Off Kilter (10 page)

He scurried away from the bank, feeling like a wanted criminal on the run, knowing that Mr. Catangan only needed to pick up the phone and all hell would break loose. Collin could only hope that his threats to unleash catastrophic information to the authorities would dissuade the wise banker from doing so.

Walking briskly, Collin crossed the street and headed north for a block and a half before crossing again and going west, where there was a busy street with some early morning traffic. He hailed a cab. Stuffing the backpack in first, Collin climbed in the back seat and asked the cab driver to take him to a bakery two miles away—one that Collin had spotted earlier and noted because it seemed to be full of Americans. As the cab pulled away from the curb, two police cars, sirens blazing, rushed past them, taking a hard right, heading in the direction of the bank he had just left.

Collin tried not to panic, but he gasped audibly and swiveled his head to watch the passing patrol car. The cab driver studied him in the rearview mirror, which only added to his mounting angst. He couldn’t read the driver’s expression, so he wasn’t sure if the man was suspicious of him or just curious. It felt like a very long ride to the bakery.

Once inside, he began to settle down. The store was full of Caucasians in their island apparel. They buzzed and chirped and were generally an excitable bunch. From the accents, intonation, and high strung energy they emitted, Collin knew the majority of these people were from New England. They looked like they belonged to the leisure sailing crowd. They were dressed much like he was at Catangan’s house and were obviously well acquainted with the island. These were people who spent months, if not years, sailing through the Caribbean, like some sort of modern day explorers. He listened to their conversations and realized something: These people seemed to not have a pressing care in the world—no schedule, no bosses, no demands on them. They talked about where to dive that morning and whether they would be able to catch something tasty for lunch. They obviously had few real worries.

What a way to live
, thought Collin. Carefree and unencumbered. No stress, no worries. No one chasing you. No memories haunting you, stealing your sleep, your sense of self, your ability to enjoy life.

Collin moved through the small crowd to the counter and bought a dozen donuts and orange juice for the crew, trying to shake the demons in his head that were screaming to be acknowledged. Memories from his penniless but happy former life battled with anxiety over what he carried on his back. Worries that the cops would pull up any second to cuff him and turn him over to the FBI also clamored for a share of his mind space. His hands started to tremble, and a bead of sweat formed on his brow.

Breathe deeply
.
Again. Exhale slowly. Control the impulse to run
.

It was time to go. Maybe these people noticed his odd behavior; maybe they didn’t. He couldn’t take the risk. Time to get out of that shop. He slipped out the front door, turned left, and walked three blocks to find another cab. Once again, all senses were awake and alert, checking for anyone watching, or following, or even paying attention to him. Luckily, there was none of that. Nothing. Almost a ghost. He liked it that way.
Keep it together
.

Just for good measure, he changed cabs twice before making his way back to the marina. It was 7:45 a.m. when Collin arrived at the slip. The Captain and crew were ready to once again set sail. Collin approached hurriedly and asked permission to board. With a nod and a smile from the Captain, he stepped aboard and moved quickly toward the cabin.

“Thank you, Captain.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“I brought donuts and juice.” This produced smiles from his crew mates.

By eight o’clock, the
Admiral Risty
and its mysterious passenger cleared the harbor and were once again on course for the open sea.

Below deck, Collin sat on the edge of the berth he’d slept in, holding his face in his hands. He breathed deeply and ran his fingers through his thick hair, wiping the sweat from his brow and upper lip several times as he decompressed from his nerve-racking adventure.

*              *              *              *

Shortly before the Grand Keys Bank opened at 9:00 a.m., the bank president received another call. This time it was in his office and came from a young Interpol agent in London, asking about an American whose description was pretty generic. Not sure so soon after his episode with Collin whether this phone call was a test from the mystery invader, he decided to play dumb. Why risk it? The man was coy and smart and way too confident to brush off. Out of fear of reprisal, Mr. Catangan chose to delay any discussion of his encounter. He played it as cool as he could as he spoke to this Agent Lancaster.

