Off Course (12 page)

“That I did, but first, my chum rings me back, gives me a name of a friend of his who just happens to be the new governor of the Archipelago of San Andres, Providencia, and Santa Catalina. Says he’s already contacted his friend. The governor will see to it that every available resource is used in our search for these terrorists.”

“What does that mean, ‘every available resource’?”

“I asked the same question. It means he has a small fleet of ships stationed on the island and he will assign two of them to search for our sailboat. Fair enough?”

“It’s not exactly fantastic now, is it? But I’ll take it. It might prove to be a bit of a break and we need every break we can get, don’t we?”

“That’s what
I
thought, too,” exclaimed Alastair as he plopped himself into a chair at the far end of Nic’s cubicle.

“So, you got dressed in the middle of the night to relay this news in person? You couldn’t just call me?”

“Two things, Lancaster: First, this governor is going to be calling me here at the office as soon as he has some news to relay. Second, I needed to get out of the house, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s great. Are you expecting that call to come in soon?”

“One never knows with these kinds of things, but I figured it certainly couldn’t hurt to be ready,” said Alastair as he rubbed his head and looked at the ceiling. “Got any aspirin here, Nic?”

“I do, actually.” As Nic rummaged through his desk drawer, looking for the aspirin bottle he knew was in there somewhere, he made a mental note to remember this day. This day, he reckoned, marked the first time his boss was actually useful to him. It was worth noting. “Why the sudden change? How is it you have now thrown your support back into this case?”

“The FBI contacted my boss and asked for cooperation, stating that they had a reliable trace on the whereabouts of Collin Cook and wanted to know if we had any resources in the Western Caribbean to contribute to the hunt,” explained Alastair.

“So that’s why you’re suddenly involved. McKnight rings you up at home and, voila, the case is reopened,” said Nic.

“You have a problem with me helping out, Nic?”

“I’m glad for the help, but I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re in it to be sure you’re credited with breaking the case. Am I right?”

“Nonsense, Lancaster. It’s a win for the team.”

“Team? I bust my hind end for weeks on this case, even after you tell me not to, and now it’s going to be a team win?”

“I didn’t see you get in touch with your admiral friend and get put through to the governor of the island chain,” said Alastair with relish.

“One bloody phone call and now it’s a team effort,” Nic mumbled as he turned back to his computer.

Western Caribbean, 40 miles north of Providencia Island

June 15, 4:08 p.m. Caribbean Time

A melodic trilling once again caught the Captain’s ear. At the same time, Stinky’s herky-jerky movements caught his eye. Stinky was trying to dig the phone out of his pocket with his arm wrapped around the railing. Mounting waves tossed the boat about. Seawater sloshed and ran across the deck. Wind whipped rain pellets haphazardly, but Stinky was determined to answer the incoming call, even with his rain slicker providing yet another obstacle to his goal. The Captain watched Stinky pull out the bulky phone, encased in a thick, yellow plastic case with a chunky, black antenna the size of a thumb. He was familiar with that model of satellite phone and knew it was capable of transmitting and receiving a signal virtually anywhere in the world. Once the device was out of Stinky’s pocket, he punched a button to answer it. When Stinky finally answered the phone after several rings, he was off balance and panicky. “Ya,” he said, then stuck the forefinger of his free hand into his ear. His feet slipped out from under him, causing his cheek to slam into the rail as he landed on his knees. The fact that his elbow was wrapped around the railing saved him from skittering across the deck and over the edge. When Stinky recovered, he said something into the phone that seemed to be a request to give him a moment. He then carefully worked his way toward the cabin door, keeping one hand firmly connected to the rails. Stinky bounced side to side, hitting the walls of the stairwell with each shoulder, until he eventually pushed his way through the cabin door.

*              *              *              *

Collin had moved into position at the edge of the bunk bed, his feet set shoulder width apart under him, poised once again to pounce when something banged into the door of the cabin, then stumbled through. It was Stinky, trying to stay upright amid the constant pitching and heaving of the boat. He clutched a phone in his left hand.

Collin slumped back down and closed his eyes in defeat.

Without a word, Stinky motioned to Mr. Green to get up, then wrestled the wet raincoat off his torso and pushed it at Mr. Green. Mr. Green, as he staggered and swayed with the boat’s movement, put the raincoat on and exited through the door and up the steps.

Stinky gripped a teakwood handhold attached to the ceiling near the dining table and braced himself as he held the phone to his ear. “Ya, ya,” he started. He mumbled something Collin could not understand, then listened hard. “OK,” he said.

