Coincidence Part 3

All of the students managed to get at least to the course, but some of them needed several more days of training before they could get to the royal. And a few were so uncomfortable with the climb that they never made it to the top.

"There's nae shame in that," Mac a.s.sured them. "We'll work ye just as hard down the lower levels."

Right after lunch Mac led the students back onto the deck. His stride was surprisingly long for such a short man. He walked with purpose, head down, bent forward slightly at the waist, with the barest hint of a left-to-right roll in his gait, the sole remnant of an accident many years ago. At fifty-seven he had more stamina than most of the kids on the s.h.i.+p. Combined with the advantage of experience, his energy enabled him to get any job done quickly and efficiently. He was slight, narrow-boned, but wiry and hard-muscled from years of physical labor. He had the agility and tenacity of a squirrel.

"Ready?" he murmured to Dave Cameron, standing at the rail. "Over ye go, lad." Then he shouted, "Man overboarrrrrd!"

Dave enjoyed his role in these man-overboard drills. He had been a hero inadvertently several times in his life, not only finding himself on the scene just when someone needed help, but also having the presence of mind to know how to help them.

He had worked at a shopping mall, scooping ice cream, the summer before he started at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario. Late one evening he'd been walking to his car in the mall parking lot when he came upon two teenagers kicking a younger boy. They were taking out their frustration on him because he had just a few dollars in his wallet.

Dave, although not half as brawny as the two thugs, had stormed into the fray with such vehemence that they had fled. One of them lost a shoe in his haste. The sneaker had dangled from the window lock in Dave's bedroom for years until his mother converted the s.p.a.ce into a library/guest room, with a rather more conventional decor when she realized her son had left the family nest for good.

The following year, Dave had been walking from the Queen's campus to his attic apartment on King Street when a van came squealing around the corner in front of him. The pa.s.senger door flew open and a young woman landed on the pavement at his feet. In short order Dave took in the van's make, model, and license plate number, flagged down a motorist to call 911, applied pressure to the bleeding lacerations the woman had suffered from her fall, and talked her down from her hysteria as she told him of her abduction and s.e.xual a.s.sault. Dave's quick thinking helped the police catch the three men who had a.s.saulted her.

Yet a third incident had happened when Dave was in grad school. His first job after getting his undergraduate degree had been as a counselor at an outdoor program for young offenders, popularly known as "hoods in the woods." He loved the experience, feeling a rapport with the students, difficult though they could be. He decided he had finally found his calling and a use for his sociology degree. He would be a teacher. He enrolled in a one-year B.Ed. program at the University of Toronto's Ontario Inst.i.tute for Studies in Education. His plan was to teach high school social studies.

Toward the end of his program, he was practice teaching at a high school on Bloor Street near the U of T campus. Every morning he walked along Bloor on his way to school, Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other-props he carried into his cla.s.sroom each day to make him appear older than his students. One day, he smelled smoke and raced down a side street in the direction it seemed to be coming from. He zigzagged his way across alleys and streets until he found its source: a two-story house with black smoke billowing from an upstairs window and flames licking the roof. He could hear cries coming from inside.

Dave pounded on the door and rang the bell, then, using all of his weight, threw himself against the door again and again until the lock gave way. A young mother lay crumpled at the foot of the stairs, overcome by fumes. Two smoke-smudged toddlers were clinging to her and poking her, crying for her to get up. Dave scooped the woman up and hefted her over his left shoulder, tucked the smaller of the tots under his right arm, and, grabbed the hand of the older one. He staggered out of the house just as a fire engine careened up to the curb and five firefighters swarmed into action.

The city awarded him a citation for bravery for his actions, delighting his cla.s.s almost as much as it embarra.s.sed him.

Now he hit the water and swam briskly to the designated spot a hundred feet from the Inspiration Inspiration. He relished his part in the man overboard-MOB, in sailing vernacular-drills. It was a nice change of perspective, after all, from being the too-heralded hero (and enduring the proud but anxious flutterings of his parents as well as the teasing of his friends) to the hapless victim, whose only responsibility was to flail about in the brine shouting for help.

