The crew of the freighter lowered a fuel hose. Zakharia Al-Shemari, the third member of the team, grabbed the hose, then pulled off a small, sealed box and dropped it on the deck. Then he laboriously dragged the hose to the hungry maw of the fuel tanks.
Kahf, moving slowly, picked up the box, then sat back down, holding it in his lap.
Souhi kept the cigarette as close to the freighter as he dared as the tanks filled. He had to fight the wash from the freighter, which alternately threatened to push them so far out they lost the hose, then drag them in to crash into the side of the freighter. And this was good weather.
Finally, the tanking was done, the hose retracted and he could pull away. As the crew strapped down he turned opposite to the freighter’s course and added power.
Kahf sat down next to him, still holding the precious box, and strapped in.
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” the fedayeen diver said, bouncing in time with the boat.
“Only three more runs,” Souhi pointed out. “Where’s the next drop?”
Technically, Souhi was the only one who was supposed to know the key operational details so Kahf looked at him quizzically, then opened the small box. Inside was a scrap of paper.
“Twenty-four, fifty by eighty, twenty-seven,” Kahf said, then slipped the paper back into the box.
Souhi, still driving the boat, punched the coordinates into the GPS and then nodded.
“Off Largo,” he said. “Closer this time by a bit. A long run, though. First, to the pick-up point.”
The cigarette plunged across the big Atlantic rollers, headed east…
Chapter Ten
Mike pulled the Cigarette up to the landing platform and backed as he came alongside, reversing the starboard engine to bring the rear of the boat around.
The line handlers were much better trained than the Keldara, he had to admit. They scrambled aboard, picking up the mooring lines before any of Mike’s party could do more than stand up, and had the boat secured in an instant. However, they didn’t look Colombian. Indonesians at a guess.
Mike climbed out of the boat, showing his invitation to a big guy wearing an earbud.
“Mike Jenkins,” the Kildar said. “Pleased to meetcha. Nice boat.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, nodding and gesturing to the ladder up to the yacht. “Welcome aboard the White Line.”
“Am I supposed to salute?” Mike asked, as he walked up the stairway.
The rear deck of the yacht was about packed with people already. Another man, much smaller and dressed in a white blazer, held his hand out for Mike’s invitation, read it briefly, then nodded.
“Michael Jenkins and associates,” the man boomed. He had a much more resonant voice than his appearance suggested. “Mountain Tiger Breweries.”
“And bearing gifts,” Mike said, gesturing to the crate that Shota was carrying. “The good stuff.”
The man waggled a finger at one of the waiters and the crate was hurriedly shuffled off to the bar.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Juan Gonzales said, walking over with his hand out. “A real pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Señor,” Mike said, shaking his hand affably. “And if I could introduce my friends?”
“And lovely friends they are,” Gonzales said, nodding.
“Britney Harder, Anastasia Rakovich, Greznya Mahona, Señor Juan Gonzales,” Mike said. “Juan, meet Bambi, Anna and Grez.”
“Please make yourselves at home,” Gonzales said, shaking hands. “My boat is your boat. Mr. Jenkins, there are some people that I think you must meet.”
“Glad to,” Mike said, grabbing Lieutenant Harder’s hand. “I think Bambi wants to meet them, too.”
“Of course,” the lieutenant said, smiling.
“Britney Harder,” Suarez said, shaking his head. “Second Lieutenant, SOCOM G-2, South America section. She’s one of their people for tracking people like, well, us.”
“Unsure of herself but combat trained,” Ritter said, nodding. “Look at the walk.”
“I can see,” Enrico said. “Anastasia Rakovich. Former harem girl of an Uzbek sheik. Jenkins’ domestic manager. The other girl, the two guys, I got nothing on them.”
“You don’t need it for the guys,” Ritter said, pointing to the monitor. “One of them was either in a bad wreck recently or, more likely, serious combat. Look at that prosthetic. But he doesn’t seem slowed down by it. The other one… pure muscle.”
“He’s big enough, that’s for sure,” Suarez said. “The girl I’ve got nothing on, either.”
“Have you penetrated their system?” Ritter asked.
“Not even close,” the Mexican admitted. “Their encryption is a stone bitch, they’ve got firewalls from hell, some of them ones I’ve never seen before as if they’re something custom made just for them. And they’re paranoid; I’ve tried, twice, to do a serious attack and both times they nearly tracked me back even though I went through multiple systems. Hell, they tracked me through satellites. And about half of the boat’s screened against electronic penetration. Unless we get somebody on the inside, forget it. I don’t even know, for sure, what they’ve got in there. But the traffic level, both directions, is massive. And they’ve been running stuff through distributed servers a lot. I’ve gotten the data but without the encryption scheme it’s just ones and zeros. Mostly zeroes.”
“Mr. Michael Jenkins,” Gonzales said, walking over to a man in Bahamas Constabulary uniform, “Colonel Horatio Montcrief, regional constabulary commander.”
“Colonel,” Mike said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again!”
“And you, Mr. Jenkins,” the colonel said, grinning. “The last time was… in Andros wasn’t it?”
“Bimini,” Mike said, shaking his head. “The blonde and the redhead.”
“Ah, yes, them,” the colonel said. “Whatever happened to them?”
“Back at school I presume,” Mike said, shrugging. “How is Deirdre?”
“Just fine, Mike,” the colonel said. “Just fine. I understand you have minions, now.”
“Friends,” Mike said, shrugging. “Associates. Buddies. I could hardly call them minions. And if I could introduce Miss Harder?”
Britney’s eyes were wide as she shook the constable’s hand. For all the reports she’d read, the sight of a senior member of the constabulary sharing a friendly drink with a noted drug dealer was hard to take.
“Call me—”
“Bambi,” Mike interjected. “She likes that.”
“Bambi,” she said, shooting Mike a glare.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Harder,” the colonel said, grinning again.
“Sir,” a waiter said, holding out a tray of champagne glasses.
“Dom Perignon ’96,” Gonzales said.
“Nah,” Mike said, waving at the tray. “But could you get me some of the Mountain Tiger? Dom you can pick up in any liquor store by the case. I brought the pure quill, Mother Mahona’s brew. That you can only get from the Kildar!”
The waiter shot a glance at Gonzales, then scurried away with his tray at the expression on his boss’s face.