CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For the second time in three days they landed at Miami International, sleep-deprived, shaken and starting to smell a little. The first thing they did was book back into the Fontainbleu, on the Agency’s dollar.
“Six hours,” Drake told them. “Meet at our room. We’ll formulate a plan.”
Kennedy and he, alone for the first time in days, entered their room and took a quick look around. All was well. Drake locked the door and set up a booby trap in the form of folded towels to hinder door movements and glasses to give warning whilst Kennedy drew the curtains.
“Normally I like to make love with the curtains open,” Drake said in mock complaint. “Whenever I’m in Miami.”
“Yeah?” Kennedy came over and threw herself on the deep, plush mattress, fully clothed. “Believe me, you ain’t gettin’ any until I’ve had some sleep, soldier-boy.”
She turned her back on him. Drake breathed a sigh of relief. The only thing he wanted to do now was to sink into oblivion.
Lights out.
When does six hours feel like six minutes? Drake thought. When you’ve flown from the U.K. to Miami, landed yourself in the middle of a fire-fight and then flown back to Miami. That’s when.
They were barely awake when the first knocks sounded at the hotel room door. Drake yelled a warning, coming awake fast, like he used to in a previous life.
Poised like a cat, eyes searching for prey.
Kennedy grunted and turned over. “Christ, man. What the hell ya doin’?”
He jumped out of bed without answering. The tatters of a hard dream still spun through his subconscious. Nothing he wanted to talk about.
Or remember.
A few minutes later and the hotel room was crowded. Coffee was percolating loudly and happily, but no one held out too much hope for the hotel brand.
Ben sat at the well-polished desk and opened his laptop. “We should start with Google,” he said. “And work our way around.”
Drake leaned against the wall, switching his attentions between Ben and Collins Avenue, thirty floors down. How many were going about their daily business below him, knowing nothing of the time-displacement device? How many had ever heard of Ed Boudreau and the Blood King?
“So Blackbeard was pretty much a sailor until sometime around 1716,” Ben finally spoke up after a lot of tapping and clicking. “Then he met a man called Benjamin Hornigold. After a short time the two began to commit serious acts of piracy. Later, their fleet was boosted by the arrival of another pirate, called-” more tapping. “Umm, Bonnet. Some kind of gentleman pirate. This guy owned extensive lands but chose to become a pirate. Crazy loon.”
“Once a scallywag,” Drake intoned.
“Shut it, crusty. It goes on…” Ben rattled the keyboard happily.
During all this, Drake noticed, Hayden had fielded two calls. Judging by her words and reactions he guessed neither one was good. So, whilst Ben continued his search, Drake wandered over to her part of the room.
“They find out where all those soldiers disappeared to yet?”
“Boudreau’s men? They sure didn’t vanish into the dang Triangle. He left them. We’ve picked up many stragglers. To a man they swear Boudreau’s their boss. No knowledge of any Blood King.”
“It’s what I’d say. It’s also how I’d operate if I were the Blood King and wanted to stay a myth. Who got away?”
“Boudreau took the device and a few hand-picked men. They left the rest floating to face the music.”
Drake whistled. “Man’s a total whack-job. Obviously he doesn’t care about making enemies.”
“I doubt he sees much beyond his own psychotic ego,” Hayden looked away for a moment.
“Anything else?”
“My boss,” the CIA lady admitted. “Wants me on trauma counselling or sick leave or something. He agreed to let me continue when I told him I was engaged in research and, after all, we are in the middle of a crisis.”
Hayden pinched the bridge of her nose. Trauma counselling or not, the deaths of her colleagues would haunt her until her dying day.
Ben started up again. Drake turned to listen. Several things quickly became apparent. All three men had worked the pirate trade routes consistently between 1716 and 1718. They had murdered, plundered and bartered thousands if not hundreds of thousands of articles between them, and no doubt with many others like them. Then Hornigold retired, Bonnet was killed, and later so was Blackbeard himself.
Ben spent some time delving into the odd anomaly of Blackbeard’s apparent salvation — the time he accepted a royal pardon only to return to piracy soon after.
“That one’s hidden deep,” Ben said. “Or not here at all.” He switched his attentions around, now bombarding the internet with queries and flashing off one Web site and on to another faster than Drake could even read. Some of the cleverer links were embedded near the bottom of the pages, a trick Ben already knew, but something that might have fooled someone just a bit older.
Blackbeard, or Edward Teach, came by the ship he re-named Queen Anne’s Revenge when he broadsided a French merchant vessel. Later, he equipped her with 40 guns, turning her into a vessel fearsome enough to match its leader.
An image of Blackbeard flashed up on screen. The blurb described him as immensely tall and wide, and said he was known to place live fuses or matches underneath his hat and then light them when he went into battle, creating a most ferocious spectacle indeed. Edward Teach clearly understood the value of an intimidating appearance.
Kinimaka was reading over Ben’s shoulder. “Throw into the mix his right-hand man, the claw, and you have the makings of a legend that lives strong to this very day.”
Digging deeper now, Ben pursued every trail that promised even a glimpse into Blackbeard’s rich history. It turned out he had many friends, wealthy friends, who owned lands and held influence everywhere. He was well travelled. Jamaica, Grand Cayman, Havana, Florida, South Carolina.
“Is there no direct information?” Kennedy was asking. “About what he traded? Where?”
“Pirates didn’t keep records,” Ben said. “The best we can hope for is some reference made in a journal or something. Just a matter of trawling through.”
Drake got coffee. It was about now in this kind of operation when he started to want to hit bad guys. His military life had taught him to achieve his objective through hard and direct action. Standing around a hotel room — nice as it was, drinking coffee with his friends — pleasant as they were, did nothing to alleviate a rising dread of the consequences of inactivity.
“Blackbeard certainly had his contacts,” Ben was saying. “Say’s here he spent nights with some of the most notorious boys of the time — Israel Hands, Charles Vane and even Calico Jack. Even I’ve heard of him.”
“Nothing else?” Drake’s impatience got the better of him.
“Go take a nap, crusty. Stop hovering or get slapped.”
Drake smiled. “Hit me with your best shot, Blakey.”
“Oh, good one,” Kennedy almost clapped. “Pat Benatar. Loved her.”
“Actually, this is interesting. Calico Jack was a snake even among pirates. He deposed Charles Vane and made off with his ship. Sailed with two women, including the notorious Anne Bonny. Jeez, even married her. He is responsible for the famous Jolly Roger skull and crossed swords design.”
“Great. Did he carry a time machine?”
“No. But he did employ a man who took down records of his exploits. A vain pirate, that Calico Jack. Now here, I think, is the passage that Hayden’s geek-squad found: ‘… that Edward Teach brought forth two boxes, one of shiny and magnificent lustre and one of cheap design. But when joined, imagination would struggle to conjure a more Hell-like image. The very ground did begin to swell and shake and with mine own eyes I did see some folk vanish as if they had never existed… ’ That’s the pay-dirt the CIA found.”