Mac ran the drill according to a precise protocol. As the students would learn in their cla.s.sroom sessions, it was the job of the spotter, the first person to witness someone overboard, to shout the alarm, then throw a life ring and MOB buoy from the bridge to the person in the water. As usual, Mac's aim was impeccable; the ring and buoy hit the water within an arm's length of Dave. Mac kept an unwavering eye on Dave, squinting into the light of the sun dazzling off the ripples, and kept his right arm outstretched, pointing continuously at Dave, first from the deck, then up on the rigging as he scuttled, using his left arm and both legs, to the mizzen shrouds. He remained with his gaze and finger fixed on Dave until the officer on watch-today it was Captain Marzynski himself-relieved him.

Anika provided running commentary for the students as the captain checked to see that the life ring and MOB buoy had been thrown in and then threw an activated SART-Search and Rescue Radar Transponder-into the water. He pressed the MOB b.u.t.ton on the GPS and sounded the alarm signal-two short, two long, two short blasts, repeated three times. Had the s.h.i.+p been under sail, he would have turned it into the wind to stop; had they been under power, he would have executed a Williamson turn.

Because the captain was the watch officer today, the first mate, Dr. Williams, took command of the s.h.i.+p and carried out the rescue procedure. Anika explained that if a MAYDAY call-an urgency message-was deemed necessary, the first mate would issue it and then stand ready to communicate with the rescue craft on channel 16 of the VHF radio.

The captain a.s.signed duty lookouts to take over observation of the MOB. The rescue-craft launch team, consisting of Mac and the second mate, Henry, and the crew members on deck watch, launched the Zodiac, an inflatable dinghy. Then the rescue-craft team-Henry and Sam and the second engineer-leapt into the Zodiac and made for the man overboard. Dave was floating on his back in lazy circles, luxuriating in the warm water, unconcerned about the drama unfolding onboard.

Dr. Williams and his first aid team stood at the rail with the "grab and go kit," a stretcher and a blanket, waiting for Dave's arrival. All other crew members were gathered amids.h.i.+ps, ready to a.s.sist in any way requested.

Henry and Sam hauled Dave up and over the railing onto the deck into the waiting hands of the first aid team. This was the hardest part of the exercise for Dave; it went against the grain for him to stay as inert as a sack of barley while the others labored over him. He did his best not to be helpful as Dr. Williams demonstrated life-saving techniques. At the end of the exercise, the resuscitated MOB arose from the stretcher to thunderous applause and cheers from the Floaties.

The students were both exhilarated and exhausted after the MOB drill. They'd had no idea it was coming, which was exactly the way Mac had planned it. He firmly believed that the best method of instruction was to catch the kids off guard; the emotion and initial uncertainty of the situation would ensure a vivid memory of the procedures called for.

"It beats a list on a chalkboard any day of the week," is what he always said.

8.

By mid-July, Juan, Phillip, Polo, and Severo had moved into the house in Buenaventura.

With his customary meticulousness, Juan had worked out a strategy that covered all contingencies. He had dispatched the others to Medillin, where they bought, using a.s.sumed names, an SUV, a Jimmy, and a moped. All were used but in good enough condition for their purposes. He had prepared a detailed shopping list and they had taken turns over the next six weeks going into town-taking care to go to several different stores to allay any suspicions-to buy provisions for the house and the boat.

On Thursday of the second week they got their first look at the drug convoy driving by. Juan had marked a spot six hundred yards from the driveway for calculating the speed of the trucks. Crouching in the tangles of ficus, tibouchina, peperomia, and pa.s.sionflower at the edge of the drive, swatting mosquitoes away from their eyes so they could see, they noted that it took exactly forty seconds for the trucks to cover the distance, which meant the trucks' speed was close to thirty miles per hour. Another four observations told them the speed was fairly consistent.

By the time of the fifth observation, both Stefano and Esteban had arrived in Buenaventura. On this occasion, Severo followed the convoy from Cali in the SUV, keeping well back and turning into the driveway when he reached the house. Polo then took over, pulling out on a moped from a side road about a mile from the house and tailing the three vehicles a good part of the way up the back road toward Medillin.

