In the morning, Ford swam a quarter mile along the beach and jogged back to find a stranger seated on a stump outside his rental cottage. Human males do a visual appraisal automatically because their olfactory powers are weak. Caucasian, tanned, with some burning. Mid-thirties, six-two, one-eighty, delicate hands. A tourist fly fisherman, clothes a techno flag of expensive miracle fibers. Money, privileged class. A possible threat, but not the bust-your-head type.
This was not the ex-military cage fighter Tomlinson had warned him about. And nothing like the close call last night with Purcell.
He slowed to a walk. “If you’re looking for bonefish, I saw a couple of schools on my run. Uhh . . . do you mind?”
The stump blocked a sandy path to the outdoor shower. The man got up, saying, “Dr. Ford? I pictured you younger—but looks like you’re still in fairly good shape—considering. Want me to toss you a towel?”
This subtle barb was the first red flag. And one flag was enough. “Tell you what, come back and knock, then introduce yourself. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Half an hour ought to do.”
“I already knocked.”
“Try again, maybe your luck will change.”
“It already has. She wouldn’t answer, so I waited. That’s how it works in my world.”
Ford looked at the man, then past him, seeing a screened porch where a swimsuit—panties, a bra, too—hung drying on a line. The cottage was tiny, one room. Its roof of tin dented by coconuts from palms that shaded this stretch of beach. Inside, a woman’s silhouette appeared near an open window, where she might be able to hear if they moved closer. Then it disappeared.
“Let’s get out of the sun,” Ford said, and walked to a pair of chairs near a hammock. “Why not start by telling me why you’re acting like such an asshole?”
The man decided a staredown was unwise. “I get impatient. So, sue me. I’ve always been this way. I’m doing you a favor if you’ll give me a chance.”
“Impatient people can end up being patients.”
It took a second. “Oh, I get it. Like in a hospital. A sense of humor. I didn’t expect bad jokes either.”
The man was working on a book, he claimed, about a modern pirate who was jailed for contempt after refusing to reveal where he’d stashed millions in gold bars and coins. His first book, the man said, and it might require a pen name because Jamie Middlebrook was too bland, plus, in stores, you had to get on your knees to see the M shelf. “What do you think of Sebastian Bunch?”
“One’s as believable as the other,” Ford replied. “What does this have to do with me?” He’d been warned about a journalist, too. But Middlebrook—whatever his name was—was more likely an Ivy League recruit hired by some federal agency. Over the years, he had dealt with enough to know. A plausible cover story, clothes too new, an ingratiating hard-on manner that suggested electronic intel and access to Black Hawk helicopters if necessary.
“I’m getting to that,” Middlebrook said. He gave the cottage a look. “Why don’t you ask her to come out? Might save us all some time.”
“Think of me as a filtering device,” Ford said. “It’s a term biologists use. And time is something you’re running low on. Start by explaining how you know my name and that I’d be gone long enough for you to case the place.”
“I’m a thief, sure. That’s why I chose your palatial rental cabin to rob. Now who’s being an asshole?”
“I’m in sort of a rush. They don’t teach social skills at Princeton or wherever it was you majored in—what?—political science, international law. Those used to be the favorites. I suppose it could be computers now.”
The man’s face went blank. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Middlebrook,” Ford shrugged. “Isn’t that the name of a famous brokerage house or bank or something? New England, so I figured a family business.”
“That explains it,” the man said but wasn’t convinced. “As I was saying, the guy I’m writing about started a company called Benthic Exploration. A really fascinating character. Then conned his investors out of a bundle—that’s who took him to court first, his investors. Jimmy Jones. Does the name ring a bell?”
Ford, wearing just shorts, started to get up, a towel around his neck. “I’m going to shower and have breakfast. When you get to how this concerns me, wave.”
“Dr. Leonard Nickelby. Does that name ring a bell?” The man smiled, pleased by the effect. “Finally, I have your attention.”
“What about him?”
“Like I said, I’m trying to do you a favor. Don’t take this the wrong way, Dr. Ford. You should stick to fish and give up playing amateur detective. Personally, I don’t care about the old fool. Take him home to his nightmare of a wife. And your pal’s logbook, while you’re at it. Lydia Johnson is the one I want to find. Lydia worked for Benthic as a low-rung gofer, or so the feds and everyone else believed at the time. I don’t suppose you know where they’re hiding?”
“Nightmare is a cruel way to describe the woman who’s paying you,” Ford countered. “Or is it just expenses and enough information to get you this far?”
Again, the sharp look of surprise. It faded. “You’d have to meet the woman to understand, but you’re right. She wouldn’t have told me a damn thing if I’d used any other approach. Like I’m actually going to write about her husband if he doesn’t come home? Lydia is all I care about. I need to find her before someone else does. No shit. Jimmy ran off with four hundred million in gold, and she might be the only one who knows where he stashed it. Maybe you read about him being beaten to death in prison a few weeks ago.”
“How much?”
“Almost half a billion reasons for you not to get involved. As a biologist, you might be unaware there are people who’d kill for a lot less.”
Ford settled into his chair. Not meek but willing to listen. “I’m not naïve. That’s why I think you’re exaggerating.”
