The brief flare of anger subsided, and Ramirez nodded in understanding. Guzman's point was well taken. Jorge, the unmentionable cousin, was a crazy boy, kept in seclusion in a comfortable but hidden and remote private asylum in the jungle. Just him and a few dozen overpaid caretakers. Ramirez and Guzman visited him regularly-every Christmas Eve without fail.
Jorge had insane eyes, and now that Ramirez considered it, he had maybe seen a touch of that in the eyes of the pirates. Just a little, but it was there, masked behind their animal cruelty.
Of course, you had to be crazy to live like they did. Kidd had insisted that they were like the American Amish people, who lived their lives by codes of conduct that the rest of the world forgot centuries ago. They just didn't happen to have the religious rationale that made the Amish look "normal."
There sure was nothing moral or ethical in the pirates' code. They were savage, even by the standards of the Colombian drug trade.
Bloodthirsty and at least slightly unbalanced. Not a good combination. Not the kind of people you necessarily should be putting your trust in.
Yes, he told himself. The loco label said it all. Still, they were useful in their way. They had supplied Ramirez with an average of ten to fifteen boats per year since he had first begun to deal with Captain Kidd. A handful of the craft were still in use on smuggling runs-repainted now, of course, with brand-new serial numbers guaranteed to pass at least a cursory inspection. The rest were either seized or sunk, some of them auctioned off by U.S. Customs or the DEA under provisions of the federal assets seizure program. It was a point of special, ironic pride to Ramirez that some of those very boats would be repurchased at a discount by his own jobbers, returned yet again to the smuggling trade ...and that they would no doubt be seized again at some time in the future.
The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
Ramirez had trusted Thomas Kidd. Should he continue to trust the man-within the limits of his own ability to trust?
They would never be the best of friends, that much was preordained, but Carlos didn't think the pirate would betray him, either.
Not unless Kidd found a way to profit greatly from the treachery.
In the devious world of Carlos Ramirez, there were only two ways to insure loyalty-fear and favor. Colombians even had a phrase in Spanish that expressed the concept: plata o plomo. Silver or lead. If you didn't accept the silver that was offered willingly, you got the lead when you were least expecting it. Sometimes the other members of your family got the lead, as well.
Ramirez wasn't prepared for a war with the pirates of the Windward Islands. They had served him well, so far, without a hitch. It might be useful, even so, if he could find a way to reinforce their loyalty now, before some outside stress or stimulus should put it to the test.
"When are we picking up the latest boat?" Ramirez asked.
"Tomorrow or the next day," Guzman said. "Make it tomorrow. Send the word."
"Si, jefe."
Guzman didn't like the order, but he would obey it all the same. It was his nature to be second in command, a follower. That was why Ramirez trusted his lieutenant more than any other living man. He knew that even if poor Fabian should find the courage to rebel against his master, it wouldn't occur to him. He would no sooner try to run the family by himself than he would sprout wings and fly up to Panama City for carnival season.
"When we go, this time," Ramirez added in an offhand tone, "I'm going with you."
"Carlos! Why, for Christ's sake? It could be-" The cocaine lord raised his hand for silence, and Guzman's mouth snapped shut like a mousetrap. Angry color darkened Guzman's cheeks, but he had nothing more to say without permission from his commander.
"It has been some time since I sat down with Kidd and talked about our common interests," Ramirez said. "It can do no harm to show our partners that we value their participation. I may even feel disposed to pay a bit more for the next few boats, if it seems feasible."
"Carlos-"
"I must look into those eyes again, Fabian." Ramirez took another pull on his cigar, let the smoke leak slowly from between his teeth. "I must see if I see-what you see, then decide what to do."
Guzman understood. He said as much with new determination in his brief nod.
"Go send the word," Ramirez said. "And while you're at it, get the troops together. I want twenty men for this excursion, well armed."
"Si, jefe. As you say."
Guzman went off to carry out his orders, while Ramirez sat alone and thought about the day to come. A nice excursion to the islands, sun and sea, a bit of an adventure with the pirates waiting for him at the other end. And if his meeting with the pirate leader gave him any cause to think Kidd might betray them, well...
Plomo o plata, si. Lead and silver. They made the bloody world go around.
REMO THOUGHT THE Mulligan Stew would never leave. First Ethan Humphrey spent what seemed like hours in his cabin, unpacking his duffel bag and making up his room with the diligence of the true anal retentive.
Finally the buccaneers returned from their respective errands and groused with the master of the vessel over whatever it was that he had sent them off to fetch. Then, at last, they cast off.
Remo watched them go.
When they were about a hundred yards from shore, he ran after them.
Running on water wasn't easy, even for a Master of Sinanju. It involved, simply put, sensing the natural pressure of the water's surface and not allowing your footsteps to apply pressure in excess of that. Remo didn't understand it himself, exactly, and found it was better not to think about it too much. Just do it. If you wanted to keep dry, it was better than swimming.
The calm Caribbean helped. He crossed the open water in a smooth blur of flying feet that touched, but never quite broke the surface, and landed as soundless as a feather on the rear diving platform of the Mulligan Stew. And he wasn't wet except for some droplets clinging to his shoes.
Time to take over.
There was some kind of a racket on the front deck, a sound of spillage, something broken, followed by an angry outburst from one of the pirates. Heavy footsteps came around the back of the deckhouse and turned into the companionway without noticing Remo.
Remo followed him inside. It was the man with long hair, cursing to himself and reaching for a broom or mop in a closet, and he finally sensed trouble. He turned around fast, but it was too late for him. Remo took him by the scruff of the neck in a two-finger pinch that froze him solid.
Remo put the fallen mop in the long-hair's hand, closed his fingers around it and walked him back outside. Long Hair mewled.
Remo heard the skinhead muttering, while Ethan Humphrey told him to relax, that it was nothing to get excited about. A little glass, was all.
"Spilt milk," he heard the ex-professor say, and chuckle to himself.
It seemed that either Skinhead or Long Hair had dropped a pitcher with some kind of fruit drink in it, and fractured glass and pinkish liquid spread across the planking of the deck.
Skinhead's back was to him, Ethan Humphrey facing toward the open hatch as Remo stepped into the light with the silent Long Hair. The old man recognized him at a glance but didn't speak. His lips were working, but no sound was coming out. The bald man, as it happened, was busy staring and cursing at the mess around his feet, oblivious to Humphrey's sudden shock.
And then, the ex-professor found his voice. "My God!" he blurted out. "It's you!"
"Huh?" Skinhead grumbled. "What are you talk-?"
Skinhead stopped when he saw the old man's face, eyes focused behind him. He glanced across one burly shoulder, blinked at Remo in surprise and pivoted to face the stranger, reaching for something on his hip. A knife.