The tailing had been Severo's idea. The whole operation was beginning to make him nervous. Why, he had asked, would the cartel be taking these G.o.d-forsaken, treacherous back roads? Wasn't there a safer way to Medillin?

"That's just the point," Stefano had told him. "Sure the highway is safer, but where do you think all the police are? When the drug runners started the route seven years ago, the highway hadn't even been built. They been taking the back roads since the beginning. You know as well as I do there's hardly any traffic on these roads. No traffic and no cops."

Juan outlined the details of the plan to them on the evening of the fifth observation.

It was simple, he said. Polo would drive the SUV down the driveway at a predetermined speed, swerve onto the road, and then sideswipe the van.

"Polo's gonna get out of the SUV, wearing only his bathing suit," he said. "Truck number three'll stop behind the van. Truck number one will have to back up to the accident. All the guards will have their guns drawn. As soon as Polo sees the guns he's gonna act scared-you got some practice acting like a coward, right, Polito?"

"Hey!"

"Relax! Just a joke, little hombre, hombre," Juan said, leaning over and giving Polo's head a hard rub with his knuckles. "So Polo here's scared s.h.i.+tless-he's gonna put his hands up and drop to his knees. Maybe he's gonna cry, who knows?"

Juan snickered.

"The guards, they're gonna see there's no danger, there's just this skinny little dips.h.i.+t standing there half naked.

"Severo and Esteban, you gonna be hiding on the right side of the driveway, over by those big bushes with the rubbery leaves. I'm gonna be on the left side. We all gonna have semiautomatics.

"Stefano, you'll be across the road, in the bushes behind the sign. You got your semiautomatic, too. Anything goes wrong, you're ready to shoot.

"As soon as Polo goes down on his knees, Severo's gonna take out the guards from truck number one, Esteban's got the guards from the van, and I've got truck number three. We gotta move in so fast they got no time to react to what's happening. Got it?"

Severo couldn't help thinking Juan was awfully sure of himself. Oh, yeah, the guy liked to think of himself as the great mastermind, the grand schemer who antic.i.p.ated the smallest detail. But what if something didn't go according to his plan? What if something went horribly, disastrously wrong? There were so many things that could go wrong-and so many things that all had to happen exactly right. What were the odds? But he kept his misgivings to himself. He had no wish to incur Juan's derision. Severo was the strongest of the six, a burly, barrel-chested man. Years as a heavy-equipment operator had built his muscles to peak capacity. He had met Stefano at a bar near his last construction site in Florida, a hangout for the Hispanic workers. Stefano was recruiting, and it didn't take him long to convince Severo that he could make a lot more money turning his talents to the drug trade. Severo had been an a.s.sociate ever since, helping out whenever a strong back was needed for a job.

Even Juan had to admit that Severo could be useful, but as for his att.i.tude, well, that was another story. Severo was a chronic worrier. He was a man of considerable imagination, but only when it came to envisioning disaster. No matter how carefully Juan planned, Severo could see danger every step of the way. What if this happened? What if that happened? Always "what if?"

There was way too much negativity in that one, Juan thought. And he hated negativity.

"Bueno," Juan said. "Everyone's gonna have to move fast at this point. Severo and I gonna put the bodies in the back of truck number three. Severo will take them down the driveway to behind the barn, where we-where you you," he corrected himself with a small snort, "will have dug a hole big enough for six. He's gonna wait there until someone comes to help him with the funeral.

"Meantime, Stefano's gonna jump into truck number two-that's the van with the c.o.ke in it-and drive it down the dirt road to the beach, where he'll meet up with Phillip. Polo's gonna get over his fright at the big bad men with guns and clear any c.r.a.p from the accident off the road, and then drive the SUV into the barn. Esteban will drive truck number one into the barn. If either of the trucks don't start after the crash, I can tow them in with the Jimmy. As soon as the trucks are inside, Polo and Esteban gonna go help Severo dump the bodies and fill in the hole."

