. Well, just some high-end area rugs, probably. You know, like antique Persian prayer rugs, maybe. That's what I'm gonna recommend."

  "That might be cool, actually," Dave said, focused on fastening the panel back in place.

  On his hands and knees now, the man with the ponytail swiped a tiny magnet along a shiny white surface where the varnished teak sole stopped. He saw the screen of his tester blink, and in a few seconds, he read, "System armed. Diagnostics complete. Battery 100%. Swipe screen to read log." He slid the magnet along the surface again and watched as the screen blinked. "System disarmed. Network disconnecting." It blinked again, and he saw "No network. Searching ... "

  He put the tester in his pocket. He would read the log later. He extended his tape and made a few measurements. After retracting the tape, he made an entry in his spiral notebook. Rising to his feet, he said, "Well, that's it for me; on to the next one. Take care."

  "Yeah, man. You, too," Dave said.

  He climbed into the cockpit and thanked the man called Jim for his co-operation.

  "No problem, Eric. Us folks on the waterfront gotta help one another out."

  "Yep. I appreciate it. Owe you one," he said, as he stepped onto the dock and walked back toward the parking lot.

  Connie was admiring Diamantista II as she and Paul approached in their new RIB. She throttled back and let the RIB coast to a stop, the dinghy's pneumatic tube bumping against the big boat's side.

  "Where's that grin coming from?" Paul asked, in the silence after she killed the outboard.

  "She's so beautiful; I'm still getting used to the idea that she's mine," she said.

  Paul leered at her. "I feel the same way. Nice boat, too." He laughed when she blushed.

  "Come on, smooth-talker. Let's see how they're doing with the satcom."

  They tied off their new dinghy and climbed aboard to find the three workmen finishing their lunch in the cockpit.

  One of the men stood, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. "Hi," he said. "You must be Ms. Barrera and Mr. Russo."

  "Connie," she said, shaking his outstretched hand.

  "And I'm Paul."

  "Nice to meet you both. I'm Jim Wilson. That's Tommy, and this is Dave." He gestured at the other men, who smiled and nodded. "We got everything worked out. Just need your okay on where the stuff's going. 'Course, we can change things to suit, if you got some other ideas."

  "Great," Connie said. "Don't let us rush your lunch. Take your time."

  "Thanks. We're almost done. Have some chips? Or a cold drink? We got plenty," he said, motioning at the cooler next to him.

  "No, thanks, Jim. We just had lunch."

  Jim nodded as he sat back down. "Diamantista II's a beauty," he said, before taking the last bite of his sandwich.

  "Thanks," Connie said, grinning.

  "What's it mean?" Dave asked. "The name? It sounds Spanish."

  "It is," Connie said. "It means diamond cutter."

  Dave nodded, then frowned. "But she's a ketch. Guess she's a cutter-rigged ketch, though."

  "You're quick," Paul said. "The original Diamantista was a cutter, and we liked the name."

  Dave nodded again. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot. You just missed the carpet guy."<
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  Connie and Paul exchanged puzzled looks.

  "Carpet guy?" Paul asked.

  "Eric, from Sami's Marine Interiors," Jim said.

  "I don't know anything about a carpet guy," Connie said, reading the question in Paul's glance. "What did he want?"

  "Said he needed some measurements for an estimate. Maybe he had the wrong boat."

  "Maybe," Connie said.

  "He somebody you know?" Paul asked.

  Jim shook his head. "Nope. Never seen him before. I told him I never heard of the company, either. I mean, this is like a pretty small town, when it comes to the boat business. Most of us know one another."

  "So what did he say to that?" Paul asked.

  "He said they were from New York, just trying to get started down here. He'd come down to do a couple of estimates. I shouldn't have let him aboard, but he said there was nobody in the office when he tried to check in with them, and kind of gave me a sob story. I figured he couldn't do any harm. Dave was working below, so he wasn't alone, unsupervised. Only spent a minute or two down there."

