24

 

Mary’s Garden, Leeward Islands

 

Kristin felt close to tears as she approached the tiny island’s one hotel. She and Sledge had spent such a beautiful evening together, and she had to ruin it with that silly phobia. For years she’d told herself that big men could stand conversationally close and be innocent of any threat. But the telling did no good. Whenever one leaned over her, that old irrational reaction took control.

The memory ruined what should be an enjoyable trip: all expenses paid in a tropical paradise. And she couldn’t complain about variety in her life—first the Andean cold and now the burning Caribbean sun that forced her into sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat.

The flight to Saint Kitts had been uneventful, and she’d paused there only long enough to glimpse the bulk of Mount Misery before taking the small passenger boat to Mary’s Garden. From there it would proceed west to something called the Isle of Saint Mark before returning.

In her hotel room she scanned her tourist map of the island and reviewed her assignment. Check the dock facilities and find out what cargo ships had been here recently, especially the Preening Peacock. That shouldn’t be difficult because the island was so small.

A wave of depression swept over her as she again recalled the previous evening. She forced the incident from her mind. This was her first assignment from the influential Roger Brinkman. It might be simple, but she’d give it everything she had.

And no fit of megrims was going to spoil it.

 

****

 

Houston, Texas

 

In the afternoon two days after his dinner with Kristin, Sledge still brooded over that evening’s unsettling close. Except for the unpleasant conclusion, the evening had been more delightful than any he’d known since he lost Alita.

Kristin’s conduct at the end seemed starkly at odds with the rest of her character. In spite of her brattiness during the rescue, she’d proved a first-rate soldier after they found the factory. She hadn’t even complained about Novak’s insistence on temporary censorship. Sledge admired her for those responses, and he liked her company. Over dinner they’d found they agreed about a lot of things. If only she hadn’t pulled that idiotic stunt at the end.

The causes of his brooding ran deeper than that, though. He was supposed to be starting his life as New Sledge. He’d spent the day reviewing college catalogs for law-enforcement programs. But his heart wasn’t in it.

A sense of unfinished business gave a bitter taste to all he thought and did. Seizing the factory hadn’t ended the threat of deadly chemical weapons. Several shipments had already been sent by air. They had to have gone somewhere. Brinkman and Novak had scattered agents all over the Caribbean to find out where. But would they find the right place?

His mind told him to drop it, that he’d done his part. But his instincts rebelled. And his old nemesis, the world’s emptiness, had closed in again. No matter how many risks he took, no matter how noble the causes for which he labored, the emptiness came back as soon as he finished. There must be some level of truth or reality he hadn’t yet discovered.

Where could he find it? The name Glenn Vickers leaped into his mind. Vickers ought to be back from Colombia by now. That meant the kind of church talk Sledge had avoided for years. Ever since those hypocrites had shunned his father, claiming his disabilities from Vietnam were a judgment on him for the crimes they assumed he’d committed there. He wanted none of their kind of religion.

But Vickers seemed different. Sledge reached for the telephone.

Before he could dial, the doorbell rang. Reluctantly, he answered.

A worried Roger Brinkman stood on his doorstep. “Jeb, a problem has come up, and I don’t have anyone to cover it.”

Sledge’s caution waved red flags. “I can name several private investigation firms in Houston.” Grudgingly, he invited Brinkman in and guided him to a chair. “I thought you’d gone back to Denver.”

“Some business kept me in town, but that’s not what brought me here.” The older man’s voice held unaccustomed tension. “One of my men in the Caribbean has been murdered.”

Sledge suppressed his interest. “I’ve heard they have police in most places down there. Besides, I don’t have my license yet.”

“The police can handle the murder investigation. I need someone to complete the man’s assignment.”

“What was that?” Sledge felt his reluctance fading.

“We’re trying to find the place that received shipments of weapons from that factory. My man’s assignment was a small island near Saint Kitts.”

Sledge’s interest quickened. That was near the place where Kristin had gone. “Suppose you tell me what you know.”

Brinkman hesitated as if making a difficult decision. “All right. Brian Novak told me what tech intel said about that weapons factory. The blister agent was a variant of mustard gas, and the nerve gas did turn out to be sarin. They also found organic material from a class known as tricothecene mycotoxins.”

