Sam checked the bow line of the little skiff and helped Deek across into her patrol boat. She was tempted to leave him in his own boat but she didn’t want him trying to motor away. She needed to figure out what she was dealing with before she got back to the sergeant with either a warning about a possible attack or, more likely, to handover another Florida crazy.
Sam eased the throttle forward until the towline was taut but kept it slow so she could hear what the “federal agent” had to say.
“So why do you think there’s going to be a terrorist attack?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He had his eyes on Baskin Island as they motored past.
“Yeah, you said that. You were watching that guy. You’re still looking for him. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. Not exactly.”
“So how do you know he’s a terrorist?”
“The evidence.”
“Let me guess, you can’t share.”
Deek turned and looked at Sam. He was a little green around the gills but that might have been the water reflecting off his pale skin.
“What do you know about Azerbaijan?” he asked.
“Azerbaijan? The country?”
“Yes.”
“Not much. Eastern Europe, former Soviet territory, I think. On the Caspian Sea, isn’t it?”
“You know more than most.”
“Don’t they have oil?”
“They do. And natural gas. That’s what drives their economy.”
“So?”
“So do you know much about Armenia?”
“This is going to go faster if you quit the Trivial Pursuit bit and just tell me what you think is going on.”
“Okay. Armenia is the next-door neighbor to Azerbaijan. Landlocked between it and Turkey. The Azeri and the Armenians have a long history of acrimony. Even today there is contested territory between them. They’re pretty much constantly in conflict.”
“You mean war?”
“They try not to call it that. But the Azeri have to get their oil and gas out to Europe, and they have done that for a long time using pipelines via Russia. That relationship is proving problematic these days. There’s another pipeline—an EU sanctioned one—that runs through Georgia and around to Turkey, then on to Europe. There have been a number of ‘accidents’ on that pipeline—sabotage might be another word, so the Azeri are looking at backup plans.”
“Through Armenia?”
“Exactly.”
“But they’re at war.”
“In conflict, yes. It’s a problem. But I’ve uncovered information that a meeting has been arranged between the ambassadors to the United States of both countries to attempt to broker a peace, or at least an economic detente. I believe that meeting is due to take place later this week at this boat show you’re having.”
“International peace talks at a boat show? I can see why you’re having trouble selling this to your people.”
“The boat show is a cover. The whole thing is being brokered by the industrialist Harold Hildebrand.”
“Who?”
“He’s one of the fifty richest men in the world. A billionaire twenty times over.”
“I don’t read The Economist as much as I used to.”
“You read The Economist?”
“No, agent. It was a joke.”
“Oh. I see.”
“So you think someone’s going to disturb these peace talks?”
“I do.”
“Who? The Azerbaijanis or Armenians?”
“People from Azerbaijan are called Azeri, but no, not one of the sides. A third party.”
“The Georgians with the pipeline? No, the Russians. If you tell me it’s the Russians I’ll be sad.”
“Are you Russian?”
“No, but it would be horribly cliché.”
“Well it’s not the Russians.”
“Who then?” Sam turned the wheel toward Pineland and headed into a small marina with an expansive boat shed.
“Where are we going?” asked Deek.
“I told you, to see the sergeant.”
“No offense, but this looks like a backwater.”
“None taken. It is. That’s why we like it. But this is where the local office is.”
As Sam eased in against the dock with a practiced hand, Deek pulled his feet up onto the seat and tucked his chin into his knees. She cut the motor and tied off and then turned to him.
“You okay?”
“He’s not going to believe me,” said Deek.
“You could work on your story, I gotta admit.”
“They don’t want to see it. Not my boss, not your boss.”
“Listen, I’m going to let him know we’re back, and you can work on your sales pitch. Just a tip—get to the point.” Sam climbed up onto the dock and walked along past the boatshed. The doors were closed up for the day. Sam took a look back at her patrol boat before she turned the corner to the office. The agent was still semi-fetal in the boat.
