Steady As She Goes: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 21)

by Wayne Stinnett

  But in the medical field? How would their paths cross?

  Earnst had given Stockwell a unit of blood and another of a saline solution loaded with antibodiotics to ward off infection.

  As Meachum and Duster loaded the doctor’s gear into the boat, he picked up the briefcase and nodded toward the far side of the deck. I followed him.

  He handed me the briefcase, then a slip of paper. “Here’s the combination.”

  “What’s in it?” I asked.

  General Earnst went on to tell me a few things he thought Tank might have overlooked in his estate planning and said there was documentation in the briefcase that would not only allow us to take his body back home, but would also smooth things over in the future.

  I knew the documents would have to be all phonied up. Tank had died in Brazil, and since we’d not cleared into the country, he’d died on foreign soil after illegally entering the country.

  “That could pose problems,” Earnst said.

  “He should have died at home.”

  “Nobody chooses when or where that happens,” he told me, as we moved toward his boat.

  “He did,” I countered. “His oncologist had told him it was a matter of days just before he decided to come down here.”

  General Earnst stopped at the side of the boat and looked at Stockwell and his men, then turned to me. “If a man leads a good life, he might be able to choose who he wants with him when the time comes. Isn’t that more important than when or where?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he swung his legs over the gunwale and Meachum untied the line. In seconds, the boat was up on plane and heading back toward the mainland.

  “How do you know him?” I asked Travis, as we climbed the steps to the cockpit.

  He stopped and faced me, his men proceeding on into the salon. Oswald went up the spiral staircase to the bridge and the others went down to the lower deck.

  “It was in 2012,” Stockwell said. “A small task force was sent to Jordan, in case Syria lost control of its chemical weapons during their civil war. General Earnst headed the task force, because of his background in chemical and biological weapons. I went as part of Homeland Security’s specialists in the region. Meachum took a bullet protecting Duster during a night incursion across the border. Duster dragged him back and the general saved his life.”

  Stockwell turned and went inside, leaving me with a few answers to questions my mind had formed, as well as more questions. Travis was a man of few words. What he’d said might be the mechanics of how he’d met Earnst and the two younger men, but it didn’t explain the deep bond I could sense among all six of them.

  I stepped over to the maneuvering console and pushed the button for the ship’s intercom. “Captain McDermitt to all hands. Secure from restricted movement. We’re anchored in the Bay of São Marcos but will be getting underway shortly.”

  Then I carried the briefcase up to the bridge deck and entered the op center. Chyrel and David were smiling at one another. I walked over to stand beside Flo.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  “They got in and got the information you wanted,” she replied. “Now they just have to get out, which Chyrel said was harder. David came up with a way that might make it easier.”

  I stepped closer and watched the two monitors as lines of code were fed from one to the other. That went on for several seconds, then suddenly, both screens went blank and an image appeared—a plain white shield with a sixteen-point star in the center, and an eagle’s head in profile above it. The logo of the CIA.

  “And we’re out!” Chyrel said, rolling back and giving David a double high-five. “That was brilliant!”

  “Thanks,” David said. “I always wanted to try that.”

  Chyrel looked up, then stood. “You have the makings of a first-rate analyst here, Jesse.”

  “What did you find out?”

  Chyrel took a stack of papers from a printer between her monitor and David’s. “Let’s go somewhere.”

  I led the way down the inside passageway and unlocked a hatch just before my quarters. After the three followed me inside, I closed the hatch to my private office, placed the briefcase beside my desk and sat down in my chair. Chyrel took a seat next to my desk and the kids sat on a small sofa.

  “Okay,” I said. “Give it to me. Santiago first.”

  She told me how, in October 1976, Marcos Santiago, who was then only fourteen years old and a resident of the border town, Bôca da Mata, had escaped almost certain capture by right-wing extremists, with the help of an unidentified American spy. Even at that young age, he’d been a leader among the guerilla freedom fighters, and had been smuggled across the border into Venezuela.

  “During that same month,” Chyrel continued, “Bud Ferguson was also in Bôca da Mata, investigating guerilla activity. The following month, he was suddenly sent back to Langley. He became a paper pusher, Jesse, finally retiring in 1996 as a GS-10.”

  General Service pay grades were assigned to federal civilian workers. Bud’s was a mid-level, non-management position.

  That had to be why Marcos had reacted the way he did when the two met. Bud had somehow helped the younger man get across the border, either taking him to Maracaibo himself, or arranging transportation.

  “Anything to tie them together for certain?” I asked.

  “Just this entry on Ferguson’s record book,” Chyrel replied, taking the stack of papers, and flipping through them. “Here, read this.”

  I took the sheet she handed me and looked at it.

  “The entry for the fourth of November,” David said.

  The entry read simply: Accused of transporting a suspected guerilla fighter from Bôca da Mata to Maracaibo. No corroborating evidence or witnesses. Detained in Maracaibo by Venezuelan authorities and expelled from the country. Secret clearance revoked.

  What had Marcos done or said to make Bud take such a risk? A GS-10 civilian employee was barely higher than his rank of captain in Vietnam. Yet, he’d said he’d retired as a lieutenant colonel.

