The black thunderheads and driving rain had long since cleared the tourists from Seven Mile Beach when the McDeeres, soaked and tired, arrived at the luxury condominium duplex. Mitch backed the rented Mitsubishi jeep over the curb, across the small lawn and up to the front door. Unit B. His first visit had been to Unit A. They appeared to be identical, except for the paint and trim. The key fit, and they grabbed and threw luggage as the clouds burst and the rain grew thicker.
Once inside and dry, they unpacked in the master bedroom upstairs with a long balcony facing the wet beach. Cautious with their words, they inspected the town house and checked out each room and closet. The refrigerator was empty, but the bar was very well stocked. Mitch mixed two drinks, rum and Coke, in honor of the islands. They sat on the balcony with their feet in the rain and watched the ocean churn and spill toward the shore. Rumheads was quiet and barely visible in the distance. Two natives sat at the bar, drinking and watching the sea.
"That's Rumheads over there," Mitch said, pointing with his drink.
"Rumheads?"
"I told you about it. It's a hot spot where tourists drink and the locals play dominoes."
"I see." Abby was unimpressed. She yawned and sank lower into the plastic chair. She closed her eyes.
"Oh, this is great, Abby. Our first trip out of the country, our first real honeymoon, and you're asleep ten minutes after we hit land."
"I'm tired, Mitch. I packed all night while you were sleeping."
"You packed eight suitcases - six for you and two for me. You packed every garment we own. No wonder you were awake all night."
"I don't want to run out of clothes."
"Run out? How many bikinis did you pack? Ten? Twelve?"
"Six."
"Great. One a day. Why don't you put one on?"
"What?"
"You heard me. Go put on that little blue one with high legs and a couple of strings around front, the one that weighs half a gram and cost sixty bucks and your buns hang out when you walk. I wanna see it."
"Mitch, it's raining. You've brought me here to this island during the monsoon season. Look at those clouds. Dark and thick and extremely stationary. I won't need any bikinis this week."
Mitch smiled and began rubbing her legs. "I rather like the rain. In fact, I hope it rains all week. It'll keep us inside, in the bed, sipping rum and trying to hurt each other."
"I'm shocked. You mean you actually want sex? We've already done it once this month."
"Twice."
"I thought you wanted to snorkel and scuba-dive all week."
"Nope. There's probably a shark out there waiting for me."
The winds blew harder and the balcony was being drenched. "Let's go take off our clothes," Mitch said.
After an hour, the storm began to move. The rain slackened, then turned to a soft drizzle, then it was gone. The sky lightened as the dark, low clouds left the tiny island and headed northeast, toward Cuba. Shortly before its scheduled departure over the horizon, the sun suddenly emerged for a brief encore. It emptied the beach cottages and town homes and condos and hotel rooms as the tourists strolled through the sand toward the water. Rumheads was suddenly packed with dart throwers and thirsty beachcombers. The domino game picked up where it had left off. The reggae band next door at the Palms tuned up.
Mitch and Abby walked aimlessly along the edge of the water in the general direction of Georgetown, away from the spot where the girl had been. He thought of her occasionally, and of the photographs. He had decided she was a pro and had been paid by DeVasher to seduce and conquer him in front of the hidden cameras. He did not expect to see her this time.
As if on cue, the music stopped, the beach strollers froze and watched, the noise at Rumheads quietened as all eyes turned to watch the sun meet the water. Gray and white clouds, the trailing remnants of the storm, lay low on the horizon and sank with the sun. Slowly they turned shades of orange and yellow and red, pale shades at first, then, suddenly, brilliant tones. For a few brief moments, the sky was a canvas and the sun splashed its awesome array of colors with bold strokes. Then the bright orange ball touched the water and within seconds was gone. The clouds became black and dissipated. A Cayman sunset.
With great fear and caution, Abby slowly maneuvered the jeep through the early-morning traffic in the shopping district. She was from Kentucky. She had never driven on the left side of the road for any substantial period of time. Mitch gave directions and watched the rearview mirror. The narrow streets and sidewalks were already crowded with tourists window-shopping for duty-free china, crystal, perfume, cameras and jewelry.