“What if I’m not? Is it worth betting your life? Hers, too”—another nod toward the porch—“and anyone else who has information on that pair.” Middlebrook saw the reaction he’d hoped for. “Good. You’re a reasonable man—most are when it comes to that much money.”
“When you say ‘ran off,’ how much would four hundred million in gold weigh? You have to admit, what you’re saying is hard to believe.”
“Not really. Figure around sixteen thousand dollars a pound, but worth a lot more at auction. It would fill a space about the size of two refrigerators. Easy enough to move even with a fairly small boat.”
“Up to a ton, maybe,” Ford nodded. “It’s a lot more manageable, you breaking it down like that. Even a recreational trawler could handle the load, sure.”
Middlebrook liked that response, too. “Let me give you the backstory. The SS Panama went down during a boom period after the Civil War. It carried fifteen tons in gold ingots, for starters, a shipment ordered secretly by the U.S. Treasury. Add another two tons in gold bars, paid for in advance by the Spanish mint. You didn’t read about this? I wouldn’t waste my time looking for a logbook that belongs to some third-rate treasure hunter. No offense, I’m sure Mr. Fitzpatrick’s a good guy and all, but get yourself killed in the process? You strike me as too smart for that.”
“Obviously not.” Ford smiled. “If I look up Benthic Exploration and the rest, the numbers won’t change?”
“Worth more, according to some. As much as six hundred million. Spain wants its cut and so does the U.S. government. I’ve heard certain factions in El Salvador claim the gold is theirs, too, because that’s where it was mined. Believe me, when news got out about Jimmy’s death, the mercenary types started polishing their résumés. You really want to get caught in the middle of that?”
“Geezus, a perfect political storm.”
“Afraid so.”
“You came on like such a jerk I guess it’s possible I overreacted.”
“Don’t worry about it. How’d you know I contacted Nickelby’s wife?”
“Fitz is the old friend of a friend,” Ford said.
“That’s what I figured. Did he say anything about Lydia Johnson?”
“Not even her last name. And I certainly didn’t know she was involved with—”
“I’m not the only one who thinks so. There’s no hard evidence, but after eliminating almost everyone else it’s what you might call a well-researched hunch. I know this much for certain—Nickelby’s wife has a big mouth. If you and your pals know those two are in the Bahamas, how many others do you think are aware? I didn’t have any trouble tracking you down, Dr. Ford. Think about it.”
Ford appeared concerned. “The way it started was, I was here on a project anyway, so I thought why not poke around, ask a few questions, and help Fitz. Sorta fun, you know? But now . . . Geezus, I had no idea what I was walking into.”
“The résumé thing—what I meant is, forget about common thieves and murderers. The behind-the-scenes power brokers will send in pros. Experts who’d torture to get information, then—” The man swiped a finger across his throat. “That’s why I have to watch my ass every step of the way. Difference is, I knew the score, you didn’t. So I thought a friendly warning was in order. I hope I can trust you not to blab this around.”
“Not if it all checks out.”
“I guess that’ll have to do for now. There’s someone else who wouldn’t talk to me—Hubert Purcell. But he was very protective of you. He said don’t mess with the biologist, like you were buddies. That you’d done him a big favor and he owed you. What did he mean by that?”
Ford shared a partial truth about fixing Purcell’s GPS before getting back to Lydia Johnson. “I was an idiot not to do an Internet search before I left Andros Town. Instead, I researched Nickelby. Four hundred million, Jesus Christ, and I’m worried about Fitzpatrick’s logbook.”
“You wouldn’t have found much on her. Lydia’s not new to this game. She spent the last six years living under the radar. Fake IDs and a bunch of aliases. She and Nickelby will do the same thing until Lydia cuts him loose—and she will when she doesn’t need a boyfriend and the logbook story as cover. But there’s one thing those two can’t fake. Any idea what that is?”
Yes—diver certification cards. Unless they were willing to lug scuba tanks and buy an air compressor, there was no getting around it. The Bahamian government monitored dive shops weekly. One screwup and the owner was out of business. But Ford replied, “The color of their skin, I suppose—no, that’s wrong. There’re thousands of native white Bahamians. I got it—their fingerprints.”
Middlebrook got to his feet, smiling. “Obviously. Look, consider this an introduction. How about we get together this afternoon for drinks, then stroll over and have a chat with Purcell? I’m half a mile down the beach, the red house. You know the one? It sits off by itself.”
That explained a lot. Half an hour ago, Ford had swam past the place. “I have a meeting this afternoon off island, so how about tonight? Around nine should be good.”
“The sooner, the better. And bring her, now that you understand.” He didn’t bother to reference the cottage. “Just talking with those two has put her in danger, and, from what I heard, she’s had enough tragedy for one life. I’ll go easy with the questions.”
Inside the cottage window, the blinds moved, while Ford asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Like you don’t know. Her husband and kid drowned a couple years back. He was drunk.” Middlebrook interpreted surprise as doubt. “Don’t play dumb. I know she’s in there. I would’ve found her last night if she hadn’t gone back to using her maiden name. So tell her she can trust me, okay?”
“Tell who?”
“Jesus, you’re a stubborn bastard. The dive shop owner. Tamarinda Constance is the name on the sign, but she took out the mortgage as Tamarinda Gatrell. That’s what threw me.”