Sam reached the glass door that read Lee County Sheriff’s Office Gulf District and pulled at the handle. It didn’t budge. She tried again with the same result. She cupped her hand and peered inside. It was dark, as if everyone had quit for the day. The office wasn’t a twenty-four-hour operation but it wasn’t that late. As she stepped back she saw a note taped on the inside of the glass. It told whoever cared that the duty officer was on the water and left the non-emergency number to call for assistance.
Sam didn’t call for assistance. She strode back around to the boat where Deek still sat. He had put his feet down but his face was etched in uncertainty.
“Strikeout,” she said. “The sarge is on the water.”
“So what do we do?”
“I got someone else. Someone better. But first, you gotta explain this stuff to me.”
“Explain what?”
“The why, the who, the how?”
“I have no idea how. But the why? It’s all oil and gas. See, Harold Hildebrand owns oil and gas operations all over the world. But he’s smart. Do you know the California Gold Rush, the forty-niners?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“From 1848 to 1855. Lots of fortunes were made. But not by the gold diggers.”
“By whom?”
“The merchants. You don’t make money digging for gold, you make money selling the shovels and buckets and denim jeans. And Harold Hildebrand knows his history. Sure, he’s right into the oil and gas business, but he also owns businesses that make the specialized drilling equipment, and build and manage pipelines, and he builds the ships that transport the stuff all over the planet.”
“So?”
“So he has businesses everywhere, but not so much in Europe, especially Eastern Europe, where most of the EU’s energy comes from. It’s dominated by Eurasian businesses, not surprisingly. And Hildebrand wants his piece.”
“You remember the bit I said about getting to the point?”
“There’s a breadcrumb trail that suggests that Hildebrand is hosting the peace talks on his new super yacht that will have its maiden voyage at the boat show.”
“Still don’t see any terrorism.”
“It’s all a lie.”
“What is?”
“Hildebrand’s goal to get into the European supply pipelines, setting up the peace talks.”
“Hang on. You’ve come up with a theory about peace talks that no one in your agency buys and then you say the theory is bunk? Are you dizzy, ’cause you’re walking around circles, mate.”
“No, the peace talks are real. It’s Hildebrand’s motive that I’m saying is a lie. I think he’s setting up the talks in order to sabotage them and drive the two parties further apart, not closer together.”
“The point, fella. Why?”
“Because he controls the transportation of liquified natural gas. You’d call it LNG.”
“I’m not sure I would, but so what?”
“When the Georgia pipeline was attacked and Russian supplies were limited, the EU had to find alternatives. One of those was US LNG. Hildebrand owns the rights to some of the fields and pretty much all the specialized vessels to ship it over to Europe. He made a bundle from it. But then the pipeline was repaired and the EU looked at other options because piped natural gas is much cheaper than shipped LNG. Hildebrand’s business should have taken a hit when things went back to normal.”
“And they didn’t?”
“The share prices on a couple of his businesses did, but then he did something counterintuitive. He started building more LNG transport ships. Demand for US LNG was going down but he was acting like it was going up.”
“Like he knew something?”
“Right. And I think he knew about the Azeri-Armenian pipeline talks. I think he’s organizing the peace talks so he can disrupt them and drive Europe toward more dependence on US gas.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“That’s what my boss said. But the Azeri ambassador has a vacation home in Miami, and he grew up in Baku, on the Caspian Sea. He’s a keen sailor, both in South Florida and on Chesapeake Bay. And the Armenian ambassador grew up in a resort village on Lake Sevan. I don’t have any intel on whether he sails here, but it’s not a stretch for two guys who love boats to meet up under the cover of a boat show.”
Sam frowned. There were more loose ends in the story than a Scottish tapestry, but there was just enough to make her wonder. If she did nothing and something happened, then what?
“Okay, follow me. There’s someone who needs to hear all this.”
