On my way to the bar, I watched as kids scrambled between their parents’ legs, the little ones flirting with the water at the shallow end of the expansive no-edge pool, running and screaming with delight. A boy and his father tossed a spongy football back and forth, and a family of three pale-skinned tourists played with a small Frisbee.
I found an empty bar stool at the far end and climbed on. The jolly bartender, a big, very black man with a round face and practiced smile, took my order: margarita, Cabo Wabo, Grand Marnier, ice, salt. No lime wedge required. I also bought three Cohiba Maduro number 5 cigars to go with my drink. The affable bartender clipped my cigar and offered a light. The cigar came alive with the sweet taste of Castro’s finest. I thanked him and sat back to contemplate the pleasant view from the open-air bar. The sun was setting now behind a few gray, puffy clouds. Above them, a few long slivers of pink and orange spears of sunlight took hold of the blue sky. Someone to my left brought me out of my reverie.
“Those things’ll kill you,” said a woman’s melodious voice. She nodded at my cigar.
She was lovely, perhaps in her mid-thirties, tall and slender, with the lean body you would expect on an elite triathlete: defined deltoids, broad back, six-pack abs, and toned, muscular legs that proudly proclaimed they had seen their fair share of training. Her top physical conditioning did much to explain her disdain for the noxious stogie I was so enjoying. She wore a black bikini top and a wrap-around multicolor knit skirt that parted discreetly but suggestively in front. She wore only a small watch and stud earrings. Designer sandals and a matching large tote completed what seemed like a carefully selected ensemble. No weeding or engagement ring.
Hmmm
.
“Haven’t you heard?” I replied. She had light blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and designer sunglasses perched on her head.
“Heard what?”
“We’re all dying.”
She had no choice but to smile. “Isn’t that the truth?”
She settled on the stool beside me and ordered what else? mineral water and ice.
“Name’s Debbie,” she said as she extended a hand.
She had a firm, friendly grip that exuded strength and confidence.
“Pleasure,” I replied. “Jason.”
“Business or pleasure, Jason?”
“All business, I’m afraid.” I smiled.
“So, you’re here all alone?” She placed her elbow on the bar and let her head rest ever so playfully on her hand. I nodded.
She was studying me with a furtive expression that made me wish I had the luxury of pursuing the testosterone-induced ideas now flooding my weak male psyche. “How about a family waiting back home, Jason?”
I showed her the vacancy on my ring finger. “You?”
“Sad, isn’t it?” she said, and glanced out at the sunset. “I mean, a place like this. The beauty of it all wasted, being alone and all.”
“Look at it this way: better alone than in bad company.”
She raised her glass and said, “I’ll drink to that.” Our glasses clinked, and we sipped from our drinks while the sexual tension built.
“Have any plans for dinner, Jason?”
“Maybe,” I replied. “I may have to meet someone.” It was not entirely a lie. I was here with only one purpose in mind: to encounter Baumann face to face.
“I don’t have any plans yet.” She placed a hand on my arm. “I’d love the company if you’re free.”
I glanced at her. Her emerald eyes peered into mine, studying me, taking me in as if digging deep into my subconscious. Her quizzical gaze displayed a look of playful anticipation: moist lips slightly parted, ready and inviting, promising pleasures just waiting to be discovered. Her left hand slowly descended from the nape of her neck down her ample cleavage only to slowly survey her perfectly sculpted midriff. She was so amazingly good, and so damned hard to resist. Her body language told me we were both thinking the same thing:
your room or mine?
I began to think of what it would be like to bed this very desirable woman not in some fantasy future, but right here and, best of all, right now. Who could blame me for straying off my self-assigned task for a few brief hours to enjoy what was right there for the taking? How would it affect anything? Baumann wouldn’t care. And neither would Nora.
I took a deep breath, fought the demons grappling for my soul, and finally mustered the willpower to say, “Where can I find you later? You know, if I can break free?”
Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly.
She gave me one of those little smiles and a shrug. “I’ll give you my room number.” She got a Sharpie from the bartender and wrote it on a napkin and offered it to me. “I’ll be up late,” she said, with one of the most alluring smiles I had ever seen.