Yeah, Severo thought. Typical Juan. He sits in the Jimmy while we do all the work. And then he gets all the credit for his brilliant plan.

"While all this is happening, Phillip's gettin' the Two Wise Two Wise ready. At 1:15 he'll take the tender to the beach. When Stefano gets there, they start transferring the bales to the tender. As soon as the bodies are buried and the grave's covered up, I'll drive you guys" -he nodded toward Polo, Esteban, and Severo-"to the beach in the Jimmy. Esteban, you and Severo gonna help carry bales. When all the stuff's out of the van, Polo will drive it back to the barn. I'll drive the Jimmy. We lock up the barn and the house and then come back to the beach on the moped. ready. At 1:15 he'll take the tender to the beach. When Stefano gets there, they start transferring the bales to the tender. As soon as the bodies are buried and the grave's covered up, I'll drive you guys" -he nodded toward Polo, Esteban, and Severo-"to the beach in the Jimmy. Esteban, you and Severo gonna help carry bales. When all the stuff's out of the van, Polo will drive it back to the barn. I'll drive the Jimmy. We lock up the barn and the house and then come back to the beach on the moped.

"When we get all the bales...o...b..ard the Two Wise Two Wise, we put the moped on the tender. We drop it into the water about halfway out, then haul the tender up onto the boat, weigh anchor, and head for Easter Island-six millionaires on a cruise."

Juan looked out the window for a few seconds, oblivious to the rain streaking down the grimy panes, smiling at this picture. Then he turned back to the others. His eyes were steely.

"We got just over forty-five minutes to do the whole job."

Jesus y Maria, Severo thought. The man is loco loco if he thinks this is gonna work. if he thinks this is gonna work.

In truth, all of the men except Juan and Stefano were having doubts about the viability of the plan. Forty-five minutes, start to finish? But they knew better than to question Juan. And if by some miracle it actually worked ...

The only thing left to do was practice. Every day for the next seven weeks, Juan studied the traffic pattern on the road. Only twice did a car come by near the time scheduled for the "accident." As unlikely as it was that that would happen on the actual day, they had to be prepared. Just one carload of adventuresome tourists deciding to get off the beaten track and experience the "real Colombia," or one old couple taking it into their heads to drive their wagon into town on a weekday instead of Sat.u.r.day when the big market was open-just one fluke like that would screw everything up. It would be up to Stefano, squatting across the road amid thick ropes of thunbergia vines, to "deal with the situation," as Juan put it. He would do so, it was understood, with his semiautomatic rifle.

Every day for the next seven weeks, rain or s.h.i.+ne, Severo drove the Jimmy, at thirty miles per hour, past the driveway while Polo barreled down in the SUV and skidded onto the road, missing the Jimmy by five seconds. On the actual day, Polo would start five seconds earlier.

During those seven weeks, Severo and Esteban dug the grave hole behind the barn without complaint. They didn't complain, even though it was backbreaking work and the heat was almost overpowering. Severo was used to hard physical labor in all sorts of weather, but Esteban, overweight and out of shape, was convinced each day that he'd die before they were done.

In mid-August, Phillip flew to Puntarenas and checked into a resort hotel close to the harbor. Looking out his third-floor window, he could see the Two Wise Two Wise rocking up and down in the water. For seven days he pretty much stayed in his room, binoculars pressed to his eyes, observing activity around the boat. rocking up and down in the water. For seven days he pretty much stayed in his room, binoculars pressed to his eyes, observing activity around the boat.

On the seventh day, a Friday, an American family arrived around noontime. Phillip put on his pony-tailed cap and shades and headed down to the harbor. He always found it easy to strike up a conversation with a boat owner. Most of them enjoyed nothing more than discussing the ins and outs of their crafts with anyone who showed an interest, especially someone with a little knowledge of sailing. And that Phillip had plenty of.

He'd grown up around boats in Miami, and had said from the time he was five years old that he was going to be a sailor. As soon as he was old enough to take the test, he had gotten his captain's license. He had met Stefano and Juan in Miami. All three had worked at marinas-Phillip to earn enough extra money to buy a Sailfish, and Stefano and Juan to help support their mother and sisters. They had started with grunt work on boats and around the docks, then had learned enough of the basics of sailing to shuttle boats from one dock to another as required.

