The RX Factor (4 page)

"And I got some witness statements from a group of tourists on a neighboring yacht." He pursed his lips. "The explosion dey described sounds odd."

"Why's that?" Jordan asked.

"Well, boat explosions, while rare, can occur as a result of de build-up of fuel fumes combined with something to ignite it. Starting the engine could be enough to do it."

"And?" she questioned, waiting for more.

"From da eyewitness reports, it appears dat de explosion rippled through de boat from bow to stern."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know yet. But an accidental fuel explosion wouldn't go off like dat. It would most likely be a single massive blow without de rippling action. And if there were secondary explosions, dey would happen seconds, even minutes later, not like de chain reaction dat was described by da folks on da nearby yacht."

"I didn't notice a rippling explosion. From my vantage point, it was just one massive explosion."

"Yeah, I agree with Ryan. It was just one massive explosion."

"I'm sure dat is what it seemed like from da distance, but dese other folks were a lot closer and they all reported hearing a rippling of small explosions a second or two before da massive blast. We will of course check out all possible causes.

Nothing is being ruled out at dis point." Franklin glanced around and saw two more of his divers walking toward one of the BASRA boats. "Looks like everybody's ready to go."

Ryan swung his tank and gear onto the boat's deck and helped Jordan aboard. The boat skimmed straight to the scene. The four Bahamian divers completed their preparations and entered the water as Ryan made adjustments to his tank, checking his gauges and hose lines while Jordan watched. Ready, Ryan sat on the gunwale, his back to the water. He slipped on his mask, popped it a few times to get suction, and took one last look at Jordan before turning his face up to the pale blue morning sky and dropping backward over the side.

As usual, the water was crystal clear as he kicked his way down. On the harbor floor he spotted two of the BASRA divers swimming around the small portion of the bow that still clung to the yacht's keel. Ryan swam away from them toward a mass of wreckage nearby. He could make out the main engine, generator, and the charred remains of the stern. He turned to look at the other divers nearly 120 feet away. The boat had been split violently in two from the force of the explosion.

A ravenous school of scavenger fish passed about fifteen feet from Ryan, gliding along like geese on migration. All at once, without signal, they switched direction as one mass toward another part of the wreckage just behind Ryan. Following their lead, he saw beneath the jagged edge of the splintered main spar the remains of a body pinned to the sea floor. It was a gruesome sight and Ryan momentarily turned away in disgust before regaining focus. From Ryan's vantage point through a cloud of fish, the body appeared charred beyond recognition. Using a piece of railing, he chased the fish off. Since he was not a Bahamian official, he knew he shouldn't touch the corpse. He headed for the nearest BASRA diver and directed him back to the dead body.

A few minutes later, Ryan ascended to the surface to prepare Jordan for the news. He worried how she would handle the gruesome sight of her loved one's remains. Between the mutilating burns and fish feeding frenzy, he was sure it would take more than a visual to identify the body.

He climbed onto the boat and was removing his scuba gear when two Bahamian divers hefted the body from the water up to Franklin and another BASRA volunteer. Ryan, standing to block Jordan's view, put a wet hand on her arm. "I don't think you should see this. The body is in bad shape."

Jordan gulped and shifted her eyes in nervous anticipation. Returning her attention to Ryan, she fixed him with a steady gaze and said, "It's all right. I'm a doctor, after all. I've seen my share."

Ryan reached out his hand and pulled her up from her seat to guide her over to the still form on the deck. As he felt her sway, he moved his arm around her shoulders, tucking her in beside him. "You sure you want to do this?"

"How can I not?" Her voice brooked no further dispute, and they walked the short yet interminable distance as she clung to him, eyes downcast. Once there, she squeezed her eyes shut and seemed to garner strength from some reservoir deep within that allowed her to take in the pitiful human remains before her. She gasped when she opened her eyes and turned her face against Ryan's chest. "Uncle Henry."

She began trembling, and Ryan tightened his hold on her.

"How can you be sure?" Franklin asked.