Stinky calculated his movements and maneuvered across the cabin to another set of handrails bolted to the ceiling near Collin’s bunk. He tapped a button to place the call on speaker mode and tossed the phone on the bed next to Collin. Stinky held on tight as the boat heaved upward again at an odd angle. Using his free hand, he managed to swing the Uzi, which was strapped around his shoulder and across his chest, and aim it at Collin.

Surprised and flustered that his chance at freedom had again been snatched away, Collin stammered, “Hello? Who is this?”

“You need to ask?” The sound coming through the speaker of the phone had a tinny quality that echoed. This gave the tenor voice a smooth, mechanical tone, but there was still a hint of a British accent. “This is the owner of the $30 million you have hidden in Panama City. Who else?”

Collin took a deep breath. The words and the voice—so confident, so well-articulated—along with the timing, punched him like a fist to the gut. Everything froze and he could feel the color drain from his face. He shook his head and blurted out the first thing that came into his battered brain, “What are you talking about?”

The calm, refined chuckle exuded a regal authority, even with the disconcerting reverberation. “Surely you jest, Mr. Cook. I am not a fool and I am not amused by your games.”

A flood of emotions came over Collin as his mind flashed through the past eleven months of his shattered life and the abuse of the past two days. The cold inside turned to rage. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you arrogant prick. I could care less about the money. It won’t bring my family back.” Collin paused, trying to sort out his feelings and put them into words. “But I won’t give it back, if that’s what your insinuating. Not to the likes of you. I know what you’re all about,” he seethed.

“Insinuating? You think I called to insinuate something, Mr. Cook? I am simply requesting that you return that money to its rightful owner.”

Collin waited a moment for the garbled metallic beeps and squawks to subside. “Rightful owner?” Collin spat the words out. His mind was in gear and revved up now. Something about the man’s arrogance set the wheels spinning and loosened his tongue. “What makes you think you’re the rightful owner? You’re a blood-sucking scumbag.” Collin paused, knowing there was a millisecond delay in the transmission. He spoke slowly and enunciated his words for optimal comprehension on the other end. “You and your insurance company take money from customers, then when you have to pay a large claim, you use any devious means you can to get your money back.”

Another wave crashed into the hull of the boat, nearly propelling Collin off the bed.

The phone ricocheted off the wall and hit Collin’s elbow as he leaned on it. He pushed the phone to the side where he could talk into it more easily.

“You surprise me, Mr. Cook. For a man of your limited education and resources, you sound all too sure of yourself.” The voice, though hollowed by the satellite phone, carried a patronizing edge.

“It’s called the Internet, you condescending sack of trash. I know about you and Tranquil Pacific Casualty. I also know how many of your claimants end up dead or in prison or mysteriously penniless within months of receiving settlements from your fraudulent company. Yeah, I know about you and your sinister tricks.”

“Well, then, Mr. Cook, you must know that I would not approach you like this if I did not have leverage against you.”

“What are you talking about, Penh?”

“I’m talking about your ailing mother, Mr. Cook. She is not looking too well these days, you know.”

A lump formed in Collin’s throat, trapping the torrent of foul words he planned to let loose. He squinted at the phone as he coughed out the words, “You’re full of crap.” His voice held neither volume nor conviction.

“Let me show you, Mr. Cook,” Penh continued, smugger than before.

“Problem is, Penh, my hands are tied behind my back and we’re in the middle of a raging storm, so―” The boat was once again pummeled from the side. This time both Collin and the phone hit the floor, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting through the ragged skin around his wrists and his aching shoulders. Stinky, now using both hands to brace himself, stuck a foot out to stop the phone. He re-aimed the muzzle of the Uzi at Collin and motioned for him to get up and get back on the bed before he bent down to retrieve the phone, his eyes never leaving Collin’s.

“My men will set up a link to a computer and I will transmit a video clip.” Penh added a few commands in a language Collin didn’t understand.

Stinky responded by saying, “OK.” Then he backed carefully toward the cabin door, never taking his eyes or weapon off Collin. He bellowed out the door and Long Hair appeared a few seconds later, dripping wet.

Fighting to keep his balance, Long Hair pulled a black briefcase from the closet and carried it to the table and went to work. After unlocking the case, he unzipped a rubberized lining and removed a sleek, ultra thin laptop and began punching keys, unraveling and connecting a yellow cable. He plugged one end into the laptop and motioned for Stinky to hand him the phone so he could insert the other end into it. He muttered something and Stinky relayed something that sounded similar through the phone.

“It appears we are prepared to send you a nice little video clip. Enjoy, Mr. Cook.”

Stinky waved the muzzle of the gun toward the table, motioning for Collin to move in that direction.