Didn’t they all look about the same? The banker said he had dozens of clients that met that description. The agent explained that this man was suspected of cyber attacks that had crippled many European banks. The British agent asked for his cooperation, which Mr. Catangan agreed to give. The agent pressed upon him the urgency of the search for this suspect. Mr. Catangan, wanting to stay in the good graces of Interpol, promised to call if he noticed any suspicious activity.

The bank closed at 1:00 on Saturdays. But today the dignified president of Grand Keys Bank decided to return to the bank in the evening and make a phone call to London. He was now convinced that the early morning intruder, along with his idle threats, was long gone. Since it was imperative to keep the British government, the overlords of the Cayman Islands, happy, Mr. Catangan determined to do all he could to prevent any problems from the other side of the pond. He would only report the fact that a fellow meeting the suspect’s description had come to his bank and hope this Lancaster fellow didn’t probe deeper. Maybe it would assuage him; maybe it wouldn’t. He had to make the effort, for his own best interests, if nothing else.

The message went like this:

“Yes, Mr. Lancaster. This is Harold Catangan from the Grand Keys Bank in George Town, Cayman Islands. I have some information that may assist you in your search for that missing American. At your earliest convenience, please return this message.”

George Town, Grand Cayman Island

May 4

The
Admiral Risty
cleared the breakwater that separated the George Town Marina from the open sea, propelled by its ninety-horsepower engine. The crew had filled the water and gas tanks and restocked the supplies of food, drink, and other necessities, always ready to serve the next wealthy client.

Captain Sewell, having overseen all the preparations, smiled and called through the open doorway into the cabin below, “Where are we heading, Mr. Cook?”

Without hesitation Collin hollered back, “Panama.” He was busy wrapping stacks of bills in duct tape and packing the stacks in black garbage bags. $2.8 million in $100,000 stacks, each four and a half inches thick. Twenty-seven of those “bricks” and ten stacks of $10,000 each. That was the game plan. Halfway there.

“What are you talking about, man? We can’t go to Panama. I’ve got a business in George Town. I can’t just leave it behind,” protested the Captain.

“Yes, you can. I’ll pay you well for your service,” said Collin, sticking his head out the door.

“You want us to take you all the way to Panama? You know how dangerous that is? I’m telling you, I can’t do that!” the Captain said.

“But Captain, you miss the dangerous stuff. I know you do. You can do dinner cruises anytime. But helping a guy like me get away from the bad guys, now that’s an opportunity you can’t pass up.” Collin didn’t break eye contact. He was neither begging nor apologizing. He was offering something he knew the Captain, deep in his salty, old heart, wanted to do. And he smiled as he spoke. It surprised him how easily he was able to channel the swagger of yester-year when he needed it most. He acted with a confidence he hadn’t felt in years. Probably since high school.

“You don’t know what you say, man. There are pirates, storms, drug runners, Coast Guard, and . . .”

“So what’s the price?” Collin asked evenly.

“$50,000,” said the Captain.

“What? How long is it going take?”

“That depends on the wind and weather conditions. Could take a week.”

“That’s a lot of money. How about $25,000?”

“You paid $15,000 to get from Grand Cayman to Jamaica. Panama is more than twice that far.”

“Yeah, but it’s still excellent money. I’m sure it’s better than what you typically make from your arrogant American tourist clientele. I’m just guessing here, but I figure I’ll cover pretty close to three month’s income with these two deals.”

The Captain kept a steely stare focused on his newest and best client. “Look here, you need me. I don’t need this kind of foolishness. This is dangerous territory. We could all die.” He paused, looked at the floor, then back to Collin’s face. Turning to his map, he studied it for a few moments before restarting the conversation. “I know some folks, and I know some safe spots to go. I take you there, but for no less than $40,000.”

“Make it $35,000 and you got a deal, Captain. But I’ll need you to stay in Panama for a day or two while I take care of business. That’s got to be part of the deal.”

Without missing a beat, the Captain added, “Fine. That’ll be another $10,000.”

“You mean $5,000? Fine.”

The two men smiled at each other, and the Captain shook his head slightly as Collin stepped forward and extended his hand to seal the deal with a handshake.

The Captain gathered his crew and told them the new plan. The men looked at each other, shrugged, and agreed. The six men aboard the
Admiral Risty
were now bound for Panama. There wouldn’t be much else to look at for the next seven days or so except water, sky, and each other.