"His ring. My aunt gave it to him on their twenty-fifth anniversary." She pointed to the diamond-studded gold ring with a large ruby insert on his left hand.

"We're so sorry for your loss, Ms. Carver." Franklin bowed his head for a moment and then turned away and noted the identifying information in his logbook.

Jordan regained her composure and turned her gaze to her uncle one last time. Then tears filled her eyes and she grasped for Ryan. Ryan held her tightly as she began to sniffle. "He was the nicest, most compassionate and giving person I have ever known."

Jordan attempted to say more, but her words were inaudible. Ryan caressed the back of her head and tried to come up with the words that would provide her some comfort, but nothing came to mind. This was not surprising; no words had ever comforted him during his own personal tragedies.

As Jordan began to calm down, a shout came from the water and everyone turned starboard to see two more divers ascending with a second body. Franklin and his partner retrieved the body from the divers and placed their cargo next to the other corpse. It was in the same sad condition.

Franklin approached Jordan. "Ms. Carver, can you identify this one?"

She took a deep breath and nodded. "It's Aunt Jenny."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Avoiding direct eye contact, Jordan moved toward the stern with her back to the others. Ryan saw her shoulders heave as a soft sob escaped her.

Franklin gave her some time, then asked, "Do you know how many people were aboard?"

"Just my aunt and uncle."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," she insisted. "They ran the yacht themselves and had no staff. They did use locals in each port of call, but that was only during the day and only for general maintenance and cleaning. I spoke to my uncle about an hour before the boat exploded. They were getting ready to turn in for the night and if anyone else was on board, he surely would have mentioned it to me."

"When was da last time you were on board da yacht, Ms. Carver?"

"Yesterday afternoon. Aunt Jenny and Uncle Henry picked me up at the airport and we came straight to the yacht. I unpacked and relaxed for a few hours, then took the dinghy back to shore to pick up some supplies and see some old friends."

"When you were on board, did you happen to notice any strange smells? Any hint of even de slightest odor of fuel?"

"No. I didn't smell anything out of the ordinary. The yacht was state of the art with all the conveniences of a luxury home. If there was anything out of the ordinary, I would have noticed it, and Uncle Henry and Aunt Jenny would have, too. They were both sharp as a tack."

"Okay den, thank you Ms. Carver."

"I think Jordan has had enough for now Franklin. Can you call over one of the other boats to give us a lift back to shore?"

Franklin grabbed his radio and requested a pickup from the voice on the other end. Within a few minutes, another BASRA boat had arrived to return Ryan and Jordan to shore.

Soon after they left, one of the divers resurfaced with news that made Franklin's throat tighten. He radioed Superintendent Everett Pritchard of the Royal Bahamian Police.

"Everett? Franklin here. Ryan and Ms. Carver are on dere way in. I think you'd better detain her for more questioning. This wasn't an accident."

One hundred and twenty-five nautical miles
northwest of George Town, William Craven stepped outside into the muggy Nassau air, leaving behind the air-conditioned comfort of his hotel lobby.

No sweat,
he thought. He was cool, meticulously cool, from the top of his balding head to the soles of his black leather oxfords. He wore a black Armani blazer over a white dress shirt, sans tie, and had artfully slung a small carry-on bag over his right shoulder. The sleek black bag housed his golfing apparel, but he had a different game to play this morning.

He pointed at a lime green cab as it approached, and jumped in before it had come to a full stop. "Take me here," he said as he handed the driver a matchbook with an address scrawled on the back.

The driver, sporting dreadlocks and chewing on an unlit, hand-rolled cigarette, lowered his shades as he studied the address. "You sure you wanna go here, mistah?" he asked.

"Go," Craven said, and he settled back into his seat.

"Yes, sir, mistah, sir." The cabbie jumped on the gas.

Nassau, the capital city of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas, was home to nearly a quarter million people, roughly 70 percent of the island chain's inhabitants. Despite the languid heat and the tropical vibe, it bustled with a dirty, frenetic energy, the kind of manic, fast-paced oomph that Craven craved. The overflowing sidewalks bulged with tourists, hawkers, and businessmen and women, the professionals in suits chewing up the pavement as they hurried off to their next important place.

