Bluewater Voodoo: Mystery and Adventure in the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 3) Page 14

  She waited until his breathing settled into an even rhythm and then she asked, "So, Jerry, who do you think hacked your system?"

  Incensed, he sat bolt upright in the bed. "Nobody hacked my system. I said it looked like someone else was trying to crack the same databases I’d cracked to find the zombie for Martinez. Whoever it was, they were pretty good, but they still tripped my alarms."

  "Think it was coincidence?"

  "No. They hit every single one that I had looked at," he said.

  "Can you trace them?"

  "Well, not to find out who it was. They covered their identity well, but I was able to trace my way back through all the web addresses they visited before and after. At least, I was able to until they switched i.p. addresses. Then I lost ‘em."

  "What did you find out?" she asked.

  "They were all over this video production company before they got to the databases I used. Some place called ‘Living Dead Productions, LLC.’ That’s where the trail started. Then they started in on all the places I’d looked at. The last thing they did was they hacked into Martinez’s credit card records."

  "Whoa! That’s getting too close. Martinez is gonna shit," she said.

  "How’s Martinez ever gonna know, Carmen?"

  "Are you kidding? I’ll have to tell him."

  "Why? No way he’ll ever find out," Jerry argued.

  "Don’t put money on that. He’s got all kinds of sources. I’m not his only I.T. contractor. Besides, he’s got all the resources of the Venezuelan government. If I don’t tell him and he finds out from somebody else, we’re both history."

  "So? He’s still just one client. There are plenty of other people looking for the kind of talent we have. If he finds out, you lose one account. Big deal." He began to nuzzle the side of her neck.

  "You don’t get it, Jer. Martinez is dangerous. People who cross him end up gone."

  "Gone where?" He sat up, frustrated by her lack of response to his overture.

  "I don’t think we want to find out. I sure as hell don’t. I need to tell him somebody’s on his trail. He knows I subbed out the search to you; he has to approve anybody I use like that."

  "So what do we do? When will you tell him?"

  "Soon. I’ve got a telephone number where I can leave a coded message for him in an emergency; then he’ll call me back. I’m thinking that the more we can tell him, the better."

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "Like who’s tracking us. For a start, who is behind Living Dead Productions? You’d better get dressed and get to work. Find out everything you can. I’ll hold off a few hours before I make the call, and he said it would probably take as much as a day before he could get back to me, depending."

  "Okay. So we got a little time," he reasoned.

  "Not much. This better be your highest priority project, ‘cause I’ll blame you in a heartbeat if it goes wrong."

  "C’mon, Carmen. What about us?"

  "Us? There’s no ‘us,’ Jerry. There’s me, and there’s everybody else. I’ve told you that before."

  "But, what about what we just had?"

  "We just had simultaneous orgasms -- output that results from specific inputs to the hardware and software. It’s just the way we’re programmed."

  ****

  "Gomez, I don’t care who the drugs belong to. I don’t care who gets upset when the shipment doesn’t reach Miami. You will turn the ship around now, and we will take up a position over the radar horizon to the west of Martinique."

  "Señor, it is worth my life."

  "You do understand, then," Martinez said.

  "No, señor. These men, they will kill me if I don’t take Santa Magdalena to Miami."

  "Are these men aboard, Gomez?"

  "No, señor. In Caracas."

  "Exactly. They can’t hurt you from Caracas. Where am I, Gomez?"

  "Eh? No entiendo, señor. Tu está aquí, cierto."

  "Yes. I am here, and I will kill you in the next few minutes if you do not turn this ship around."

  Gomez studied Martinez intently, taking in the flat look in the two dark, clear eyes that stared back into his single bleary, red orb. He swallowed hard and nodded slowly. "Sí, señor. Yo entiendo," he mumbled, turning and heading for the bridge to give the helmsman a revised course.

  As Martinez made his way back to his cabin, he felt the small ship begin a slow turn to the port. He wondered which of the crooks in Caracas would be inconvenienced. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  ****

  "Do you think she’s okay, Phillip?" Liz asked as she fidgeted with a plastic cocktail stirrer. They were in the lobby bar at the resort, sitting back in a dimly lit corner where they would not be noticed by anyone out in the brightly lighted lobby.