  “Anything on his military service?” I asked.

  Chyrel flipped through the papers again, then handed me one. “This is from his SRB,” she said. “Retired from the Marine Corps Reserves as a lieutenant colonel in ’95.”

  It was still a mystery why he’d even stayed with the CIA after being stripped of his clearance and passed over for numerous advancements.

  “I guess some spooks do retire,” I said offhandedly.

  “Lots do,” Chyrel said. “It’s the ones who have been out in the field a long time that never retire. They know too much.”

  “Anything on the ship and its crew?” I asked.

  “Here’s everything on the freighter Canopus,” David said, handing me another short stack of papers. “A full accounting of all present crew members, as well as past crew going back three years, and all their current addresses.”

  “Sorry,” Chyrel said. “We couldn’t find any information on where they like to drink in such a short time.”

  “Good work,” I said, then turned to David and Flo. “Will y’all give us a minute?”

  The weight of what had happened on the beach suddenly dropped on them like a ton of bricks. I could see it in their faces. They’d no more set foot on shore when we started loading Tank’s body in the chopper.

  “What is it, Jesse?” Chyrel asked, as my daughter and possible future son-in-law left the room.

  I picked up the briefcase and put it on my desk, then fished the slip of paper with the combination from my pocket. Once I had the case open, I lifted out the first sheet of paper and handed it to her.

  “These documents were left by the doctor who treated Stockwell,” I said. “They should allow us to get you and Tank home.”

  She looked at the paper in her hands. “It’s a death certificate,” she said. “But it says Owen had a heart attack right here on the boat.”

  “I don�
��t know how the doctor could have known anything about Tank,” I said. “But he seemed to know a great deal about your relationship. He explained that Tank’s having refused treatment might somehow stall survivor’s benefits.”

  “How could he possib—”

  “He was sent by Jack Armstrong,” I interrupted. “That’s probably how General Earnst knew your situation. That’s who the doctor was. He served with Stockwell and his team. And knowing government bureaucracy, I wouldn’t doubt it if the VA denied the survivor pension, saying if Tank had undergone treatment, he wouldn’t have died.”

  “Not for another year, maybe,” she said. “Would they really do that?”

  “I don’t try to figure out what goes on in the Puzzle Palace,” I replied.

  We went through the rest of the documents, all signed by General Leopold Earnst, along with a sworn statement that he was visiting Ambrosia in international waters when the death occurred. It had a blank spot at the bottom for the captain’s signature.

  I took out a pen and signed it, becoming complicit in fraud against the federal government.

  “When will you want to leave?” I asked.

  “Right away, I suppose. But I don’t want to put the others out.”

  “There’s room for all four of you in Charity’s helo. They’ll understand. I’ll gather everyone in the mess hall.” I reached over and pushed the intercom button. “Captain to crew. Will Mr. Ferguson, Mr. Stone, Mr. Santiago, Miss Styles, and Miss McDermitt please report to the mess deck?”

  I stood and held out a hand. “Are you ready? With these documents, you can be in Grenada by this time tomorrow, and home in Marathon before nightfall.”

  She took my hand and rose. “What then?”

  “Life goes on,” I told her. “It’s what he wanted.”

  When I opened the hatch, Savannah, Flo, and David were standing in the passageway by the exterior door.

  “Good,” I said to them. “Charity and Bud should be below. It’s time to take Tank home.”

  “We’re not going,” Flo said.

  “What do you mean, you’re not going? Classes start in just—”

  “I mean we’re not going,” Flo said, a firmness in her tone and manner I’d never seen. “David and I are going to take a break from school, Dad. He wants to learn more here, and I want to be close to my new little brother.”

  I started to open my mouth, but Savannah silenced me with a finger to my lips, as she often did. “Hush, now. It’s decided. Besides, they both took classes through the summer and are miles ahead.”

  I knew what they were up to. David hadn’t had his “moment alone” with me yet. A smart man knew when he was beaten, and Mam and Pap hadn’t raised a fool.

  “Let’s go down and see Charity and Bud,” I said.

  We exited the passageway and went down to the main deck. Bud was standing outside, and I could see through the glass doors that Charity and Marcos were at a table, talking.

  “Go on inside,” I told my family.

  Once the door was closed, Bud turned toward me. “You know, don’t you?”

  “About you and Marcos?” I asked. “Yeah, I know you had him smuggled out of Brazil a long time ago.”

  “How did you find out?”

  I nodded toward the group inside. “Tank’s widow is the best computer analyst to ever work at Langley. And she thinks quite highly of young David’s skills.”

  He looked inside at the others, then down at the deck.

  “It’s okay, Bud,” I told the old spook. “We’re no longer fighting the Cold War or the Banana Wars. But I am curious as to why you did it.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Motives are often the last thing to come out. The only entry in your record book with the Agency is that you were a suspect, but there were no witnesses or evidence.”

  “My handler told me he knew all about what I did,” Bud said. “He said I had to remain in Langley until they figured out what to do.”

  “Did you tell him anything?” I asked, wondering why there was nothing in Bud’s record if they knew.

  “Never,” he replied. “It would have meant Marcos’s death. I didn’t ever say anything or admit anything, all those years.”

