ST. THOMAS. THE U.S. Virgin Islands.
The first of several giant cruise ships typically visiting the island on sunny and mild days like today disgorges hordes of camera-bearing tourists onto the quiet streets of Charlotte Amalie, the nucleus of the ten-mile-long island skirting the outline of St. Thomas Harbor.
And here they come, I think, watching the masses being shepherded toward shops lining Main Street and its many alleys, where local merchants carried on a tradition dating back to the eighteenth century, except that the barrels and bales have long since been replaced by nanotronic gadgets, designer jewelry and clothing.
I’m enjoying my breakfast, a mimosa—orange juice and champagne—while watching the spectacle, the rivers of humanity exploring Dronningens Gade, what the locals call Main Street.
It’s become my morning routine to ride into town from my little oceanfront hideaway in nearby Magens Bay, on the north shore, a quick fifteen-minute ride on my new Harley, which I bought over here soon after settling the purchase of my new retirement home. I could have saved a few bucks by buying the bike in the States rather than on this overpriced island, but money is no longer an object for yours truly after Uncle Sam came through for me following my lengthy recovery at a Navy hospital in Bethesda, Maryland, where I pretty much had to learn how to walk all over again. As it turned out, one of the two rounds that those guards pumped into me grazed my spine, giving me the scare of a lifetime when the docs told me I was paralyzed from the waist down. At the time I wasn’t sure if I feared not walking again as much as the possibility of no more hanky-panky, since everything south of the border wasn’t functioning. But lady luck was on my side, and with the help of modern medicine, a pair of terrific rehab nurses, and the Grace of God, I returned to full functionality within a few months.
The mimosa is terrific, as wonderful as the weather in this place, though some of the locals have already warned me about the upcoming hurricane season and urged me to get plywood boards cut to sizes to fit all the windows of my little brick house, where I’ve been enjoying my new life for the past two months. I’m going to get around to it soon.
I sip my mimosa while glancing at the headlines of the Today newspaper, flown in daily from the mainland. It took Germany weeks to settle down following our exciting night several months ago. And not just Germany but the entire world had been in shock when the report of the CyberWerke connection with international terrorists made the headlines, revealing a conspiracy that had started during the closing days of World War II.
I slowly shake my head, amazed that Rolf Hartmann had actually managed to grow so strong so soon totally unchecked until Karen and Tom started poking into Cyber Werke’s affairs—plus Rachel and me, of course.
I sigh, remembering Rachel Muratani.
She had spent a month by my bedside as I struggled to take my first few steps. Unfortunately for me—and fortunately for her—Bane promoted her to assistant to the new head of the Counterterrorism Division at the CIA. That meant she wasn’t able to hang around the D.C. area by the time yours truly became strong enough to attempt to actually consummate our relationship. But we did talk a lot in that month, and unable to perform because the king of the jungle was asleep at the wheel, we actually became really good friends. And since I was once again officially out of the CIA—by personal request—I couldn’t just pick up the phone and call her wherever she was around the world. And of course, because of Agency rules, she couldn’t call me either. In the end, I’d decided to simply write the whole thing off for now and get on with my life. I don’t have that many years left in me and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend them waiting for someone. I made that decision right about the time I was able to get around with just a slight limp and, being independently wealthy, decided to vanish once again, to settle down somewhere warm and far away from the rat race that had been my life up to this point.
But I still often think of Rachel Muratani.
She did write to me twice during the last few weeks of my hospital stay telling me how much she was enjoying her new assignment and also how much she was missing me. I sure miss her too, especially in the evening, but not nearly as much as I used to miss Karen Frost during those first few weeks in El Salvador.
Briefly closing my eyes, I think of Karen, of the times we had together, and decide that they were certainly worth the pain that followed—the hollow feeling that I still feel at times.
Her funeral in D.C. was very high-profile—or so I read. I was unconscious in some hospital in England waiting to become strong enough to be transferred to a D.C.-area hospital. Even the president attended the services.
