Coincidence Part 11

Finally! Someone was going to help her-Detective Newton, he'd said he was, of the drug squad.

Fifteen minutes later, two men appeared at the BWA office: Detective Ralph Newton along with Sergeant Jim Oliver of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Montreal had no jurisdiction in a case like this, so Sergeant Oliver would be taking the lead. Kathleen recited the facts as she knew them one more time. The sergeant interrupted now and then to ask a question.

"All right, "he said. "First thing to do is call your bosun back-Mr. MacDonald, is it?"

"Ross MacDonald, yes, but n.o.body ever calls him anything but Mac."

"Get Mac on the line."

Kathleen placed the call, then handed him the phone.

Mac gave him the full story as well as their current coordinates.

"Have you any idea of where the Coincidence Coincidence came from?" Sergeant Oliver asked. came from?" Sergeant Oliver asked.

"Aye, the navigational charts are plotted from Costa Rica-Puntarenas. From there they went to Buenaventura, Colombia. They were headed for Easter Island, same as us. And Coincidence Coincidence is not the boat's real name, either. It's an alias. The original name was the is not the boat's real name, either. It's an alias. The original name was the Two Wise. Two Wise."

As soon as he said the name, he realized it sounded like "Two Eyes" so he spelled it out.

Mac had made good use of the time he'd spent waiting for Kathleen to call back that morning. He was able to give the sergeant a full description of the boat-a Real s.h.i.+p 65-including the details of the sloppy paint-and-vinyl camouflage, and then he read off the serial number from the registration plate.

"Well done," Sergeant Oliver said. "It's a lucky break for everyone that you're on that boat. But you've no way now of contacting anyone onboard the Inspiration Inspiration?"

No way at all, Mac told him. He'd come across a set of walkietalkies aboard the Coincidence Coincidence, but he hadn't figured out how to get one of the pair over to the other boat.

"Right. Don't do anything that might jeopardize your cover," the Sergeant said.

They asked Mac to call every four hours if possible.

The next step was to try to track down the owner of the stolen boat. Kathleen set up the sergeant and Detective Newton in the s.p.a.cious side office the Blue Water staff used for meetings and curriculum planning. That would be their center of operations for the time being. It had a large desk to spread out on as well as a computer with a high-speed Internet connection. Kathleen made a fresh pot of coffee for them and went back to her own office to compose a message to leave for Edward Flynn at his hotel in Johannesburg.

Sergeant Oliver gave Detective Newton the task of going on the Internet to try to locate Real s.h.i.+ps, Inc., to determine where and to whom the vessel they knew as the Coincidence Coincidence had been sold. The sergeant meanwhile would consult his superiors at RCMP headquarters. had been sold. The sergeant meanwhile would consult his superiors at RCMP headquarters.

Within two minutes, Newton had come up with the Web site for the sales office of s.h.i.+ps International in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He dialed the number listed on the site, and was quickly connected to the sales manager, a Mr. Sam Greason.

"I have information on every Real s.h.i.+p ever manufactured," Mr. Greason said. "The Coincidence Coincidence, you say? Odd, I don't recognize that name. But if you've got the serial number I can tell you anything you need to know."

Newton gave him the number and resigned himself to listening to cloying on-hold music for a minute or two. He held the phone to his ear with his left shoulder while he stirred sugar into his coffee. One packet, two packets, three. Some cream-pah, nothing but skim milk here.

"Detective?"

Greason was back on the line, a different tone to his voice now. He was practically barking in Newton's ear.

"May I ask why you are inquiring about this boat?"

"We are investigating a, uh-an incident taking place in the middle of the Pacific Ocean at this time; we have reason to believe the Coincidence Coincidence is involved. What can you tell me about it?" is involved. What can you tell me about it?"

"It was reported stolen about three weeks ago. Vanished without a trace. It was docked in Puntarenas, down in Costa Rica. The cleaning staff did a routine maintenance on it one day, and next day it was gone. The local authorities investigated but came up empty. Whoever stole it must have changed the name, too. The real name of that vessel is the Two Wise. Two Wise."

It sounded just like "Two Eyes," but Sergeant Oliver already knew the correct spelling.

Rob Montgomery could hardly believe his ears. What were the chances, after all, that out of a clear blue October sky a guy he'd worked with over a year ago-a Canadian Mountie, at that-would call him up and hand him the missing piece of the puzzle that was his current case? Yet here on the phone was Sergeant Jim Oliver, the same stalwart, methodical Jim who had been so helpful last year in cracking a vast international drug-smuggling scheme based in Jamaica.

