Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller) (13 page)

“My first question would be, where are they going?” asked Miller. “I can’t imagine Jackle going on a pleasure cruise with what’s happened over the past week. The only thing that comes to mind is the emails he smuggled out of Popov’s office last Sunday. Maybe he found the emails or has some information pointing him in a particular direction.”

“How do we figure out his destination?” asked Rivera.

“We don’t. The best I can do is task one of NSAs Keyhole Satellites to track them. Clouds, dark of night, storms at sea-it doesn’t matter, they can track them and damn near read their charts if the weather’s nice. The real trick is to find out where that tiny boat is in middle of one very large ocean. Fortunately for us, if they’re headed to Central or South America and they’re moving past the west coast of Cuba, it really cuts down on the number of possibilities. ”

Davis finally broke his silence, “If I had to guess, I would figure they’re headed to Columbia. We know there’s a Columbian connection with Escobado and Popov.”

“We can’t be sure,” said Miller. I’ll get the satellite on it so we don’t have to guess. Most important is that we already know there’s a leak somewhere in one of our organizations. Nothing goes into a computer, no emails and absolutely zero conversations outside this group of three. Everyone clear on that?” He looked slowly around the room as the other two nodded their assent.

I woke up feeling like a new man. Just amazing how making love to a beautiful woman can completely change your outlook on life. When I woke, Tasha had apparently already gone topside. I wandered past the galley, grabbed a cup of coffee that was waiting for me and stuck my head though the hatch just in time to see her taking a shower on the rear deck with the hand held shower. The sight of her naked body silhouetted in the soft rising sun was nearly enough to weaken my resolve to be off and sailing south before nine o’clock. I consciously restrained myself and started working through my checklist before leaving the safety of our anchorage.

While Tasha went below to work on something for breakfast that smelled suspiciously like bacon and eggs, I prepared to start the diesel. Depressed the preheat button for the required ten seconds, pushed the starter and the Westerbeke diesel roared to life. I quickly throttled back to idle and as soon as it reached the correct operating temperature, pressed the remote on the windlass to raise the anchor. The chain clattered aboard and the heavy Danforth anchor clanked into place on the bow. I shifted into gear and eased the throttle forward. Dolce Vita motored smoothly out of the sheltered anchorage and within minutes we were at sea powering steadily through the smooth swells.

“Hey, you hungry yet?” asked Tasha with a cute little perky tone as she stuck her head into the cockpit. Clasped in one hand was another steaming mug of coffee and in the other a plate heaped with three eggs and bacon. Apparently the night before had agreed with her as well.

“This is fabulous,” I said inhaling the food within minutes. “Any chance for seconds?”

She grabbed the plate and reappeared a minute later with the plate piled high again.
Aah, the life of a Captain is a good one.
After a few minutes of cleaning up from breakfast, it was time to raise the sails. I swung Dolce Vita's bow into the wind and Tasha manned the helm.

“Tasha, just hold her into the wind for a minute.”

“I've got it,” she said holding the wheel in one hand and cradling her coffee in the other. I walked forward on the cabin top, released the sail ties and pushed the button on the halyard winch. Within seconds the heavy sail had been hoisted and was flopping loosely as we motored into the breeze.

“Tasha, fall off to port and set a heading of 210 degrees while I’ll unfurl the genoa.” I looked up to see the sails fill with the wind and start to drive the boat westward. We still had two hundred fifty miles to sail to the West to safely clear Cuban waters. Once we reached that point, we could finally turn to the South and set a course for Nicaragua.

“Hey, look who’s joined us off the bow,” I said pointing at the pod of dolphins surfing on our bow wave.

“I’m going forward to make friends,” Tasha said. She grabbed the lifelines and scampered forward to the bow sticking her head over the rail to see the dolphins playing just off the edge of the wave. It looked like a couple of females shepherding a pup in between them. A few minutes later, Tasha returned to the cockpit and settled in for a relaxing day at sea.

“Looks like we have two hundred forty miles until we turn south-that should take us around thirty hours or so.”

