Angler relaxed his hands on the controls and tried to settle his nerves. Taking off in the seaplane was tricky, but landing was far more treacherous. He’d been given an approach which would allow him to taxi into a harbor—which looked more like a small bay—where he could tie up and refuel, as well as clear immigration. Now, as he skimmed the water, watching for any boat traffic that might cross his path, Angler tried not to look at the large cruise ship anchored off his starboard side, or the concrete wall of the commercial dock up ahead to port.
The floats grazed the light chop and he eased back the throttle until the floats skipped across a few peaks before settling into the calm waters. The sudden drag threw him forward into the belts, but his path was clear of traffic and he was able to gently slow the plane until he coasted into the harbor.
There was no quiet way of landing a seaplane in the waters off Grand Cayman. No islands to hide behind, or large uninhabited stretches to touch down away from curious eyes. Angler taxied alongside the guest dock where a man stood waiting to begin refueling from the barrel of avgas he’d ordered brought from the airport. Looking toward town, he noticed a crowd of curious onlookers lining the harbor front, cell phones aimed his way. He pulled the ball cap down a little tighter, shading his face, and shut the engine down while the dockmaster secured the Otter.
Striding down to meet him as he stepped to the dock, Angler extended a hand to the immigration official. He’d selected a Canadian passport for this trip, one he’d used several times in the past without issue, but had changed his mind at the last minute and gave the man a US passport instead. They chatted amiably as the officer looked over the plane’s paperwork. The pilot had the registration through a Florida LLC then leased the plane to himself with a contract, the copy of which Angler had discarded mid-flight, along with his SIG Sauer. He told the official he’d been contracted by the LLC to fly the trip to Cayman.
The whole process took under ten minutes, including a cursory inspection of the plane. Once complete, Angler handed the dockmaster most of his remaining cash to cover the fuel, and grabbed a Glock 19 the pilot had foolishly disclosed his secret location for. In a dive shop by the narrow frontage road running through the waterfront of Grand Cayman’s capital, George Town, Angler picked out a good-sized waterproof duffel bag with shoulder straps, then set off on foot for the bank.
* * *
Deek’s foot tapped like a courthouse stenographer’s fingers as the Boeing 737 MAX touched down at Owen Roberts International Airport, turned around on the runway, and taxied back to the terminal. He impatiently hopped from one foot to the other in the immigration line, running through all the scenarios and obstacles before him. He had the name of a bank, the possibility that the man he’d been following had flown the seaplane to the island, and just about nothing else. Well, nothing else. There was no just about involved.
The immigration officer raised an eyebrow as Deek nervously fidgeted before him.
“Where you staying, sir?” the officer asked in the musical accent of the island.
“I’m not sure yet,” he replied honestly. “I’m only here for one night. Do you have hostels?”
The officer stared at Deek. “No, we don’t. What’s the purpose of your visit?”
“I’m…” Deek began then quickly reeled himself in. He took a business card from his wallet and handed it over. “I’m here on business.”
“Maritime Administration. Economic Analyst,” the officer read aloud. “You’re here on business for one night, according to your return ticket, wit nowhere to stay? Who’s da business wit?”
“Cayman International Bank and Trust,” Deek replied. “I’m investigating an individual’s connection to a potential threat on US soil,” he added with confidence that surprised himself.
He nodded to the man, one national official to another, proud of the line he’d rehearsed on the plane for a moment such as this.
“Do you have da authority and permission to conduct an investigation in da Cayman Islands, sir?” the officer asked, and all Deek’s confidence blew away like a feather in the wind.
“I’m really here to ask a few questions at the bank,” he stammered. “Investigation is probably a stronger term than I should have used.”
The officer looked him over once more, adjusted the date on his stamp, found an empty page in Deek’s passport—which was the first page as he’d never travelled anywhere of consequence in his life—and smacked the stamp down, making Deek jump.
“You’re approved to stay for forty-eight hours. Try da Sunshine Suites, dey sometimes have last-minute rooms, if not Eldemire Guest House. Welcome to da Cayman Islands, Mr. Morrison.”
Deek snatched his passport from the man, scurried through to the baggage claim area where he had nothing to collect, and on to customs where another officer took his entry form from him.
On the other side of customs, Deek was greeted by a dizzying array of signs held by an assortment of people from a variety of tour companies and resorts.
“Taxi, my friend?” another asked.
Deek was about to accept, until he remembered his perpetual state of poverty. The pawn shop had given him $1,100 for his $4,000 watch, and American Airlines had relieved him of $860 for his middle seat air ticket. He had $240 left which he needed to cover a roof over his head, food, plus the airport parking fee on his return to Miami.
“Is there public transportation here?” he asked the man.