Sam led Deek to her personal boat—a Frankenstein’s monster of a vessel, cobbled together from used parts that didn’t really belong with each other. She carefully opened the throttle and puttered across the sound and over to Baskin Island. Deek focused on the inlet at the north end, where the small marina and most of the houses were. Sam moved her eyes between the agent and the mangroves that enveloped the east side of the island. When she saw the tiny cut of beach in the middle of the island she changed heading.
“Where are we going?” asked Deek.
“Home, first.”
“There’s nothing there.”
“I know.” Sam smiled. The mangroves acted like sentries either side of a small beach which Sam coasted in toward. A weather-beaten stilt house sat to one side, otherwise the place felt like the end of the earth.
Sam coasted into the beach and tilted the outboard as Deek jumped onto the sand.
“What is this place?”
“Home,” said Sam, jumping from the boat, and dropping an anchor into the sand. She didn’t stop, instead leading Deek into the foliage. In a couple of minutes they came upon an old shack that looked in worse shape than the stilt house.
“Is this where you live?” Deek asked, running his hand along the rough top of an old wooden picnic table.
“No, this is Herm’s place. Come on.”
Sam led Deek on through the bushes and broke out onto a long wide stretch of white beach. Deek stopped when his feet hit the soft sand and looked both ways. There were no buildings or people to be seen.
“Wow,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” said Sam, marching on down the beach. They headed south toward the point where the island thinned out like the tail of a seahorse. At the far end of the beach several pilings stuck out of the water as if there had once been a dock of some kind, but whatever had been there was long gone.
Except for a pontoon boat. It was grimy and the canvas top was bleached to a color that was as much blue as pink. The vessel had twin pontoons as its hull, on top of which was a flat deck surrounded by railings. On one railing someone had attached a sign painted in a 1930s Hollywood marquee script. It read: Jerry’s.
“Who’s Jerry?”
“You don’t want to go down that rabbit hole,” said Sam. “Just stick to your knitting.”
Sam stepped onto a gangway that led up from the beach to the boat. There were people on board, and they each had a drink in their hand as if a party cruise was about to get underway.
“Hey, Shaq,” said Sam to a guy behind a makeshift bar. He was blending something with ice, and as Deek got onboard Shaq poured two tall glasses of yellow liquid which he garnished with a piece of pineapple.
“Pineapple margaritas,” he said with a beaming smile.
“Lovely,” she replied after a sip. “Shaq, this is Deek.”
“Hey, Deek. Margarita?”
“Um, sure?”
“This one’s yours.”
Sam led Deek onto the boat where four people had been chatting. Now they all stopped and stared as if it was a western saloon.
“What are you all gawking at?” she asked.
A man with a long gray ponytail and an acoustic guitar across his lap smiled. He was north of sixty but the smile still made Sam catch her breath every time. “Who’s your friend?” he asked.
“Jo Jo, his name is Deek, and you can all wipe the silly expressions off your faces. It’s not what you think.”
“It never is, darlin’.”
Deek peered at the older man. “Do I know you?”
He smiled again. “Were you there that night I woke up lying in the gutter on the Sunset Strip with Jon Bon Jovi?”
“Ah, no.”
The man shrugged.
“Deek, Jo Jo Tanner. He was a rock star, a long time ago.”
Sam shook her head and sat on a side bench seat and gestured for Deek to join her. He sat down between Sam and a dark-haired guy in a polo shirt.
“Deek, this is Detective Dusty Rodriguez. Tell him your story.”
“He’s not going to believe me.”
“Deek, no one is ever going to believe you if you start every story with that. Just tell it, will you?”
Deek took a sip of his drink and turned to the detective who watched him with a frown. He told Dusty what he had told Sam, about the oil and gas and the tankers and Harold Hildebrand. He explained the links with the ambassadors, and the anticipated maiden voyage of a new super yacht where the meeting would take place.
Dusty listened without interruption, then when Deek was done he spoke.
“And you’re a federal agent?”
“Kind of.”
“Being an agent is not really a kind of thing.”
“I work for the federal government.”
“You got ID, a card, something?”
Deek pulled out his wallet and handed Dusty a business card.