Collin struggled to his feet amid the tumult, leaning forward and using his shoulder to balance against the wall, then carefully moving across the floor to the table. Long Hair had stood and moved out of reach. Once Collin was seated, Stinky continued speaking into the phone, apparently explaining what had just happened. Stinky tapped a few keys and slid the laptop in front of Collin. There, on the screen in front of him, was a most haunting image: his mother duct taped to a chair. A thick strip of the gray adhesive covered her mouth. Her hair was matted down. The bones in her hands and arms protruded and the skin sagged. Her face was gaunt and ash-gray. Collin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Thoughts and words vaporized and his tongue felt glued in place.

“Mr. Cook? Are you there?”

Collin grunted, “Mmm-hmm.”

“Good. Now that I have your attention, allow me to explain.”

*              *              *              *

Industrial Complex, 30 miles southeast of San Diego, California

June 15, 2:09 p.m. Pacific Time

Sarah Cook found herself suddenly wide awake in a strange place, feeling spacey and detached from her body. Everything seemed to have a slight tilt or bend to it. Or maybe she was spinning. Or the room was. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and held back a wave of nausea. When it passed, she again tried to take in her surroundings.

Sarah found that all of her senses were alert as she began to orient herself. A spot on her arm burned. A man with tattoos was walking away from her with a needle in his gloved hand. He threw the needle against the far wall. It hit with a tiny pinging sound. The wall must be metal. She looked up. The ceiling was very high. The room was dark, except for immediately around her. A bright light pointed down at her from a stand. No, there were two of them; one on either side of a camera held up by a tripod.

She closed her eyes for another wave of dizziness to wend its way past.

Now an Asian man with a very colorful tattoo climbing his neck stood behind the camera. Sarah could feel her heart racing and her whole body shaking. Beads of sweat rolled from her temples.
What was in that syringe
? she wondered. Whatever it was, it was making her feel strange―hyper-aware and jittery, but heavy at the same time. She noticed everything, but didn’t want to move.

She was seated in a padded chair. Her arms were taped to the arm rests with multiple swaths of gray duct tape. Her mouth couldn’t move freely and she tasted the adhesive on her lips. She couldn’t open her mouth and her jaw ached.

Another man approached her from the side. He held a fat, brightly colored phone in his hand. Someone on the phone addressed her. He had a pleasant voice, laced with a mild accent, and was very articulate. As the phone was brought close to her, she could see on the screen the man who was speaking to her. He was a handsome Asian man with perfect skin and a beautiful silk tie. She wondered where he was and where he got that tie.
I wish Henry had one like that
, she thought.

“Mrs. Cook, thank you for joining us,” he said, then paused. He spoke in a commanding voice in a foreign language. The man holding the phone ripped the duct tape from her face with one jerky motion. Once the stinging abated, Sarah noticed she could move her jaw again. The man with the silk tie continued in his pleasant voice. “Is there anything you would like to say to your son, Collin?”

“Yes,” she said, just above a whisper, her voice strained.

“Unfortunately, your son is in a very remote location. The Internet connection is not strong enough to allow us to do a live video conference, but we will allow you to talk with Collin and share a brief message. What would you like to say to your son?”

Sarah worked her sore jaw and tongue and tried to speak. Her mouth was so dry it made her cough and choke. Again the man with the silk tie spoke forcefully in that other language and the man behind that camera came to her other side with a bottle of water, which he held for her while she drank. Much of it spilled down the front of her shirt, as he poured it into her mouth.

Sarah thought for a moment, cocking her head upward. “You’d better not harm my son.” She smiled an airy smile at the camera, then at the man with the nice tie whose face smiled a tight smile at her from the phone held in front of her and slightly to her right.

“Don’t worry Mrs. Cook, as long as you and he both cooperate, no one will be hurt.”

Sarah opened her mouth and started to speak.

*              *              *              *

Western Caribbean Sea, 39 miles north of Providencia Island

June 15, 4:11 p.m. Caribbean Time

Collin was leaning forward, peering at the computer screen when it went dark.

Stinky stood at attention with the muzzle of his gun pointed at Collin. He stared at the blank computer screen and shifted his weight from one foot to the other until the satellite phone rang again. Nothing but white noise. He handed the phone to Long Hair and waited for it to ring again.

A few moments later, Penh was back on the line, calm and cool. “Mr. Cook. I want to assure you that your mother is doing well. She is being treated with kindness and respect—for now. You can understand the technical challenges of video communication and data transmission when you are hundreds of miles at sea, I presume. I believe we have remedied the situation now.” He broke into his native tongue and commanded something. Stinky snapped back to full attention, gun at the ready, as Long Hair moved in and punched keys and adjusted the laptop’s screen. Sarah Cook reappeared, unnaturally energetic.