  "Yeah," Dave said. "I was right there with him. He didn't do nothin' but make a couple of measurements, kinda right out in the middle of the cabin sole. Ran his fingers along the edge a couple of times, like he was feeling to see if it was smooth, maybe. I said I couldn't believe you'd cover up all that vanished cabin sole with carpeting, and he said he was gonna recommend some Persian prayer rugs. Them little throw rugs, I guess. Then he left."

  "That's okay," Paul said, "but it seems odd. We didn't ask for an estimate. Never heard of this Sami's Marine Interiors, either. What did he look like?"

  Dave shrugged. "Average guy. I dunno."

  "I got a better look at him," Jim said. "Maybe 5'8", medium build. Medium length dark blond hair, pulled back in a short ponytail. He had on a button-down, short-sleeved shirt, kinda pale blue, with his name stitched over the pocket. Blue jeans."

  "Last name on the shirt?" Paul asked.

  Jim shook his head.

  "Eye color?" Paul asked.

  "Don't know; he had on shades, I think." Jim frowned.

  "Any distinguishing marks?" Paul asked. "Tattoos, birthmarks, scars, piercings?"

  Jim shook his head. "Not that I noticed."

  "How about his speech? Anything unusual? High pitched, low pitched? Nervous tics?"

  Jim frowned again and shook his head.

  "Did he have an accent of any kind? Talk fast? Slow?"

  "No. I didn't notice anything, so I guess he just sounded normal," Jim said. "You, Dave?"

  "No. Just normal," Dave said, studying Paul for a moment. "You a cop of some kind?"

  Paul and Connie chuckled. "Old habits die hard," Paul said. "I'm retired; 25 years on the job, 20 in homicide. Don't let me worry you. Guess my old instincts kicked in. He probably just had the wrong boat, like you said."

  "Show us where you're going to install the equipment," Connie said, as the men began packing up the remains of their lunch.

  Kareem Abdullah sat in the Internet café staring at the screen in front of him. The report from Rashid, his man in America, raised as many questions as it answered, but the important thing was that the weapons system passed the diagnostic tests. His worry that it was defective or damaged was put to rest.

  The question of why the attack had failed still troubled him. When Rashid had first approached the yacht, the system had not been armed. Kareem's immediate conclusion was that Abubakar and Mohammed had been discovered and captured before they could arm it. They had been ordered to arm the weapon if capture had seemed imminent; either of them could have accomplished the task. The fact that neither had done it indicated to him that they had been taken by surprise.

  He couldn't imagine how that had happened. The owners of the yacht were a young woman and a middle-aged man. Abubakar and Mohammed were young, tough, and well trained. Their commitment to the cause had been proven in combat. The American man and woman should have been no match for them. He forced down his frustration and read the next paragraph in Rashid's report.

  The diagnostic log showed that the system had been armed a few minutes after midnight on the morning of 1 July. Kareem smacked the desktop with his fist, his jaw clenched. This made no sense to him. Clearly, the battery was in good condition. The weapon had been armed, and three days later, Amal had triggered it. His eyes burning with fury, he read the next sentence. About ten minutes after it had been armed, the system had been put in safe mode again. This time, he forced himself to keep reading, and learned that no further activity was logged until Rashid had run the diagnostics earlier today.

  He forced himself to consider the possible explanations. Had the man and woman somehow discovered the weapon? If so, had they forced Abubakar or Mohammed to disarm it? Both things seemed unlikely. Rashid had sent a report a few days ago summarizing his investigation in Maine. He had been unable to determine where their two operatives were, but he had overheard their former coworkers discussing their own questioning by federal agents. Coupled with the search of their house trailer that Rashid had witnessed, that made it clear that Abubakar and Mohammed had been discovered. Kareem had no illusions about how vigorously they would have been interrogated, but if they had given up the plot, why was the weapon still in play? Were the infidels watching it, using it as bait for a trap? Were they bold and clever enough to wait and see what happened next?

  He deleted the draft email from the account that he and Rashid shared and stood up, stretching. He went over to the bar, ordered a cup of coffee, and settled in to think. If the Americans had discovered the weapon, they would surely have rendered it inoperable. They might have then left it in place in hopes of capturing more of his soldiers. Had that been the case, the diagnostics would have provided some indication. Rashid was adamant that the diagnostic log could not have been altered, and he had seen no physical evidence to indicate that the device had been discovered when he had been aboard the yacht.

