Off Course (9 page)

Alastair dropped into his chair and looked up at the ceiling, trying to digest this morsel of intelligence. “I assume you have some sort of proof, do you?”

“I do, sir. Shall I show you?”

“No, no. That’s not necessary. You’re sure it’s him?”

“I am and so is Crabtree.”

“You’re saying the FBI admits he’s alive?”

“Maybe not the whole FBI, but Crabtree for sure.”

“What’re they doing about it?”

“He’s working on arranging an intercept as we speak.” Checking his watch, Nic corrected himself. “Well, as of yesterday afternoon his time, I suppose.”

“No word on that yet, eh?”

“No, sir. But I presume I’ll have confirmation from him by day’s end.”

Alastair sat quietly, staring at nothing. “Why are you working on this? That case was closed when the FBI declared the man a goner and now you tell me you’re dedicating your valuable time to a closed file on a dead man?” Alastair’s face was reddening as he spoke, working to control his emotions. “I could run you back to a beat cop for this, you know.”

“I doubt that, sir. With all due respect,” said Nic, the sarcasm in his voice not well hidden. “I’ve got a lovely video of you exiting the flat of a certain young lady―the daughter of a member of Parliament―at lunchtime. Certainly you remember that, sir. I believe you were calendared for a non-existent meeting with Scotland Yard.”

“What are you on about Lancaster?”

“Would you like to see the video, sir?”

“Video?” Alastair’s face went bright red.

“Not that sort of video. That’s plain creepy. The one I’ve got shows you giving your girl, the MP’s daughter, quite a long good-bye kiss at her front door before you shuttle off in a taxi. Right in the middle of the working day. Has all the makings of a fine tabloid scandal, if I do say so myself.”

Alastair had to back down gracefully. The last thing he wanted was to flush his pension down the toilet while the newspapers mocked him to scorn. He remained silent as Nic wagged his cell phone in front of him. “Knock that off, Lancaster. OK, you’ve got my attention. But let me remind you, neither of us can afford to be chasing ghosts at this point. Not after all the mishaps before.”

“Right, sir. I’m well aware of the embarrassments we’ve suffered, but imagine the triumph of nailing this guy. Or, better yet, bringing down Penh and his syndicate.”

Alastair perked up. “That would be a coup, would it not? But, my point is that you were to be working on your assigned case-load, which no longer includes Collin Cook.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve only been working on this case after hours. I’ve stayed until midnight or later nearly every night this past week. I work on the assignments from you during the day, and I’m all caught up on them,” Nic said, his jowls quivering with pent-up frustration.

“Right. Brief me on the Cook case before I leave tonight, in any case. I expect you won’t commit any Interpol assets to another one of your red herrings.”

“No, sir. The FBI is handling it. I’m just working my contacts in the islands.”

“So long as we’re clear, then. They’d have my hide if they knew you were spending your time chasing a ghost. Imagine what would happen . . .” Alastair’s words trailed off as he shook the thought from his head and began combing through a stack of papers on his desk.

“I assume, however, that the hunt for Pho Nam Penh is still active and still a priority, is it not?” asked Nic, trying to sound all-business.

Alastair answered without looking up, still intent on finding the right file. “Of course it is. He’s still Prime Suspect Number One for the RBS hack job, as well as half a dozen smaller ones. Now that Cook is out of the picture, we need to find him somehow.”

“Right. I presume since he’s still one of our top priorities, that committing ourselves and our resources in pursuit of him or his accomplices still has patent approval, does it not?”

“Yeah, that’s right, Nic. You see the big picture now,” Alastair muttered through his distraction.

Nic smiled to himself and waited for Alastair to find what he was looking for. He casually reached into his pocket and turned off the voice recording app running on his phone. Mission accomplished. He had his angle.

Los Angeles, California

June 15, 6:45 a.m. Pacific Time

McCoy found Crabtree in the hallway, stirring cream into a cup of coffee fresh out of the vending machine. 1100 Wilshire Boulevard’s finest. Without so much as a glance, Crabtree greeted him with a hearty “Good morning, Spinner” long before he had entered the customary range for such a greeting, the distinctive clacking of his cowboy boots on the linoleum having given him away.

“I wish it was good,” replied McCoy. “Have you seen what’s going on in the Caribbean?”

“What? You mean that tropical depression off the coast of Cuba that turned east and is heading toward our man?”

“Yeah, that one,” said Spinner.

“It doesn’t look good, does it?” said Crabtree, shaking his head.

“No. A small boat advisory has been sent out. All small craft have been warned to leave and avoid the area, but Collin seems to be heading straight toward it―again,” said McCoy.

“I know. I saw that, too. Can’t say it surprises me. Maybe by now he considers himself invincible.”

“Well, either that or the fact that there are four armed men onboard . . .”

“Maybe. Unless it’s part of a hoax intended to throw us off.”

“That’s a long way to go for a hoax, don’t you think?”

“Who knows? Got any brilliant ideas on how we’re going bring him home safely?” asked McCoy.