Mitch pointed to a hidden side street, and the jeep darted between two groups of tourists. He kissed her on the cheek. "I'll meet you right here at five."
"Be careful," she said. "I'll go to the bank, then stay on the beach near the condo."
He slammed the door and disappeared between two small shops. The alley led to a wider street that led to Hogsty Bay. He ducked into a crowded T-shirt store filled with racks and rows of tourist shirts and straw hats and sunglasses. He selected a gaudy green-and-orange flowered shirt and a Panama hat. Two minutes later he darted from the store into the back seat of a passing taxi. "Airport," he said. "And make it quick. Watch your tail. Someone may be following."
The driver made no response, just eased past the bank buildings and out of town. Ten minutes later he stopped in front of the terminal.
"Anybody follow us?" Mitch asked, pulling money from his pocket.
"No, mon. Four dollars and ten cents."
Mitch threw a five over the seat and walked quickly into the terminal. The Cayman Airways flight to Cayman Brae would leave at nine. At a gift shop Mitch bought a cup of coffee and hid between two rows of shelves filled with souvenirs. He watched the waiting area and saw no one. Of course, he had no idea what they looked like, but he saw no one sniffing around and searching for lost people. Perhaps they were following the jeep or combing the shopping district looking for him. Perhaps.
For seventy-five Cayman dollars he had reserved the last seat on the ten-passenger, three-engine Trislandef. Abby had made the reservation by pay phone the night they arrived. At the last possible second, he jogged from the terminal onto the tarmac and climbed on board. The pilot slammed and locked the doors, and they taxied down the runway. No other planes were visible. A small hangar sat to the right.
The ten tourists admired the brilliant blue sea and said little during the twenty-minute flight. As they approached Cayman Brae, the pilot became the tour guide and made a wide circle around the small island. He pajd special attention to the tall bluffs that fell into the sea on the east end. Without the bluffs, he said, the island would be as flat as Grand Cayman. He landed the plane softly on a narrow asphalt strip.
Next to the small white frame building with the word AIRPORT painted on all sides, a clean-cut Caucasian waited and watched the passengers quickly disembark. He was Rick Acklin, Special Agent, and sweat dripped from his nose and glued his shirt to his back. He stepped slightly forward. "Mitch," he said almost to himself.
Mitch hesitated and then walked over.
"Car's out front," Acklin said.
"Where's Tarrance?" Mitch looked around.
"He's waiting."
"Does the car have air conditioning?"
"Afraid not. Sorry."
The car was minus air, power anything and signal lights. It was a 1974 Ltd., and Acklin explained as they followed the dusty road that there simply was not much of a selection of rental cars on Cayman Brae. And the reason the U.S. government had rented the car was because he and Tarrance had been unable to find a taxi. They were lucky to find a room, on such late notice.
The small neat homes were closer together, and sea appeared. They parked in the sand parking lot of an establishment called Brae Divers. An aging pier jutted into the water and anchored a hundred boats of all sizes. To the west along the beach a dozen thatched-roof cabins sat two feet above the sand and housed divers who came from around the world. Next to the pier was an open-air bar, nameless, but complete with a domino game and a dartboard. Oak-and-brass fans hung from the ceiling through the rafters and rotated slowly and silently, cooling the domino players and the bartender.
Wayne Tarrance sat at a table by himself drinking a Coke and watching a dive crew load a thousand identical yellow tanks from the pier onto a boat. Even for a tourist, his dress was hysterical. Dark sunglasses with yellow frames, brown straw sandals, obviously brand-new, with black socks, a tight Hawaiian luau shirt with twenty loud colors and a pair of gold gym shorts that were very old and very short and covered little of the shiny, sickly-white legs under the table. He waved his Coke at the two empty chairs.
"Nice shirt, Tarrance," Mitch said in undisguised amusement.
"Thanks. You gotta real winner yourself."
"Nice tan too."
"Yeah, yeah. Gotta look the part, you know."
The waiter hovered nearby and waited for them to speak. Acklin ordered a Coke. Mitch said he wanted a Coke with a splash of rum in it. All three became engrossed with the dive boat and the divers loading their bulky gear.