“Maritime Administration.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. Let me make a couple calls.” Dusty stood and walked down onto the beach and headed away.
“Where’s he going?” asked Deek.
“Reception’s not much cop here,” said Sam. “Sometimes you get lucky on the other side.”
“Listen, I can’t hang around. I’m supposed to return my boat rental before dark.”
“Right.” Sam leaned across to a woman on the other side of the boat. “Hey, Chris.”
“Hey, Sam. How was the briefing today?”
“Boring as hell. Listen, Deek here rented a boat from Tarpon Bay, but he’s not going to get it back tonight.”
“No problems. They’ve already moved a few of their other boats to our marina, so I’ll just give Tania a call later and let her know I’ve got it.”
“Great. It’s tied up at Pineland right now but I can bring it down in the morning.”
“Sure.”
“You full up?”
“Pretty much. They’re moving everyone out so they can bring in all the trade show boats. Seems like a big deal. You know we had a break in?”
“No. Did you call it in?”
“No point. I told Dusty. Someone cut their way into the caged space out the back where we keep the scuba gear.”
“Anything missing?”
“Looks like an old tank, mask, some fins. Honestly, if someone’s that desperate to dive around here, I would have lent it to them for free.”
“That kit’s not exactly new.”
Chris shrugged.
“Nothing else? No cash or anything from the store?”
“The back door wasn’t touched.”
“Weird.”
“Florida.”
Sam nodded, then she turned to the sound of Dusty walking back up the gangplank.
“An agent? Really?” He frowned at Deek.
“I’m a federal employee.”
“You’re an economist. A paper pusher.”
“Yes.”
“You’re an economist?” spat Sam.
“Yes, but that doesn’t make me wrong. In fact, it’s why I’m right.”
“You got thirty seconds before I boot you from this boat and you can swim home, mate.”
“Okay, I’m an analyst for the Maritime Administration. I track ship building around the world as an economic indicator, and for potential national security implications.”
“You follow who builds boats?”
“And their movements around the globe. Ships change hands more often than you’d think.”
“So you’re a boat spotter?” said Sam.
“I wouldn’t put it that way.” He sucked on his drink. “So what if I am?”
“Well, I grew up on the Isle of Wight, and half the people I knew were boat spotters. And they didn’t miss much.”
Deek paused. “So you believe me?”
“How do you know about the oil and gas pipelines?” asked Dusty.
“I didn’t, at first. I noticed Hildebrand building his new gas tankers first. It raised the question, why. So I did some digging.”
“How about this super yacht?” asked Sam.
“I was already watching that. It’s technically not my job, it’s not merchant marine, but I track super yachts for fun.”
“For fun?” said Dusty.
“Yes. I tracked it being built in Italy. It’s a special design, low draft to travel easily across the Bahamas bank. I knew it belonged to Hildebrand.”
“But how did you put these ambassadors on board?”
“I can’t, not a hundred percent. But I have a friend at the State Department. We were at Georgetown together. He connected those dots for me.”
“Does he believe your story?” asked Sam.
“He wants to be head of his department someday, so he’s keeping his head down.”
“Smart,” said Dusty. “You don’t want that?”
“I don’t want someone blowing up a super yacht with people on board.”
Dusty took a deep breath. “I don’t know, pal. I don’t see any connection to this Hildebrand guy. This super yacht isn’t even here.”
“It will be. It’s arriving during the show. And Hildebrand already has a boat here.”
“How do you know that?” asked Sam.
Deek pulled out his phone. “See this? It’s a boat tracking app. I built it.”
“You are a boat spotter. What’s it do?”
“Anyone who likes to track boats can enter the details—registration, names, dates, routes, that sort of thing.”
“Any boat?”
“Any boat. Some people follow interesting aircraft too. Most of us only track bigger boats—the super yachts, shipping, cruise ships. But many people log pleasure cruisers and sailboats, basically anything that moves across the ocean. The commercial vessels have transponders much like aircraft, so there’s other software that can track them in real time, but we like to log things we see for ourselves.”