  “So, why’d you do it?” I asked. “Don’t get me wrong; I think what the U.S. government was doing back then was horrible. But why’d you risk your life and career on a fifteen-year-old border-town street kid?”

  “You don’t see it?” Bud asked.

  “See what?”

  “The resemblance,” he said and looked inside. “Marcos is my son.”

  Bud’s revelation startled me. He quickly explained that he had been to Rio in 1962, vacationing with his family the summer before he went off to college. He’d met a girl there. They’d stayed in touch for years, a love affair through airmail. He’d had girlfriends, but he’d never been serious with anyone. Except in his letters to Estella.

  He told me about the short letter he’d received from Estella in the spring of 1964, in which she’d told him of a coming military coup, and the news that her father was taking his family out of the city. Bud didn’t hear from her again for a long time since they were in hiding. The coup toppled the government and put the military in control until 1985.

  “I only got one letter after that,” Bud said. “It was when I was in my third year of college. She told me I had a son and she and her family had settled near the border of Venezuela under assumed names. The letter said she was worried it would be read by the wrong people, but she had to tell me about our son. She didn’t mention the name she was going by, nor my son’s name.

  “When the opportunity came,” Bud continued. “When I was asked to fly for the CIA in Brazil, I jumped on it. I knew what I had to do. Marcos had found my letters in his mother’s things and wrote to me, telling me that his family had all been killed, and he was living on the street, organizing other street kids.”

  “And you found him,” I said, looking in at the others.

  “Yes, I found him,” Bud said. “I took him to Maracaibo. Set him up with a place to live, money to last a few years, and put him in school.”

  I followed his gaze to where Marco sat, talking to Charity. “Maybe it’s time you got to know your son,” I said. “The secret’s safe. Besides, I don’t think it matters much anymore. Nearly everyone involved is dead.”

  As I started to open the hatch, I saw Val appear at the inside staircase. She showed Charity something on her Metis, then Charity nodded toward me, and Val came out to the cockpit.

  “Can’t this wait?” I asked her.

  “It will only take a second, Captain.”

  She showed me a communication from Jack, ordering Charity to escort Chyrel from Grenada to the U.S. Virgin Islands, where they would be met by a Marine honor detachment who would escort Chyrel and Tank’s body back to the States in one of his corporate jets.

  “Very well,” I said.

  We went inside and Val continued up the steps to the bridge. Marcos tried to avert his eyes from me. He was fidgeting in his chair, nervous.

  “He knows,” Bud told him.

  Marcos’s face looked confused, panicked, as if he might bolt from the room and jump overboard.

  “Todo está bien,” I said to him. “It was long ago, Marcos, and forgotten by most. You don’t have to hide anything.”

  He looked from me to Bud. “Is this true?”

  “It is,” Bud said. “There is no mention in my record. You and I, and now Captain McDermitt here, are the only ones who know.”

  Marcos’s eyes darted from Bud to me. For a moment, he looked like a frightened child, which was probably how seeing his father again after more than forty years had made him feel.

  “Does this mean I can tell my family?” Marcos asked.

  I was astonished. “They don’t know?”

  “No, Capitan. I thought it might put them in danger.”

  I motioned Marc
os to join me at the intercom console. “Enter your cabin number and push the Call button, then have your family join us here.”

  He did and a moment later, Mayra’s voice said hello.

  “Mayra, este es Marcos,’ he said. “Por favor, traiga a la familia al restaurante, inmediato.”

  Savannah left her seat and joined me, speaking quietly. “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll see in a minute,” I replied, moving to the seat at the head of the table.

  She sat next to me, and Bud sat down across from her. When Mayra appeared at the glass door, Marcos quickly went to open it for her. Any trepidation he’d felt earlier seemed to be gone.

  The Santiago family filed in, standing in a half circle around the far end of the table, all looking bewildered.

  “What is this, Marcos?” Mayra asked.

  He went and stood beside her, then extended a hand to Bud, who rose and approached his son.

  “This is my wife, Mayra,” Marcos began, his voice halting, but not because of his poor English. “And our daughters, Crystal, Kassandra, and Giselle. And this is Giselle’s husband, Ricardo Lopez, and their son, Fernando.” He paused and picked the boy up, though he was at an age when boys usually didn’t like that. “Fernando, este es mi padre, tu bisabuelo, Señor Bud Ferguson.”

  “Su padre?” Mayra asked, her eyes moistening with tears. “This man is your father, Marcos? The one who took you out of Brazil?”

  The whole Santiago clan gathered around Bud, all talking over one another in excited Spanish. I couldn’t keep up, but I sensed that they all knew about Marcos’s past.

  I rose and walked toward them. Bud turned to face me, a hand on Fernando’s shoulder.

  “We’re heading back toward Grenada,” I told him. “Tomorrow, as soon as we’re within range, Charity is going to take Tank’s body to a waiting jet to be returned to Florida.”

  “Tomorrow?” Bud said. “But I’ve only just met my great-grandson.”

  “You’re a retired Marine officer, Bud. And a retired government employee with a clean record. You should have no trouble at all getting green cards for your family.”