Phillip had gone to college, earned a business degree, and moved on to an entry-level position with a firm in Chicago, but had continued to keep in touch with Stefano. When Stefano had called one raw February morning to ask if he'd be interested in helping him take a boat to the Virgin Islands, Phillip knew Stefano didn't have a pleasure trip in mind. He was rattled by the idea; he had never done anything like this in his life. He was so uncomfortable with the idea of what he knew was behind the request-a drug run-that he'd simply decided to ask no questions.

How complicit could he be, really, as long as he surmised and wasn't absolutely sure? And Stefano had offered an almost unimaginable sum of money for a few days of doing what he loved most, sailing-and to the Virgin Islands in the middle of winter at that. In the end, he called in sick. He told his boss he had the flu and was on his way.

He'd done a number of similar jobs over the years, usually with Stefano and Juan, occasionally with someone else he'd met on a run. After a while, he'd become comfortable enough with what they were doing to talk about it freely-and very comfortable indeed with the lifestyle it afforded him.

As Phillip had expected, the American was eager to show off his boat. When Phillip told him he was considering buying a similar one he'd seen in Fort Lauderdale, the man invited him to come aboard so he could see another version of the Real s.h.i.+p 65.

"These are great boats, well built," he told Phillip. "My baby here's three years old, but they're virtually identical. All Real s.h.i.+ps are equipped pretty much the same way."

That was exactly what Phillip had hoped.

"They look exactly the same to me," Phillip said as he looked around. "When we did the sea trial in Fort Lauderdale, the water was flat; how does she take the waves?"

"Ah, she's a regular dolphin. There's enough of a flare on the bow to throw spray away from the boat so she stays pretty dry, too."

"Y'know, the anchor system was the one thing I didn't get to see down in Florida. Does the windla.s.s pull the anchor up okay?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. You can control it either from the pilothouse or with a deck b.u.t.ton at the bow. It's pretty heavy; there's something like two hundred and fifty feet of anchor chain, but the windla.s.s pulls it up just fine."

"How about fuel? Diesel pretty easy to come by down here?"

"Well, you have to plan carefully on that score. Only places I know you can get it are here and a couple of marinas on the west coast of Costa Rica. Thirty-five hundred gallons will take you a long way, but the last thing I do after a holiday is fill her up. That prevents algae from growing in the tanks while I'm away."

Phillip noted that keys were in both instrument panels in the pilothouse. There was a separate instrument panel for each engine, one on each side of the wheel. Hot-wiring the engines would be a snap. The pilothouse door lock could be pried open with a screwdriver. The outside cabin walls were white fibergla.s.s and the signage on the transom was a script vinyl-easy to remove. Everything was checking out just fine. Could it really be this easy, or was he overlooking something?

Phillip stepped from the yacht to the dock.

"So how far are you taking her on this trip?"

"We're heading up to near Managua in Nicaragua for a few days. It's our favorite spot. Have to be back in the States on September first, so we'll be gone for just a little under two weeks. Wish it were twice that!"

"Have a safe trip," Phillip said as he shook hands with the man. "And thanks again. Maybe I'll be sailing a rig just like her soon."

Phillip walked down the harbor road, entered a little hole-in-the-wall bar, and ordered a Red Cap. Taking a table by the window, he took out a piece of paper and made a few notes. They'd have to strip the boat's name off the transom and apply a new one. He liked the name Coincidence Coincidence and visualized it in block letters twelve inches high. There was no practical way to change the color of the topsides, but he had figured out a way he could change the color of the cabin from white to blue. The vinyl used for signs comes in rolls about twenty feet six long. He estimated that given the cabin profile and windows, he would need eight rolls of vinyl twenty-eight inches wide for the job. He decided to put a twelve-inch blue stripe at the top of the topsides right next to the deck line. and visualized it in block letters twelve inches high. There was no practical way to change the color of the topsides, but he had figured out a way he could change the color of the cabin from white to blue. The vinyl used for signs comes in rolls about twenty feet six long. He estimated that given the cabin profile and windows, he would need eight rolls of vinyl twenty-eight inches wide for the job. He decided to put a twelve-inch blue stripe at the top of the topsides right next to the deck line.

