But Hammond’s military records were public, for the most part. It was no problem to work up a list of the men he had served longest with. Hammond was part of a Ranger unit that had seen deployment after deployment in Iraq and Afghanistan. The same dozen or so names kept appearing in his records.
The man with green eyes visited the widow of Richard Renzi. He had Renzi’s histories at hand, such as they were. In every scenario, the official connection with Hammond ended when Renzi left the Army. But now he had another name. Roenbach.
Like Hammond, Renzi’s current public record ended six months ago. He held no job. He paid no bills. He did not use his credit card, or even his car. There were no phone calls from any numbers associated with him. His wife said he died. There was no record of that either. No obituary. No church services. No hospital or insurance records and death certificate. Renzi had a life insurance policy, but the company had not been notified. His wife mentioned money—money from Roenbach.
He left the rental on the tarmac and boarded the waiting Gulfstream. They were wheels-up within fifteen minutes, and the man opened a laptop while a dour steward set a drink in a heavy tumbler by his hand. The gloves stayed on.
A cursory search on Dwayne Roenbach turned up a recent history similar to Hammond and Renzi’s. Six months ago, he dropped off the grid. He checked out of a motel in Las Vegas and was never heard from again. It was easy to assemble a list of former US Army Rangers with a similar recent history or lack thereof.
Charles Pierce Raleigh and James Smalls. Both had personal histories that suddenly ended within days of each other six months before.
But no one, no one, drops out completely. They maintain some kind of association somewhere. Girlfriends, family, favorite places. Everyone circles back to re-cross their own path at some time.
“What destination have we plotted for?” the man asked the steward.
“We’re scheduled for Las Vegas, sir. Landing by five o’clock.”
“We’ll need to enter a new flight plan. Tell the pilot to find the county airstrip nearest Dothan, Alabama.”
26
The Island
The Ocean Raj sat at anchor two miles off the coast of the tiny island of Niso Anaxos. Small as it was, it was the largest natural body in that part of the Cyclades. Smaller islets, too tiny to have names, ranged away north in an arc of rocky points that were little more than perches for birds. The sea was shallow along this archipelago, and the Raj rested at the deepest anchorage Boats could find in proximity to their destination.
There were no other vessels in sight. The only other ships they spotted on the way here were container ships similar, to the Raj and one cruise ship. In each case, the other ships were only visible as tiny white shapes against the horizon and only in sight for moments. The fishing season for pickerel, anchovy, and horse mackerel in this part of the Aegean would not open for months.
The island was six miles across at its widest point with about twenty miles of coastline. It was rocky to the south with narrow sandy beaches along the north. A rocky point jutted into the Aegean off the northern shoreline forming a curved promontory that sheltered a shallow harborage. The rest of the island was mostly flat and rocky with wild fig and mastic trees growing in dense clumps here and there.
There was no permanent population. The only manmade structures were a wooden jetty with some frame shacks walled with rusted corrugated sheets. There were ruins of some kind, of shrine or burial cairn built from set stone and partly buried in dunes.
Boats was at the tiller of the Raj’s own inflatable. It was a Chinese model with twelve hard seats and twin outboards. The four passengers held on white-knuckled as Boats opened the throttle and skimmed the fifteen-foot craft over the white caps and around the horn for the calmer waters of the sheltered cove.
He pulled the boat up onto the shallows of a broad white sand beach. Jimbo and Dwayne helped him pull the boat up onto dry sand while Morris and Caroline waded ashore. Boats secured a line from the inflatable to a shell-encrusted concrete mooring post set in the sand for that purpose. A faded old fishing smack lay overturned and half-buried in drifts. Curious sea birds approached and retreated toward and away from the newcomers like a feathered tide. Boats skimmed a clamshell their way, and they took to the air in a squawking mass to settle on the rocks above.
“So, this is your treasure island,” Boats said. “Looks like someone’s been here before you.”
He was right. There were signs of recent excavation all over the beach. Even the wind and tides had not erased all, of the holes dug and the heaps of sand dotting the beach. There were rusted shovels discarded by disappointed fortune hunters. Jimbo found a metal detector with a bent shaft lying in some seagrass.
“This is considered to be the most likely place for the Phoenician crew to have hidden their goodies,” Caroline said. “It’s out of sight from the sea, and the rock peak makes for a good landmark. The other popular spot is a rock cairn inland. It’s been dug up over, and over again for centuries. I think it postdates the Phoenicians’ arrival here.”
“A cairn? That’s like a grave, right?” Dwayne said.
“No one’s buried there. No remains have ever been found,” Jimbo said.
Dwayne glanced at him.
“What? The fobbits aren’t the only ones who can Google,” Jimbo said.
“It was probably built to set a lamp or signal fire on top of,” Caroline said.
“Fobbits?” Morris said.
They spent the afternoon getting familiar with the island’s geography. The beach was about ten miles in length, and they walked half