“I just got off the phone with the Coast Guard. They’ve got their hands full already trying to prepare for potential rescues and/or evacuations. They don’t have the resources to go that far out of their jurisdiction to chase a guy we claimed was dead.” Reggie grimaced as he spoke these last words.

“Can’t say I blame them. Cook’s not their priority. He’s ours. Maybe we can get some help from the navy,” said McCoy.

Crabtree took another long swig of his coffee, stared at the contents of the cup, and winced.

“The US Navy?” said Crabtree.

“Yeah, the navy.”

“You think we should ask the navy again? Remember how the navy searched the same boat last month and found nothing?” said Reggie.

“We need the SEALs to go in and do a rescue,” Spinner said. “That’s Collin’s only chance.”

“Then his chances just went from slim to zero,” Reggie said with a sigh. “They couldn’t get there in time if they tried. Plus, there’s no way we’d get that requisition through the ranks. Come on, be serious.”

“Maybe Lancaster’s got some magic up those British sleeves of his.”

Crabtree nodded his head slowly as he thought about the overly ambitious Nic Lancaster in London. “Let’s see if he does.”

*              *              *              *

Western Caribbean Sea, 310 miles south of Grand Cayman; 100 miles north of Providencia Island

June 15 10:07 a.m. Caribbean Time

The
Admiral Risty
sliced swiftly through the gentle swells on its southerly course under full sail, having left the doldrums behind in the early hours of the morning. With a gentle breeze blowing, she was able to maintain a speed of fifteen knots without the use of her engine.

Even though they were moving and the hijackers had been placated, Captain Sewell’s face sagged. With no sleep and the constant strain of being threatened by men armed with semi-automatic weapons and short tempers, his mood was foul. He remained silent and distant, working through the loss of Tog and figuring out the best plan to get rid of these criminals.

The ascending musical scale of a phone’s ring tone rose above the flapping of the sails and the rush of the wind. Stinky retrieved the phone from his hip pocket, pulled its antennae to its full length, and cupped his hand over it as he spoke his greeting. He listened for a moment. “OK,” he said, and held the phone toward the Captain. “My boss wants to speak to you.”

The Captain eyed the thick satellite phone and took it from Stinky’s outstretched hand. “Gordon Sewell here,” he said.

“Captain Sewell. It is a pleasure to speak with you. I will be brief as I am sure you are presently occupied with the demands of piloting your craft.”

“What is it you want?” said the Captain, not bothering to hide his disdain.

“Captain, the safety of my men is of utmost importance to me, as I’m sure the safety of your men is to you.” The boss spoke with a high-brow, proper tone and precise pronunciation, showing his British university education. It bothered Sewell from the get-go.

“What’s your point?” asked the Captain, cutting off what he supposed would be a long-winded soliloquy.

“My point is, sir: you are heading toward very dangerous conditions. I’m sure you are aware of the storm mounting in the Caribbean, to your south and east.”

“I am aware of it, yes.”

“Good. Then I would like to know your plans to keep my men and yours safe.”

“We are heading to the Island of Providencia. The island is mountainous, especially on the north end. Along the northwest side of the island is a harbor that should provide a safe place to anchor and wait out the storm. I am heading there.”

“Why not turn west toward Nicaragua?”

“The Nicaraguans have been notoriously unfriendly toward sailors. I’d rather not end up in one of their prisons. Providencia is roughly the same distance and with the prevailing winds and currents, we will arrive there faster and with fewer worries,” explained the Captain.

“That’s very good, Captain,” said Penh in a condescending tone. “I hope for your sake and the sake of your men you know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t need a coward like you to tell me over the phone how to run my own ship,” barked the Captain.

There was a pause on the other end. When Penh spoke, his tone was even and controlled. “You are angry with me, though we have never spoken to each other before.”

“You send your monsters here to my boat with their guns. They intimidate and kill innocent people. I suppose they did so at your command, as if this is some sort of play and we are merely characters on your stage. Why don’t you come here and do it yourself? I tell you: it’s because you’re not man enough. You are a coward.”

Again, Penh waited before answering. “You think shooting of one of your men was unwarranted? If that is the case, I suggest you bring it up with your passenger, Mr. Cook. He could have avoided such violence had he made different choices.”

This time Captain Sewell was silent, so Penh continued. “Yes, that’s right. Your friend, Mr. Cook, has possession of a large quantity of my money. I gave him a choice to hand it over peacefully, but he chose not to cooperate with me. He chose to allow your crew member to be shot while he refused to speak the truth.”

“That’s rubbish. He is an honest man.”

“Maybe in some circumstances he is honest, but when it comes to money, he’s certainly not. You see, Captain Sewell, Collin Cook stole millions of dollars from me. I simply asked him to return it. That’s all. When he refused, my men showed him the consequences of his poor decisions. Now that he knows just how serious we are, I expect that when we get to Panama, he will give me back my money so that you and your crew can continue living. Any deviation from that course will bring about more severe penalties.”

“You’re threatening me? On the phone? First your boys murder one of my men. Then they dump his body in the sea―no proper funeral or last rites, no last words or memorial service. Complete disrespect. That is an insult. It is unacceptable to me and to my men. Now you call to threaten me?” The Captain’s icy demeanor sparked to a flame of indignation.