“So what’s this got to do with Hildebrand?” asked Dusty.
“I logged a motor yacht—sixty-footer—that came up as owned by him.”
“Where?”
“At a dock right over there.” Deek point across the island toward the sound. “There are four houses at the end. It was at one of them. It’s called the Aeolus.”
“Enoch’s houses,” said Sam. “I saw it, too. And you’re sure it’s Hildebrand’s?”
“Yep. But I’m sure the detective can look up the Coast Guard records.”
“I can and I will,” said Dusty. “Did you know anything about someone staying at Enoch’s place?”
“No,” said Sam. “But I can call his office tomorrow and find out.”
“Yeah, do that.”
“So you believe me?” asked Deek.
Dusty shrugged. “I’m having a hard time seeing a billionaire blowing up his own yacht, especially if he’s going to be on it.”
“He’s the money, not the one doing the job.”
“So who’s doing the job?”
Deek shifted in his seat. “This is where it gets hard to believe.”
“This is where?”
“You ever heard of Şeytan Taciri?” Deek asked, pronouncing it Shay-tahn Tah-jeer-ee, doing his best not to mangle the Azerbaijani.
“No. Who is he?”
“He’s a shadow. Part myth, part legend. Thought to be behind everything from corporate espionage to acts of terrorism. He’s believed to come out of Eastern Europe. Maybe Romania, maybe Bulgaria. Some say he’s a mercenary for hire, others believe he’s the mastermind. He’s been credited by European authorities with political assassinations and corporate boardroom takeovers. The word is that he was behind the Georgia pipeline sabotage.”
“Hold on a tick,” Sam said. “Şeytan? Satan? Is that really his name?”
“Well, I doubt it’s on his birth certificate. In Azerbaijani, it means ‘devil,’ and Taciri means ‘merchant.’ I’ve always assumed it was a nickname he got from his enemies, given his reputation.”
“Who has a file on him?” asked Dusty. “Interpol?”
“Almost certainly. Most European security agencies will. FBI and DHS as well, I’m guessing. But from what I hear, they’ll all be pretty thin. No one even knows what this guy looks like.”
“You know someone at Interpol?” asked Sam.
“No,” said Dusty. “Why would I know someone at Interpol?”
“You said it.”
“I’m asking. I’m sure someone in my office has a contact, or maybe the local Feds. But I still don’t see the Hildebrand connection.”
“Hildebrand doesn’t want the Armenia-Azerbaijan pipeline to become real,” said Deek. “If Şeytan was behind the Georgia pipeline sabotage, then maybe he doesn’t either.”
“It’s thin,” said Dusty. “How do you know about this Şeytan character? You’re not in law enforcement.”
“I told you, I have a friend at State.”
“Another economist?”
“Yes, as it happens. But he says the story of Şeytan Taciri is the kind of thing that gets whispered about in the corridors of power. He operates in high places.”
“And boat shows, apparently.”
Sam shook her head. “So you’re chasing a guy who isn’t here and is being assisted by a ghost.”
“I said you wouldn’t believe me. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to verify whether what you’re saying is the rambling of an unhinged nobody,” said Dusty. “And if it is, I’m going to call your boss and make you somebody else’s problem.”
* * *
Angler cruised along Pine Island Sound in the gathering darkness in a long coat despite the mild weather. As he followed the channel markers up the Caloosahatchee River he glanced at the Tarpon Bay resort but motored past. He puttered up toward Redfish Cove, keeping to port and heading up into the manmade canals that cut through the Cape Coral shoreline like veins. Warm light glowed from the canal-front homes, except the one where Angler stopped. He cut the motor and coasted into the dock behind the house he had selected. No lights penetrated the house’s storm shutters that told Angler on his earlier pass that no one was home.
He quickly tied up, stepped up onto the dock, and moved out into the dark backyard. He jogged across to the next house. It wasn’t dark. The ambient glow of a television shone through the sliding doors. Angler paused for a moment to ensure no one was standing in the backyard enjoying an illicit cigarette. With the coast clear, he tiptoed down the dock to where another small boat was tied up.
