Assassins and Liars

by Charles Dougherty

  She took the phone and scrolled through the menus, shaking her head. "There are no texts in the phone. How did… I didn't see you erase them. And there aren't any numbers in the directory or the caller ID folders."

  "Yeah, I know. That phone never has worked right."

  "You work for some government agency, don't you?"

  "Me?" I raised my eyebrows. "Not me. I'm retired."

  "Retired from where? You've never said."

  "You never asked. From the Army."

  She wrinkled her brow and shook her head. "I don't believe you."

  I shrugged. "What can I say?"

  "Finn?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Are you working for somebody like the FBI? Did they send you after me?"

  "Nobody sent me after you, Mary Beth. You came to me, remember?"

  She thought about that for several seconds. "Why are you doing this?"

  "I told you. I like you — a lot."

  "Is Finn your real name?"

  "Yeah."

  "First or last?"

  "Last."

  "What's your first name?"

  "I've spent my whole life pretending I don't have one. My parents were flower-child druggies. I think they named me after a hallucination or something. Let it go, please?"

  "I'll tell you my real name," she said.

  "Not now. It'll just add to the confusion."

  "What do you mean?"

  "By this time tomorrow, I'll be trying to forget you were Mary Elizabeth O'Brien. You'll be somebody else."

  "What about my credit cards? They're in the O'Brien name."

  "There'll be new ones to match the passport. Don't worry about it."

  "But the address, and the bank information for the automatic payments, and — "

  "There'll be a one-time-use web address that lets you fill all that in."

  "But what will I put for my home address? I shouldn't use the same one I've been using."

  "No. There'll be a choice of several mail-forwarding services for you to pick from. And they'll all show up as bona fide residence addresses, if somebody checks the postal service database. Quit worrying about it."

  "So we'll clear out from Union Island using my old passport?"

  "That's right."

  "And clear into Grenada with the new one?"

  "I'm thinking that might not be a good idea," I said.

  "Because somebody could connect the two identities from the outbound clearance from Union Island?"

  "That's possible. They could also connect you to me, and just guess that the two identities belong to the same woman."

  "What are we going to do, then? Petite Martinique is part of Grenada, right? We'll have to clear in there if we stay anchored there."

  "Technically, yes. But Petite Martinique's a no-man's land. It's been a smuggler's haven since way back in the colonial days. Nobody will bother us if we sit there for a day or two. Especially if we don't go ashore."

  "But then what, Finn? Like you said, we have to go ashore sometime."

  "Yeah. We'll get your new papers and leave."

  "But how does that help? There's still your passport, and the ship's papers."

  "I have others. We'll sail north, up to Guadeloupe or Martinique. The French are pretty laid back. And we'll tell them we left from the U.S.V.I. and sailed straight there."

  "You've lost me, Finn."

  "We're on a U.S. flagged vessel. If we left from a U.S. port, they won't expect us to have outbound clearance papers. It's not required. We'll sort of be born again with our new identities once we check into one of the French islands."

  She frowned for a couple of seconds, then laughed that laugh I loved to hear. "So, Finn whoever and Mary Elizabeth O'Brien sailed away from Union Island on a boat named Island Girl and just disappeared?"

  "It happens," I said. "This can be a dangerous part of the world. Boats disappear sometimes — storms, pirates, what have you."

  By then, we were anchored, and we went to bed. She fell asleep at once, leaving me to ponder the conflicting stories she told me.

  18

  I was sipping a beer at the table in the main cabin, watching Mary Beth — oops! Mary Helen Maloney, she is now — working to commit her new life's history to memory. We were anchored in shallow water on the eastern edge of the coral heads a mile and a half west of the channel between Petit St. Vincent and Petite Martinique.

  The water was flat, protected by the reefs and islands in the distance. There was a brisk breeze across the deck, and the nearest boats were over a mile away, anchored within a few hundred yards of Petite Martinique.