Rob, a fifteen-year veteran of the Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. office of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency, had been afraid he'd reached a dead end on this one. He shook his head in disbelief as he listened to Jim's account of a "possible drug heist" in Colombia-an account that dovetailed perfectly with the apparently unsolvable heist that his contacts in Cali had enlisted his help on. Everything fit: the timing, the location, the twenty bales of c.o.ke. And now, Jim was saying, he knew the location of the cocaine, and, even better, that of the guys who had stolen it.

"If this bosun fellow on the stolen s.h.i.+p is right that the bales are fifty pounds apiece, we're talking about a street value of more than a hundred million dollars-U.S.," Jim said. "Quite a haul, eh?"

Quite a haul, indeed, and quite a dangerous situation for those hostages. A floating schoolhouse, Jim had said; could there be any worse scenario? And seven of the students were American. Rob took off his gla.s.ses and shut his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It would take everything he had to avert disaster with this one.

Half a minute later, the gla.s.ses were back in place and he was all business again.

Jim Oliver was equally amazed that Rob knew the other half of his his story, the part he knew nothing about. He'd figured that Rob, with his DEA contacts worldwide, would be a good ally; that's why he'd called him, but he sure hadn't expected this. Rob described the h.e.l.l that had broken out the week before when the guards transporting the cocaine had not reported in on schedule. story, the part he knew nothing about. He'd figured that Rob, with his DEA contacts worldwide, would be a good ally; that's why he'd called him, but he sure hadn't expected this. Rob described the h.e.l.l that had broken out the week before when the guards transporting the cocaine had not reported in on schedule.

"Caused a huge ruckus in Cali, as you can imagine," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if a couple of heads are gonna roll on account of it. But the strangest thing was that there was no trace of the trucks or the guards either; it's like they just evaporated. Our best guess here is that the guards themselves staged the heist, but how they disposed of the trucks if they made their getaway on your stolen boat, I don't know. How many hijackers are there, anyway?"

Six, Jim told him, one with a gunshot wound to the leg.

Rob nodded. There had been six guards. That would explain their disappearance, all right, but what the devil had they done with the three trucks?

And if all six had been working together, how the devil had one of them ended up with a bullet hole in his leg?

24.

Dave Cameron stood on deck with his lesson planner in his hand. Leafing through page after page devoted to the history and ecology of Easter Island-Rapa Nui, in the native language-he stopped suddenly and stared intently at page forty-two, a detailed account of the Moai, the famed giant statues, some with long ears, some with short, erected so mysteriously centuries ago by the primitive inhabitants of the island.

Although anyone looking at him would have a.s.sumed he was thoroughly engrossed in his studies, he was in fact keeping one eye on the transom of the Coincidence Coincidence, hoping to get a sign from Mac that he was all right. Dave had noticed immediately that the miniblinds on the towed boat had been shut, which Mac surely would have done, but had seen no sign of the bosun. Which of course was what was supposed to happen. The fewer signs of life over there, the better. And yet Dave couldn't shake the feeling that something could be disastrously wrong.

Suppose the hijackers were not being entirely honest with them? Why would anyone expect expect hijackers to be honest? Suppose there were not six hijackers, but seven, and one had stayed behind on the hijackers to be honest? Suppose there were not six hijackers, but seven, and one had stayed behind on the Coincidence Coincidence to guard the cocaine and to thwart any attempt at funny business by the to guard the cocaine and to thwart any attempt at funny business by the Inspiration Inspiration crew? And, supposing that were the case, would Mac be more useful to them dead or alive? crew? And, supposing that were the case, would Mac be more useful to them dead or alive?

Dave turned to the next page of his planning book, the one that dealt with Easter Island as an exemplar of ecological disaster, with strong and frightening parallels to the Western world's current dependence on unsustainable fossil fuels. It was one of the lessons he'd been most keen on conveying to his students, a message he had fervently hoped the kids would, in turn, take back to their own communities.

Now, however, he hoped only that they would be returning to those communities at all.

He looked up as he turned another page. Was he imagining it, or had he glimpsed a rapid motion of the miniblinds out of the corner of his eye? He couldn't be sure; probably wishful thinking. Still, he kept his head raised and a distracted expression on his face as he tapped his pen against his book, jotting an occasional incomprehensible squiggle on the page as if for his lecture notes.

There it was again; he was positive this time. A minuscule adjustment to the blinds, a fraction of an inch more open, then quick shut again. And again.

Dave glanced around. He yawned and stretched, and then, seeing no one else nearby, gave a quick thumbs up to Mac.

At least he hoped it was Mac.

Relief surged through his body when he saw a forward hatch open slightly a moment later and a familiar gray-bearded face appear, flas.h.i.+ng him a broad grin. Mac returned the thumbs-up gesture. Using hand signals, the two were able to rea.s.sure each other that all was under control for the moment, and agreed to try to "talk" again in about three hours.