“Sounds great-I found a couple of books down below and as long as they hold out, I’ll be OK,” Tasha said as she snuggled back into her comfortable corner of the cockpit. I rigged another fishing line off the stern for trolling and we settled in for a long day of sailing.

Long sea passages are a series of routines. This one was no different. Every twelve hours, I started the diesel for an hour to keep the batteries charged and the freezer cold. I regularly checked lines and sails for any chafing. Checked the bilge to make sure the bilge pump was doing its duty and that we didn't have water coming in from a broken fitting or hose. Monitored the SSB radio for any weather updates. Checked the radar so we wouldn’t be surprised by any ships appearing over the horizon. Should have been boring, but it was a relaxed rhythm reinforced by the movement of the sea and wind. In spite of that, there were always surprises.

"Tasha, take a look at this," I said, pointing off the stern quarter. Swimming a few feet under the surface of the water was a group of maybe a hundred rays swimming parallel to our course. Just another moment on the ocean that was ours alone to share.

Escabado sat in his frayed wicker chair trying not to think about how damn hot it was. He slapped again as yet another no-see-um landed and exacted its bloody toll. Too bad there was not an easier way for him to travel. It had become increasingly difficult for him to travel from the US back to Central America to attend to his business interests with the No Fly List and computer systems that the Department of Homeland Security had put into place over the past few years.

This latest trip, he left the United States smuggled aboard a charter fishing boat that brought him on the first leg of his journey to the remote island of Walker’s Cay in the Bahamas. Most of that time was spent hiding below decks and with the violently rolling waves created by the storm churning the ocean, he had been seasick most of that time. He would have gladly killed the captain and fed him to the sharks if it would have made the nausea stop for five minutes.

He had been waiting for a full day hidden in a small, dilapidated cottage on the south end of the island waiting for his other transportation to arrive. He had been coming here for years when Walker’s Cay had been one of the premier deep sea fishing destinations in the world. The island had lost its charm for him after the devastation of Hurricane Francis back in 2004. The destruction was nearly complete with most of the buildings and infrastructure destroyed. The wealthy tourists who had once frequented the hotel and marina back then were long gone, but there remained a few forlorn weather beaten cottages still standing and more importantly, Bahamian Customs officials who could be paid to turn a blind eye to his coming and going.

He could have dealt with all of those annoyances, but he also had to put up with Popov’s annoying attorney. Popov had insisted that Castiglio leave the country for a few days to put him out of reach of the FBI. He knew that if the Feds managed to get their hands on him for questioning, he’d squeal like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of hungry dogs. It was amazing after a day of listening to this maggot whining that he hadn’t cut his fucking throat and left him in the bushes for the land crabs.

Their transportation for the next leg of the trip would be aboard a Grumman Albatross. As far as Bahamian Customs were concerned, the plane was leaving Walker’s Cay and flying to a dive site on the barrier reef just off the coast of Belize. The Grumman was uniquely suited for this kind of trip. The amphibious plane could take off on water or land and with a range of over twenty-eight hundred miles could reach most destinations in Central America without refueling. This one had been rebuilt from the ground up for a famous island singer and still had the luxurious interior that helped to mute the throbbing roar of the big radial engines. John Pierre, the captain of the Albatross, completed the checklist and the warm-up of the engines. His copilot, Alexandra, a dark haired beauty from Argentina was completing the preflight checklist. John Pierre glanced over at her and swore silently to himself as he tried to ignore the ample breasts straining against her uniform top.

He glanced over at her again, got a quick thumbs up as she completed the last checks and slowly taxied to the end of the runway to take off into the ten-knot breeze blowing over the end of the runway. Stepping down hard on the left brake, he swung the aircraft one hundred eighty degrees on the runway and stepped on both brakes to hold his position while he ran up the engines to full power. From the shadows at the side of the runway, two shadowy figures ran to the side door as it swung open for just a few seconds.

The crewman leaned down, gripped the outstretched hand and pulled first Escabado and then Castiglio sprawling into the waiting cabin. “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Pierre looking backward in the cabin at his new passengers as they dusted themselves off. “If you’ll have a seat, we’ll be on our way.”