"What happened in Holly Springs?" Mitch finally asked.
"Sorry, we couldn't help it. They followed you out of Memphis and had two cars waiting in Holly Springs. We couldn't get near you."
"Did you and your wife discuss the trip before you left?" asked Acklin.
"I think so. We probably mentioned it around the house a couple of times."
Acklin seemed satisfied. "They were certainly ready for you. A green Skylark followed you for about twenty miles, then got lost. We called it off then."
Tarrance sipped his Coke and said, "Late Saturday night the Lear left Memphis and flew nonstop to Grand Cayman. We think two or three of the goons were on board. The plane left early Sunday morning and returned to Memphis."
"So they're here and they're following us?"
"Of course. They probably had one or two people on the plane with you and Abby. Might have been men, women or both. Could've been a black dude or an oriental woman. Who knows? Remember, Mitch, they have plenty of money. There are two that we recognize. One was in Washington when you were there. A blond fellow, about forty, six-one, maybe six-two, with real short hair, almost a crew cut, and real strong, Nordic-looking features. He moves quickly. We saw him yesterday driving a red Escort he got from Coconut Car Rentals on the island."
"I think I've seen him," Mitch said.
"Where?" asked Acklin.
"In a bar in the Memphis airport the night I returned from Washington. I caught him watching me, and I thought at the time that I had seen him in Washington."
"That's him. He's here."
"Who's the other one?"
"Tony Verkler, or Two-Ton Tony as we call him. He's a con with an impressive record of convictions, most of it in Chicago. He's worked for Morolto for years. Weighs about three hundred pounds and does a great job of watching people because no one would ever suspect him."
"He was at Rumheads last night," Acklin added.
"Last night? We were there last night."
With great ceremony, the dive boat pushed from the pier and headed for open water. Beyond the pier, fishermen in their small catboats pulled their nets and sailors navigated their brightly colored catamarans away from land. After a gentle and dreamy start, the island was awake now. Half the boats tied to the pier had left or were in the process of leaving.
"So when did you boys get in town?" Mitch asked, sipping his drink, which was more rum than Coke.
"Sunday night," Tarrance answered while watching the dive boat slowly disappear.
"Just out of curiosity, how many men do you have on the islands?"
"Four men, two women," said Tarrance. Acklin became mute and deferred all conversation to his supervisor.
"And why exactly are you here?" Mitch asked.
"Oh, several reasons. Number one, we wanted to talk to you and nail down our little deal. Director Voyles is terribly anxious about reaching an agreement you can live with. Number two, we want to watch them to determine how many goons are here. We'll spend the week trying to identify these people. The island is small, and it's a good place to observe."
"And number three, you wanted to work on your sun-tan?"
Acklin managed a slight giggle. Tarrance smiled and then frowned. "No, not exactly. We're here for your protection."
"My protection?"
"Yes. The last time I sat at this very table I was talking to Joe Hodge and Marty Kozinski. About nine months ago. The day before they were killed, to be exact."
"And you think I'm about to be killed?"
"No. Not yet."
Mitch motioned at the bartender for another drink. The domino game grew heated, and he watched the natives argue and drink beer.
"Look, boys, as we speak the goons, as you call them, are probably following my wife all over Grand Cayman. I'll be sort of nervous until I get back. Now, what about the deal?"
Tarrance left the sea and the dive boat and stared at Mitch. "Two million's fine, and - "
"Of course it's fine, Tarrance. We agreed on it, did we not?"
"Relax, Mitch. We'll pay a million when you turn over all of your files. At that point, there's no turning back, as they say. You're in up to your neck."
"Tarrance, I understand that. It was my suggestion, remember?"
"But that's the easy part. We really don't want your files, because they're clean files. Good files. Legitimate files. We want the bad files, Mitch, the ones with indictments written all over them. And these files will be much harder to come by. But when you do so, we'll pay another half million. And the rest after the last trial."
"And my brother?"
"We'll try."
"Not good enough, Tarrance. I want a commitment."
"We can't promise to deliver your brother. Hell, he's got at least seven more years."
"But he's my brother, Tarrance. I don't care if he's a serial murderer sitting on death row waiting for his last meal. He's my brother, and if you want me, you have to release him."
