“Yes we have the book, The Pirate King,” the guide, a fifties-something woman with short hair and stern eyes, said. “But we don’t generally lend it out. This is a museum, not a library, sir.”
Crouch took the acerbity well. “But surely it is an artifact of sorts and could still prove useful. We could go straight to the right page. We’d wear gloves. You don’t even have to move it.”
“I don’t know…”
“How about a donation?” Caitlyn asked. “Cash.”
“You mean to the museum?”
Crouch shrugged indifferently. “We only need five minutes.”
“I’ll need to get back to the front.”
They were taken through a high, dark opening into a small room where the walls were all glass cabinets and the spotlights shone down with bright abandon. Many volumes lay within the cabinets, all open and all covered in an ancient, spidery brown script. The guide led them straight to a corner, stopped in front of a chest-high row and produced a key. Alicia smelled polish in the air and some kind of cleaning chemical.
“Five minutes,” the guide said. “Be cool. I’ll be back.”
Crouch opened the glass door and reached right in. Caitlyn had worked out the page number and location of the deleted passage, but hard reality was a little different to theory. It took Crouch two minutes of squinting and careful flicking back and forth to find what they were looking for. Pages rustled and creaked rather alarmingly and he had to fight twice with the glass door which kept wanting to close. “Nothing worth doing,” he said as he worked, “is ever easy.”
“A guy told me that once,” Alicia said with mock glumness. “Didn’t know whether to thank him or hurt him.”
“Does this sound right to you?” He stood back.
Caitlyn moved in. “I guess.”
“You guess?”
Healey read the passage out: “And though he traveled often and tarried little, Henry Morgan did find himself a stronghold. Not a refuge but a fastness. It lay between Haiti and Panama and Port Royal, spoken of as a large mountain surrounded by a ribbon of beach with an unusual feature atop. A wizened, crooked, bent old tree, a hundred foot tall. A marker of passing time. No leaves, no branches, nothing but a stark, warped trunk. Why was it here? It was there to speak to the fanciful mind of the Pirate King. ’ ”
“Interesting,” Crouch said. “And yet I can see why they deleted it from the book. It really adds nothing of interest.”
Alicia frowned. “To be fair — not even a location.”
“Exactly. It’s pretty vague in more ways than it’s helpful. But…” Crouch turned with a smile. “A man of the seas, a sailor, a—”
“Pirate?” Caitlyn interrupted with a smile.
“Well, yes, whoever sails these Caribbean seas would know that island. All we have to do is find the right person.”
“You’re buying in?” Alicia asked.
Crouch grinned. “Who wouldn’t?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
John Jensen cooled his heels for several hours in a thirteen-by-thirteen jail cell. The mattress was narrow and hard, the pillow no better. The air conditioning was as cranky and ineffectual as a pensioner’s complaint, the food bordering between slops and scraps. The police mostly ignored him, no doubt told there were bigger fish on the way to deal with the murderous criminal. He was looking at life. No parole. No sweet smelling lands for him anymore. No sweet tasting food nor women anymore.
Faced with the prospect of losing his freedom a man might be forgiven for a period of introspection. Brooding. Reflection on a life lived and opportunities missed. He might think hard about all the things that would continue as normal without him.
But not Jensen. A career soldier, he focused on the plan. A career criminal, he focused on the plan. Nothing wavered. Nothing changed. Grueling times often yielded lucrative results and this would be the best. Friends and lieutenants sometimes capitulated but Jensen simply left them behind. Some he even left breathing.
But still, time spent in a cell left even Jensen looking back. Where had the transition come between soldier and villain? He couldn’t blame family or a poor upbringing. He couldn’t blame a bad captain or vicious team. He was his own man. Always had been. The truth was — he enjoyed walking along the darker side of the thin line. It made him feel alive. A person existed only for a short span of time on this earth — his future was always diminishing. Jensen thought he might create his own legacy whilst he still lived.
Drifting from place to place, always moving, always savvy, he had sewn together a shabby band of mercenaries, added discipline and income and a little reward mixed with fear. An intelligent leader, he rarely put a foot wrong.
Is the risk worth the reward?
This time, damn right it was. Morgan’s treasure was incalculable, and there were plenty of ruthless collectors out there that would pay twice as much as any government or museum. Jensen wished he knew the time. All he could see through his cell windows was a lessening of the light, so he knew evening was drawing in. All he could smell were microwave meals and his own stale sweat. Panama City was a great, steaming hive tonight, awash with misadventure and opportunity.
Tonight, he would carve out his own piece of history.
Jensen sat with his back to the wall, legs kicking gently. His heart beat rapidly. His mouth was dry so he took a drink from a plastic cup. At his back, the light faded away. If there had ever been a point of no return, Jensen knew this was it. His current crimes were serious but paled somewhat against what was soon to come.
Not soon, Jensen heard the beginning of it. Now.
They landed on the roof, and they would be led by Labadee, Forrester and Levy. Jensen had foreseen the need for more men, ever since he realized the final clue would not pan out, and had sent his three lieutenants on a search and recruit mission for reinforcements. For one last expedition in search of Morgan’s treasure.
Panama was not without its corruptions. The right wallets had been filled to bursting; the correct leverages weighed. The doors he needed open would stay that way, at least for tonight.
The sound of gunfire, the shouting of men and women. An explosion. Some of it was set up by the men he’d paid off, but not all of it. This was how, occasionally, a rival was taken out of the picture or a debt settled. This was how a man with a shadow for a soul worked. Jensen worked hard to maintain his contacts. Ironically, it was a skill he’d learned from Michael Crouch.
Padding across the floor, he finished the last of his water and threw the plastic cup aside. A small rectangular hole gave him a glimpse into the corridor outside, but all he saw was a sink and a brown wall. Somewhere beyond, men yelled and screamed.
The sound of footsteps sent him retreating into his cell. After all, it could be anyone. The rattle of a bolt and then the door opened slowly. Labadee poked his head through.
“You ready?”
Jensen nodded at the Jamaican. “To get rich? Constantly.”
“First, we must escape Panama.” His lieutenant’s voice was thick.
Jensen followed him out of the room and into the booking area. Cops stood around with their hands in the air, and one lay dead on the floor, bleeding out. Jensen gave none of them a second glance. The rear doors were open, leading straight out to an enclosed yard. Barbed wire topped the walls and CCTV cameras stood all around. Vehicles were parked or abandoned across the area. More bodies lay in between, some still groaning. Labadee pointed to the right where Jensen saw Forrester and Levy waiting. Both men scanned the surroundings and even as Jensen walked toward them Levy fired at a hidden cop, making him scurry for safety.