Jet (23 page)

“I suppose nuking his headquarters is impractical?”

David smiled. “Always the subtle one, huh?”

“Okay, you win. Belize it is. How do we get weapons? I’m assuming we can’t stroll in with the toys we just bought.”

“It sounded like the American could help with that. I get the sense that the CIA has some feet on the ground there.”

“You sure you’re up for this?”

“No problem. I’m strong as a bull now. Healthy living and the love of a good woman…”

The joke silenced them both.

He slid his hand over the table and took hers.

“I’m glad, whatever the circumstances, that you came back.”

She stopped eating and held his gaze. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, and then hesitated, as if pondering something he wanted to tell her, and then reconsidering.

“It does indeed.”

~ ~ ~

They checked out of the hotel late and meandered around Haifa, looking for an appropriate place to dump the weapons. Ultimately, David decided it would be best if they dropped them off the back of the boat before getting underway – there was no way of knowing for sure whether they would still need them up until then.

As the remains of the afternoon drifted into dusk, they negotiated their way to an intimate waterfront restaurant that David had eaten at before, and savored their last meal in Israel – probably for the rest of their lives. They watched the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea and drank coffee, each mentally preparing for the journey ahead.

The burner cell they had acquired rang with a startling intensity. David glanced at the incoming number before stabbing the phone on.

“Yes?”

He listened intently, then hung up.

“Change of plans. The boat we were going to take has an engine problem. So now we’re going to be on a commercial fishing boat. It’ll leave as soon as we get to it, and then we’ll do a transfer at sea to a Cyprus boat – the fishing boat will average seventeen to eighteen kilometers an hour, so by dawn we should be around a hundred forty five kilometers from the island. He’s got an associate that can make that distance in a boat from the St. Raphael marina on the southern coast, no sweat, so we’ll do the handoff at sea.”

“Where do we leave the car?”

“They’ll take care of that – they’ll return it to the rental agency so your credit card doesn’t get shut off.”

“Same plan on the weapons?”

“Yup. Over the side.”

David paid the bill, and a few minutes later, they were pulling into the parking lot near the marina.

“A dinghy will take us out to the boat,” he explained. “It’s sitting just outside of the harbor mouth so it doesn’t have to deal with the police. He’s already been cleared.”

They parked where they had been instructed to, and Jet shouldered the weapons sack. A chubby man with a shaved head met them by the dock and wordlessly directed them to a waiting inflatable near the end of the long row of sailboats. The motor was putting quietly. The man helped them in, then climbed in himself after untying the line. Soon, they were tearing over the water. Halfway across the harbor, Jet tossed the duffle overboard, watching it sink out of sight into the depths.

The fishing boat was a creaky commercial scow that smelled of decaying fish and oil. They sidled up to it, and Jet and David climbed onto the transom as the craft eased up and down the gentle swell. A swarthy seaman pointed them below deck to the bunks, and before the dinghy had pulled twenty yards from the stern, they were moving, bow pointed northwest to where Cyprus jutted out of the middle of the Mediterranean a hundred and sixty-eight miles away.

The crew stayed above deck, avoiding any contact with Jet and David, which was fine by them both. The stink of the vessel was bad enough without having to contend with curious fishermen. Jet stowed the backpack she had bought earlier, which served as a combination travel purse and clothes bag, and climbed into the lowest of the bunks – little more than stained wooden slats with squalid foam mattresses. The ancient diesel engine thrummed and clattered steadily, and the gentle rolling motion was vaguely relaxing.

“I hope I don’t catch something lying on this,” she remarked.

David smiled before climbing onto the bunk above her.

“Probably unlikely that there’s anything worse than fleas or lice. You should be good.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“No need to thank me.”

Her eyes drifted shut as she dozed, and the next thing she knew, she was being surprised awake by someone shaking her. She bolted upright, only to see David’s face near hers.

“We just got the word. The Cyprus boat should be on top of us in ten minutes.”

She rubbed her face and nodded. “It’s really been nine hours?”