It took Anika only a moment to understand that Dave's sudden desire to play pinochle with her and the captain meant he had news to impart.

They sat at a table in the mess, dealing cards and having as much of a conversation as they could with Floaties wandering in and out. They had decided that, despite the interruptions, the mess would be a better venue for their conference than retreating to a cabin and looking as if they had something to hide.

"If only there were some way of getting somebody else onto the Coincidence Coincidence," Anika said. "We've got to coordinate with Mac, find out if he's been able to reach anyone who can help us."

Captain Marzynski set down his meld-a solid two hundred points-and murmured, "I can think of a way it might be done, but it's risky."

He scooped his meld cards back into his hand and led with the nine of diamonds as he outlined his idea. The towline was good and taut, he explained; if they could somehow rig someone up with a harness and carabiner, the towline could act as a zip line, allowing the person to slide down to the other boat.

"And if we tie a second line onto him," the captain went on, "we can reel him back again after he's talked with Mac."

It was a brilliant scheme. Dave and Anika were bursting with questions. They were forced to put them on hold, however, and spend the next hour and a half teaching the rudiments of the game of pinochle to a group of Floaties badly in need of a distraction. Then it was time for lunch.

When they had finished eating, Dave and Anika went out to stroll the deck.

Phillip was on deck, too, smoking a cigarette. Dave detected an change in the man's expression as they walked past him. Had he overheard something they had said? Dave didn't see how that was possible. He couldn't remember seeing Phillip at all that morning. More likely the guy was just wary; two or three people together might be plotting something.

Dave put his arm around Anika's shoulder and pulled her close to him, nuzzling the top of her head with his chin. There, he thought. That will give us a plausible reason to be together all the time without arousing suspicion.

Phillip flung his cigarette, half smoked, into the ocean and looked away from the couple.

The captain fell into step with them as they made their third lap around the deck. Dave steered them toward the starboard railing, away from Phillip. It was now nearly three hours since he had seen Mac.

How, he asked, could they get someone across the towline without the hijackers knowing? And who would that person be?

Anika had the answer to his second question immediately.

"Pierre Rouleau," she said, surprising Dave, who had rather a.s.sumed that he himself would be the one. But Anika was right. Pierre was a crackerjack rock climber; he had received topnotch training at Caneff. He was by far the best candidate for the task. But was it fair to ask him? How could they ask one of the students under their supervision to put his life in danger?

"His life is in danger in any case," the captain reminded him, "as is the life of every student, every person, aboard this s.h.i.+p. Pierre is the best chance we have of getting any of us out of this alive."

All that remained was to figure out how to divert the hijackers' attention while Pierre, a.s.suming he was willing, transferred to the other boat. Once again, Anika had an answer.

"We could hold a coffee night," she said. "We can tell Phillip that the kids need something to take their minds off what's happening. Heaven knows that's true. We'll invite the men to come and watch-and we'll give Phillip the choice of where we stage it, in the mess or on the bow, so he won't think we're trying to pull anything over on them."

A "coffee night" on a BWA boat was much more than just coffee. It included entertainment, usually devised by the students themselves, a sort of talent show. Dave had some reservations about how likely it was that their unwelcome visitors would want to attend a school talent night, but he had no alternative to offer. And as Anika pointed out, the "bad guys" were feeling the effects of stress, too. They had never planned to hijack a boatload of innocent kids, after all; that had been an unintended consequence of other actions. They were probably dreading what they would have to do in the end. They might welcome a distraction, too.

They knew the kids, once persuaded that the coffee night would be a good way to get through a harrowing time, would throw themselves into it. There would be much to-ing and fro-ing, giggling and rehearsing, improvised costuming, and all-in-fun subterfuge. It would be easy for Pierre, with Dave as his accomplice, to get lost in the hubbub for a while.

It was settled, then. Captain Marzynski, deciding it would be wise to fill the doctor in on the plan, while keeping everyone else aboard in the dark, strode off to the first-aid room. Dave hurried to the stern to try to get some sort of message across to Mac. It was Anika's job to mobilize the students for the evening's activity.

But first she'd have to clear it with Phillip.

25.

After too many days of no-progress reports, Rob was eager to hear his supervisor's reaction to what he was about to tell her.

After his conversation with Jim Oliver, Rob had immediately called his colleagues with the DEA in Cali. He had asked them to resume their moribund investigation, concentrating this time on searching every stretch of beach for traces of a stolen sixty-foot Real s.h.i.+p that had put out to sea somewhere along the coast near Buenaventura, with the missing cocaine and hijackers...o...b..ard.