Escabado leaned back in his comfortable leather seat in the small cabin of the Grumman and lit a fine Cuban cigar while the crewman fixed him the first of many drinks for the evening. Castiglio continued to squirm nervously around in his seat as he tried to figure out the locking mechanism for the seatbelt. In the cockpit, Captain Pierre stood on both brakes, reached up to the throttles overhead and applied full power to the engines. He released the brakes and the Albatross rolled down the runway slowly gaining speed. Much like its ungainly namesake, the flying boat finally lumbered into the air. It would be a long night-the Albatross had a cruise speed of one hundred fifty knots and they had one stop scheduled in Cuba for fuel and to restock Escabado’s dwindling supply of Cuban cigars. Escabado was particularly looking forward to the prospect of spending a couple of days there. He couldn’t wait to renew an old acquaintance with a couple of Cuban hookers who had made some of his earlier layovers quite memorable. Within fifteen minutes, the aircraft had finally ascended to its cruising altitude of ten thousand feet.

Escabado gestured at Castiglio who stood and prepared to move forward into the cockpit. Alexandra rose from her copilot’s seat and moved toward the rear to sit with Escabado. As she passed Castiglio in the cabin, she teasingly stroked his neck and smiled at him. Castiglio smiled an uncertain nervous smile and she leaned closer. He could smell the faint scent of jasmine perfume and he closed his eyes briefly overwhelmed with her closeness and raw sensuality. She put both hands on his chest and shoved him violently backwards into the cabin door. The door, which had been deliberately left unlatched, exploded outward as Castiglio fell from the plane. Alexandra leaned out the door and watched as the attorney disappeared screaming into the darkness with his arms flailing. The air rushing violently through the cabin ceased as she carefully latched the door shut and separated the cabin from the cockpit by closing the heavy curtains. Alone with Escabado, she knelt in front of him and slowly began unbuttoning her top as he stared with undisguised lust. The pilot at least was able to relax for this leg of the trip as the plane flew southward under autopilot-her job was just beginning.

Three o’clock in the morning. Tasha called me to the deck for my turn on watch. A tough time to stay alert in the near darkness with only your own thoughts and the red glow of the instruments to keep you company. We had just hit our waypoint west of Cuba and turned south on our run toward Nicaragua. Five hundred fifty miles to go before reaching our destination in the jungle-somehow it didn’t strike my fancy as an appealing destination. Dolce Vita continued slipping through the swell with only a faint hiss and occasional burst of spray as the twelve ton boat pushed the water aside on its passage through the night. The boat was completely dark while Tasha slept except for the faint glow of the chartplotter and the nav lights.

I welcomed the solitude. It was what I needed most right now-time to be able to slowly put together the shattered fragments of my memory. It was almost like putting together a complex puzzle. There would be a fragment that I would try to fit, twisting it, turning it and trying to figure out where it fit in the bigger picture. Finally, it would slide into place and suddenly I could assemble it into another fragment. I was finally beginning to understand the details that were part of my life over the past couple of years, but it was like reading the biography of a stranger.

I had found enough time to dig through the files on my computer hard drive for the past few hours. Those three hours below deck squinting at the computer screen left me hanging over the rail violently ill with mal de mer for two hours after that. Apparently, even though I was a sailor, that didn’t guarantee any immunity from seasickness. I searched further in the medical kit until I found wrist-bands for motion sickness and bonine pills-problem solved. That research helped me to at least piece together some timelines and names to work with. There was apparently an agent named Miller whom I exchanged emails with regularly. There was an obvious bantering tone that ran through those emails as well as an over-riding tone of professionalism that was present. He was clearly someone I had known well and probably been friends with over some period of time. His last emails to me on Monday had voiced an obvious concern because I was missing. Those emails rang true to me-this was someone I worked with who was genuinely worried that I had disappeared. For now, I would take that at face value until I learned differently or discovered who in the government had ratted me out to Popov. I had no idea of what to expect once we arrived in Nicaragua, but I knew the key to my survival was to treat everyone as an enemy until proven differently.