“They say you never sleep as well as you do on a boat.”

Jet rose and used the little toilet and then retrieved her bag, joining David at the base of the ladder that ascended to the main deck. They climbed the rungs and emerged into the first glow of dawn, the orange hue of the sun creating a dazzling display on the water.

In the distance they could hear the chanting of big motors moving towards them, and they watched as a sixty-foot euro-styled motor yacht pulled alongside, bumpers in place to prevent the hulls from scraping. There appeared to be only two men on board the new arrival – the captain and a deckhand, who lashed a line around a stanchion and gestured for them to come aboard. Jet hopped easily from the fishing boat over to the motor yacht. David threw her his bag and made the leap, wincing as he landed on the far deck.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned that he was nursing his stomach.

“Just a little reminder to be careful. It’s nothing.”

She looked at him skeptically, then turned to the deckhand.

“
Allo
. Welcome aboard. We will be near the island in three hours, and then I will take you to the marina in the tender. This boat will remain at sea until nightfall. I hope you are hungry. I have prepared a fruit plate and some pastries, and there is fresh coffee brewed,” the man said in accented English.

Jet noticed he didn’t offer his name, and didn’t ask theirs.

“Thank you. We’ll just go inside, then,” David said.

As they carried their bags into the salon, the big boat surged forward, accelerating until they were cutting through the beam sea at a steady twenty-two knots. The anonymous deckhand poured them coffee in tall non-spill thermal cups and then made for the stairs to the bridge to join the captain, who they hadn’t seen as anything other than a silhouette from the fishing boat.

The two craft couldn’t have been less alike. Whereas the commercial trawler was all peeling paint, rust and malodorous rot, this boat comprised highly polished exotic woods, leather sofas and plush carpeting. The air-conditioning hummed silently, keeping the interior of the salon at precisely seventy degrees.

“I could get used to this,” Jet commented.

David nodded. “You don’t want to know what it cost.”

“What do we do once we’re on Cyprus?”

“Make our way to Larnaca airport and get away from this region of the world. I don’t know what the schedule is for flights to Belize, but my sense is that most of them go through the United States, so we’d be better advised to fly through someplace with less sophisticated computers, just in case my mug is on Interpol. Same for the connection from Cyprus. Maybe through Milan or Madrid or Athens rather than France, Germany or Britain.”

“Into where? Mexico City?”

“Seems like the most prudent hub, and from there we can fly into any number of nearby cities – Cancun or Chetumal being the most obvious.”

Jet sipped her coffee and watched the foaming water race by the windows.

“We’re going to be traveling for at least another twenty-four hours. Did you get any sleep on the boat?” she asked.

“Some. Not a lot. Someone had to keep a lookout and make sure the crew didn’t try to sneak in and ravish you.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, we have three hours to kill. I’ll bet this thing has some seriously nice staterooms. Locking staterooms.”

“Always thinking of me. You suggesting I try to get some sleep?”

She stood and moved towards the front of the boat.

“Something like that.”

Chapter 24

Terry Brandt watched the feed from the analysts and spotted another blurb on the search term he’d selected. He quickly scanned the summary and closed his eyes before reaching for his encrypted line.

“It’s me. I’m starting to see chatter on the encampment in southern Belize. We need to meet. Soon.”

“Does now work for you?” the voice on the phone asked in a neutral tone.

“Fifteen minutes. The usual spot.” Terry terminated the call.

He was stirring sweetener into his coffee at the Starbucks three miles from headquarters when he sensed a presence behind him.

“Five bucks for a cup of coffee. This society is doomed,” a deep baritone lamented from over his shoulder.

Terry didn’t comment, but instead walked up the stairs that led to the secondary seating area. A few students were huddled over their computers, taking advantage of the wireless facility. Other than that, in the middle of the afternoon, they had the place to themselves.

“I’ve been asked to provide what amounts to intelligence and logistical support to our rogue Mossad operatives, and I agreed to do so, but I want to understand how far I should be prepared to go,” Terry said after the two men had taken a seat.

