Hamas, Russian separatists, African dictators, anybody in the market for death and destruction. I'd guess someone wants his customer list.'
Paco drained his beer and reached for the fridge to replace it. 'So, what's one o' them camel fookers doin' here? No mosque widdin a hunnert miles or more.'
'Get me one too, will you? Alazar's not like your basic fanatical fundamentalist, more like another Royal House of Saud playboy. His religion apparently doesn't stand in the way of his receiving a nice hunk of change for his efforts. He spends lavishly on the Riviera, the casino in Monte Carlo, or on the slopes at St. Moritz. He was there only until recognized. Then he disappeared minutes ahead of the French security people. Probably returned to safe haven in Syria.'
Paco popped the tops and handed one of the frosty bottles to Jason. 'Shudda known it'd be somebody causin' shit. You don' do much other 'n spoil somebody else's party, go after the guys dealin' in killin' folks. Almost like you got somethin' personal against ordinary international crooks.'
The statement was more astute than Jason would have expected from Paco. He took the beer and put it to his lips before answering. 'I just do my job and collect my pay.'
It was obvious Paco didn't accept this observation, but he didn't choose to challenge it, either. 'Ho-kay. I unnerstan' we bring this one back alive to question.'
Jason was on more certain ground. 'Like I said, I'd guess our soon-to-be pal Alazar sold some really bad shit to the wrong people. Our customer would like to know what and who. We bring him back alive, turn him over to the spooks. They turn him over to someone who thinks the Geneva Convention is a meeting of watchmakers and chocolate manufacturers. They can make him talk. Some set of bad guys find out their secret isn't so secret anymore.'
Paco had already emptied his bottle. He tossed it into the garbage with a wistful look at the refrigerator. 'I get it: no more stink like the 'merican press made a few years back about puttin' panties on some fookers' heads, havin' dogs bark at 'em, in that prison in Iraq, Abu Ghraib.'
Jason shrugged, a signal of indifference. 'Suit me fine to punch his ticket right here, but orders are orders. Besides, taking him prisoner we got a real talking point, things don't go so well aboard that boat.'
Paco was digging around in the little refrigerator for something to eat. Over his shoulder he asked, 'How'd we know th' fooker was here, anyway?'
Jason shook his head. 'Don't ask me; I just work here, same as you. I do know the boat flies the Cayman flag.'
Under the table, where Paco thought it wouldn't be seen, his hand was rubbing Pangloss's long snout. Paco's dislike of the dog was a charade that gave the burly Hispanic something to grouse about. 'So does ever' big yacht in the Caribbean. No tellin' where it really came from.'
'This one came from over there.' He pointed to where the hills of St. Martin were clearly visible less than twenty miles away. 'At least, that's where Alazar boarded her.'
'Island's half French, half Dutch,' Paco said, as though that explained its role as a point of origin.
'Yep,' Jason agreed as he slid out a computer keyboard concealed underneath the table. He typed in a brief mes sage. When he hit enter, the electronics would automatically encode and compress the words into an unintelligible beep of less than a second's time. A satellite overhead would relay what sounded like mere static to equipment that would decode and print the words. The signal would be untraceable and indecipherable.
He finished and pushed the keyboard back in, then lifted the tabletop. He stretched and yawned. 'May as well nap. We aren't going to get a lot of sleep tonight.'
Though neither would admit it to the other, both men knew there was no chance the adrenaline pumping through their systems would permit sleep.
By midnight the dark water of the harbor reflected lights from the adjacent bars and restaurants like jewels on black velvet. Music from Escalier, a gathering place for the younger visitors to the island, reverberated across the harbor with enough volume to cover the sounds of the small craft that scooted between entertainment establishments like water spiders. It was because of the activity of the island's nightlife that Jason and Paco had decided to move now, rather than wait for the silence of early morning, when the sound of an outboard might draw attention.
Jason maneuvered the Zodiac into the space between the Fortune and the ship to her port, where both hulls created a shadow on the water as black and viscous as used motor oil. For a full five minutes they listened to the tide sucking at the ship, the anchor chain's metallic groan, the sound of revelry across the harbor. Hair on the back of Jason's neck prickled like tiny antennae anticipating danger signals. It was a familiar experience.
The Zodiac's arrival had not been noted. Jason tied the painter to the anchor chain.
There was a metallic click as Jason checked the nine- millimeter SIG Sauer P228 automatic. Thirteen rounds in the magazine, another in the chamber. Two spare clips in quick-release holders on his belt. A good compromise be tween weight and firepower, the Swiss pistol still was hardly a match for the weaponry Alazar was likely to have on board. Jason's plan required a quick in and out, something the weight of heavier equipment would only impede. If Jason and Paco needed superior armament, they would already be in serious trouble. Replacing the pistol in the holster slung over his Kevlar vest, Jason inspected the rest of his gear as best he could in the poor light.
'Ready?'
Paco's silhouette glanced up the anchor chain and shook its head slowly. 'A fookin' rat couldn' get though there, man,' he whispered.
'A fat rat, you mean.' Jason tugged on a pair of work gloves, pulled himself out of the Zodiac by the anchor chain, and began to climb. 'You'll have to suck in your gut.'
When Jason was halfway up the chain, Paco began his climb. Both men moved slowly, aware that a slip, a mistake, could set the chain into motion, clanging against the steel skin of the ship like an alarm bell.
At the top of the chain Jason stood on the lip of the anchor hatch, holding on to the chain for balance. Darkness prevented him from seeing Paco, but the larger man's grunts marked his progress. When Paco stood panting alongside Jason, Jason took a small flashlight from his pocket and played its narrow beam on the opening where the chain disappeared into the hull.
'No fookin' way, man,' Paco whispered. 'No way I can squeeze through there.'
He was right.
'You'll have to take off your vest,' Jason said. 'And lay off the beer and chips before the next time.'
Headfirst, Jason crawled through the hole into stygian darkness. The flashlight revealed a triangular room of no more than fifty square feet containing coils of rope, a toolbox bolted to the wall, and a motor for the electric winches overhead. The apex of the triangle was the ship's bow; the bulkhead that was its base contained a small door.
Jason tried the door. It refused to yield.
'Fook! I'm stuck!' Paco's head and shoulders filled the opening.
Jason suppressed a grin before he realized his face was in darkness. 'Wriggle a little more. You look like somebody's hunting trophy mounted on a wall.'
'Real funny, man.'
Jason switched off the light and returned his attention to the door, squatting to peer along the edges. There was no watertight seal above the coaming, as there would have been on a military vessel. Through the space between the door and its frame he could make out dim light. He removed a diver's knife from its sheath on his ankle.
A thud beside him announced that Paco had worked his way loose.
Jason ran the knife blade upward along the side of the door until he felt resistance. He increased pressure until there was a click, the sound of a simple bolt sliding from its catch. As he had guessed, there had been no complex locking mechanism. There was no reason to worry about the contents of the anchor locker. He pushed and the door swung an inch or so.
He turned to Paco. 'You got that syringe ready?'
Paco held up a SIG Sauer like Jason's. 'Yeah, but I'm cocked an' locked.'
The two men crept up a dimly lit companionway to the middle level of the vessel. At the top of the stairs a door led to a passageway that resembled the hall of a plush apartment building more than anything nautical. Thick carpet covered floors bounded by highly polished teak walls.
'Last door on the left,' Jason whispered.