"I said we'll try, but we can't commit. There's no legal, formal, legitimate way to get him out, so we must try other means. What if he gets shot during the escape?"
"Just get him out, Tarrance."
"We'll try."
"You'll throw the power and resources of the FBI in assisting my brother in escaping from prison, right, Tarrance?"
"You have my word."
Mitch sat back in his chair and took a long sip of his drink. Now the deal was final. He breathed easier and smiled in the direction of the magnificent Caribbean.
"So when do we get your files?" Tarrance asked.
"Thought you didn't want them. They're too clean, remember?"
"We want the files, Mitch, because when we get the files, then we've got you. You've proved yourself when you hand us your files, your license to practice law, so to speak."
"Ten to fifteen days."
"How many files?"
"Between forty and fifty. The small ones are an inch thick. The big ones wouldn't fit on this table. I can't use the copiers around the office, so we've had to make other arrangements."
"Perhaps we could assist in the copying," said Acklin.
"Perhaps not. Perhaps if I need your help, perhaps I'll ask for it."
"How do you propose to get them to us?" Tarrance asked. Acklin withdrew again.
"Very simple, Wayne. When I've copied them all, and once I get the million where I want it, then I'll hand you a key to a certain little room in the Memphis area, and you can get them in your pickup."
"I told you we'd deposit the money in a Swiss bank account," Tarrance said.
"And now I don't want it in a Swiss bank account, okay? I'll dictate the terms of the transfer, and it'll be done exactly as I say. It's my neck on the line from now on, boys, so I call the shots. Most of them, anyway."
Tarrance smiled and grunted and stared at the pier. "So you don't trust the Swiss?"
"Let's just say I have another bank in mind. I work for money launderers, remember, Wayne, so I've become an expert on hiding money in offshore accounts."
"We'll see."
"When do I see this notebook on the Moroltos?"
"After we get your files and pay our first installment. We'll brief you as much as we can, but for the most part you're on your own. You and I will need to meet a lot, and of course that'll be rather dangerous. May have to take a few bus rides."
"Okay, but the next time I get the aisle seat."
"Sure, sure. Anybody worth two million can surely pick his seat on a Greyhound."
"I'll never live to enjoy it, Wayne. You know I won't."
Three miles out of Georgetown, on the narrow and winding road to Bodden Town, Mitch saw him. The man was squatting behind an old Volkswagen Beetle with the hood up as if engine trouble had stopped him. The man was dressed like a native, without tourist clothes. He could easily pass for one of the Brits who worked for the government or the banks. He was well tanned. The man held a wrench of some sort and appeared to study it and watch the Mitsubishi jeep as it roared by on the left-hand side of the road. The man was the Nordic. He was supposed to have gone unnoticed.
Mitch instinctively slowed to thirty miles per hour, to wait for him. Abby turned and watched the road. The narrow highway to Bodden Town clung to the shoreline for five miles, then forked, and the ocean disappeared. Within minutes the Nordic's green VW came racing around a slight bend. The McDeere jeep was much closer than the Nordic anticipated. Being seen, he abruptly slowed, then turned into the first white-rock driveway on the ocean side.
Mitch gunned the jeep and sped to Bodden Town. West of the small settlement he turned south and less than a mile later found the ocean.
It was 10 A.M. and the parking lot of Abanks Dive Lodge was half full. The two morning dive boats had left thirty minutes earlier. The McDeeres walked quickly to the bar, where Henry was already shuffling beer and cigarettes to the domino players.
Barry Abanks leaned on a post supporting the thatched roof of the bar and watched as his two dive boats disappeared around the corner of the island. Each would make two dives, at places like Bonnie's Arch, Devil's Grotto, Eden Rock and Roger's Wreck Point, places he had dived and toured and guided through a thousand times. Some of the places he had discovered himself.
The McDeeres approached, and Mitch quietly introduced his wife to Mr. Abanks, who was not polite but not rude. They started for the small pier, where a deckhand was preparing a thirty-foot fishing boat; Abanks unloaded an indecipherable string of commands in the general direction of the young deckhand, who was either deaf or unafraid of his boss.