He gazed out the window at the line of motor yachts broadside to the dock as he considered what else he would need. Two spray bottles for water to soak the backing paper off the vinyl. A slotted screwdriver for breaking the locks. Electrical tape to hold the hotwired connection together. A handheld Global Positioning System for backup, plus extra batteries.

Phillip's plan was to sail due south at 180 degrees for three hundred and sixty miles, then make a left turn on a heading of 90 degrees for four hundred and thirty miles. That would take them to the cove near Buenaventura. To conserve fuel, they would travel at just over eight knots at 1900 rpm, using about ten gallons per hour. He scribbled some figures on his paper. The trip to Buenaventura would use a thousand gallons, leaving them with twenty-five hundred gallons for the trip to Easter Island. At the same speed, the remaining fuel would take them approximately two thousand miles.

d.a.m.n, he thought. It's twenty-two hundred miles from Buenaventura to Easter Island and, building in a reasonable safety margin, they would need an additional five hundred gallons of fuel.

There was no way he would make the trip in that boat if they didn't have full tanks before they left for Easter Island. d.a.m.n! Why hadn't he thought all this out sooner? He was going to have to call Juan, and Juan was not going to be pleased.

Looking up from his calculations, he watched the American and his family preparing the Two Wise Two Wise for departure. They slipped the bow and spring lines and loosened the stern line a little. The bow thrusters took the bow away from the dock and the boat pivoted on a large fender close to the stern. The stern line was hauled in and the boat quietly pulled away. for departure. They slipped the bow and spring lines and loosened the stern line a little. The bow thrusters took the bow away from the dock and the boat pivoted on a large fender close to the stern. The stern line was hauled in and the boat quietly pulled away.

As Phillip had expected, Juan was not at all happy about the fuel problem. His voice on the phone was ominously quiet.

"Man, I trusted you with taking care of the boat. How many times do I have to say it? Details, details! Details are what make or break a run. You gotta plan for everything, you gotta have no surprises. You never, never, leave something like this to the last minute. If this plan goes to h.e.l.l because you screwed up ..."

Juan didn't finish his sentence before slamming down the phone. He didn't have to.

The plan was now vulnerable, and none of the options looked good. Juan turned over the possibilities in his mind. Sleep was impossible until he had found a solution. If they didn't add fuel before heading to Easter Island, they'd probably not get there. It would be risky trying to fill up somewhere before reaching Buenaventura. The closer they were to Puntarenas, the more likely it would be that someone would recognize the Two Wise Two Wise and realize it had been stolen. and realize it had been stolen.

All right, then, he thought. What about buying forty-five-gallon drums of fuel and filling up the tank in the cove? That would be by far the safest place. No, that would never work. Those drums weighed a ton; there was no way to maneuver them down to the cove. They could wait until they got as far as Peru before refueling, maybe. But then the risk would not only be getting caught with a stolen boat, but getting caught with a stolen boat that was carrying a load of cocaine.

That idiot Phillip! And that makes me a bigger idiot, Juan told himself, punching his pillow. He should never have let Stefano tell him it would be better for somebody else to handle the boat. If he'd done it himself, he'd have known they needed a larger one. Now it was too late.

Early the next morning, after a fitful night, Juan drove along the coast road, looking for an out-of-the-way place that sold diesel fuel. He was still furious at himself. Wasn't he the man famous for nailing down every last detail? Stefano, he was the big-picture man, all right, the one who dreamed up the ideas in the first place. But Juan, the little brother, he had always been the one to deal with the all-important details. Stefano had relied on him for that, and he had never let him down. He might not have been good at anything else in his miserable life, he thought, but he was good at that, at thinking two steps ahead of everyone else, at antic.i.p.ating all the potential pitfalls in a plan, and making d.a.m.n sure they didn't happen.