I cleared my tab and slipped the bartender a nice tip, and we both stood up. Our brief encounter was over. I took the full measure of her. She was breathtakingly, knee-knockingly delectable. I guessed five feet ten and maybe 130 pounds of nothing but lean, sexually charged muscle. I noticed my heart rate ramping up a little and my breath getting shallow.
Time to leave, Jason.
I excused myself and repeated that I would call if I could break free. She leaned in and gave my cheek a velvet kiss. I left as fast as I could.
You’re such a loser!
The sandstone path from the bar to the beach had been carved through the high coastal weeds and grasses dotting the small dunes along the eastern edge of the resort’s property. It was lit by small fixtures on stanchions located at the point of each step. Long shadows lay in the summery breeze, the filtered light casting warm earthen tones on the sand and the sea beyond. Distant music from a band that struck up lively island tunes could be heard. No doubt a party just getting started in one of the nearby bars. The beach was practically deserted at this time, most guests having retired to their rooms to freshen up while others, the early birds, were already being seated at one of the sprawling resort’s many restaurants.
I left the beach and the local steel band playing bubbly calypso tunes and headed toward the far towers of the resort. Walking past the boutiques selling resort wear, fine garments, island crafts made in China, fine and not so fine jewelry, and assorted trinkets, I reached the resort’s highly regarded Hermes Marina and Yacht Club. Although smaller, it easily rivaled the best marinas of Monte Carlo and Nice, mostly because dockage fees were high enough to keep out all but the obscenely rich. Utilities not included. But if you could afford to own and operate one of these mega-yachts, charges for utilities, no matter how exorbitant, were nothing more than an incidental necessity, something hardly even noticed.
The Hermes Marina in Nassau Harbor consisted of sixty-three well-protected finger piers that could handle yachts up to 240 feet in length. Widely considered the ideal Caribbean mooring spot, it was a safe and exclusive place were the top tier of the world’s superrich yacht owners were guaranteed to rub elbows with similarly well heeled seafarers. My own fairly large craft would not be considered worthy or large enough to tie up next to one of these superyachts.
The tropical dusk had turned quickly to night, and streetlamps now cast a warm glow on the hundreds of guests strolling past stores that attempted to entice them with offers of stuff they surely didn’t need. The restaurant and shop district of the resort is a well designed area consisting of several blocks of close-set Bermudian-style buildings one or two-stories high, every building stuccoed in muted Caribbean pastels and crowned with gently gabled rooflines of bluish clay tiles. The atmosphere was festive and filled with the energy of hundreds of eager visitors full of unrealized expectations, ocean breezes, laughter, and music.
I continued my casual stroll among the happy, sunburned vacationers in search of a place to eat. I settled on a steak house, the Fire Brand Grill. There was no waiting line snaking out of the restaurant, and the enticing aromas of fine meats and seafood cooking on the grill was hard to resist. Once inside, I put my name on the waiting list.
“You’re quite lucky this evening, sir,” the maître d’ with the gold-rimmed glasses said as he jotted down my name. “Tonight’s very slow only be a thirty-minute wait.” He broke into a spirited laugh another underemployed comedian.
I took a side trip to the restaurant’s crowded bar and ordered a margarita. Drink in hand, I went outside to wait for my table. I was not looking forward to dining alone. I thought about the napkin in my pocket, the one with Debbie’s room number, and pushed the thought away.
It wasn’t long before the maître d’ informed me that my table was ready. The hostess led me to a small table with two chairs, tucked against a side wall. Two lit candles, and small, white flowers floating on a dish half-filled with water. Quite the romantic setting for one.
As I was about to glance at the menu, I heard a woman’s voice call my name. Turning toward the voice, I was met with an improbable sight: Mackenzie Deschamps, giving me a broad smile and a discreet wave. She was with a small party.
I stood up as she approached my table. Wearing a lightweight, flowing black dress and a strand of pearls, she was as radiant as when we first met. She had that same wonderful stride, shoulders back, everything about her exuding a quiet confidence. As she weaved her way through the crowded tables, all eyes followed her envious glances from the women, admiring ones from the men. A young male waiter watched her smile at me. His eyes lingered on her longer than was appropriate, taking in all of the considerable beauty on display, after which he gave me that well known man-to-man sneer that said,
You lucky bastard
. I smiled.