“Sure ting. Take a taxi into town, den da buses run up and down, George Town to West Bay. Just wave, den dey stop.”
The man turned to lead him to a waiting taxi in the blazing sunshine beyond the sliding doors.
“Sir, is there a hotel in George Town?” he asked, having no idea where West Bay was or what route the man meant.
“No, sir. Dey all along da Seven Mile Beach. Now follow along and I’ll get you to da beach.”
Deek trailed the man outside where the fierce heat and bright sun made him catch his breath and squint. Rolling towards him was a minibus with Marriott Grand Cayman Resort emblazoned down the side. Below in smaller letters were the words Seven Mile Beach. Deek’s hand shot in the air, and he practically ran out in front of the bus, causing the driver to stomp on the brakes.
“Come at me like a chicken dere, sir,” the driver said, hopping out and opening the side door. “No luggage?” he asked, looking around expectantly.
“Traveling light,” he replied, stepping into the minibus, joining a handful of tourists who shuffled over to make room. The driver closed the door as Deek waved a feeble apology to the taxi man who glared back at him.
Ten minutes later, they reached a palm tree-lined parking lot leading to the covered front entrance of the resort, and Deek released his grip on the back of the front seat. The whole way he’d been thrown for a loop as the driver sat on the wrong side of the bus, like a postal delivery van, and then drove on the wrong side of the road. The numerous roundabouts were especially vexing to a man who didn’t spend much time away from the office, let alone overseas.
The passengers filed out and gathered at the back of the bus to collect their luggage. Deek took the opportunity to slink away, scurrying back to the road running past the hotel. He hoped this was the road the taxi man had referred to. Unsure which direction led to George Town where he knew the bank to be, he walked clear of the entrance so the Marriott staff couldn’t see him and watched for a public bus.
Deek didn’t know what to expect. Everyone knew about the red double-decker buses in England, and as this was a British Overseas Territory, he assumed they’d have something similar. Two public transport buses went by before he realized they were not much bigger than a minivan with a yellow stripe above the front window. The bold black lettering stating it was a Public Bus should have tipped him off sooner had he not been looking past them in search of a double-decker. After flagging down the third passing bus, he crammed himself in amongst several locals with their weekly grocery bags, and decided shipping double-decker buses to a Caribbean Island probably didn’t make financial sense.
After stopping twice more to pick up people, everyone had grocery bags on their laps when the bus pulled up in front of a sheltered waiting area signed as the Bus Station. People got out, bags were sorted, and pretty soon Deek was left alone wondering where the address he had might be. He turned on his cell data, deciding he wouldn’t have to face that charge for another month in which time he’d be unemployed and bumming off his parents.
Instinctively, he glanced at his watch to check the time and sighed at the slightly paler band of skin where his watch once rested. He didn’t know how, but he hoped he’d be able to buy it back before it went out front for sale in the pawn shop, although the job loss thing would certainly hamper that plan.
He checked his cell phone. It was 12:31 p.m. He quickly typed the bank’s address into the maps app and a few moments later, a red line zigzagged across the screen, telling him he had a one-minute drive, or a three-minute walk. Deek set off, rehearsing the speech he planned to give at the bank.
* * *
Angler waited with his bag on his lap, watching the people come and go in the bank. The Cayman Islands had strict gun laws so he’d stashed the Glock outside in a shrub before he’d entered, which had been fortunate as the lone security guard had checked his bag. The man raised his eyebrows at the cell phone collection, but the extra passports were stuffed in his back pocket to avoid scrutiny.
He’d almost shown the bank manager the Canadian passport, quickly grabbing the one he’d used to enter the country with. It would have been a tough mistake to back out of, but he’d remembered in time to use the US passport he’d been saving for a very long time. It was the one he’d originally used to open the account. His own.
After what felt like an agonizing amount of time, Angler was invited into a private room, where the stack of cash he’d been promised sat in neat piles on the table. One and a half million dollars didn’t look like much until he stared at the individual slivers of hundred-dollar bills.
“Take your time, sir,” the manager offered, before opening the door to leave.
“Wait,” he said, and she paused.
He picked up one of the bound stacks and slowly flickered them with his thumb.
“Your machine counts better than my old eyes. We’re good.”
“Are you sure, sir?” she asked. “There’s no rush.”
“Maybe not for you,” he said under his breath. “We’re good,” he added, louder so she could hear.
“Then knock when you’re ready, and our security man will escort you out.”
Angler shook his head. “Tell him to pay no attention to me at all. Nothing screams cash in the bag like a uniform walking with me.”
“As you wish, sir,” she responded, and left the room, closing the door.