*              *              *              *

London, England

May 5

Nic Lancaster arrived in his cubicle at 6:34 Sunday morning and logged in first thing, knowing his log on and log off times were being recorded somewhere. Few put in the hours he did. He had a reputation to build and defend. The office was dark and quiet; few of his peers would bother to show up today.

In his eager, over-reaching manner, the young British Interpol agent went through his normal morning routine. Not expecting any surprises, he first got his coffee while the computer worked through its security protocol. When he returned to his desk, he checked his voicemail, which was typically empty first thing in the morning. Who would call a first year detective who did nothing but sort through endless lists of forgettable tasks? But on this morning, for the first time in his young career, someone had called him while he was asleep. The quick pulsing sound signaling an awaiting voice message filled him with a renewed sense of purpose. He quickly punched in his passcode, pen and paper at the ready. It was Harold Catangan from Grand Cayman.

Upon hearing the message, Nic Lancaster’s mouth gaped open in disbelief. Maybe this case was going somewhere. Or, more correctly, this case might elevate him in the eyes of his section chief. His day took a sharp turn away from the mundane toward the completely unexpected.

He was keen to share the news with Alastair Montgomery, his direct supervisor. But Alastair was not yet in his office. The RBS fiasco demanded extra effort from everyone, including the sacrifice of weekends. Alastair usually showed up around seven thirty but wasn’t approachable until after eight, when the coffee began to ward off the effects of another difficult night. At 8:05 a.m., Nic rushed into his boss’s office, foregoing the normal morning pleasantries. “Listen to the message on my phone,” he insisted as he picked up the receiver and punched in the codes to open his voicemail box.

Alastair Montgomery listened with one hand over his eyes, rubbing them gently. He sighed when the message finished and said, “That’s very good, Nic, but that message is now several hours old. Your man could be anywhere by this point. Have you contacted this Mr. Catangan yet?” said Alastair as he pointed a bony finger at the phone. “I need a progress report by noon. I want to know where Cook is and have a plan in place to apprehend this bloke. We need to crack this case. Immediately. We need whatever information he’s got on Pho Nam Penh before the next attack.”

“I can give you a progress report right now. No need to wait till noon for your head to clear. I’ve been working on this since I arrived here at six thirty. In fact, while you were sleeping off another bender, I contacted several dozen shops near Mr. Catangan’s bank and asked for surveillance camera footage. It should all be available to me in the next thirty minutes.” He practically glared at his boss, whose blurry eyes told it all. How this man maintained his high position was beyond Nic. No wonder there were no arrests made on this case. With all of its publicity and press coverage, the section chief couldn’t manage to stay sober long enough to provide the real leadership this group needed? It was unbelievable to young Detective Lancaster.

Alastair’s head popped up, blood-shot eyes opened wide. He straightened in his seat and cleared his throat. “Very well then. Let’s have a look at those video feeds when you have them. Good work.”

Nic tried to suppress a huff. “Right,” he said and hastily exited his boss’s office.

This case now had legs. After just two days with the case, Nic had gotten his first break. This might be the chance to prove himself he had been waiting for. Wouldn’t it be brilliant to be the one to make an arrest in this RBS investigation? The media would eat it up. His name would be broadcast far and wide. The higher-ups would have to take notice of his keen detective work. Collaring this Collin Cook guy would earn Nic his first promotion, far ahead of schedule. And perhaps bump ol’ Alastair out of his way in the process.

Twenty minutes later, Nic had the surveillance footage he needed. Although Collin Cook kept his face away from the cameras for the most part, he found a handful of nearly perfect frames, undeniably identifying his quarry.

He worked through a list of shops in George Town and pressured each of the owners to expedite the release of their surveillance feeds from that morning, hoping to establish Cook’s escape route.

Nic presented his findings to Alastair an hour and a half after their initial meeting. Alastair, looking as though he could use some good news, half-smiled as he congratulated him, and gave him the number for Reggie Crabtree. He picked up his phone, punched a few buttons, then, covering the receiver, said, “Tell Agent Crabtree I assigned you the case, and I’m sorry I’m not available at the moment. Not to be rude, but my time is better spent dealing with the other leads we’re chasing.” Alastair had apparently kick-started his internal engine and was dialed in, acting more like the man in charge now.

