“Congratulations,” Britney said, chuckling. “You figured out what it took DEA about six months to do. They’re looking for the information exchange method and trying to write an update for the coding but they’re having a hard time.”
“Yes, I think I understand,” Greznya said, her eyes distant. “Yes, that would be very hard coding. And you would have many many false positives.”
“Because boats turn like that all the time,” Mike said. “You get a hit on the sonar. You see a school of tuna and go chase it. Your divers are doing a drift dive. Hell, you lose your damned hat! The weak point is the information transfer. There’s some part of that that will tell us where the motherlode is.”
He sat back and looked at the ceiling for a moment.
“Any way we can get intel on suspect tracks?” Mike asked, picking up his tea without looking and taking a sip. “Especially ones coming in from north of the Bahamas?”
“The data stream we’re on has them all the time,” Britney said, frowning. “Why?”
“We need some equipment and I think it’s training time,” Mike said. “I’ll consider the conundrum of Katya at another time. In the meantime… Greznya, get me… Vil and the pilots. Britney, want to take a trip to the Keys?”
“New girl,” Ritter said, sitting down next to the computer console.
“Pretty,” Suarez said. “But aren’t they all?”
Enrico Suarez was a graduate of the University of California, San Diego. He’d gotten a bachelors in computer programming, then gone to Stanford for his masters. However, as much as he could have made in Silicon Valley, he knew he could make more working for the cartels. A few friends had gotten him introduced to other friends until he found someone who was willing to meet his, very high, price.
The nice thing about working for the cartels was that they didn’t care exactly how you got information, they just wanted to make sure they had it and nobody had theirs.
Suarez did various jobs for Gonzales, but one of them was “vetting” the various visitors that came on his boat. Frankly, it was easy.
He keyed in the name Alicia Patterson and let the computer search. Quickly enough it came back with the information that Alicia Patterson was a sophomore at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. Her home address was listed in Highlands, North Carolina. She was listed as a former student at Highlands High School. Her grades at Highlands had been much better than those at ASU. She was not attending this quarter but was shown as permitted for qualified admission the next; she was right on the edge of academic suspension. There were four photos. One was a very old security photo from a company that maintained a database for parents who were afraid their children might be kidnapped. The second was from her driver’s license. She had had three speeding tickets in the last year and was right on the edge of suspension for that, too. The third was from her ASU student identity card. The fourth was a very old and grainy photo of her in a local newspaper database. She was one of six winners of her elementary school spelling bee.
“That her?” Suarez said, smirking.
“That’s her,” Ritter said, nodding.
“Her grades are taking a nose-dive,” Suarez said. “Did she say how she got down here?”
“Something about a bus,” Ritter said. “I guess she boat-bunnied from there.”
“Bet she doesn’t go back,” Suarez said. “Fins and all that. Small town girl. Hits college, gets into partying. Takes off… Boat-bunny material par excellence.”
“Good,” Ritter said, standing up. “I felt it was convenient her showing up right now.”
“She’s for real,” Suarez said. “No question. It all checks.”
“Ali’s Bargain Palace!”
Jay listened to the scratchy connection for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes, Hamid! I need the T-shirts very much! I must have by Tuesday! Yes. Good. In’shallah!”
He turned back to the two tourists from Dubuque who were looking over the selection of cheap T-shirts and even cheaper, if very overpriced, souvenirs.
“All very good, mon!” Jay said in an Arabic imitation of an islands accent. “Very good. You look good in this one,” he said, pulling down a shirt with a large shark surfacing and handing it to the very large woman.
Katya was in, they’d checked her CV and apparently hadn’t had any questions since the hacks had only gone to that point and then stopped. If they’d had any questions they would have searched deeper. Finding Robert’s trojans in the NC DOT database, the ASU student database and the Highlands Courier would have been hard, but the search would have been obvious.
Robert was expensive but, like Jay, a patriot and very good. The NSA had been idiots to let him go over one little unauthorized hack. Especially since the take had proven him right.
God damn the Clinton administration.
“Very good!” Ali Hamedi said as the couple walked away. The Midwesterners looked as if they didn’t care much for Islamics.
Good for them. Neither did “Ali Hamedi.”
“What is this place?” Britney asked as the white Lynx settled onto the helipad.
“Islamorada Harbor,” Mike said, nostalgically. Things had been… simpler once upon a time.
The harbor was tucked inland about a quarter mile from the water, the only access a half natural, half man-made cut. For Mike, it was one definition of home.
“Thanks, Kacey,” Mike said over the intercom. “You good on the way home?”
“We’ll have to tank again,” Kacey replied. They’d had to stop in Bimini as it was. “And again on the way back. No externals on this bird. But we’re good.”
Mike waved and climbed out of the helicopter, followed by Britney. The weather was still cool so they were both wearing windbreakers and jeans. Mike’s had a snarling tiger face on the breast pocket and the name “Kildar” embroidered on the back over a much larger embroidered tiger.
So somebody was after him. That was just fine by Mike. Next time let them shoot the right target.
He made his way to the marina’s offices, sniffing the air. It was a good day to go fishing; the recently passed cold front would bring the fish up a treat. And it was perfect sailfish conditions. Unfortunately, he just didn’t have the fucking time.
He opened up the door to the grimy interior and grinned. “Hey, Sol.”
“Mike!” the man said, standing up and coming around the corner. He shook Mike’s hand, then gave him a bear hug. “Man, where you been?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Mike said.
“You disappear and then some DEA guys bring your boat back,” Shatalin said, shaking his head. Sol Shatalin was a short-coupled, barrel-chested man, a former Navy bosun who had a part interest in the marina. The money was a guy in Michigan who’d made his fortune in bio-tech, then settled back to enjoy it. Part of that was buying a marina, partially because they were pretty good moneymakers but more so that he had an in on the Florida boat and fishing trade.
Sol ran the place, working his ass off most of the time but loving every minute of it. However, he’d worried about his friend, the former SEAL who had disappeared.
“Christ, they actually used DEA?” Mike said, shaking his head. “Great.”
“Oh, they didn’t wear the jacket or anything,” Sol said. “But after you’ve been down here for a while you know. They were dressed like gang-bangers, you know? But they were… too straight. And bangers wouldn’t be returning your boat; they’d be selling it.”
“Captain Don’s been running it, though?” Mike asked.
“Yeah,” Sol said, shrugging. “Keeps it in good shape.”