  We were all alone out here, which was the reason I chose the spot. An unlighted speedboat came by a couple of hours after sunset last night to deliver the package we were expecting.

  "Most yachts don't anchor so far out here," the man at the helm said, waving as he passed a few yards from us at idle speed.

  "There are lobsters among the coral heads." I gave him a casual wave in return.

  At that, he tossed a package onto Island Girl's side deck and went on his way, speeding up as he gained some distance.

  "You recognized one another?" Mary asked.

  "Prearranged challenge and response phrases," I said, stretching across the cockpit coaming to reach the package. I tore it open and took out the passport, handing it to her as I flipped through the rest of the contents.

  "Mary Helen Maloney. Can't shake that Irish ancestry," she said. "Why did they use Mary again? I expected a completely different name."

  "Mary's a common enough name. If a first name's at all unusual, it's best to change it. But that can cause trouble. With a name that's common enough not to attract attention, it's better to stay with it. Or something close."

  "Why?" she asked.

  "It's harder than you think to get accustomed to answering to a different name, especially if you change identities often. Somebody could trip you up by using your old name. Besides, I'm used to calling you Mary, so I won't stumble over using a new name."

  "But you've been calling me Mary Beth."

  "Yeah, but I called you Mary for almost as long before you told me to call you Mary Beth. Why’d you decide to do that if it was an assumed name to begin with?"

  She shrugged. "I had a friend named Mary Beth once. I always liked the sound of it. And it gave you a kind of… I don't know… special name for me? Something nobody else ever called me. Silly, huh?"

  I smiled. "Sweet. I'm flattered."

  "Good. I meant for you to be. I've gotten attached to you, Finn." She returned the smile. "Are you going to call me Mary? Or Mary Helen?"

  "Unless you've got a strong preference, I vote for Mary."

  "I don't care, but why Mary, just out of curiosity?"

  "It's less distinctive; like I said, the more common an alias is, the safer."

  "You've had experience doing this," she said.

  I handed her the other papers and the two credit cards that had been in the package. "Your legend's in there. Read it over a few times while I get the computer online. And sign the backs of the cards and put them in your wallet. I'll need anything you've got that matches up with the Mary Elizabeth O'Brien identity."

  "My legend?"

  "Your background information, Ms. Maloney. Parents, childhood homes, schools, all that stuff. You need to commit it to memory and then we'll destroy the written version." I went below and took my laptop out of the drawer below the chart table.

  She followed me into the main cabin, looking down at the papers in her hand. "What if somebody checks up on this stuff? Like, calls the high school, or something?"

  "They'll get a confirmation of the information in your legend. And I'll get a warning that somebody's snooping."

  "This is almost scary, Finn."

  "Good."

  "Why is that good?"

  "Because it's deadly serious. Don't screw it up, okay? I'm hung out a little way on this, so take care of me. Don't blow it."

  "Could you get
in trouble for doing this?"

  "Yeah, I could. But don't worry. Just take it seriously. We'll do fine."

  "Why are you taking this kind of risk for me?"

  "Same reason you wanted me to call you by a special name. I want to take care of you." I cleared my throat. "I'm not good at this man/woman stuff. I'm out of practice with the words."

  "Thanks, Finn," she said, her eyes tearing up. "You're doing fine. I know what you want to say. Me too. We'll get there."

  "I'm already there. Now get to work while I get an internet connection set up."

  "Okay, but isn't that dangerous? Using public Wi-Fi? Where's it coming from? Petite Martinique?"

  "It's probably coming from Carriacou. That's the big island right to our west. It can be dangerous, but I've got special software and I'll be connecting to that website through a VPN. It's secure. Don't worry about it. Now read the instructions about the credit cards and your address, okay?"

  She nodded, and in a couple of minutes, she said, "Okay, I'm ready to fill out everything."

  I handed her the open laptop and went back to the galley. I fished a cold beer out of the icebox and sat down across the main cabin from her while she worked on the computer at the dining table.

