“What about that drug center in Afghanistan? I saw that military takedown on the news. I forced the action on that.”
Atkins wearily responded, “There are hundreds of places like that around the globe, ma’am. Little hubs for the opium trade that are used by dealers. You know that from the confidential briefings, and that the United States is focused on a shooting war in Afghanistan. You forced an attack on a place that will be back in the dope business as soon as the troops leave. We keep an eye on them, but have bigger fish to fry.”
The Speaker, growing impatient, pointedly looked at a big grandfather clock on the wall. “You were used,” he declared. “We know your source. Tell us how you contacted Luke Gibson, the man you know as Mr. Prince.”
Keenan gathered her waning strength. They knew! “Have you been listening to my calls?”
“Yes,” replied Atkins. “Where is he?”
“I think this meeting is over,” she said. “I should get a lawyer.”
Her party boss reminded her, “You are not a private citizen, Keenan. You go that way, and you’ll be looking at a prison sentence for certain.” He leaned forward on his elbows and said, softer, “It’s over, Veronica. You were played by a professional and got in over your head. Help us catch this traitor, and save yourself in the process.”
He was right. Fighting it would lead to her personal destruction. She sat back against the deep seat, shut her eyes, and caught her breath. “What do you want me to do? I don’t know how to contact him.”
Marty Atkins closed a folder. “I have a team waiting in a private office who will debrief you. You hurt us bad, Ms. Keenan, and a killer is on the loose because of your actions.”
The Speaker smacked the table. “We’re done here. No press statements from you, Veronica. Not one fucking word.”
The double cheeseburger was a heart-attack special, but Swanson wolfed it down and polished off two cold beers. He was feeling almost like his old self, and was hungry as hell after being tube-fed. Dessert was a big slice of Boston cream pie. The medical checkup was done, and that alone was cause for celebration. His neck and skull were normal.
“That coma was an idiotic thing to do, Kyle,” said Lady Patricia Cornwell. “You put yourself in mortal danger.”
“Nah. It might have been a stroll on some thin ice, but I knew you all would take care of me.” He smiled at the crusty Englishwoman. “And you did.”
The Vagabond was chopping into the Atlantic swells, headed southwest. The motion no longer bothered him. “Well, let’s hope Luke Gibson bought the story, and that it holds long enough for us to find him. After all, that’s the goal.”
In Afghanistan, Swanson’s thoughts had been focused on killing Gibson not so much because of that “I’m the best” bullshit as because Swanson didn’t want to have to keep looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. And after they had actually seen each other passing in those trucks, Swanson knew that neither would give up until the other was dead. After he had drawn that unshakeable conclusion, the question became how to reach Gibson first, and the solution to the puzzle came in a blinding flash before Thompson, Brandt, and he reached the helicopter; he was able to share the details over the thumping blades.
It was an accepted fact that Gibson had sources on the inside, so the job of gathering information on his location had to be done without mentioning his name. It was the same trap that Swanson and Gibson had discussed together, of having too many people in the logistical tail. This time, only the few people who absolutely needed to know what was happening would know. He instructed his fellow snipers and the medic about who was needed, what they needed to do, and when. No one else would be allowed within the circle.
It had all become so clear when he analyzed the situation, even while the fighting was under way. If Gibson went off the map again, and he would, they had to find someone who had links to him. One name stood out from all the others — the powerful Mexican drug lord Maxim Guerrera, who had ordered the attack on the gravesite. How did Guerrera contact Gibson? According to Gibson, as he sounded off back at the house, he had been called directly. That meant the drug lord had a private number for his American fixer.
So while Swanson had slept, both Marty Atkins of the CIA and Lucky Sharif of the FBI had personally gathered the background on Guerrera, never mentioning the name of Luke Gibson. The Drug Enforcement Agency, ICE, and Homeland Security all had files, and the NSA furnished some recorded conversations. It was all forwarded to the Vagabond, which was on a course to the Gulf of Mexico. For the next five days, as Swanson healed, the team labored over the data.
“There has to be a pressure point that will draw him out,” said Coastie during one long afternoon session. She was openly excited to once again be going after the man responsible for the death of her husband
“The man loves his ponies and his boat, but there’s no opening, no weakness, beyond those,” Double-Oh added. “Goons with him all the time. I doubt that a snatch is possible.”
Sir Jeff chimed in, “I quite agree. Even when he’s out on the water, a patrol boat of guards is lurking nearby. We could destroy them all, of course, but that would be messy. A good shooter might bop him. Anybody here know any good snipers?”
“Quite,” said Lady Pat, laughing as she lit one of her little cigars. “Killing him is not the goal, however, may I remind you all.”
“That will come eventually. His scalp belongs to me.” Coastie’s tone was cold. “So where is the pressure point? How do we get him alone?”
“Keep workin’ the problem, gang,” Kyle said when they briefed him. “The answer is right here in front of us. I can feel it. Something in what Double-Oh said about the horses and boats. I’m going to get some ice cream.” He disappeared toward the galley.
Isla Mujeres, The Island of Women, was part of Maxim Guerrera’s safe sailing zone. About eight miles off the Yucatán Peninsula, the rocky outcrop was a popular tourist designation, but also maintained a good harbor to support the bigger private craft, and not many questions were asked by the local authorities. Guerrera had been out all afternoon with his sweetheart, a hundred-foot sloop-rigged fiberglass racer he had named for his daughter, Valeria. The big cruising yacht was named for his wife, Maria, and was anchored on the other coast of Mexico.
For the past two days, Guerrera had put the smooth Valeria through its paces, tightening things up for the upcoming Havana to Cancún regatta. She wasn’t an expensive boat, having cost less than a million dollars, but he had poured at least that amount into making it less of a showpiece than a genuine racer. In all things, Guerrera intended to win. The Valeria, with its ebony fiberglass hull and scarlet-and-gold spinnaker, was going to do just fine, and he took her to the dock after the workout.
Wind-lashed and ruddy-faced from the sun, his shorts and his shirt still damp and salty, Guerrera strolled with a single bodyguard over to his favorite crab shack facing the water. The owner had kept the table open, and a cold beer and a plate of lobster tacos laden with spices and peppers was served immediately. He dug in as the sentinel kept watch. Guerrera was on his second beer and reading some newspapers when the guard handed him an envelope and motioned toward the open veranda, where he could make out the silhouette of a small woman with shining blond hair. The note was brief, written in a feminine hand:
I am unarmed and alone, and wish a private word with you.
Sra. Elizabeth Castillo