He should never have put Phillip in charge of something so important. Sure the guy knew boats and was a regular whiz at the helm, but he had no concept of the painstaking attention you had to put into a job like this.

Eventually Juan found a likely spot at a marina in the harbor at Punta Magdalena, some ninety miles north. The marina closed at five every evening, but if he could entice the owner to come back after dark to service a late-arriving boat, it would be as good a spot as they could hope for.

The harbor at Punta Magdalena was dilapidated but well protected by a rock breakwater with an opening about two hundred feet wide. The marina was at the end of an old wooden jetty that extended into the harbor about two hundred and fifty feet. Juan was glad to see that the few fis.h.i.+ng boats in the harbor were allowed to swing on their moorings. That would give them plenty of room to manoeuvre the Two Wise Two Wise in the harbor. in the harbor.

The sides of the jetty were protected by long planks of wood with old used tires suspended from them for fenders. There was a gas pump, a diesel pump, and a ramshackle shed used as an office. Lighting was almost nonexistent. It was obvious that not much happened at night. They couldn't take a chance on being seen in the daytime; the camouflage Phillip had devised was okay for disguising the boat from the air, but at close range, in the light of day? Who the h.e.l.l would stick blue vinyl all over a million-dollar yacht?

No, they would have to do the refueling at night, with as few people around as possible. Juan had found that it rarely took more than waving a few pesos under the nose of an underpaid worker to put him in a cooperative frame of mind. He jotted down the marina manager's name and number. He'd get Phillip to make the call. That was the one thing the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d was useful for-pa.s.sing for an upstanding middle-cla.s.s citizen.

That same day, Phillip was grappling with how to get seventeen rolls of vinyl aboard the boat. He hadn't wanted to make inquiries in Puntarenas, so had headed for San Jose, the capital. He'd had a frustrating afternoon going from one sign shop to another before he found one that could order the material he was looking for, in Flag Blue, one roll of each size. Even so, it would take two weeks to come in, and the shop owner was the chatty type, all inquisitive about what he was going to be doing with so much blue vinyl.

He'd had to invent a story, and a pretty darn good story it was, too, he thought, to have been hatched on the spot like that. He said he was filming a TV commercial and needed the vinyl to cover up the side of a building. The strips would come right off after the shoot, he'd said, warming to his theme. His film crew used it all the time.

Then the guy wanted to know why he hadn't just brought it with him from the States to begin with, in that case. He replied with something about all the ha.s.sles involved in bringing it through customs. The little man seemed satisfied at this, nodding and grumbling about the troubles the government caused with its silly regulation of this and that, and said that, as long as Phillip paid cash in advance, he'd be glad to order whatever he wanted. And if he should need any extras for the TV commercial, any locals maybe, for a crowd scene-No? Well, if not himself, he had a wife, mother, sister, nephews, nieces ...

Before leaving San Jose, Phillip located a small self-storage company and rented a medium-sized unit. It was larger than he really needed, but it was the only one available. He rented it for three months, paying in advance for the whole period. When the vinyl arrived, he would pick it up in a small rented van and deliver it to the storage unit until the day before they planned to steal the boat.

Philip went over the plan on his flight back to Medellin, examining it over and over for any problems unaccounted for, any ends untied. Two weeks before the heist was to go down, he, Juan, and Esteban would fly to San Jose and rent a small van in an a.s.sumed name. They would pick up the vinyl at the storage unit and drive to Puntarenas, arriving about four in the afternoon. That would give them time to buy food for the trip and observe both the harbor and the boat, making certain that everything was okay. Around eight o'clock they would drive the van to the boat, unload the vinyl and food, and leave the van in a parking lot close to the harbor. It should take them no more than half an hour to load the vinyl, break into the boat, start the engines, cast off the lines, and take off for Buenaventura.

What else? Was there anything, any detail, no matter how tiny, that-G.o.d forbid-he had overlooked that could trip them up? Anything at all he could add that would help-help them with the plan, and, most especially, help him get back into Juan's good graces?