  After about thirty minutes, she closed the laptop and looked up at me, smiling that smile. "All done. I can't believe it was that easy. I went through hell for months to become Mary Elizabeth O'Brien. How did they make this happen so fast?"

  "I don't know, Mary. But don't worry. It's solid."

  "What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  "Your passport and the ship's papers. They weren't in the package."

  "I already have them."

  "Oh. They're hidden somewhere?"

  "That's right. I'll retrieve them once we're well away from land tomorrow. Just in case we get stopped by somebody like customs as we're leaving, it would be better to stick with the old stuff. It all matches our outbound clearance, including the vessel name on the transom."

  "I was going to ask about that. It's painted on, isn't it?"

  "Vinyl transfer lettering. It can be peeled off, if you're determined enough. I have two extra names with the papers. Once we're far enough out to sea, we'll heave to long enough for me to peel off the old one and stick on a new one. Then I'll break out the new paperwork and stash our old stuff."

  "Where's your stash?"

  "Island Girl has encapsulated ballast." I saw her frown, so I decided to explain. "Some boats have a ballast keel that's bolted onto the bottom of the hull. But others have a hollow keel that's filled with lead or something else heavy."

  She nodded. "Right, I know about that. It's in the keel?"

  "That's right. There's a strongbox epoxied to the top of the ballast casting. If you look down in the bilge, you'll only see smooth, painted fiberglass."

  Now she frowned. "I looked, remember? Before we left Puerto Real, I pulled up the carpet and opened the sump. I don't recall seeing anything that looked like it could be moved, or opened."

  I nodded. "You're right. There's a half inch of solid fiberglass down there, right over the top of the cavity with the strongbox."

  "How do you open it?"

  "With a power saw. Then I glass over it again and touch up the paint."

  "That sounds like a lot of trouble."

  "It's worth it if somebody searches the boat. It'll only take me an hour to do it."

  "What else is in there?"

  "Some money. A little gold."

  "No weapons?"

  I shook my head. "No weapons."

  "I'm surprised. Why not?"

  "Bad people usually come equipped with weapons. It's always better to use their own against them. Much less complicated to clean up afterward."

  "Aren't you giving them a big advantage?" she asked.

  "They think so. That works against them, most of the time. You killed that woman in Bequia, and she was the one with the weapon."

  "I see what you mean. I'd never really thought about that before. But I got the drop on her."

  "There are all kinds of ways to get the drop on somebody. Even if they're armed and watching you. Sometimes that's almost easier, because they're cocky."

  She nodded. "I see; that news report about the murders in St. Vincent is making more sense, now."

  I nodded. "Forget about the murders in St. Vincent. We should get out of here early in the morning. Let's get some rest."

  19

  It was late afternoon, and we were rolling along on a nice beam reach, making five and a half knots. Our course was roughly north, but we were just letting Carib Princess follow the wind. We left the anchorage at Petite Martinique around three this morning, taking up a broad reach until we were 20 miles to the west of the Grenadines.

  That put us well out of sight of land by sunup, and there were no other boats nearby. There was no reason for anybody to be out where we were. The islands and reefs that made up the Grenadines were smoothing out the ocean swell that rolled in from Africa, so we hove to.

  While Mary fixed breakfast, I cut into the bilge sump with my power saw. I collected one of my spare passports and another Coast Guard Certificate of Documentation, as well as a roll of waxed paper that held Island Girl's new name. Putting our old passports in the strongbox along with the Island Girl Certificate of Documentation, I closed everything back up.

  By then, Mary had breakfast ready, so I stopped to eat with her before I repaired the fiberglass. Paint would have to wait until the epoxy cured, but that was okay. The bilge was grimy enough to keep my surgery from being too obvious unless somebody knew to look for it.