Craven, for his part, never hurried. He moved quickly when needed, but hurrying meant losing control, and Craven, whatever he did, never lost control. He planned methodically and executed ruthlessly. His trigger finger never paused long enough for him to ask
what if,
because he had already studied all of the options, mapped out an entrance and exit strategy, and walked himself through every contingency a dozen times. He was a professional, in every sense of the word.

As the cab left the hotel district behind, the palms lining the streets grew sparser and the road rougher. The cabbie, no doubt an experienced hand who knew every corner of the city, looked uneasy. Given his profession, he probably lived out here, on the outskirts of Nassau's disintegrating concrete jungle, but how many times had he taken a Westerner into this urban inferno?

Craven lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

The cabbie glanced into his rearview mirror. "You like me to turn on the air-conditioning, mistah?"

Craven spotted a bead of sweat forming on one of the cabbie's sideburns. "No need."

The streets narrowed to mere alleys and the street-side buildings towered menacingly close when they finally arrived at a nondescript bar. The place could have been one of many anonymous flats in the shabby neighborhood, save for the neon beer signs hanging in the two front windows, each of which sat securely behind bars.

"Wait for me," Craven said as he got out. He eyed his bag in the backseat. "And lock your doors."

He approached the front door, which was propped open with a garbage can and camouflaged in a cloud of hazy smoke, and paused just long enough for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. In the back of the mostly empty bar, seated at a table beneath a yellowing map of the islands, was his contact, a Haitian man with short cropped hair and a gap-toothed grin. The man stood up to greet him, but Craven's frown put him back in his seat.

"Hello, Mr.—"

Craven raised his hand to cut the man off. "Don't talk," he said. "Just listen." He pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat with his arms resting on the back, ready to interrogate the man before him. The Haitian averted his narrow eyes, still smiling, as he waited for Craven to begin. As the clock ticked on without a word being spoken, the Haitian began to fidget in his chair. When he opened his mouth, Craven once again cut him off before the man could complete an audible word.

"I don't need an update, Junior." The man's name wasn't actually Junior, but it was a favorite pet name Craven reserved for his underlings. "I know all about your punk's fuck-up."

"But—"

Again, Craven cut him off. "I arranged for this meeting simply to watch you squirm and to give you one more chance to get it right. You've got forty-eight hours to tie up the loose ends." He let the sentence end abruptly.

"No loose ends," the man said, nodding, his eyes now widened with a grimace replacing the smile. "We'll fix everything. You'll see."

"Yes, I will see. And if the mission is not accomplished by then, you will become the loose end, and I will handle it personally."

Sweat began to drip down the Haitian's forehead and his right hand started tapping on his leg, but Craven was not ready to release the man from his attention yet.

"And no more explosions. Christ, the whole commonwealth is ready to come undone, which doesn't make your job any easier. How are you planning on communicating with your men, now that security has tightened on Exuma?"

The Haitian scratched his clean-shaven face. "I will travel to George Town tomorrow morning and speak with them personally."

"How will you travel?"

"There is a passenger service. . . ."

Craven shook his head.

"I suppose I could charter a fishing boat."

Craven nodded in the affirmative, though still unimpressed. He stood up, reached into his blazer, and tossed a hotel business card onto the table. "Call me when you have the charter arranged and I will meet you at the docks. I'm coming with you."

The Haitian squirmed in his chair before reaching for a paper napkin sitting on the table next to him and wiping his sweating forehead. He composed himself to a degree before responding. "I understand your concern, but that is not necessary. I already assured you that I will make sure all loose ends are tied up in short order."

Craven lifted his eyebrows and offered a snarl of a grin. "You assured me the last time and that did not work out so well, now did it?" Craven did not wait for a response before continuing. "I think you need supervision, Junior. And lucky for you, I just happen to be here. Call me with our travel details tonight."