I mourned Karen’s death in the privacy of my hospital room, and all I can say about that is that she lived and died according to her own rules. She died doing what she loved to do, what was in her blood, what had to be done to prevent a monster like Hartmann from launching World War III.
And the same can be said about my old mentor.
Although Agency rules prevented Troy from getting a high-profile funeral—just the same nameless gold star at the entrance of the main CIA building in Langley he received following his staged disappearance the year before—he will be remembered by those who knew him as one of the finest CIA officers that ever lived. Troy was willing to do everything and anything for his country, for the job—even at the cost of his own life. I didn’t realize until a week later that Karen and Troy knew ahead of time that the assault on Hartmann’s place carried a high probability of being a one-way ticket for both of them, which was the reason for all of the secrecy, for not letting the rest of the team know the full scope of the operation, limiting us to the information we needed to execute our own portion of the mission. Karen and Troy had been mentally prepared to perish in that attack—if that’s what it took to eliminate Hartmann and his cronies. And they did pull it off, eliminating not just Hartmann and Deppe but their inner circle, the men and women trapped upstairs tagged with running the various pieces of their once-global empire.
Now CyberWerke is being broken up into smaller companies around the world according to an agreement negotiated by no one other than President Laura Vaccaro, who was determined not to take any chances of it becoming a monster again.
Speaking of monsters, the reason for all of the satellite shutdowns was that rogue military assembler from USN. Fortunately we had Mike Ryan on the case, and he was able to orchestrate and execute the right plan of attack to bring it down before it too could trigger a disaster.
By the way, Mike Ryan, his wife, Victoria, and their baby swung by one day at the naval hospital toward the end of my recovery period, after Rachel left to do her thing, and paid me a surprise visit. Seeing Ryan reminded me of Karen Frost and the time we spent together tracking down and bagging Ares Kulzak way back when. We sure made one hell of a team, the three of us, back in those dark days in America, and we actually accomplished a good thing for our country.
And as for me, I’m enjoying my new life, which will soon also involve taking tourists out for snorkeling trips around the islands, as soon as my forty-foot cruiser arrives from Florida. Bane was able to get it for me through his connection with the DEA in Florida, from the large number of boats seized from drug dealers in that state. I already have a spot ready for it at the marina near my place, right next to this lady skipper who’s been entertaining tourists on this island for twenty years. We had lunch twice already. The first time so I could pick her brains on the ins and outs of herding tourists around the island and the second time because she has a cute face, is built like a goddess, and is actually my age. But nothing serious has developed yet. I’m being a little more cautious this time around.
Sticking to my daily routine, I finish my morning drink and get ready to head back to my little piece of paradise just as the invaders reach my morning watering hole. As it happens every day, I catch a few looks from some of the ladies while I hop onto my Harley wearing just a pair of shorts, a plain T-shirt, sneakers, shades, very short hair, and a goatee—in memory of Troy. Maybe they’re just admiring my beautiful Harley, or perhaps it’s the fact that my long hospital stay slimmed me down by two sizes—weight I’ve kept off thanks to my daily walks as part of my ongoing rehab exercises. Or perhaps they like my picture-perfect tan from living in this place a couple of months.
The Harley rumbles to life on the first crank and I cruise slowly down the street, the chrome on the bike glistening in the morning sunlight. I’ll be back in the early-evening hours to have another drink after the invading tourists retreat to their ships. These sunrise and sunset Harley rides are probably one of the best aspects of my new life, tying for first place with my long walks on the powder-soft sand of Magens Bay.
It’s just a lovely morning, seventy-two and sunny. I open her up, easing up to fifty as I head up the mountains separating Charlotte Amalie from the north shore. The wind in my face washes away the pain, the bitter memories, the stress of so many years of field operations, of deceptions, of lies, of death.
A convertible packed with girls passes me by. Two of them shout and wave, as if they knew me.
Tourists.