  Mary squared away the galley while I blew up the inflatable dinghy. Securing it close against the transom, I climbed down into it and used a razor blade scraper to remove Island Girl's name. Too bad. I liked that name. Maybe I'd use it again, but for now, I had my own island girl. She was sitting in the cockpit, handing me the things I needed.

  A few rags and some acetone cleaned up the transom well enough. Following my instructions, Mary unrolled the new name, turning it face down on the cockpit seat and smoothing it as best she could. She freed a corner of the backing with her fingernail and peeled a little of it away.

  "That's good enough," I said. "Now take it by the two ends and hand it down to me. Once I've got it positioned, you hold it in place and I'll pull the backing out from behind it."

  In another five minutes, I squeegeed the bubbles out of the lettering, and Island Girl was transformed into Carib Princess. Mary helped me stow the dinghy, and we cast off the back-winded jib, sheeting it in on the other tack. The jib filled, and the boat surged forward. Once we gained enough momentum, we came about. We trimmed the sails then, coming up on the wind until we were on a northerly course. We didn't need to go any farther to the west, for sure.

  I leaned back on the windward side of the cockpit and hooked my left leg over the tiller. Carib Princess was happy on a beam reach; she didn't require much steering. Mary settled back next to me, pulling my right arm over her shoulders.

  "I like it here, Finn."

  "It's a pretty morning," I said.

  "Yes. But that's not what I meant. I like snuggling up against you and feeling your arm around me."

  "Good. Then I like it here, too."

  "You didn't tell me your new name," she said.

  "Finn."

  "But that's your old name."

  "Yeah, it was. It was my last name, but now it's a nickname."

  "Will you tell me what your new name is? Or do I have to sneak a look at the ship's papers?"

  "Did you?"

  "Did I what?"

  "Sneak a look at the ship's papers before, to find out my first name?"

  "No. I wouldn't have done that. I knew it would embarrass you. But you don't have much of a stake in your new name, do you?"

  "Nope. It's just one of many that I've used."

  "You've used it before?"

  "Nope. That's not usually a good idea.
But I've used variations on the theme. This time, it's Jerome Edward Finnegan."

  "I like it. Another good Irish name. Maybe I'll call you Jerry."

  "Don't. Somebody might confuse me with my father."

  "Your father? His last name wasn't Finn?"

  "Get with the program, Ms. Maloney. I have a legend, too."

  "You've already memorized it?"

  "Memory's a learned skill. You can get pretty quick at memorizing things like that. Comes in handy in certain lines of work."

  "I see. So, who were they? Your parents, from the legend."

  "Mary Katherine and Jerome Edward Finnegan, from Dublin."

  "They were FBI, huh?"

  "What?" I asked.

  She laughed that laugh. "Gotcha, didn't I?"

  "I don't get it, Mary."

  "That's okay. If you're from hard-core Irish Catholic stock, FBI means foreign-born Irish. Like from the old country."

  "I've never heard that," I said. "But anyway, they weren't."

  "You said they were from Dublin."

  "Dublin, Georgia. Hicks from way out in the country. No close neighbors when they were growing up. Makes it tough for anybody to check up on them. Besides, they're both dead now."

  We spent a few minutes watching two frigate birds keeping pace with us off our port side. They got bored and moved on, and Mary broke the spell.

  "Where are we going, Finn? Martinique or Guadeloupe?"

  "Either's fine for our purpose. We can start anew in either place. Martinique's closer by maybe 70 miles. It would take us around 15 hours longer to get to Guadeloupe."

  "How long to Martinique, then?"

  "It's roughly 100, maybe 115 miles from here. If the wind holds, we'll get in tomorrow morning around breakfast time."

  "We can't just keep doing this?"

  "Sure we can. As long as you want."

  "Right now, I'd be happy just to keep sailing forever."

  "Well, we ought to clear into Martinique and establish our new identities. It wouldn't be as easy to clear into most other countries without papers from our last port of call. We could do it, but it would call attention to us. We don't need that."

  "Okay, spoilsport. Martinique it is, then. What's it like?"