She hugged me warmly and kissed my cheek. I could smell her delicate perfume and faint hints of fruit scents. Her bright smile told me she was glad for the unexpected encounter.
“What a surprise seeing you here!” she murmured.
I asked her to join me, and she asked for a moment to say good-bye to her party. She went back and spoke briefly to them, then rejoined me. She sat across from me, three feet of crisp linen-clad tabletop separating us. I thanked all the gods I had decided against calling Debbie from the beach bar. Seeing Mackenzie here was the last thing I could have expected. Fate what a wonderful and cunning force it could be.
“So what brings you to Nassau?” I asked as she sat down.
She was here to greet a group chartering her family’s yacht. They were set to arrive tomorrow from Amsterdam for a two-week Caribbean cruise aboard the
Incognito,
a 185-foot custom Berger yacht. Hermes Marina was its home port. The ship was regularly available for charter when not in use by her family which with her dad’s death and her mother’s advanced condition, was rare enough. She had just had dinner with the yacht’s skipper and members of its staff, and they were about to head back to the ship when she saw me enter the restaurant.
The waiter arrived with our drinks, a glass of Bordeaux for Mackenzie, another margarita on the rocks for me. I ordered dinner, and we settled in for a pleasant chat. She asked me about the purpose of my visit. I told her I was on Baumann’s trail.
“Really?” Her eyes widened a bit. “You found him?”
I told her I was acting more on hunches and supposition than any real evidence that he was actually here, and that I believed Baumann may have hidden Mrs. Kelly’s sailboat somewhere on the island. And if the sailboat was here, my bet was he had to be nearby, waiting for the weather to clear. I also admitted I had little else to go on. Soon the conversation shifted from Baumann to how I had become involved in this line of work. This was a onetime deal, I explained. I had agreed to look into Amy’s affairs as a favor to a friend of Mrs. Kelly’s I saw no reason to add that the friend in question had also been my lover until three days ago.
I finished my dinner and paid the bill, and we were soon outside, among the throng of tourists leisurely strolling about the waterfront. The breeze was now noticeably more pleasant. It was also filled with the vibrant excitement of eager visitors and carried the sweet hints of jasmine and gardenias. We continued with small talk as we strolled past the afterdecks of the floating palaces moored in the marina. I found myself wishing I were here under different circumstances. I couldn’t bring myself to relax enough to enjoy Mackenzie’s company as much as I wanted, because, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I felt uneasy, cagey, antennas on high alert, as if my senses detected an unfriendly presence lurking in the shadows.
Something in me had changed. Even after the drinks, I recognized the change in mind-set. I had learned long ago to heed those subtle warnings, the little voice whispering gently, coercing me, guiding me, and urging me to switch all my senses into high alert. I felt my awareness level shift from carefree civilian to the familiar mind-set of operator on the prowl, one for whom keen senses and complete awareness of the surroundings often is the difference between staying alive and going home in a zippered bag. That thought made me think of Amy and Elizabeth. The fact that Baumann was still out there made me worry for their safety. Then there was Kellerman and the Agency. The danger that I might expose their secret relocation program and their need to keep it secret. Yes, I had ample cause to feel as I did.
We sauntered past several enormous yachts, all moored stern to shore, and came to a stop in front of a cordoned-off gangplank leading up to an impressive-looking craft. I recognized the unmistakably elegant lines of a Berger Yacht. The name plate on its stern proclaimed it to be the
Incognito III,
home port, Nassau, Bahamas.
Mackenzie’s family yacht had three generous afterdecks; include the flying bridge amidships high above, and it was at least four stories high. The expansive first-level deck was accessible via six built-in steps and a passerelle. She invited me onboard, and I gladly followed her up the rubber-and-teak-clad steps to the deck. The large space was covered by a fixed awning, and discreet lighting enhanced the image of understated luxury. To starboard were several padded chairs, arranged around a teak table. Near the back edge of the deck and abutting the rear bulkhead, a half-dozen padded chaise longues were arranged around the teak deck.