He slammed the surveillance file down on his desk. “Ah, hell. How did he get involved in this?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Ross Jarratt, the Director of the CIA replied.
General Painter was fuming. “How the hell did Phoenix 318 get so close to Grenada?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
“Don’t give me that shit. The aircraft landed, so our people must know what happened.”
“It’s a wet operation.” Jarratt locked eyes with the General in defiance. “For reasons of accountability and deniability, you weren’t supposed to know.”
“Yeah, well neither was the rest of the world, but all that’s about to be blown out into the open. So you’d better tell me what the fuck went wrong!”
Jarratt waved his hand placatingly. “All right, all right. There was a passenger. Someone on board woke up first. Maybe a couple minutes before our agents. Maybe ten minutes. We don’t know how long for sure. Either way, he managed to reach the cockpit.”
“Good God! How did you let this happen?”
“Our team got control of the situation in time.”
General Painter boomed, “Obviously they didn’t if Sam Reilly is hearing about it from an Air Traffic Controller from fucking Grenada! How long do you think it’s going to take him to make the damned connection?”
Ross Jarratt made a dramatic sigh. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Sam Reilly’s the Secretary of Defense’s pet. She’ll move Heaven and Earth to get to the bottom of it if he goes missing.”
“We can’t let him find the truth,” Jarratt said heavily. “The entire world would be up in arms if they knew what we’ve done.”
“Agreed.”
“So what the hell are we going to do?”
“Shut him down. Every step of the way. Block him.”
Jarratt said, “He won’t like that.”
Painter slammed his fist on the table. “I don’t care what he damn well likes!”
“What if he puts up a fight?”
General painter slid the Director of the CIA a piece of paper.
Jarratt read it and then swallowed hard. “Is the President aware of this, sir?”
“He signed it, didn’t he?”
Jarratt’s eyes returned to the bottom of the page. “You’re right.” Then he read the order out loud. “Having exhausted all other efforts to silence him with regard to Phoenix Flight 318, you’re authorized to kill Sam Reilly.”
“I’m not proud of it, but there’s nothing we can do. The man can’t be bought, he won’t listen to reason, he has a distorted view of honor and patriotism — if he gets in our way, we’re just going to have to kill him.” The General crossed his arms. “Who do you have running the operation?”
“Rhyse Vaughn.”
“Really?”
Jarratt raised his eyebrow. “You don’t like him?”
General Painter shook his head. “The man’s a pompous ass!”
Jarratt made a half-shrug with his shoulders. “The man attended Exeter as a boy, then Yale as a man, before the CIA picked him up because of his unique and rather delicate psychometric scores, which identified him for our very specific line of work. His father was a senator, his mother a model, and his grandfather an oil tycoon, so I really can’t see that he had any other choice than to become what he is. Besides, as it turns out, he’s the best operative the CIA’s ever had.”
Painter nodded. “But can you control him?”
“I’ll admit that’s difficult, but we don’t have to. He believes in the cause as much as we do. He’ll kill to keep the secret.”
Painter swallowed. “I’m not worried about that. My only concern is if he can be trained to stop killing once this thing is over.”
Ross Jarratt nodded hesitantly, and bit his lower lip. He breathed out. “That, I don’t know.”
Chapter Thirty
The Caribbean Sea was home to twenty-eight island nations and more than seven thousand individual islands.
Sam Reilly wore an overtly touristy Hawaiian shirt, board shorts, and sandals as he made his way from the Luis Muñoz Marín international airport to the Hilton, where he’d booked a suite for the week. He thanked his taxi driver, checked in, and advised hotel staff that he wished to be left alone for the extent of his stay. Truth be told, he had no intention of staying in the hotel at all. But given his own government’s potential involvement, he wanted them to believe he’d finally taken that much anticipated vacation. After throwing his bag of limited luggage next to the bed, he made his way down the beach.
The white sand mingled with the shallow waves of the Caribbean to form a soft bay, filled with hues of soft blues and emerald green water. Not more than a hundred feet out were some thirty luxury yachts, pleasure cruisers, and a single seaplane. These were toys for the wealthy tourists who had come to enjoy the pristine waters. Just out from those, were a myriad of older vessels, tenderly identified as rust buckets.
Hidden among these was the Alessandra, a retired fishing trawler, turned Caribbean houseboat for two self-professed and permanent vagabonds. Sam’s sharp eyes locked onto the old vessel. Only two people were visible on its deck. He recognized both of them from the text Elise had sent, but otherwise had never seen either of them before.
Sam placed his shirt and sandals at the edge of the beach, above the high-water mark, and stepped down to the water. He entered the water, wading until the gentle waves lapped at his waist, and then dived into the water.
He swam purposefully toward the expensive pleasure cruisers first, ogling them like a tourist dreaming about another life. By the time he’d drifted sufficiently far enough from the beach to avoid prying eyes, he casually swam toward the Alessandra. At the surface, twenty or so feet from the rusty old fishing trawler, he dived under the water, beneath the boat’s keel, and surfaced on the side opposite the Puerto Rican beach.
A rope ladder hung unceremoniously from the starboard taffrail. Sam gripped the ladder and pulled himself up, sliding over the rail and quickly taking cover in the enclosed pilothouse.
“Welcome aboard, Sam,” Tom Bower greeted him with a warm smile. “I should have been expecting pirates given the sea we’re traveling.”
Sam shook his hand. “Thank you. Have you got the equipment on board?”
“Everything you asked for.”
Tom rapped his knuckles on top of the pilot house. A moment later Sam heard the big diesel engine turn over, followed by the run of the anchor chain being drawn into its locker. The heavy driveshaft made a loud crank sound, as it was shifted into forward gear. Sam braced onto the side of the hull, as the Alessandra began motoring to the southeast.
About ten minutes later, once they were out of sight from the Puerto Rican coastline, Sam and Tom stepped out onto the deck. A tan woman in her mid-forties stood at the helm, while a man of fifty worked around the forward deck, clearing rope lines, and preparing the vessel for their crossing before approaching them.
Tom said, “Sam, may I introduce the owners of the Alessandra, Amy and Colin Moriarty.”
Sam met their eyes, “Pleased to meet you both.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” Colin replied, his voice a deep baritone, his accent clearly British. He offered his hand. “I read about your discovery of the Mahogany Ship in Australia a few years ago. It was a fascinating read. Made me wonder how much of it was made up and how much of it was mere legend.”
Sam took his hand, feeling the firm and leathery grip of the seasoned sailor. He opened his mouth to speak, made a half-grin, and then said, “I’ve often said that some of the best legends are buried in hidden truths.”