Mitch stood next to Abanks, the captain now, and pointed to the bar fifty yards away down the pier. "Do you know all those people at the bar?" he asked.
Abanks frowned at Mitch.
"They tried to follow me here. Just curious," Mitch said. "The usual gang," Abanks said. "No strangers."
"Have you noticed any strangers around this morning?"
"Look, this place attracts strange people. I keep no ledger of the strange ones and the normal ones."
"Have you seen a fat American, red hair, at least three hundred pounds?"
Abanks shook his head. The deckhand eased the boat, uckward, away from the pier, then toward the horizon. Abby sat on a small padded bench and watched the dive lodge disappear. In a vinyl bag between her feet were two new sets of snorkeling fins and dive masks. It was ostensibly a snorkeling trip with maybe a little light fishing if they were biting. The great man himself had agreed to accompany them, but only after Mitch insisted and told him they needed to discuss personal matters. Private matters, regarding the death of his son.
From a screened balcony on the second floor of a Cayman Kai beach house, the Nordic watched the two snorkeled heads bob and disappear around the fishing boat. He handed the binoculars to Two-Ton Tony Verkler, who, quickly bored, handed them back. A striking blonde in a black one-piece with legs cut high, almost to the rib cage, stood behind the Nordic and took the binoculars. Of particular interest was the deckhand.
Tony spoke. "I don't understand. If they were talking serious, why the boy? Why have another set of ears around?"
"Perhaps they're talking about snorkeling and fishing," said the Nordic.
"I don't know," said the blonde. "It's unusual for Abanks to spend time on a fishing boat. He likes the divers. There must be a good reason for him to waste a day with two novice snorkelers. Something's up."
"Who's the boy?" asked Tony.
"Just one of the gofers," she said. "He's got a dozen."
"Can you talk to him later?" asked the Nordic.
"Yeah," said Tony. "Show him some skin, snort some candy. He'll talk."
"I'll try," she said.
"What's his name?" asked the Nordic.
"Keith Rook."
Keith Rook maneuvered the boat alongside the pier at Rum Point. Mitch, Abby and Abanks climbed from the boat and headed for the beach. Keith was not invited to lunch. He stayed behind and lazily washed the deck.
The Shipwreck Bar sat inland a hundred yards under a heavy cover of rare shade trees. It was dark and damp with screened windows and squeaky ceiling fans. There was no reggae, dominoes, or dartboard. The noon crowd was quiet with each table engrossed in its own private talk.
The view from their table was out to sea, to the north. They ordered cheeseburgers and beer-island food.
"This bar is different," Mitch observed quietly.
"Very much so," said Abanks. "And with good reason. It's a hangout for drug dealers who own many of the nice homes and condos around here. They fly in on their private jets, deposit their money in our many fine banks and spend a few days around here checking their real estate."
"Nice neighborhood."
"Very nice, really. They have millions and they keep to themselves."
The waitress, a husky, well-mixed mulatto, dropped three bottles of Jamaican Red Stripe on the table without saying a word. Abanks leaned forward on his elbows with his head lowered, the customary manner of speaking in the Shipwreck Bar. "So you think you can walk away?" he said.
Mitch and Abby leaned forward in unison, and all three heads met low in the center of the table, just over the beer. "Not walk, but run. Run like hell, but I'll get away. And I'll need your help."
He thought about this for a moment and raised his head. He shrugged. "But what am I to do?" He took the first sip of his Red Stripe.
Abby saw her first, and it would take a woman to spot another woman straining ever so elegantly to eavesdrop on their little conversation. Her back was to Abanks. She was a solid blonde partially hidden under cheap black rubber sunglasses that covered most of her face, and she had been watching the ocean and listening a bit too hard. When the three of them leaned over, she sat up straight and listened like hell. She was by herself at a table for two.
Abby dug her fingernails into her husband's leg, and their table became quiet. The blonde in black listened, then turned to her table and her drink.
