Deek loitered off to the side while the police milled around the harbor area taking statements from witnesses and having those who’d recorded cell phone footage of the accident send the files to the police department. The man he’d presumed to be the detective in charge had taken a smaller boat out to the crash site, and now returned after nearly an hour, on the larger police boat. With him was the female diver Deek had seen exit the water, before sending her own boat on its way to stick around and continue helping with the search.
What Deek hadn’t seen was a body. Well, except for the unfortunate guy in the kayak the plane had hit. He’d been brought ashore and taken away by ambulance. Lucky to be alive, he’d sustained two badly broken legs according to the paramedic Deek had overheard telling Constable Sommer. Apparently the kayaker had been wearing wireless earbuds which explained his complete obliviousness to a large, noisy seaplane in the vicinity. Deek kept his thoughts to himself, but he was grateful for the man’s ineptness as he may have inadvertently prevented a terrorist attack in Fort Myers.
The detective gathered a small group together on the dock and Deek moved closer to hear what was said.
“The site’s yours, Bob,” the detective told another man in a suit. “Let me know if you need our assistance from here out.”
“Thanks, Roy,” the second man replied. “Not much we can do until an official investigator arrives from the UK.”
The detective nodded. “We’ve strung a buoy to the wreck, and between the Joint Marine Unit and the port authorities, we’ll keep boaters and divers away until your investigator arrives.”
Constable Sommer stood next to the shorter diver, who had a towel around her waist and a bikini top revealing colorful tattoos on her arms. The two seemed to know each other and Deek was dying to know what the diver had found on the wreck.
“Where should we look now for the pilot?” Constable Sommer asked, and Deek couldn’t stand aside any longer.
“He’s still missing?” he blurted, and all heads turned his way.
“Who are you, sir?” the detective asked.
“This is the conspiracy bloke I mentioned earlier, sir,” the blond constable replied before Deek could say a word.
He was pleased he’d been brought up in their discussions, as that suggested she’d believed at least a part of his story, although “conspiracy bloke” didn’t inspire confidence.
“Deek Morrison. I’m with the US Department of Transportation, Maritime Administration. I’ve been tracking that seaplane and its pilot for two days. He’s a dangerous man.”
The small group parted until Deek faced the detective who eyed him suspiciously.
“I’m Detective Whittaker with the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service. Can you tell me the pilot’s name?”
Great, Deek thought. First question the man asks and of course he doesn’t know the answer.
“I was working on the premise he’s an international criminal known as Şeytan Taciri, but I’ve since come to the conclusion the pilot is his henchman. I don’t have a name for you, Detective, but I can tell you we fished the original pilot’s body out of the water in Key West yesterday.”
“For what purpose do you think this man flew to Grand Cayman, Mr. Morrison?”
Deek ran his hand through his hair which he half expected to come out in clumps from the stress. “Money,” he replied. “I was attempting to follow up with the Cayman International Bank and Trust to confirm that fact, when I…”—he paused a moment to consider his phrasing—“ran into your constable,” he finished, nodding to the policewoman.
“He was freaking out the manager,” she added, and Deek frowned her way. She was back to not helping his cause.
“The point is, if you didn’t find a body then he might still be alive. Which means he’s still a threat to attack the boat show in Fort Myers,” Deek urged. “Was there money in the seaplane?” he asked, looking at the diver.
She shook her head. “I didn’t see anything that didn’t belong inside an aeroplane,” she answered in an English accent, which surprised him.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but from the tattoos and purple-streaked hair, it wasn’t a pleasant, well-spoken Englishwoman.
“Were there signs of trauma?” Deek persisted.
“Nothing obvious,” the diver replied. “Windscreen was still intact. Found a pair of trainers floating nearby though.”
“I’m sorry, you found what?” Deek asked.
“Trainers,” she repeated. “You know, tennis shoes I think you call them.”
“Oh,” Deek mumbled. “But no one attached to them?”
“Were the laces undone?” Constable Sommer asked.
