Jason knew.
His name was on the canvas.
He shook his head as though to dispel the thoughts, the recollections. He would never be free of the memories; nor would he want to be. He reminded himself that he was here to get a job done, not reflect on the cruelties and uncertainties of life. He turned and walked back the way he had come. He forced himself to think of what had to be done, to exclude what had been.
On his way back to the Zodiac, Jason joined five or six people gathered around the stern of one of the yachts. Through the thick glass doors of the salon an American movie star whose name Jason could not recall could be seen having tea. Jason melted into the group, but his attention was directed toward the vessel moored to port, the Fortune.
Two large men stood at the head of the extended gangplank. Had their arms not been crossed, they might have been at attention. Their faces were impassive behind the shield of reflective sunglasses. In spite of the eighty-plus temperature, each wore a loose-fitting nylon jacket bearing the logo of a National League baseball team. Neither seemed bothered by the heat, not a drop of sweat between them.
The fame or notoriety of many of the occupants of the yachts necessitated posting a crew member or two to keep uninvited guests off the ship. Jason wondered if any other than those on the Fortune were armed.
Back in the Zodiac, Jason followed the contours of the harbor, gaping appropriately at the ships docked there. He was careful to spend no more time observing the Fortune than looking at vessels of similar size. The tinted glass of the bridge concealed the men Jason was certain were keeping watch on the forward part of the ship. He could see lights mounted halfway up the superstructure. No doubt they would illuminate the foredeck as bright as day should hidden electric beams be broken. Or perhaps they were wired to weight sensors. In any event, entry to the Fortune wasn't likely to be gained by climbing over the bow. Besides, the deck was, what, ten or fifteen feet above his head? One small noise, one bump against the ship's hull from the wake of a passing craft… Jason discarded the idea.
As the Zodiac continued its slow circuit, Jason noticed the twin anchors hanging from hatches that opened just above the waterline. The hatches were designed to close once the anchors were retrieved so that a streamlined surface would be presented to the sea when the vessel was under way. One end of the anchor chains disappeared into the water, the other into a port in the hull. Would it be possible…?
Jason lazily turned to retrace his course and pass the line of yachts again. This time he stopped under the bow of the Fortune, the one place he could not be observed by anyone on board. He surveyed the anchor hatch carefully, mentally measuring the openings through which the anchor lines passed into the ship. He shook his head. Tight but unguarded.
He turned the Zodiac's bow toward the harbor's mouth and sped toward the roads.
Minutes later he pulled abeam of a small sloop that bobbed gently at its anchor buoy. A United States flag hung limply from the rigging of the single mast, along with shirts, swimsuits, and other drying laundry. Canvas was draped over the mainsail's boom to shelter the cockpit from the afternoon sun. Salsa music, probably radio from Puerto Rico, filled the air. Its appearance was similar to the number of small craft gently rolling in the swells nearby, one more indistinguishable small American boat making a stop at St. Bart's in view of the town surrounded by verdant hills.
Carefully balancing against the motion of the Zodiac, he stood and rapped loudly on the fiberglass hull. 'Paco, Paco, wake up!'
The reaction was immediate.
Joyous barking was followed by the scratch of paws on the deck. A shaggy canine head was followed by a thick brown body that vibrated with a furiously wagging tail. Deep brown eyes regarded Jason with what in a woman could have been described as lust.
The dog's appearance finally pushed the melancholy of the painting from Jason's mind like a breeze clearing away clouds. He couldn't have suppressed a smile had he wanted to. 'Miss me, did you, Pangloss? Go get Paco.'
The dog turned in a complete circle.
'Paco, wake Paco. There's a hamburger in it for you,' Jason coaxed.
The dog disappeared. Seconds later there was an explosion of Spanish invective as the boat rocked from shifting weight. A man came into view, bare to the waist. Jason could see the network of pink scars across his chest, souvenirs of torture during captivity by Colombia's ruthless and brutal rebels, FARC. Rumor said every man who had so much as nicked Paco took days to die once he got free and turned on his captors. Large, with hair tousled from sleep, he was wiping a hand the size of a bear's paw across his dark face.
'Fookin' dog! He lick my face, mon. I hate bein' licked in th' face!'
'Lucky he didn't piss on you to get you awake.' Jason tossed the Zodiac' s painter aboard the sloop. 'How 'bout tying me off?'
Still grumbling, Paco made his way to the stern to secure the rubber craft, and Jason scrambled aboard.
'Don' know why you hadda bring th' fookin' dog.' Paco was still griping as he made his way forward.
'Consider Pangloss cover.' Jason was scratching between the animal's pointed ears. 'Who would think a boat with a dog on board was on anything but a pleasure cruise?'
Pangloss combined the ears of a German shepherd with the long hair of a collie and the size of both. Jason was fairly certain there were other breeds in the animal's uncertain ancestry. Jason began to scratch underneath the pointed jaw. Pangloss was in ecstacy.
'Coulda brought a fookin' cat instead.' Paco was headed below. 'Cats don' lick your face.'
Jason followed, Pangloss on his heels. 'Whoever heard of a loyal cat? You think a cat would guard the ship while we're gone?'
'Cat wouldn't shit on the deck. Fookin' cats are clean, man.'
Paco opened the small refrigerator in the tiny galley, popped open a bottle of Caribe beer, and offered it to Jason. 'You want cover, we shoulda brought a couple of fookin' womens. They could guard the ship and not shit on the deck. An' we could get laid.'
Jason sipped on the beer as Paco opened another and folded down the hinged galley table. 'We finish here, you'll have all the time you need for women. And money.'
Paco became serious. 'You get what we need?'
Jason turned off the radio and slipped a CD into the stereo. Brisk but melodic strands of Vivaldi's violins replaced the Latin beat.
Paco shook his massive head. 'Man, that moosic sound like a somebody put two cats in th' same sack.'
Ignoring the complaint, Jason squeezed past the larger man to reach into the refrigerator and pull out a bit of ground beef. He had Pangloss's undivided attention. The dog sat, salivating.
Jason held out the treat. 'Okay!'
The meat disappeared to the accompaniment of a satisfied gulp.
Jason took the paper from his pocket. 'I think we have it. She drew a diagram showing the location of the master stateroom. As you know, we're doing a 'rendition,' capturing the guy here and then rendezvousing with the ship at sea to turn him over.'
'Then what?'
'Not our business. Once the U.S. Navy has him safely out of somebody's territorial waters, I'd guess there'll be some fairly serious interrogation, something the Geneva Convention doesn't exactly cover.'
Rendition was a CIA term for kidnapping someone from a sovereign nation and spiriting them away to where there were no bounds on interrogation methods. Having the actual capture performed by someone unconnected to the government gave at least technical truth to the constant denial of the practice.
Paco turned on a swivel-necked lamp, and both men stared at the paper before Paco said, 'You fookin' better hope she know what she doin', man. Won't be but one chance.'
Jason nodded. 'One chance, if that.'
'Who is this guy, anyway?' Paco wanted to know.
'Aziz Saud Alazar,' Jason said. ' 'Nother of those Saudi princes who speaks Islam and acts Western. Bad dude, a graduate of Christ College, Oxford, as well as a number of schools for terrorists the Russkies operated in the seventies. Got into the arms-smuggling business just before the Evil Empire fell. Word on the street is he can broker the sale of anything from a slightly used F-14 fighter to a small Pakistani nuclear device. Sells to al-Qaeda,