  "She’s a big girl, Liz. This was your idea, anyway. What’s wrong?"

  "It’s been a long time. You said they went to the top floor?"

  "Yes. Sanchez checked at the desk for messages and they got on the elevator. It’s only been an hour and a half. Relax. No more coffee for you."

  "An hour and a half is a long time. I think I’ll go up there and check."

  "Check what?"

  "I could listen at the door; make sure she’s okay."

  "We don’t know the room number."

  "I could go ask the desk clerk."

  "No, Liz. Get a grip. He called the clerk by his first name and slipped him a $20 bill. If you go start asking questions, you’ll blow it. Sanchez is obviously a regular guest here. Now settle down. You’re making me nervous."

  "But…" she was interrupted by the chime of the elevator door opening just outside the entrance to the bar. She jumped to her feet, but Phillip caught her by the wrist as she slid out from the booth. She sat back down hard, glaring at him. They heard the elevator doors rumble open, and in a moment, Dani appeared in the entrance to the bar, a smile on her face as she peered into the gloom.

  Spotting them in the corner, she sauntered over to their booth and slipped in next to Liz, smoothing her skirt with a practiced flourish as she sat down.

  "Where is he?" Liz asked.

  "Asleep," Dani said, a dreamy look on her face.

  "Um, er…, did…," Liz mumbled.

  Dani laughed at Liz’s discomfort. "He’s a gentleman. He offered to escort me back to my hotel, but I told him we had arranged to meet here at 11:00 p.m. if we split up. Made it sound like you and I did this as a regular thing. He bought it. Guess you’re not the only one with some acting talent."

  "Shall we go back to the boat before it gets any later?" Phillip asked, amused as he watched Liz trying to figure out how to ask the question that was clearly on her mind.

  "Yeah. Let’s go," Dani said, standing up. Once out of the lobby, she stopped, leaning against Phillip for support as she bent first one leg and then the other, removing her high heels. "That feels better," she said, padding away bare-footed.

  Liz was hard-pressed to keep up as she stepped carefully over the uneven surface in her own heels, finally stopping to remove them when they reached the dinghy dock. After a 20-minute dinghy ride during which conversation was impossible because of the noise of the outboard, they arrived at Kayak Spirit. Dani and Liz clambered aboard as Phillip secured the dinghy for the night.

  Phillip sat at the table in the main cabin as Liz bustled in the galley making tea. While they waited for the water to boil, Dani went into the head and emerged in a few minutes in a T-shirt and faded cut-offs. "That’s better," she said, sitting down across from Phillip. "The things a girl has to do to get noticed," she said, shaking her head as Liz set a steaming mug before each of them and sat down.

  "Well," Dani said, clearing her throat, "Ralph is no great fan of Hugo Chavez."

  "Ralph?" Liz asked, eyebrows arched.

  "Capitán Raphael Ángel Suarez y Sánchez. Ralph Sanchez, to his American friends."

  "Do tell," Liz said.

  "His family was wealthy in the not-too-distant past. He graduated from the Uni
versity of Florida, back B.C., as he put it."

  "B.C.?" Phillip asked, speaking for the first time since they got back to the boat. "Before Chavez?"

  "You got it," Dani said.

  "I told him the story that you gave the bartender about how Martinez took your money and dumped you. He said it sounded completely in character. He thinks Martinez is a jerk. No family, no class. Cold-blooded. He’s rumored to be Chavez’s personal hit man, among other things, and he does stay in Miami, most of the time. He’s not just a spy; he’s a provocateur, of sorts."

  "Did you ask about the raid on the bateye?" Phillip asked when Dani paused.

  "No. It just didn’t feel right. I told him Liz was worried about running into Martinez again." She looked at Liz. "I told him you were scared of him."

  "What did he say to that?" Phillip asked.

  "He said, ‘Smart girl. Tell her not to worry. Martinez left the area; I personally saw him get aboard a freighter headed for Miami,’ and then he smiled," Dani said.