Two minutes later, Angler opened the door, pausing for a moment to scan the other customers in the bank, before heading for the entrance. The security guard watched him from the corner of his eye like the amateur he was, Angler noted, then the man held the door open and wished him a good day.
Outside in the bright sunshine with the ocean breeze blocked by the buildings, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He quickly moved to the shrub, retrieved the Glock, and glanced at his watch. 12:36 p.m. If he hurried, he’d be floats up not long after one o’clock and touching down in Key West long before dark. Finally, something was going right.
* * *
Deek was sweating like Cool Hand Luke eating eggs by the time he marched into the Cayman International Bank and Trust. He owed half of his perspiration to the balmy climate of a tropical island, and the other half to the fact he had no idea what to say. He looked at his watch, which of course wasn’t there, so he checked the clock on his phone. It was 12:37 p.m.
The security guard welcomed him while looking him over suspiciously. Great start, Deek thought to himself. Walking over to an open window, he nervously wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Hello, I wonder if I may have a word with the manager?”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” the young lady asked.
“Oh… I’m afraid I don’t, but it’s an urgent matter,” he explained as firmly as he could muster. “I’m a government employee from the United States.”
That didn’t sound as dauntingly official as he’d hoped.
“May I ask what this is in regard to, sir?”
“Umm… I’d say it’s best I explain to the manager if you don’t mind, ma’am,” Deek said, sliding a business card under the thick Perspex.
His business cards had sat in his desk since they’d been given to him a week after he started at the Maritime Administration, the first ten being handed out to family members. He was now dishing them out like candy and was in danger of running out of the few he’d brought with him. The cards were one color black print on the cheapest white stock available. The most unimpressive kind you could buy online for $9.99 a box.
The young lady looked at the card, flipped it over expectantly, and finding nothing, pushed her chair back. “One moment, sir.”
Deek waited anxiously, drumming his fingers on the counter and trying not to look at the security guard who was watching him carefully. He wiped his brow once more and realized his clothes were beginning to smell like clothes a man had sweated in for two days straight with seawater tossed in for good measure.
“How may I help you, Mr. Morrison?” a lady said, making him jump.
She was behind the counter but didn’t take the bank teller’s seat as though she wasn’t expecting their discussion to take long.
“Is there somewhere private we could talk?” he asked.
She glanced around the empty reception area of the bank, then back at Deek. “Perhaps you can give me an idea what this might be about, sir?”
“Yes, of course,” he bumbled. “Has a man been here this morning, ma’am?”
“A multitude of men have been here this morning, Mr. Morrison,” she responded, looking at him like he was the idiot he currently felt.
“Of course, I’m sorry. This man is late forties, maybe early fifties, close cropped hair, stern, and I’m guessing he either brought you or withdrew a large amount of cash. Perhaps in the thousands…”
Deek let the last part hang as though a bank in the Cayman Islands had never seen such a sum before.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss our clients with you, Mr. Morrison,” she responded, her eyes momentarily looking past him. “Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind explaining why you’re here and under whose authority, I may be of further assistance.”
“Nobody believes me,” Deek mumbled, looking down at the counter.
“If you’d like to come back with a member of local law enforcement, Mr. Morrison, who have jurisdiction here, I may be able to assist you.”
“We don’t have that kind of time, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “I followed the money trail here and I have reason to believe a dangerous man flew here this morning in a seaplane, and it’s all about a secret meeting at a boat show in Fort Myers this weekend, so time is not on our side. Lives are at stake, ma’am.”
Deek heard the front door open and close followed by a man’s friendly voice with an English accent. “Afternoon, Dorothy.”
The woman smiled over Deek’s shoulder. “Morning, Henry. How was last night’s crowd?”
“Can’t complain, my dear, can’t complain at all,” the man said, his enthusiastic voice trailing off at the end.
Deek turned the man’s way, and noticed the security guard was ushering him away.
“Sir, I’d like to see some ID please,” came a female voice beside him, and Deek whipped around.
A tall, slender Nordic-looking woman stood before him in a Royal Cayman Islands Police Service uniform. One hand rested on a Taser and the other she held out, expecting a document.
Deek glanced at the bank manager. “You called the police?”
“Standard procedure in situations like this, sir,” she replied.
“Situations like what? I’m trying to stop a major catastrophe, and everyone thinks I’m crazy,” he said, his voice tired and defeated.
“Are you?” the policewoman asked, and he noticed she even had a Scandinavian accent.
“Crazy? No! I’m an Economic Analyst, and I have a theory if you’ll just hear me out… Officer Sommer,” he said, reading her badge.
“Constable Sommer,” she responded. “And you already sound nutty as a kransekage to me,” she added, staring at him without an ounce of humor in her eyes.