  Kareem could see no risk in proceeding. As best they could determine, the weapon was intact. Rashid had made arrangements to implement their backup plan. They would make the attack on 30 July as the Caliph had ordered. He shook his head. The Caliph was a dolt, an ignorant old mullah. Who had ever heard of International Friendship Day?

  Ignorant or not, the old man was in charge, and Kareem had no question that he would order Kareem's death should this second attempt go awry. Perhaps it was time for the Caliph to be sent to his own heavenly reward. Kareem vowed to arrange that; the Caliph would depart this life on 30 July. If the nuclear attack failed, the Caliph could be blamed and put to death for his failure. If it succeeded, the Caliph's last act could be appointing Kareem Abdullah as his worthy successor before he was summoned to spend eternity in paradise as his just reward for serving Allah so well.

  15

  Connie and Paul were in Diamantista II's cockpit savoring their morning coffee when the crew showed up to finish installing their satellite communications equipment.

  "Mornin', folks," Jim said. "Permission to come aboard?" He stood on the dock, tool-bag in hand.

  "Sure," Connie said. "Come on up. Coffee?"

  "No, thanks. We just finished breakfast at the shop; my wife brought a pan of hot cinnamon rolls she'd just baked."

  "That's pretty nice. She feed the gang like that often?" Connie asked.

  "Well, yeah. She kinda runs the office for us, and it's gotten to be a regular thing. Not always cinnamon rolls, though."

  "Hey," Dave said, as he swung aboard.

  "Good morning, Dave, Tommy," Paul said.

  "Hey, Paul. Jim tell you about the phone call?" Dave asked.

  "Didn't get there yet, Dave," Jim said, grinning and shaking his head.

  "Well, you said not to let you forget," Dave said.

  "Right," Jim chuckled. "Thanks. Anyhow, Paul, we figured we should pass it on, since you were so interested in that carpet guy."

  "What's that, Jim?" Paul asked.

  "Well, Ellen, um ...
that's my wife, Ellen. She got a call yesterday morning from this guy who'd seen us working on your boat. Said he got the number off the side of our van. He was askin' how long a job like this took, and what it cost. Told her he had a boat about the same size."

  "Uh-huh," Paul said, as Jim paused. "And?"

  "And she told him usually a couple of days, but she couldn't give a cost estimate without an on-site survey. She asked if he wanted her to send somebody out, and he hung up on her. We figured that was about the time the carpet guy showed up. Wouldn't have thought much of it, but she was real suspicious of the fella anyhow, 'cause he sounded lost talkin' about boats, you know? And then you kinda gave us the third degree about the carpet guy, and all."

  "Well, that's a coincidence, all right," Paul said. "I don't know what to make of it, but thanks for passing it on." He and Connie traded glances.

  "We should let you get to work, Jim," she said. "We're going to town to do a little sightseeing. We need to learn what to recommend for our charter guests."

  "Good for you. You seen the museum at the Naval Academy yet?"

  "We got a quick look at it yesterday," Connie said. "It was interesting, but the exhibits weren't very well organized."

  "Yep," Jim said. "Like wanderin' around in Grandma's attic. But did you find the ship models?"

  "No. Where are they?" she asked.

  "Oh, man. They don't tell you about any of the good stuff. They're down in the basement; there's a staircase off to the side as you go in the main entrance. Go down there and take a look; they'll knock your socks off."

  "That good, huh?" Connie asked, smiling at his excitement.

  "They go back to the 1500s, maybe. British, mostly. They call 'em dockyard models. Back then, see, instead of a bunch of drawings, the naval architects built these scale models, and that's how they'd get the budget to build the ships. Then they'd actually take the dimensions off the model to figure out how to build it. The detail is amazing. You gotta go see 'em."

  "All right, I'm sold," Connie said. She turned to Paul and smiled. "Ready?"