Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) (7 page)

“What do you mean by companion?” I asked hesitantly. I’d been involved with someone for some time, but we’d recently decided to just be friends again, since her job had transferred her upstate to Tallahassee. I wasn’t ready to see anyone and hoped that wasn’t what Celia meant.

“I have a friend who adopted a puppy a few months ago,” Celia said. “But now she has to travel overseas for work and won’t be able to keep him. I know you and Nadador became very close, and I thought you might like a friend. I think you’ll like him.”

“A dog?” I asked relieved.

“He’s still a puppy, only nine months old. He’s three-quarters yellow lab and one-quarter German short-haired pointer. His name is Finn, that’s with two Ns.”

“I don’t know, Missus—I mean, Celia. I’m just not sure if my life is suitable right now for raising and training a dog.”

“Well, he’s been through an advanced obedience school already. He’s really smart and he has an interesting thing that he picked up all by himself.”

“An interesting thing?” I asked, curious now. “What’s that?”

“He dives for clams,” Celia replied.

“You mean like if you toss a clamshell in the water, he retrieves it from the bottom?”

“He’ll do that too, if you want. He has boundless energy. But what I mean is, he likes to eat raw clams and figured out all on his own where to find them. He dives in the water, digs them up, and brings them to the dock until he thinks he has enough to eat.”

I laughed. “You’re kidding! And his name is Finn?”

“I told my friend that I knew just the person to place him with,” Celia said. “Will you please take him? She has to leave very soon and there’s not much time to find a home for Finn. I just know the two of you would be a good match.”

“Sure,” I said, not really knowing why. Pescador had been a huge part of my life for two years and helped me get through some serious bad times, just by listening to me. I missed him. “Where’s he located? Miami?”

“Beaufort, South Carolina,” she replied. “It’s a little town between Savannah and Charleston. On the coast.”

Beaufort?
I thought, my mind already racing ahead. The home of Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island and Marine Air Group 31. It’s also in Chrissy’s father’s district.

I
was awake before it was light out. Stepping up into the salon, I half-expected to see Pescador lying by the hatch. He’d never been a problem, never had to be taught anything or reprimanded. Often, he’d taught me things. Was I ready to take on raising a dog? Teaching him to do things and not crap on the deck of my boat? I poured a mug of coffee, then emptied the rest of the pot into an oversized thermos before setting the coffeemaker up for another run.

Opening the laptop, I checked for messages. Chyrel had emailed me just after midnight, saying she would be flying out of Miami early and would arrive at the San Andros airport at zero nine hundred. She also said that the equipment she’d need would be picked up before dawn and be on the same flight, arriving as cargo addressed to Henry Patterson. But Henry would need to go to the airport to sign for it. I replied quickly that he’d be there, but the rest of us were going on a little fishing trip back to Cat Island, as soon as the sun came up.

“Ahoy the boat,” came a voice from outside. Opening the hatch, I found Rene Cook standing on the pier. “Saw the light on. Mind if I come aboard?”

“Sure,” I replied. “What’s got you up so early?”

“Fly-fishing charter. The client should be here at sunrise. One of our regulars who knows the phone service sucks and just stopped by.”

I invited Rene inside and offered him a cup of coffee, which he readily accepted. “Your boat’s even nicer on the inside,” he said, taking a sip of the coffee. “Whoa! This is good.”

“A special blend a friend of mine gets from Costa Rica,” I replied. “A little farm called Hacienda la Minita.”

Looking around the
Revenge
, he said, “Must be pretty expensive, this special brew.”

“It’s not Folgers. Is there something you wanted?”

Rene turned back toward me and fixed me with an even stare. “It’s quiet here, Jesse. I like quiet. Henry told me about your proposal and I gotta say, I’m not real thrilled about it.”

“It’s not your call, though. Is it?”

His eyes flashed with anger for a moment, then quickly calmed. Rene was a man used to people not challenging him. “No, I don’t suppose it is. But, Henry’s getting up in years and I do my best to keep an eye on him.”

I set my own mug on the counter. “Henry doesn’t need you, me, or anyone else keeping an eye on him, Rene. I know for a fact that he’s survived a lot more than either of us.”

“I know,” the younger man replied. “When I first came here, I checked him out.”

“What do you mean,
checked him out
?”

Rene finished the last of his coffee and placed the empty mug in the sink. “I used to work for Uncle Sam, Jesse. And I still have a few contacts in Langley.”

A spook?
I thought. It’s getting like every time I turn around, I’m bumping into a retired agent from one of the alphabet agencies.

“You’re pretty young to be retired,” I commented.

“I’m not. And like I said, I like the quiet and solitude here.”

The CIA attracts a lot of bright and talented young people, and the expense to train them is high. Not all of them retire. In fact, their attrition rate is very high during training. Also, a good many leave the clandestine service after their contract is up, leveraging their training to pursue more lucrative jobs in the private sector. But Rene didn’t seem to be either of these. Not working in a backwater marina on the edge of nowhere.

“What is it you’re dancing around saying, Rene?”

“I’m asking you to take back the offer to use this marina as a fuel stop for the federal government and forget you ever met me.”

As with a lot of government agencies, retention in the CIA is difficult. Most stay for the length of their contract, and a few remain with Central Intelligence until they’re in their forties or fifties. Not all who stay do it of their own volition. A very few, mostly field operatives who know too much to be released into civilized civilian society, are coerced in some way or other to remain with the Agency. Then there are the very rare few who just up and disappear.

“A few contacts?” I asked. “Who keep their mouths shut?”

“Just friends who are still employed by the Company,” Rene replied.

“I know a few former CIA operatives,” I said. “Good money in the real world, with the training they put you guys through. Or were you a desk jockey?”