“I would say that you should provide all reasonable support. Give them what they need, and then sit back and see what happens.”

Richard Sloan held a key position at the Defense Department. Theoretically, neither man was even remotely responsible for any sort of an active op in Belize. But in practice, both were not only cooperative with each other’s agendas, but also enjoyed substantial financial reward from bending the rules to the whims of powerful corporate interests with expansion plans that required exceptional levels of understanding from the nation’s armed forces and intelligence apparatus. Between Sloan, Terry and a few select others, they represented a powerful secret affiliation of like-minded men, unified by the most powerful bond in existence: cash.

“He asked about weapons.”

Sloan nodded. “It would be hard to take on an armed camp without weapons. Who do you have in the region?”

“That’s not the problem. We have plenty of contacts in Honduras. It’s lousy with guns from the millions we and the Russians shipped there. I just question how much active support we want to provide. If the shit hits the fan and anything leaks out about this…”

Sloan moved closer to Terry and leaned in.

“All facts aren’t going to become known. I would say no harm could come from you making an introduction. Provide some sat photos. These are small things. You know the strategy. If they are successful in stopping whatever our Russian friend is up to, then we’ll be in a position to win. If they aren’t, then we’ll still win, only via a different route. But we have to manage things so we appear to be disinterested observers.”

Terry nodded. “Of course. Is there any chance we get sucked into this in an official capacity later?”

“None at all. We’re just trying to grease wheels here. Sort of like benevolent guardian angels. We can’t appear to intercede or favor anyone, and we have to be able to claim ignorance no matter what happens.”

Terry switched gears. “What do you make of the death of the governor general?”

“A stroke of good luck. If the Russian is successful in his scheme, he believes he will get the concession for the new field and that the current interests in the region will be rejected. But I’ve already had assurances that the new governor general, a gentleman who’s predisposed to our preferences, will request British and American troops to help the beleaguered nation battle the drug cartels responsible for the heinous violence – that’s in actuality the Russians. That will result in a U.S. military presence in Belize for the first time, and will pave the way for U.S. companies to help the country extract and refine its oil.”

“Grigenko will go nuts. That’s a double cross…”

“Indeed it is. But nobody said life was fair, and it’s not our deal – we never gave Grigenko any go ahead to pull this stunt. Once the governor general has made the request for assistance, you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, and it is a fait accompli. Doesn’t matter what deals the Russian had before with the prospective new administration, the following one will trump it and set in motion a completely different course than the one he’s banking on. A course that’s good for us.”

“And if the pair is successful?”

“Then the governor general will take actions that still ensure our interests prevail. Either way, we win.”

“If that’s the case, then why help the Israelis?”

“The Russian is getting too big for his britches, and if someone can cut him off at the knees, that saves us the trouble down the road. He’s pissed off the wrong people. But the important thing from our perspective is that we don’t really care who wins. Either outcome will result in a positive for us.”

Terry took a swig of his nonfat soy latté and shook his head. “Kind of astounding that coffee is more expensive than gasoline.”

“So is bottled water. Amazing what you can convince people to spend their money on, isn’t it?” Sloan sipped his tea. “Anything else?”

“We didn’t have anything to do with the late governor general’s untimely demise, did we?”

“Of course not,” Sloan said, his face stony, impossible to read. “Is there anything else?”

Terry’s stomach lurched at the response. He was almost sure the man was lying.

“Not really. I just wanted to hear it straight from you.”

“Have no fear, Terry. This is just another skirmish – a relative non-event. Oh, and funds will be transferred to the usual account tomorrow. As always, the group is grateful for your efforts.”

Terry was low-key about his occasional windfalls, but they helped his lifestyle. With a wife, three kids, private schools and a substantial mortgage, he was usually strapped. An extra tax-free hundred grand a year nobody knew anything about enabled him access to the platinum-level escorts that he couldn’t have dreamt of on his pay grade. And the world was being kept safe for capitalism. Everyone got what they needed out of the deal.