Wayne Tarrance had improved his wardrobe by Friday of Cayman Week. Gone were the straw sandals and tight shorts and teenybop sunglasses. Gone were the sickly-pale legs. Now they were bright pink, burned beyond recognition. After three days in the tropical outback known as Cayman Brae, he and Acklin, acting on behalf of the U.S. government, had pounced on a rather cheap room on Grand Cayman, miles from Seven Mile Beach and not within walking distance of any remote portion of the sea. Here they had established a command post to monitor the comings and goings of the McDeeres and other interested people. Here, at the Coconut Motel, they had shared a small room with two single beds and cold showers. Wednesday morning, they had contacted the subject, McDeere, and requested a meeting as soon as possible. He said no. Said he was too busy. Said he and his wife were honeymooning and had no time for such a meeting. Maybe later, was all he said.
Then late Thursday, while Mitch and Abby were enjoying grilled grouper at the Lighthouse on the road to Bodden Town, Laney, Agent Laney, dressed in appropriate island garb and looking very much like an island Negro, stopped at their table and laid down the law. Tarrance insisted on a meeting.
Chickens had to be imported into the Cayman Islands, and not the best ones. Only medium-grade chickens, to be consumed not by native islanders but by Americans away from home without this most basic staple. Colonel Sanders had the damnedest time teaching the island girls, though black or close to it, how to fry chicken. It was foreign to them.
And so it was that Special Agent Wayne Tarrance, of the Bronx, arranged a quick secret meeting at the Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise on the island of Grand Cayman. The only such franchise. He thought the place would be deserted. He was wrong.
A hundred hungry tourists from Georgia, Alabama, Texas and Mississippi packed the place and devoured extra-crispy with cole slaw and creamed potatoes. It tasted better in Tupelo, but it would do.
Tarrance and Acklin sat in a booth in the crowded restaurant and nervously watched the front door. It was not too late to abort. There were just too many people. Finally, Mitch entered, by himself, and stood in the long line. He brought his little red box to their table and sat down. He did not say hello or anything. He began eating the three-piece dinner for which he paid $4.89, Cayman dollars. Imported chicken.
"Where have you been?" Tarrance asked.
Mitch attacked a thigh. "On the island. It's stupid to meet here, Tarrance. Too many people."
"We know what we're doing."
"Yeah, like the Korean shoe store."
"Cute. Why wouldn't you see us Wednesday?"
"I was busy Wednesday. I didn't want to see you Wednesday. Am I clean?"
"Of course you're clean. Laney would've tackled you at the front door if you weren't clean."
"This place makes me nervous, Tarrance."
"Why did you go to Abanks?"
Mitch wiped his mouth and held the partially devoured thigh. A rather small thigh. "He's got a boat. I wanted to fish and snorkel, so we cut a deal. Where were you, Tarrance? In a submarine trailing us around the island?"
"What did Abanks say?"
"Oh, he knows lots of words. Hello. Give me a beer. Who's following us? Buncha words."
"They followed you, you know?"
"They! Which they? Your they or their they? I'm being followed so much I'm causing traffic jams."
"The bad guys, Mitch. Those from Memphis and Chicago and New York. The ones who'll kill you tomorrow if you get real cute."
"I'm touched. So they followed me. Where'd I take them? Snorkeling? Fishing? Come on, Tarrance. They follow me, you follow them, you follow me, they follow you. If I slam on brakes I get twenty noses up my ass. Why are we meeting here, Tarrance? This place is packed."
Tarrance glanced around in frustration.
Mitch closed his chicken box. "Look, Tarrance, I'm nervous and I've lost my appetite."
"Relax. You were clean coming from the condo."
"I'm always clean, Tarrance. I suppose Hodge and Kozinski were clean every time they moved. Clean at Abanks. Clean on the dive boat. Clean at the funerals. This was not a good idea, Tarrance. I'm leaving."
"Okay. When does your plane leave?"
"Why? You guys plan to follow? Will you follow me or them? What if they follow you? What if we all get real confused and I follow everybody?"
"Come on, Mitch."
"Nine-forty in the morning. I'll try to save you a seat. You can have the window next to Two-Ton Tony."
"When do we get your files?"
Mitch stood with his chicken box. "In a week or so. Give me ten days, and, Tarrance, no more meetings in public. They kill lawyers, remember, not stupid FBI agents."