“Yeah, they were actually,” the diver replied. “I remember the laces floating like little skinny arms.”
Deek leaned over to the constable and whispered. “So he must have untied them, right?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Possibly. Or he doesn’t like tying his laces. Or they fell off a cruise ship tender.”
“All right,” Whittaker said, holding up his hands. “We will continue our underwater search for the body, but also comb through the video footage witnesses took during the accident and afterwards. Perhaps we’ll find some clues.”
“Do we have a picture of this guy?” Constable Sommer asked.
“We don’t as he checked in with immigration here at the dock where they couldn’t scan his passport. But we have his passport details, which gives us a name. Wayne Daniels. We’ll run a search using the name and passport number.”
“The bank would have CCTV,” Constable Sommer suggested.
“That’s true,” the detective agreed. “Why don’t you work on that, and I’ll coordinate a continuing search, camera footage, and background checks. Once we have a usable picture of Mr. Daniels, we’ll distribute it everywhere. The guy might have sustained a head injury and is wandering around the island. I’ll warn the hospital to be on the lookout, too.”
“Or he wasn’t seriously injured at all and escaped,” Deek offered. “In which case, he’ll be trying to find another way off the island.”
“We’ll send his details to the airport security. He’ll not be able to fly,” Whittaker assured him.
“What time is it?” the diver asked, and Deek reflexively looked at his watch, then cursed under his breath at his bare wrist.
“Ten past three,” Whittaker replied, glancing at his own watch. “That’s a good point. Unless one has been delayed, our afternoon international flights have already left. Don’t worry, Mr. Morrison, if the pilot is still alive, we’ll find him.”
The group began to disperse, leaving Deek standing alone on the dock.
“What should I do?” he asked, looking in the direction of the detective.
“When do you fly back?” Whittaker asked in return.
“Tomorrow’s flight to Miami,” Deek responded.
“Then the best thing will be to go to your hotel. Where are you staying? I’d like to know how to contact you if something comes up.”
“Umm…” Deek mumbled, remembering he hadn’t yet secured a roof over his head. “Not sure yet.”
“Sounds like you might want to work on that then, Mr. Morrison,” Whittaker said, with a pleasant smile. “Please give Constable Sommer your mobile number so we can reach you.”
The policewoman was already halfway along the dock, but she paused and reluctantly turned around at the sound of her name.
“Why don’t I stick with her?” Deek quickly suggested. “I might be able to help as I’ve been following this guy all over the Caribbean.”
Whittaker looked dubious and the Scandinavian cop scowled at Deek. He looked back and forth between the two with his best version of an encouraging smile. The diver, who’d walked away with Constable Sommer, now had a grin on her face, which seemed odd to Deek.
“Proceed at your own peril, Mr. Morrison,” the detective said. “And Nora,” he added, looking at his constable, “please be nice.”
Deek trotted to catch up with the two women who’d continued along the dock.
“I’m AJ,” the diver said once he’d caught them. “I’m actually on your flight tomorrow. Meeting some friends and heading for the boat show you mentioned in Fort Myers.”
“Then you have a vested interest in stopping this man,” Deek pointed out. “I believe he’s planning to assassinate several foreign ambassadors at the show.”
“That doesn’t sound good, but it’s Nora you have to convince, mate,” AJ said, nodding at the policewoman who was two steps ahead of them. “And don’t feel special, she’s a little icy with everyone at first, but once you win her over, she’s a mega star.”
Deek hurried to keep up and tried to think of a good way to break the thick ice with the Nordic policewoman. Social interactions had never been his strong suit.
“You’re from Sweden, I assume?” he asked.
AJ laughed. “Top-notch, Deek. You’re off to a bloody awful start.”
Deek groaned. “Not Swedish, then? Dutch?”
AJ now roared with good-natured laughter. “Try sticking with Scandinavian countries, Deek.”
“I’m Norwegian,” Nora snapped, letting him off the hook before he dug himself a deeper hole.
