“No,” I said. “I think we should time an e-mail to go out at about noon tomorrow. All the papers in Italy should do the trick, right?”
“Just send it to one of those gossip blogs,” Fiona said. “It will be around the world in twenty seconds.”
She was right. It would only take moments for Dinino to be cut out of his own family. The speed of the Internet would convict him long before a court. And the men he was dealing with would have their own justice, too.
“What about the girl?” I said.
“It would be the best thing for her,” Fiona said. “If she’s been used, the authorities will be able to keep her safe.”
Maybe. For good measure, we’d send her photo to the FBI, too.
“See,” Sam said, “you’re a friendly guy. Helping out someone you don’t even know and will never meet. It’s a nice way of building relationships, Mikey. I bet in no time you’ll be just like me. Friends in every corner of the universe. Help your reputation in international circles. Maybe prevent a couple attempts on your life.”
“I don’t see that happening.”
“Just saying,” Sam said.
“Were you able to get me a boat for tomorrow from Virgil?” I said, speaking of friends I didn’t want.
“Yeah. About that. Virgil said he got a good deal on a classic. Said it isn’t sleek, but it’s fast.”
“Sam,” I said.
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “You can depend on Virgil.”
It was true. I just didn’t want to have to.
“We just need something that can close a gap if a problem goes down,” I said. “Fi, you comfortable with this?”
“I’m comfortable knowing that tomorrow at this time I may have shot at something,” she said.
“Well, anyway, Virgil’s happy to help,” Sam said.
“He’s not coming, is he?”
“Well, that was part of the deal,” Sam said. “I told him it was an important mission. He’s good in a fight, Mikey.”
True enough. But Virgil was also one of the people who attracted problems. And my mom.
“I’d like to avoid feeling… uncomfortable,” I said.
“I hear you,” Sam said.
I didn’t think he actually did, but it was a moot point now. Virgil was coming.
“When did Gennaro last talk to his wife?”
“This evening. She still thinks everything is fine.”
“Good,” I said. “If she never knows, even better.”
“Mikey,” he said, “listen. You get into international waters tomorrow, and Alex Kyle will take his shot.”
“I know that,” I said.
“And maybe ten or twenty others.”
“I know that, too,” I said.
Outside, the halogens clicked off and the once bright street fell into its usual darkness, which meant it still had the periodic blue glow from inside the club, but was otherwise now just a street, not a crime scene. Whoever had taken out Rob Roberge didn’t even want him thinking of hurting me, much less doing anything to hurt me. If I left the waters of the United States, it wouldn’t just be the people who burned me who’d be upset, it would possibly be plenty of other organizations, both known and unknown, who would scramble the appropriate response.
I needed to make this happen tomorrow with a minimum of collateral damage, to say nothing of sparing my own life.
“He’ll wear floaties,” Fi said to Sam, “in case I need to throw him overboard.”
14
A popular misconception is that spies are always armed. The spies we all know-James Bond, Napoleon Solo, Jim Phelps, even Maxwell Smart-didn’t just have guns, they also had cigarette cases that turned into grenade launchers, belt buckles that were also lasers, cars that doubled as nuclear submarines, watches that contained antishark sonar and tuxedos that morphed into rocket packs.
The truth is that spies are rarely armed. Operate in a country like China and be found with a gun on your person and you’re going to prison. Chinese prison. Get found in Russia with a gun on you, you’re likely to find yourself breaking ice in Siberia.
Gun laws in Florida aren’t exactly friendly, either. No American state looks kindly on people shooting up city blocks, and diplomatic cloak only goes so far if you happen to embarrass the right people. Generally, the government doesn’t want its people to be aware of the fact that counterintelligence is going on right under their nose. Get arrested for carrying in Miami and you’re likely to stay in jail until your handler can figure out a way to fake your death. You’ll get out eventually, but it might be no easy task.
Being a burned spy carries no such assurances of safety from criminal prosecution. Shoot someone in broad daylight and people are going to ask questions.
I might have guardian angels, as Alex Kyle said, but even they answered to someone; someone who likely would not want to answer to widespread carnage on the streets of Miami.
Use a gun in international or domestic waters, however, and it’s an entirely different standard, particularly if you’re on one boat and the person you’re shooting at is on another. You can be tried as a pirate. Contrary to Jimmy Buffett songs and Disney movies, this is not a good thing.
Piracy laws over the course of the last five years have been modified so that you’re not just committing maritime crimes, you’re actually being looked at under a standard normally reserved for terrorists.
Which is why I wasn’t about to put myself in that situation. But was happy to put Alex Kyle and Christopher Bonaventura there.
It was eleven forty-five a.m. and Biscayne Bay was filled with boats-pleasure yachts, sailboats, catamarans- and revelers. The marina at the Southern Cross Yacht Club was alive with partygoers. The Hurricane Cup, racing from Miami to Nassau over the course of two days, was a traveling party. It started here, in Miami, and over the next twenty-four hours on the open sea, boat to boat, it kept on.
The course was buoyed so the racers would know where to go and the partyers would know where to park. From Miami to Nassau harbor, drinks would roll down throats, money would change hands, and for most people worth millions of dollars, nothing would seem untoward.
Sam was aboard the Pax Bellicosa, but someone important was missing. “Dinino is nowhere,” Sam said when he called from the marina.
“What do you mean nowhere?” I asked.
“Gennaro says he’s always right in the marina for a launch, playing the big guy, but he’s not here.”
It didn’t make sense. He would either be watching the race or..
Up above, I heard the familiar whoop-whoop of a helicopter-there were several in the air covering the event, which made things even more likely to be newsworthy today-and a thought occurred to me.
“Why don’t you ask Gennaro if the family has a helicopter,” I said.
“You think he’s flying to the Ottone yacht?”
“That would be my play. Kill the girls himself if he has to.”
“Not even Bonaventura would let him do that,” Sam said.
“That’s the hope,” I said. In the background, I heard an announcement telling all the racers to make final preparations. “You better get moving.”
“Right. And hey, Mikey?”
“Yeah Sam?”
“If it turns out everything is aces here,” he said, “I’m just letting you know I’m prepared to give a portion of my cut of the winnings to a charity of your choice.”
“Still not happening,” I said and hung up. The reality of the situation was that I wasn’t convinced Gennaro