Agents Ramirez and Peraza had duly set out again, driving north along the route from Buenaventura. They were pessimistic at first about discovering anything new, but became excited when they turned down the lane leading to the cove and spotted tire tracks.

They had found evidence of a great deal of activity, Rob was telling Elizabeth by phone. At least three vehicles had been involved at the cove: a van, a motor scooter, and a midsize SUV about the size of a Jimmy. There were impressions above the tide line of something heavy being dragged along the sand toward the water. Following the narrow lane back up from the cove to the main road on foot, Ramirez and Peraza noticed that the underbrush had been crushed and branches broken in several places. Across the road, in a ditch near a driveway, barely covered with a layer of leaves, they followed a pile of spent cartridges and shards of broken gla.s.s.

The agents went up the driveway, their hands on their weapons, and knocked at the door of a deserted-looking house. No one answered. Circling around behind the dilapidated structure, they came to an equally ramshackle barn in the back yard, and peered through the dirt-smeared window. It contained five vehicles-including a van and a Jimmy. It was easy enough to pry the door open; it practically splintered at Agent Peraza's tug. The other three vehicles were trucks; they were riddled with bullet holes.

And in the back of one, the pickup, was dried blood. A lot of dried blood, as if the truck had been used to transport multiple bleeding bodies.

"But here's the part we haven't been able to piece together yet, Elizabeth," Rob told his supervisor.

As happy as he was to have something solid to report to the Dragon Lady, as her subordinates fondly referred to her, he was frustrated that the pieces of the puzzle still refused to fall into place.

"Jim Oliver says one of the hijackers of the BWA boat took a bullet, but this is a whole lot more than just one injury. There was enough blood in the bed of the pickup to fill a wading pool.

"And if our theory that the guards made off with the c.o.ke is correct, who would they need to gun down? They'd clearly been planning the operation for quite a while; the barn's ideal for concealing the trucks, and it's just across the road from this secluded cove where they must have met up with the boat. They drove right past every other week; they'd have had it down to a science. Now, could be somebody came along and surprised them, but there've been no reports of any missing persons in the area. No shoot-outs. Nothing. And where the devil did those other two vehicles come from?"

"So, it looks like your theory needs a little tweaking," Elizabeth said in her fast-clip New York accent.

Elizabeth Talliaferro had worked her way up the ranks of the male-dominated DEA by cultivating a brusque approach.

"Call Sanchez at Buenaventura PD," she said. "Get his forensic guys on the scene with the mutt, and see if anything turns up. And dust the house."

"The mutt" was Oscar, a canine member of the Buenaventura force specially trained to sniff out cadavers. Oscar wasted no time. Within five minutes he was standing, as triumphant as a mountain climber at the summit, over the grave site behind the house. Sanchez's men began to dig.

In the house, two more officers swept through the rooms, dusting for fingerprints and putting into plastic bags an a.s.sortment of items abandoned by the last occupants: a half package of unfiltered Camels, a roll of Tums, an oily comb, and the entire contents of the kitchen waste basket, reeking of rotten eggs.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Elizabeth said when Rob called her with the results of the new search. "Call a meeting for ten A.M A.M. tomorrow with someone with some clout from the State Department-Vogler if you can get him; if not, one of his underlings-and our friend Flipper Markman from the Coast Guard. See you then."

26.

The meeting with Phillip had gone well, to Anika's great relief. He'd been tight-lipped and gruff but had kept his hands to himself and made no mention of their last encounter. He had okayed the coffee night, and said he didn't care where it took place. He would be on the bridge, in any case, keeping watch.

Perfect, Anika thought. She'd been hoping he wouldn't have a preference. It would suit their purposes much better to stage the entertainment in the mess rather than out on the bow, but she had not wanted to seem as if it made any difference. And she greatly preferred gruff to overly friendly.

Now, after the dinner cleanup, the kids and teachers were a.s.sembling for the show. As Anika had predicted, the Floaties had thrown themselves into the project. They set out coffee, soft drinks, and Jarred's famous b.u.t.terscotch chocolate-chip brownies, rigged up an old sail against one wall as a backdrop, and arranged themselves around the mess tables, surrounded by musical instruments, hastily contrived costumes, and an odd a.s.sortments of make-do props. A couple of small groups remained out on deck, polis.h.i.+ng their acts.

Juan had said he had no interest in kiddie shows and stayed in the first-aid room with Stefano, but Polo, Esteban, and Severo were lined up expectantly along the walls of the mess. They seemed unsure about the propriety of sitting down but gave every indication of looking forward to the entertainment. They were already enjoying the refreshments.