"No private guides?" asked Remo, sounding disappointed.
"Well, of course we-"
"And the extra crewman, darling," Stacy added. "Don't forget, you're on vacation."
"Right you are," said Remo, thinking that it would have sounded better on a polo field or at a posh New England country club.
"We rather wanted to relax," he told the travel agent. "It's our second honeymoon, you understand."
"Of course," said Morgan. "Say no more. If all you're wanting is a man to navigate and help with basic sailing chores, and not a chef or anything like that..."
"Sounds perfect," Remo said, giving Stacy a squeeze for emphasis.
"Sounds marvy," she concurred. "In fact, we have a friend back home who hired a guide in Puerta Plata, several weeks ago. A young man named... Enrique something, I believe it was. He simply can't stop jabbering about their trip and all the things they saw. Our friend, I mean. I don't suppose...?"
The travel agent's face was blank. "Well, I can try, of course, um. But I have to tell you that Enrique is a fairly common name in these parts, much like Henry in the States."
In fact, it was Henry, in Spanish, but Remo saw no point in showing off his meager knowledge of the language. "It's not important," he told Morgan.
"I'm sure anyone you have on staff would be quite satisfactory."
"We aim to please, sir. Tha's a fact. When did you wish to start?"
"As soon as possible," Stacy said. "Hopefully today. Tomorrow at the latest."
"I'd best get started calling, then. On live-aboards, your average local costs twenty-five to thirty U.S. dollars for a day, with the arrangements worked out in advance. Have you considered how long you'll be visiting the islands?"
"Oh," Stacy said, "a week or two. No one's expecting us at home until the Dickens party on the twenty-ninth."
"Well, then, I'll see what I can do. I'm sure that we can find you someone suitable, perhaps by early afternoon."
"Outstanding," Remo said.
"Terrific," Stacy echoed.
"It's traditional to barter prices with these islanders, but I can do that for you, if you like."
"Sounds good to me," Remo added.
"Me, too," said Stacy Armitage.
"In that case," Morgan said, beaming, "I'll get to work right now and hope to be in touch with you, say, noonish?"
"Noonish would be lovely," said Remo. He knew the moment it came out that it didn't sound quite natural. Note to self, he thought. Don't use the word lovely when undercover. Or ever again, for that matter.
The travel agent blinked, but kept his own broad grin, and waved in parting as they left his office. "Smart-ass!" Stacy muttered, as they crossed the busy street.
"You mean I wasn't marvy?" Remo pulled a sad expression.
"He's dirt, Remo," Stacy said. "Couldn't you smell it on him?"
"That's your basic island hygiene, I'm afraid. Manana for the shower, if you get my drift."
"Terrific. Now I'm working with a stand-up comic."
"You're not working, Stacy," he reminded her. "You're just along for the ride."
"Oh, really? Do you think you could have hooked old Howard, if you didn't have your 'wife' along to keep you company?"
"We'll never know," said Remo. "But the little woman needs to mind her manners, or we may be headed for a quick divorce."
THE HARDEST PART FOR Howard Morgan still came down to setting up the raids. He loved the money; that went without saying, or he never would have started in the first place. He had even managed to develop a facility for blocking out its source, once the deed was done and he had banked the cash. By that time, with a few stiff rum-and-colas underneath his belt, Morgan could tell himself that it was simply business, nothing that should prey upon his mind.
It was a different story when he actually met the victims, though. He had to deal with them as human beings when they stood before him, face-to-face, conversing in the queen's own English. There was nothing to be done about it, then, but to put on a stalwart face and do the job that he was being paid-and very handsomely, at that-to carry off without complaints or needless questions.
Even so, the faces haunted him sometimes.
It helped that they were always rich beyond his wildest dreams, a trait that helped set them apart from normal human beings in the travel agent's mind. And it was better yet when they came off as bloody snobs who didn't give a damn about the common man, as long as they were able to enjoy their luxuries without restraint. Rich Yanks, at that, most of them. The Americans were worst of all when they had extra money in their hands, unable to resist the urge to lord it over those less fortunate. Loud shirts and too much jewelry, cleavage that owed more to surgery and silicone than Mother Nature. Bloody idiots, the lot of them.
Good riddance, Morgan told himself.
And still, he hesitated when it came to picking up the telephone.
It got a little easier each time, of course, and that was somewhat troubling in itself. The sense of guilt was almost welcome, when he started working with Kidd and Teach. The pangs of conscience had let Morgan tell himself that he was just as much a victim as the rotters who were vanishing at sea. He suffered just as much as they did-more, in fact, because it was his fate to live with guilt and spend his blood money on women, cigarettes and liquor that would surely do him in one day.
But nowadays, the guilt was fading fast, depriving Morgan of his rationale, the taste of martyrdom that made it possible for him to face his mirror in the morning. Lately, it disturbed him that he didn't think about the dead as much as he once had; they didn't haunt his dreams compulsively, but only dropped in on the odd occasion, like a bout of indigestion after he had eaten too much curry down at Singh's cafe.
He sat with one hand on the telephone and thought back to the very start of it. He had been gambling heavily in those days-one bad habit he had managed to get rid of, more or less-and had run up a monstrous debt with certain gentlemen of leisure who were known to settle their accounts with violence when the money they were owed was not available. The night they came for him, Morgan expected them to break his fingers, possibly his legs, as well. He doubted they would kill him, though he couldn't rule it out entirely. Even so, he had been stunned when one of them-the slugger, Berto something- had informed him that his debt was paid, and that he would be hearing from his nameless benefactor soon. Relief had metamorphosed into panic three days later, when a man who introduced himself as Thomas Kidd walked into the Trade Winds office, introduced himself as Morgan's brand-new business partner and proceeded to describe the scheme that would enrich them both. Kidd was essentially a pirate-hence the name, which Morgan took, and still believed, to be a "clever" alias-who had grown tired of cruising aimlessly among the Windward Islands and decided he would benefit from working with an agent who could tell him when fat targets were abroad, and where they could be found. Morgan assumed that he wasn't alone in serving Kidd, that there were others like himself in different ports of call, arranging "guided tours" and sending wealthy yachtsmen to their fate.
It helped, as well, to think that there were others doing what he did, sharing his guilt. Somehow, Morgan believed it would be worse by far if he alone served Captain Kidd. How could he ever hope for absolution if he was the only one involved?
No matter. He was in too deep to back out now. It would have meant abandoning his home and business, the bizarre but comfortable life he had constructed for himself since he had moved from Kingston, six years earlier, and settled in at Puerta Plata. Unlike Berto and his fellow sportsmen, Kidd and company would not be satisfied to rough him up, if Morgan tried to go back on his bargain. They would kill him instantly, without remorse; of that fact, Morgan had not the slightest doubt.
He had considered fleeing, simply cleaning out his bank account and running for his life, but there was still the niggling question of exactly where to go. Morgan was pushing fifty, and his best years were decidedly behind him. In his heart, he knew it was too late for him to start again, rebuild himself from the ground up, as he had done so many times before. This time was all or nothing, simple logic telling him that it could come to no good end.