“There you go,” AJ grinned. “Ice broken.”
“Really?” Deek said in surprise, pleased he’d made progress.
“No,” AJ and Nora replied together.
* * *
Angler sat under the shade of a palm tree at a quiet cove called Smith’s Barcadere, according to the sign. The rocky, ironshore coastline had a small break allowing a yellow sand beach to extend into the turquoise water. A couple of local mothers sat chatting on the rocks while their children played in the ocean. Finding a secluded spot had proven to be harder than he’d anticipated as the waterfront was shoulder to shoulder homes and condominium buildings. Any open real estate had new construction with too many workers around. After stealing an odd-looking scooter from behind the dive shop building, Angler had ridden away from town and finally spotted the cove. The two women had watched him pull in, then continued gossiping without paying him much attention.
Connecting through the secure VPN, Angler accessed the internet. Over the years, he’d built a wide net of connections to resourceful people around the world, and right now he’d need to call in a favor or two. In his circles, calling in a favor didn’t usually mean a discount or freebie, but the knowledge he’d be taken care of with no questions asked. There was always a price.
As he messaged with one person after another with his request being handed along an underworld chain, Angler could feel his bag of money getting lighter. Last minute transportation off the island, under the radar both figuratively and physically, would not be cheap. The cash he had with him didn’t represent his entire retirement funds, but it was certainly the additional amount that would make his plans possible. If he parted with too much of the cash, it would mean the inevitable “one more job.”
Finally, after bouncing around between several contacts, Angler had a plan in place. All he had to do now was stay out of sight for a few hours, meet with a guy about the flight, and get to the Fixed-Base Operators section of the airport, or FBO as it was commonly called. It was where the private planes were based, and immigration and customs had a small office with officers on call as needed. They would not be requested or needed for a sunset flight around the sister islands.
* * *
Harold Hildebrand looked out the window beyond the dock to the water off Baskin Island, his jaw set and a scowl on his once square-jawed face. Age and fine dining had taken their toll over the years, and he simply didn’t have the time for a regular exercise routine. His personal trainer sent him daily emails with a variety of innovative workouts, but so far, none of the emails had helped him slow the expansion of his waistline. Turned out, he needed to actually do the exercises for them to work.
In Hildebrand’s diverse lines of work, he had a multitude of pings, alerts, and warnings which buzzed on his phone and computer. A few hours earlier, one which rarely popped up had sent him into a pacing rage he still hadn’t calmed down from. “Seaplane crashes on takeoff in Grand Cayman.”
He’d been called a control freak, behind his back of course, by many associates, employees, and clients, and he was proud to be seen that way. In his mind, details always made the difference, and while the dizzying scope of his interests meant relying on thousands of people to execute their roles correctly, some projects were simply too important not to handle himself. Which made this one all the more frustrating.
Hildebrand had personally chosen the operative from a cast of characters whose services he’d either used prior, or who’d come recommended to him by associates he trusted. The man had the perfect balance between experience and drive, a hard asset to find. The younger operatives had all the drive, determination, and bravery, without the tempering influence of experience. On the flip side, many of the older more experienced choices were overly cautious, knowing their longevity in the business had already defied the odds of being caught or eliminated.
The man, known simply as Angler, appeared to perfectly level the scales. He retained the foresight and prudence earned from years on the job, yet the drive to see the work through no matter what. One way or another, this would be the man’s final mission. He would either be successful and quietly fade into retirement, or he’d fail, in which case it would be his last gig, period. No doubt, Angler was unaware of the consequence attached to failure on a Hildebrand personal project, but now it appeared to be irrelevant. The man had retired early by killing himself in a plane crash.
Hildebrand gripped his cell phone so hard he was lucky the plastic didn’t explode, but instead it let out a quiet ping. He had another alert. This one was telling him a blog he followed had been updated.
“You never fail until you stop trying,” Hildebrand read aloud.
The Albert Einstein quote from the blog page instantly relieved the tension from his brow, and he let out a long breath. The mission was still in play.