  "So Sanchez must have been on the raid," Liz said.

  "Be nice if we had the name of the freighter," Phillip mused.

  "Santa Magdalena," Dani said.

  "You asked him?" Phillip asked.

  "No. He let it slip later on; something like ‘…when we took him to the Santa Magdalena,’ I think."

  They discussed the implications of what Dani had learned for a few minutes before Phillip excused himself and went into the forepeak to sleep, suggesting that Dani and Liz could sleep on the settees in the main cabin.

  "Don’t stay up too late. We should get under way at dawn," he said as he shut the door, leaving them a modicum of privacy.

  "Dani," Liz whispered, "did you, um…, did he…, was it…?"

  "I’ll never tell," Dani said, smiling, a faraway look on her face.

  Chapter 22

  Martinez switched off the satellite phone and thought about what he had just learned from Carmen. He could tell that she and her hacker friend were upset, and he thought that was good. It would make them more careful in the future, but contrary to their belief, Martinez wasn’t particularly angry with them. He understood that what had happened was to be expected in the cyber world. Even so, he had said nothing to dispel their anxiety. He had not been surprised to learn that this professor, Charles Johnson, was connected to the computer espionage. Carmen said that she and her subcontractor had discovered that the professor was being reimbursed for the charter of the yacht, Vengeance, by Living Dead Productions, LLC. The principal in Living Dead Productions was a Roberto Davis-Fennimore, although Martinez was sure that the professor’s true employer was the CIA or some similar entity. Which one didn’t matter; the important thing was that he now knew that the professor was a problem. He considered how best to eliminate the professor and his assistant.

  Earlier in the day, he had spoken with Moraga, who reported that the base camp was well-established, staffed with a few trusted agents who were beginning to accumulate the things on the list that Martinez had given Moraga. Martinez had explained the change in plans to Moraga, and they had discussed the additional requirements to support the revised operation. The float planes were easy; they could be borrowed from their government’s drug-smuggling organization on an ‘as needed’ basis. They were already operating throughout the Bahamas and the eastern Caribbean. Moraga didn’t anticipate any difficulty in buying a suitable speedboat in a day or two. Martinez had told him to get the boat and find a place to keep it on the Miami River. As soon as he had done that, he should fly to St. Lucia and acquire a high-speed, rigid inflatable tender like the ones the marines used. He should bring the new tender out to the Santa Magdalena.

  Giscard had been gradually reducing the dosage of Ativan that he was giving to the zombie, and the creature was returning to his normal, semi-awake state. Giscard was walking him around the deck now, exercising him, to the dismay of Gomez and his crew. They were petrified, now that they realized that Giscard was a bokor; he could do to them what he had done to the zombie. Martinez found their superstitious worries amusing and took every opportunity to fuel their fear. He would have no more trouble from Gomez and the crew.

  "Good afternoon, Giscard," he said, as the houngan, trailed by the zombie, approached.

  "Good afternoon, señor."

  "Giscard, would it be possible to transfer the loyalty of this zombie to someone else? Or is it forever to follow you around?"

  "It is possible, señor. I had been planning to do that, before you captured us."

  "I see. What would be involved?"

  "The new master would begin to administer the potion, and he would begin to command the zombie, become responsible seeing that he is fed and kept healthy."

  "That sounds much like giving away a pet."

  "In many ways, yes, señor. That is so, if the new master is a bokor."

  "Why is that necessary?" Martinez asked.

  "The master must be able to understand completely the process of making the creature, in order to properly continue with the drugs; it is not so simple. The amount of medication must be varied, depending on how active the creature is, for example."

  "I see. So you are still giving him the Ativan?"

  "Yes, a little bit."

  "But he is awake; he no longer has the seizures. Why must you give him the drugs at all, now?"

  "Now is more critical than before, señor. Too much, and he will sleep all the time; maybe die. Too little, and he may not do as he is told."

  "But I thought he had no mind of his own, now. No will. Why would he not obey without the medication?"