“That sounds like a Turkish sermon,” Sledge said.

“You don’t have to be a chemist to understand the essentials. They’re organic toxins formed by molds on wheat, corn, and other grains. About thirty-five milligrams on the skin will kill you. The least important symptoms are hard blisters, but these things also tear up the stomach and intestines. Bleeding from bodily orifices follows, along with subcutaneous hemorrhage.”

“Does that explain what we saw in Kristin’s photographs?”

“That and more. Have you been briefed on Soviet chemical warfare in Laos?”

“And in Yemen and Afghanistan. A lot of what we heard was conjectural. Is this the same stuff?”

“It’s far worse. The chemical agents used in those countries had to be delivered separately—one aircraft, one agent. But now somebody has added a way to put all the agents into the same mortar shell. I can’t think of a more deadly additive.”

The familiar cannonball returned to Sledge’s stomach. “And several production runs of this are loose somewhere in the Caribbean?”

“Either at an island transshipment point or, we think, on a ship called the Preening Peacock. The ship’s destination is North Korea—with Steve Spinner’s philanthropic shipment of food and medicine.”

“Surely Novak can have the ship stopped and searched at the Panama Canal.”

“Maybe, if it goes that way. The United States doesn’t control the canal any more, and there’s a lot of bribe money in those parts. Besides, the ship may take the long way around—through the Indian Ocean.”

“Do you have your own people watching the canal?”

Brinkman grimaced. “I have a few contacts, but they’re outsiders with their own affairs to look after. Right now I’m interested in covering one island.”

“Even if you stop that shipment, though, that’s not the end. Someone had to design those weapons, and someone provided financial backing for the factory. This show isn’t over until the whole organization is put out of business.”

“You’re right, but we don’t have a clue who those people are. Spinner may be their client and still know nothing about the organization. We hope tracking the shipment will open up some leads.”

Sledge once again felt responsibility settle onto his shoulders. He’d wanted for years to break that habit, but he couldn’t seem to manage it. “Tell me about that island.”

“It’s called the Isle of Saint Mark, a bit west of Saint Kitts. Someone fished our man out of the water there yesterday. He’d been tied hand and foot, and shot five times in the chest.”

“You’d think with all that water around they’d weight him down.”

“The police think they tried and botched the job.”

Sledge thought for a moment. “Was he killed because of his assignment?”

“We don’t know. He might have stumbled onto drug smuggling or some other racket. That’s why I need a special kind of guy to take over the job.”

Responsibility shifted into a comfortable position and took up residence. “What do you want me to do?”

“Look for any evidence that the Isle of Saint Mark received the weapons shipments. Find out what ships, if any, took on cargo there in the last two weeks. Leave the murder investigation to the police. And don’t get yourself killed.”

“What do I do for a weapon? I can’t carry one on the flight.”

“You’ll be met on Saint Kitts. They don’t frisk passengers on the boat to Saint Mark.” Brinkman rose and headed for the door. “When you finish the job, you might look up Kristin on Mary’s Garden. The two of you could enjoy a few days’ vacation before her story breaks.”

Sledge gritted his teeth. “I didn’t realize you ran a dating service.” Secretly, he thought a vacation with Kristin was a great idea.

“Good luck!” Brinkman handed Sledge an airline ticket and was gone.

The rascal knew all the time I’d take the job.

As Sledge stared at the ticket, the full weight of his mission bore down on him. On a tiny island, one man had been murdered for reasons unknown. Sledge had to walk into that hostile environment armed with an unfamiliar weapon someone would hand to him on Saint Kitts. Knowing no one on the Isle of Saint Mark, he was supposed to find what the first man had not: a lead to the evil genius who designed the deadly weapons.

He looked at the telephone. His call to Vickers would have to wait until he came back. If he came back.

He’d tried to break out of these hazardous operations and lead a quiet life, yet he always got dragged back in. He had finished the rescue, only to get involved in finding the factory. He’d told the authorities about the factory, only to get involved in seizing it. Now he’d become involved in tracing the factory’s shipments.

It seemed as if an unseen force had selected him for a mission he was helpless to avoid. Well, if he couldn’t avoid it, he best get on with it, no matter the cost.