That’s one great thing about living in a place like this. Most everyone—in particular the tourists—is in a great mood. Everybody is as friendly as they’ll ever be, and that just adds to the magic of St. Thomas—in sharp contrast with my former life of deception. In a way, this place is another lie, an illusion, but at least it resides on the opposite end of the spectrum from the surreal world of field operations.
Magens Bay is truly paradise. The sand is perfect. The water is perfect. The temperature is perfect. If you’d see this place in a movie you’d swear it was staged, but it isn’t. Places like this are God’s gift to mankind—or at least to those fortunate enough to be able to afford the ridiculous price tag to live here.
I pull up to my oceanfront place, small in comparison to my neighbors’ digs, but it is all mine—and by the way, most of my affluent neighbors actually don’t live here full-time, which in my mind makes me the luckiest guy on the block even if my place is barely eleven hundred square feet. It has a one-car garage, where I can fit the Harley plus my little two-seater convertible—also a gift from the good people of the Drug Enforcement Administration. Too bad they didn’t have any Harleys in stock when I was shopping around for one; otherwise this motor and chrome would have also been free. But then again, it was all part of Uncle Sam’s compensation package if you think about it.
I step into the kitchen, drop the keys on the tile countertop by the sink, snag a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and walk straight out the rear sliding-glass doors and into a million-dollar view.
I have a small covered patio bordered by the sand sloping down to the actual beach under the wonderful shade of palm trees.
Just like in El Salvador, I have a hammock stretched in between two trunks, and I settle comfortably in it while twisting the plastic top and taking a swig of cold water.
And my mind starts to drift, just as it does every morning while I contemplate the colorful sailboats cruising the turquoise waters, backdropped by a blue horizon peppered with distant vessels. A few people are walking on the beach, mostly folks who live in the neighborhood, as this mile-long stretch of beach by Magens Bay is private property. The public beaches are farther east and west of here. The beautiful sand and surf surrounding me belongs to just a handful of lucky souls.
And it is at this moment, as I’m totally relaxed, that I notice one of the figures walking on the beach suddenly turning in my direction: a woman, tall, slim, tanned, with firm arms and legs. She is barefoot and wearing white shorts, a matching bikini top, and sunglasses. Short dark hair frames her—
I sit up and lift my glasses, blinking my eyes to make sure they aren’t playing tricks on me.
“Hey, Tom.”
I’m standing before I know it, my heart doing cartwheels as I stare dumbfounded at the face of Rachel Muratani, and my eyes automatically drift out to sea, looking for the telltale signs of a field surveillance team.
“Relax, Tom. I’m all alone,” she says, removing her glasses, her eyes filled with dark amusement.
“Sorry,” I reply, my throat suddenly going dry at the sight of her. “Habits. The last time I saw you on a beach I—”
“You look good, Tom,” she says, coming up to me, putting a hand on my cheek. “I missed you terribly.”
“Where—where did you go? I completely lost touch with you, except for a couple of letters.”
She smiles, leans forward, and kisses me softly on the lips before saying, “How quickly we forget. You know I can’t tell you that.”
I smile too, before embracing her, before losing myself in those awesome green eyes, in her fine features, in that delicious chocolate freckle hovering just above her full lips.
She kisses me again, the taste of her reminding me of Paris, of the brief moments we spent alone on that dark street making out like a pair of teenagers.
“It’s good to be with you again,” she mumbles, her eyes closed as I kiss her wonderful freckle.
“I missed you, Rachel Muratani,” I confess. “Not only did I miss your kiss but also your voice, your company, your—”
Rachel puts a finger to my lips. “Just hold me,” she says.
I do, pressing her against me, holding her like I once held Madison and Karen, my hands running the length of her bare back.
“When did you get here?” I ask, her face buried in my chest.
“Today.”
“How long are you—”
“Hush,” she says. “I’m here today, darling.”
“And tomorrow?”
“One day at a time,” she replies, clasping the sides of my face. “Let’s take it one day at a time, shall we?”
I hug her again while nodding, while silently accepting her terms, while slowly surrendering myself to the soothing comfort of her nearness.