  "He has something; not a mind like ours, but something more like a wild animal. The drugs make him more like a tame dog, perhaps. It is not so easy for me to describe. He would be more like one of those wild animals I have heard of that is like a big dog, but untamed, that howls and hunts at night."

  "A wolf?" Martinez suggested.

  "That is the word I want, but I don’t know these animals. They are like big dogs, but not friendly to man, isn’t it? They are dangerous, yes?"

  "Yes," Martinez said. "Giscard, I know that you were meeting with a man, a professor from some university, at the same time we first met."

  Giscard looked at Martinez and nodded. The zombie stood near them, braced against the railing, staring at nothing.

  "Would the professor understand how to care for this creature?"

  "I don’t think so. Why do you ask, Señor Martinez?"

  "I am thinking that we should make a gift of the zombie to the professor. It seems the professor may be trying to follow us, and I can’t allow that. Perhaps if we give him what he wants, he will leave us alone and take care of the zombie."

  "I see," said Giscard.

  "An associate of mine will join us soon, and I am thinking that we will ask him to escort the zombie to the professor and give him over to his care. With a few days of notice, perhaps the professor could find a bokor to help him, and then he could go forward with his studies, and we can get to work on my project, which will make some money for you, Giscard. Money enough for you to help your people."

  Giscard was silent, watching the zombie. The creature was becoming restless, beginning to shuffle his feet, shifting his weight as he continued to stare fixedly into the distance.

  "Think about this, Giscard. Think about how to make the zombie go with my associate to meet the professor and another bokor. Do you perhaps know another bokor in Martinique? Take your creature away and think of how to make this happen."

  Giscard looked at Martinez for a few seconds, nodding his head. Martinez smiled and nodded his dismissal, and the houngan led the creature away.

  Martinez stared at the horizon for a few minutes, thinking. He took the satellite phone from the pouch on his belt and called Captain Sanchez in St. Lucia.

  ****

  "Paul says that his contacts on the DEA task force have a file on the Santa Magdalena," Phillip said. "It’s on a long list of suspicious vessels that bring odd
lots of cargo into Miami from all over the Caribbean basin. They’ve never had reason to look at her closely, but Paul’s going to tell them about Martinez using the ship to sneak into the country. He’ll snoop around and see what he can turn up on Martinez, too, now that we know a little more about him." Phillip had faxed the information on Martinez to Paul Russo in Miami before he and Dani and Liz had sailed for Martinique yesterday. He went below to stow the satellite phone and returned to the cockpit with a thermos of coffee and three heavy mugs.

  They were aboard Kayak Spirit, halfway across the Martinique channel, having left Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, at sunrise. Dani was braced against the coaming on the leeward side of the cockpit, one bare foot on the tiller, steering lightly as they rocked along on a perfect broad reach. Liz straddled the coaming just aft of where Dani sat, one foot in the cockpit, the other in the warm seawater that formed a puddle in a low spot on the leeward deck outside the coaming. She was facing aft, intent on the flashing lure that trailed 50 yards astern, just on the crest of the third wave in their wake.

  "Big dorado." She extended her left arm inboard, motioning with her fingers for Phillip to put a coffee mug in her hand, not taking her eyes from the fish following the lure. As she closed her fingers around the handle of the mug, the click on the big Penn Senator reel began to scream as the tip of the trolling rod bent toward the surface of the indigo water. "Yes!" she yelled, dropping the coffee, reaching to grab the rod from its holder with both hands as the fish came out of the water, dancing on its tail.

  "Nice one!" Phillip exclaimed, deftly catching the mug as the coffee sloshed over Dani. "Thirty pounds, easy."

  "Ow! Watch the damned coffee," Dani shrieked, jumping to her feet and grabbing the tiller. "Coming about! Heaving to! Watch the boom, Liz!" she yelled as she pulled the tiller down, turning the bow into the wind.

  Liz crouched low, both arms flexing as she kept pressure on the fish, which was stripping line at a rapid rate. "Okay, Dani!" She bent sideways, keeping the rod bent as she maneuvered it under the boom.