there.
Covering his brief lapse in concentration, Jonas slipped his left hand into his pocket and immediately focused on the one person he was supposed to know. “Theodore, this is a pleasant surprise. So good to see you again.”
“Mr. Castilo suggested that I oversee the actual transaction, as it were,” the bodyguard said.
“By all means, please, come, sit. Would you and your friends like any refreshments before we get down to business?”
Theodore turned and spoke in what Jonas thought was Swahili, then Spanish. Both men shook their heads. Theodore nodded to the African on the left. “This is Nyakio, and the gentleman next to him is Daniel. He’s the gentleman that Mr. Castilo spoke of earlier.”
Jonas frowned. “Forgive my suspicion, but how am I to be sure that this man is who you claim he is? For all I know, you could have gotten him from anywhere in Latin America.”
Theodore didn’t appear insulted, but nodded. “A very prudent question.” He turned to Damason and asked him in Spanish to produce identification. Damason asked if that was a smart thing to do, and Theodore assured him that it was safe. Hesitantly, Damason produced his military identification, which listed him as a major in the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces. He held it out for Jonas to see, but would not let him take it.
“I hope this will do,” Theodore added.
“It is acceptable.” Jonas nodded at the young man, who inclined his head in return. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, sir.” Impulsively, he reached out his hand. “Please, I would shake the hand of a man who has risked so much to be here.”
Damason looked slightly uncomfortable at the idea, but he took Jonas’s outstretched hand and shook it, frowning as Jonas clapped his left hand over Damason’s and shook heartily. “The pleasure is mine. Please, do not mind me as you gentlemen conduct your affairs.”
“Do not worry, this shouldn’t take long.” Jonas released him and turned back to Theodore. “Do your clients wish to see the merchandise for themselves?” He stepped aside to reveal the Stinger crate, smiling slightly as the other two men’s eyes widened in surprise. “I take it they are impressed?”
“Oh, indeed.” Theodore set his briefcase down, unlocked it and opened it, revealing neat, banded stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. “Please, examine the money as you wish.”
Jonas reached down past the first layer to take a packet out from underneath. He brought out a nondescript pen and clicked it, then drew the tip across the note. The ink looked bright yellow, indicating that the bill was genuine. The pen was manufactured by a research department of the Secret Service, and was ninety-nine percent accurate, much more so than the simple iodine pens used to test currency in convenience stores. The note also passed his touch and visual examinations, so unless it was one of the superbill forger-ies that had been in scattered circulation for the past decade, he was holding real American currency. And if his math was correct, Jonas estimated there was another one and a quar-termillion dollars in the case.
“This is a good start, but you are a bit light. I see only the first half of the amount agreed upon,” he said.
“Of course, but we prefer not to carry such large amounts of currency around. We would like to take these cases with us as our down payment. A vessel will come by within the next hour, drop off the second half of your fee and pick up the rest of the cargo. Please be sure it is ready, as they will not wish to stay out here any longer than necessary,” Theodore said.
Jonas wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement—but it would arouse suspicion and probably kill the deal if he were to dis-agree. A real arms dealer might even take the million-plus in the case and split, a tidy profit for a night’s work and only one Stinger. Something about the arrangement niggled at the back of Jonas’s mind, but he couldn’t tease the intuition into a full-blown thought. Instead, he played his part and smiled.
“Naturally. Once I have the rest of the funds in hand, the transfer shouldn’t take more than ten to fifteen minutes.
Would you like some assistance getting this one down to your boat?”
“I think the three of us can handle it, but thank you,”
Theodore said. He motioned to the two men, each of whom came over and picked up one end of the case.
Jonas caught the flash of a frown on Damason’s face as he lifted his end of the crate, but it quickly disappeared.
Theodore took the gripstock case, walked to the door, and opened it, letting the two men out ahead of him. Jonas followed, and watched as the trio maneuvered the bulky case down to the bottom rear deck. They hauled it aboard, and Theodore turned back to him before disembarking.
“Thank you very much—these will be a great boon to us in our mission. Watch for a double set of lights on your port side, one white and one blue. That will be the ship to pick up the rest of the cargo, and they will have the other half of your payment.” He extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Heinemann.”
Jonas gripped his hand and shook it. “The pleasure has been mine, Theodore, and I’ll be ready for your acquaintances. Have a safe trip back.”
“That we will. Farewell.”
The man who’d remained behind cast off the line, and the cigarette boat backed away, its engines growling in the darkness. Theodore turned the boat south and accelerated into the darkness.
As soon as they were out of sight, Jonas was on his cell, tucking a wireless Bluetooth receiver into his ear. “Bridge, I want someone on the tracker following that boat at all times. Do not let the Stinger’s signal out of your sight. We will be expecting a larger ship in the next hour. All positions stay alert—this is when they’re going to try something.
Anyone see anything out of the ordinary, no matter how small, report it immediately.”
William Hartung finished his third check of the
Valedictorian of his high school class, along with state-champion wrestler back in Idaho, he’d been top of his gradu-ating class at the UCLA, and then came 9/11. Like many other men his age, William had wanted to make sure that an attack like that would never happen again on American soil, so he had applied to the nascent Department of Homeland Security. After four years there, however, he watched it turn into a sea of bureaucracy and waste. It was also about that time that he uncovered a major plot to bring Al Qaeda terrorists across the Canadian border to strike power plants near the Great Lakes, hoping to cause a chain reaction similar to the blackout of 2003, only much larger. While winning only a certificate of merit from his superior, William’s almost single-handed unraveling of the plot had brought him to the attention of Room 59, who had recruited him for their intelligence-analysis division.
Before he could begin, however, he had to complete their intensive basic training, which far outclassed anything the DHS had to offer. This was his last week, and when Judy Burges had requested available volunteers for a two-to-four-day training assignment in Florida, he had gladly accepted.
Now, however, the 9 mm Glock 22-C pistol in a clip-on holster under his shirt felt heavier with each step, and he was seriously reconsidering his choice to “see some action,” as he had put it, before settling down behind a desk.
His cell phone vibrated and he activated his Bluetooth receiver.
“Lights have been spotted off the port bow. We think this is our contact ship. Everyone stay alert.” The voice was that of the operative in change, a stern-looking guy named Heinemann.
William was sure the name was fake, but wasn’t about to ask. He had seen the cigarette boat come alongside, and then the three guys carry a long box back aboard as they left.
Something heavy was going down, and he was a part of it.
He hoped this would look good on his record; it would be a nice way to begin his career with the supersecret agency.
Everyone confirmed receiving the message, and he replied, as well. “Position Six confirmed. All clear aft.”
Taking another look around the platform, William looked across the water on the port side, searching for the pickup ship’s signal. He saw twin lights, one white, one blue, about a half mile away. It didn’t seem to be getting any closer, however, which he thought was odd. William watched it for several more seconds, but the lights stayed where they were.