The second vessel was similar to his rental jon boat except the hull was fiberglass. It was well used and smelled of fish. Not a tender used to reach a bigger, nicer vessel. This was an old man’s fishing boat. It probably never ventured further than the wide river mouth. Angler figured in an accident it would be cheaper to replace than to cover any insurance deductible.
Angler untied the boat and pushed away from the dock. He floated for a moment, back past his own boat, then he used the old rope that had replaced the pull cord to start the ancient outboard.
He moved slowly across the water, out of the canals and back into Redfish Cove. The water here smelled different than out around the barrier islands. Less briny, more vegetal. He saw the small public beach to port and followed its lines a couple hundred feet offshore, toward the six-hundred-foot-long fishing pier at the end. Taking a long fake beard from his coat, he stuck it to his face, covering up his own goatee, then he pulled a beanie down over his hair. He felt like a member of ZZ Top. The disguise wasn’t going to fool anyone up close, but he wasn’t planning on stopping for chitchat—and he knew from experience that any clever law enforcement officer who heard about a long beard was going to assume the changed look from that was a clean shave, not his salt-and-pepper goatee.
Angler eased in toward the end of the beach. The fishing pier was T-shaped, and he could see people standing under the lights at the top of the T, some with fishing lines and others watching the city lights twinkle across the water.
Cutting the motor, he let the old boat drift toward the pier, reaching it about halfway along its length. His approach would not have gone unnoticed, but he could use that to his advantage. He hit the timer on his watch and got to work.
He moved fast now, tying the vessel to a piling and then pulling the line from the old fuel tank and letting the excess spill out into the well the tank sat in. Then he took a doctored flare with a fuse that made it look like Wile E. Coyote TNT and wedged it into place. Angler lit the fuse then grabbed hold of the pier’s balustrade and hoisted himself up.
Angler glanced both ways to see if his climb had been noticed but saw no one paying him any attention, so he flicked his coat collar up like it was freezing out, and he shuffled toward the shore like a man thirty years his elder. He passed a couple walking arm in arm out toward the end of the pier, and he fought the compulsion to run, keeping his eyes down and his movements slow.
There was a restaurant to his right, chatter and laughter and glasses tinkling. He went the other way, off the dock and into the darkness between the pier and the parking lot. There were no people here, so he ripped off his beard and shoved it into a trash can. He stopped underneath a palm tree up from the beach, took off his coat and beanie and dropped them at his feet, then leaned against the tree to wait.
He had timed it for three minutes but these things were never that precise. As it was, his timer was on 2:39 when the fuse hit the flare and a bright spark burst from the waterline, then with two percussive thumps—first the fuel in the well followed by the tank itself—the old boat exploded.
Angler hit his timer again as all the people at the end of the pier turned to the explosion. For a moment no one moved. Angler recognized the deer in the headlights posture, but soon people were reaching for cell phones and moving off the dock and away from the fire that engulfed the small boat.
The roads to the pier were a tangle of surface streets and canals, making fast access complex. It was a similar situation at the resort, which was the reason why Angler stood in the darkness under a palm tree watching the first responders arrive in a small fire department rescue vehicle.
A couple fire fighters strode toward the pier carrying fire extinguishers and one other ran away across the parking lot. As the first men reached the flaming boat, a fire engine screamed into the lot, sirens blaring.
The fire was out within a minute of the first arrivals, but the emergency vehicles continued to come. First a police unit and then a fire department marine unit—a Boston Whaler that Angler knew was kept at the yacht club marina just across the parking lot. Angler watched all the emergency personnel appear, then mill around, then start asking people around the dock what they saw.
The fire engine departed, and the Boston Whaler towed the smoldering boat around to the marina behind the restaurant. Before anyone got any ideas about checking for watchers in the shadows, Angler picked up his coat and beanie to dispose of on the walk back to the closed-up house where his jon boat waited for him.