“Captain Sewell, let me remind you that you are in no position to raise your voice to me or to lecture me about what is acceptable and what is not. My men have boarded your ship and have taken necessary actions to secure your cooperation because you have been harboring a known criminal, a man wanted by the FBI and Interpol for crimes against the United States and Great Britain. He has stolen millions of dollars from me and you have protected him. Did you expect to do so with impunity?”

“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know anything about the money or the crimes you say Collin has committed. And I don’t care. He is my client. He pays me to take him sailing. That’s how I make my living. I don’t judge,” the Captain said, clipping his phrases to keep his emotions in check and to ensure he didn’t say too much.

“I’m sure that is not how the authorities will see it, Captain. You are aiding and abetting a known international fugitive. There are laws against that.”

“I know nothing about his background. I only know that he is a good client and he pays well,” the Captain said, trying to force calm.

“He pays you well because he is using my money,” Penh replied through clinched teeth. After an audible intake of air, he continued. “Very well. We’ll let the authorities deal with that portion of your involvement, if they so choose. I will deal with my own immediate needs by making this a business transaction. I will pay you $250,000 to take my men safely to Panama. Once my business with Mr. Cook is complete, you and your crew will be paid handsomely for your trouble and you will be allowed to carry on as you see fit.”

“What about Mr. Cook? What will become of him?” asked the Captain.

“Mr. Cook is none of your concern. I am now your client. I will be paying you for your services, not Mr. Cook.” The man’s tone was firm and commanding, as if the decision had already been made.

Before the Captain could argue or reject the offer, the line went dead. The Captain pulled the phone away from his ear and studied the screen. He shook his head and frowned. “Damn him!” The Captain continued to hold the phone while he steered until Stinky put out his hand and motioned for him to return it.

*              *              *              *

London, England

June 15, 7:45 p.m. London Time

It had proven to be a day filled with futility and frustration for the ever-hopeful rising star on Interpol London’s Cyber Crime Task Force. Nic Lancaster, working on his fifth cup of coffee since mid-afternoon, leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms and torso. He hadn’t left his cube since lunch other than short bathroom breaks, a couple of trips to the vending machine for coffee and junk food, and a jaunt to the lobby downstairs to pick up delivery food. An open bag of Walker’s Worcester Sauce Crisps―smoky bacon flavor―and a can of Dr. Pepper sat on one side of his computer monitor, a Styrofoam box of cold, half-eaten fish and chips on the other.

Despite his focused efforts, he had no progress to report. A text message on his phone from Alastair stared at him mockingly. He typed and backspaced repeatedly, trying to devise a clever response that would be truthful, yet optimistic. In short, he had contacted every branch of every military he could think of, as well as every American and British law enforcement agency listed. None would agree to hunt the ghost of Collin Cook. He was dead, remember. The only positive note he could sound was that the Colombians had a naval vessel in the area ready to assist distressed craft in the vicinity surrounding the Caribbean Islands they controlled, including Providencia, the closest habitable land to Nic’s last ping of Collin’s secret phone. The Colombians indicated that if there was an emergency, they would do what they could to help, but would not promise anything specifically. That was something, at least.

After a dozen attempts at crafting just the right message, Nic was finally satisfied with what he had typed: “Cook nearing Providencia Island. Colombian naval cutter in the vicinity. Could intercept our man within hours if an emergency were to arise.” He pressed “Send” and drew a deep breath.
A whole day’s work and that’s all you’ve got to show for yourself. Pathetic
.

He emailed Crabtree and McCoy a similar message. Crabtree’s reply was quick and to the point. “We’re not getting any cooperation on this side, either. With a storm on its way, seems likely they are heading toward safe harbor at Providencia, don’t you think?”

“Yes, that seems likely. I’m not having much luck either, but it’s more than we had at the start of the day. Besides, Providencia is not that large an island. Shouldn’t be that difficult to find a sailboat with four gunmen aboard,” Nic typed.

“Depends on getting some assistance finding them,” Crabtree replied.

“That is a bit of an inconvenient truth at the moment. I’m trying to sort something out. Good news is the storm is not yet getting any stronger as it moves westward.”

“Saw that, too. Let’s hope for the best, but some predict the warmer waters to the west will give it more strength. Something to watch, for sure. Keep me apprised, will you?”

“Roger that,” Nic’s email read. He sent this last message, then stood and surveyed the vast, open office. Only a handful of other cubicles had lights on in them. Working late didn’t bother him so long as it moved him toward his goal. He couldn’t help but wonder if this Colllin Cook case was going to help him rise or bring him down. “Follow your instincts,” he had been told so many times in his training. “A good detective has good instincts. Develop them. Trust them. Follow them.”

Six weeks after receiving the assignment to bring in Collin Cook, Nic’s confidence in his instincts was at an all-time low. He was out on a limb, as they say, all by himself. Words from another lesson he had heard so many times from his father echoed in his mind: “The path to the top is going to be lonely.”