Dead of Night (44 page)

I was on the starboard side, looking west. Cuba was on the horizon, not many miles away. The last of the Bahamas, too. Cay Sal Bank. Ragged Cays. Islands adrift beneath a husk of copper moon, and six star-bright planets evenly spaced among a riot of stars.

Seven planets, not six, I decided, if I counted the ship.

I did.

Isolated lights marked isolated islands, some joined by darkness, others set apart. The woman, and her islands, came to mind. Dasha had somehow found my Internet address and sent me a note that was troubling, and suggestive. But it also contained a satisfying revelation. She’d been doing some reading. She didn’t realize it took guinea worms a year to hatch, and it had only been seven months since “someone” had contaminated their water supply.

“Applebee must have had the same idea months before. He did it first. Never piss off an autistic, I guess.”

Snakes, she added, continued to be a problem. She hinted that she wouldn’t mind a break from her own isolation.

“Snakes are always a problem,” I’d replied.

True.

A sentence fragment came to mind. Words of a respected friend.

The same good man, who, on a rainy jungle night, helped me craft a precept that began: “In any conflict, the boundaries of behavior are defined by those who value morality least...”

It was something to think about until I heard: “Excuse me!”

A man’s voice startled me from the shadows of the bow. A large man with an accent. He brushed by, his shoulder touching mine, even though there was plenty of room to pass. An aggressive signal.

He took a place at the railing, also too close. Checked his watch as I checked mine.

12:14 A.M.

I moved away a few feet, conceding the space. He obviously wanted me to disappear.

The man was wearing a white tux that was as well tailored as my own. His black hair was groomed back, oiled to a sheen. He wore a diver’s watch on a heavy silver bracelet, a single ring on his pinkie finger.

In a cheery, midwestern voice, I said, “Nice night, huh? Have you tried one of them rum punches? Really
good.”

The man turned his head away. Didn’t bother to grunt.

I gave it a few seconds. “You waiting for somebody?”

He looked at me. Used his eyes to communicate contempt. Looked away.

I checked the promenade deck. Empty, both directions. Leaned to get a look at decks beneath, water flowing by seven stories below.

A few people visible, but it couldn’t be helped.

Moved a half step closer to him as I said, “Me, I’m waiting on a woman. Beautiful woman, wore a gold evening gown tonight. She told me to meet her here. But she’s late.”

Abu Sayyaf, the Islamic disciple who’d help plan a train bombing in Madrid, and who was now developing a plan to bomb school buses, turned slowly to face me. “A woman in gold? With very dark skin?”

I’d taken the gold coin from my pocket. Flipped it into the air, caught it. Flipped it again. “That’s right! How’d you know?”

Sayyaf could also use laughter to communicate contempt. He was laughing now. “You must be the jealous husband she mentioned. Were you spying on her? Of course, why else would you be here?” He waved his hand, dismissing me. “Tell your wife she had her chance but blew it.” Once again his eyes followed the coin as I flipped it into the air.

As if shocked, I said to him,
“Wife?
That’s not my wife, mister. I’d trust that woman with my life, but we’re not married—”

I flipped the coin a last time. Flipped it so that it spun high, but too far out over the water for me to reach. Sayyaf had quick hands but bad instincts. He threw both hands outboard and leaned to snag it.

I’d already dropped to one knee for maximum leverage. I locked my arms around his thighs, buried the side of my head into his short ribs, using neck muscles to turn his back to the sea. Battled briefly for hand control, as Sayyaf hyperventilated, slowed by the shock of what was happening. Remained stiff, almost resigned, as I squat-lifted his weight off the deck and vaulted him over the railing. Only then did he become animated, hands clawing at darkness to impede his fall, his body shrinking as he descended toward black water, falling at the same speed as the golden coin—a voodoo charm the lady had handed me for luck.

I stood, waited for a moment, then walked calmly to the ship’s port side, sensitive to reverse thrust of engines, or security alarms, comforted by the knowledge that a black ops helicopter was shadowing us in case I, too, had to vanish into the safety of midnight water.

Nothing.

I straightened my white tuxedo jacket, looked at my watch—12:33 A.M.—then headed downstairs toward the champagne bar to meet my much-trusted cabinmate for a drink. Ransom Gatrell, an island woman who was gorgeous in gold, said that she’d be expecting me....

CAPTIVA

Government agent-turned-marine-biologist Doc Ford is in dangerous new waters, as a Florida fishing dispute escalates into a deadly war that reaches across the ocean.

 

 

Doc Ford’s friend is being held in Havana by the Cuban government. Ford ventures to Cuba—where he finds himself entangled in a web of murder, revenge, and assassination.

 

 

Doc Ford cannot resist a plea for help from an old war buddy’s beautiful daughter—her mother has disappeared in South America, and she wants Doc to track her down.

 

 

Government agent-turned-marine-biologist Doc Ford returns in a steamy tale that begins with the suspicious suicide of a fifteen-year-old girl—and ends in a shadowy world of ancient ritual and modern corruption.