As he headed back down the hallway, Nic wondered how long it would take before others noticed the inconsistencies in Alastair’s behavior.

Nic checked his watch as he marched. It wasn’t even 2:00 a.m. in Los Angeles, so he left a voicemail message for Agent Crabtree, introducing himself and explaining where and when Collin Cook had been seen. “According to the bank president, Mr. Cook is carrying $2.8 million dollars in a backpack. If he survives the day, he shouldn’t be too hard to find. Might end up in a hospital somewhere on the island. Local police have been alerted.”

Nic spent the next several hours calling every business in a two block radius of the Grand Keys Bank, asking questions and making threats. He enjoyed using his Interpol authority and was pleased to garner what clues he could. This exercise proved productive.  Several storeowners sent feeds from their surveillance cameras. With a healthy dose of patience and persistence, Nic found what he was looking for: a brief segment showing Mr. Collin Cook getting into a taxi. A call to the cab company, along with a few more threats, and Nic learned where his quarry had been dropped off. When Agent Crabtree returned Nic’s call late that afternoon, Nic knew just what to ask for.

A satisfied smile spread over his face as he hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve got you now, Collin Cook.”

*              *              *              *

Somewhere in the Western Caribbean Sea

May 5

With one full day of sailing now behind them, Captain Gordon Sewell calculated that it would take another four or five days to arrive in Panama City’s harbor. So far, the winds were steady, though not strong, and the seas calm. Despite working against the current, they were making good time. The weather report looked fair for the next few days as well. As a matter of habit, he monitored several communications channels, including the Coast Guard’s frequency, to gather as much information as possible.

No stranger to the hazards of the seas, both human and natural, Captain Sewell was prepared for most dangers. He had learned a few things since losing his boat to pirates a couple of years prior. That was not going to happen again.

Thinking of nothing more than protecting his money and depositing what he had taken out of Grand Keys Bank, Collin had not calculated the potential peril they could face on this Caribbean crossing until he stumbled down the steps into the cabin late that afternoon.

“Whoa,” he said as he found the Captain cleaning a large rifle and adjusting a very ominous-looking scope. Next to him sat several similar weapons.

“We are entering dangerous territory, so we must prepare ourselves, Mr. Cook,” Captain Sewell said without looking up. “There are pirates in these waters. And drug smugglers. Dangerous people. Readiness is the key to survival out here.”

Still in shock, Collin stated the obvious as if thinking out loud. “I guess we should try to avoid them.”

“That’s not always possible, my friend. That’s why we carry these,” he said as he lifted the rifle and nodded his head toward the other weapons lying next to him. “We can’t always outrun them, so we prepare to defend ourselves. They may choose to approach, but they would be very unwise to attempt an attack,” explained the Captain, examining the rifle he had just cleaned.

Collin nodded in agreement, staring at the guns. His mind ran a couple of frightening scenarios as he recalled the Captain’s story about the pirates. As he looked at the weapons spread out in the cabin, he asked, “So where did you get these guns? They look pretty sophisticated, not what you can buy down at the local sporting goods store.”

The Captain let out a soft chuckle. “No, these are not from a store. They’re military grade. Let’s just say I have some friends who have some friends. Understood?”

“Of course,” Collin said. No need to explore the details. He noticed they were equipped with laser scopes and a mechanism that the Captain explained allowed the handler to determine if one bullet or two would be fired upon a full squeeze of the trigger. The metal had an uncommon finish, far different from any guns Collin had handled as a teen.

Clearing his throat, the Captain regained Collin’s attention and continued. “The best plan, as I have learned from fellow captains and from experience, is to stay out of the way of other boats. Give up the right of way. Tack behind approaching vessels. Don’t get too close. I have not had any problems in a very long time using this strategy. But I don’t often venture this far from the islands.”

The Captain’s hands moved expertly across the black metal of the next rifle to clean and dismantle it while Collin watched. His movements were smooth and graceful. It was obvious to Collin that he was thorough, meticulous, and well-practiced. Like everything else on the ship, the rifles were well-maintained.