“No,” he replied, “I didn’t work in an office.”

“And yet, with all that training and skill, here you are working in a tiny little marina, just scraping by. No government retirement plan, nothing more than friends who can keep you informed about things.”

He stared at me a moment, leaning on the galley countertop. “Okay,” he finally said with a sigh, as if the burden of whatever he was running from was lifted. “Yeah, they keep their mouths shut and nobody knows where I am. Is that what you wanted to hear? Because I really like it here, dammit. But I can be back on my boat and gone before the sun even clears the treetops. Disappearing is something I’m good at.”

“I’m not with the government,” I said while rinsing the empty mugs and placing them on the drainboard to dry. “I just provide occasional covert transportation for this group. And like your friends, I can keep my mouth shut. You don’t know me, so you don’t know that. All that said, I really don’t give a rat’s ass about you or your past.” I turned and faced the younger man before continuing. “Except where Henry’s concerned. I’ve known the old man since I was a kid, and if any harm comes to him through your actions, I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. And nobody is so invisible that I can’t find them.”

We stood staring at one another for a second, then Rene grinned slightly. “Yeah, he does tend to gather fiercely loyal friends.”

I nodded. “He seems to trust you, Rene. And I know he’s got good people skills. The group I sometimes provide transportation for is a small agency within Homeland Security, an undercover investigative law enforcement unit, tasked with rooting out and eliminating terrorist threats in the Basin. They don’t have any interest in what the CIA does, who you are, or what you do.”

“I’d like to believe that,” Rene said.

“You’re free not to, I don’t care. Like I said, you don’t know me and I don’t know you. Who and what you are or were is none of my concern, except when it comes to my friends.”

“Hello, Jesse,” came a deep voice from outside. “You up yet?”

“We have to leave, Rene,” I said, heading for the salon hatch. “Do as you see fit. But we’re no threat to you.”

Opening the hatch, I saw Andrew, Tony, and Art standing on the pier, their bags in hand. “Come aboard,” I told them. “Rene and I were just finishing our coffee.”

“Good luck,” Rene said as he stepped past me and up to the pier, walking down the dock to where his skiff was tied off.

Henry approached as the others were stowing their gear aboard. “You really going back over the TOTO to meet with those jackals?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I think I might be able to entice them to do what I want. Hey, look, my friend Chyrel is arriving at nine and there will be some equipment on the plane addressed to you. Can you pick her up?”

“Sure,” Henry replied as the three men came out of the salon and joined me in the cockpit.

“We should be back before sunset, and knowing Chyrel, she’ll probably have you up and running before we return.”

Minutes later, I had the big diesel engines running, while Tony and Art cast off the lines. Bourke climbed up to the bridge and took the second seat next to me. “What was that all about with Rene?” he asked. “For a second, it sounded like I was gonna have to pull you two apart.”

“Nothing much,” I lied. “He just woke up and smelled the coffee.”

With the sun beginning to purple the eastern sky, I switched on the powerful spotlight and engaged the transmissions. Maneuvering through the narrow entrance of the lagoon, we were once again out on the blue. I brought the throttles up, the big diesels lifting the heavy boat up on top of the water, planing out at thirty knots in a matter of seconds. We had a hundred and eighty miles to go, with at least a one-hour stop on the way. Then probably another hour on Cat Island and a hundred and fifty miles to get back here. It was going to be a long day.

Tony and Art joined us on the bridge, Art carrying a second thermos of coffee. “How you going to set this meeting up?” Tony asked, sitting down on the port bench with Art.

“Chyrel will be here in a few hours and will have Henry’s computers set up. She’s isolated the Congressman’s phones and is blocking any calls to or from Cat Island. They can call just about anyone, but any calls between South Carolina’s Lowcountry or Washington to or from any phone in the vicinity of Cat Island will get a busy signal. She’ll connect my sat phone to the guy, and I’ll just ask him if he wants to make a deal.”

“I don’t like it,” Art said. “We just shot the shit outta their place yesterday and now we’re gonna make a deal with them? I thought we were supposed to take the bad guys out, not get into bed with them.”

“Not too crazy about the first part myself,” I replied. “It’s gonna be a dangerous meet. But I don’t have a problem using them as a means to an end. They’ll get their comeuppance sooner or later.”

The hurricane had sped up overnight and was downgraded to a subtropical low, heading off toward Greenland. The near shore waters were flat and glassy. Once we were on the deeper waters of the TOTO, only small, well-spaced rollers were between us and Nassau. It took only ninety minutes to cross the deep trench.

Just before the Sidney Poitier Bridge, connecting New Providence and Paradise Islands, I slowly brought the
Revenge
down off plane. We’d passed a number of charter boats headed out for a day of angling. Within minutes, we idled into Hurricane Hole and tied off at the fuel dock. Though we’d been cruising at just over half throttle, the
Revenge
is a pig when it comes to fuel and had probably burned nearly a hundred gallons on the crossing. I top the tanks anytime I can.

Bourke and Tony began fueling, while Art and I headed for the front of the marina office and the cab that was waiting there for us. Ten minutes later, after crossing the bridge into Nassau and following the coast east on Bay Street, the cab turned off onto a private road and drove us through carefully manicured lawns, adorned with flowering shrubbery and majestic trees.

Not really a private road at all, I soon realized as we pulled under the portico in front of the impressive building that was the Union Bank of Switzerland. The taxi came to a stop and we got out, then the driver pulled forward so as not to block the entrance for bigger wigs in their limos.

“You have a wire for me, Audrey?” I asked the pretty blond clerk, reading her name tag when we got to the counter. “The name’s Jesse McDermitt.”

Audrey looked down at a computer monitor mounted below a glass-topped counter and tapped a few keys on a keyboard also hidden below the counter.