Aground on St. Thomas (10 page)

Overlooking Charlotte Amalie

The First Lady

THE FIRST LADY
of the US Virgin Islands sat on a bench in the gardens outside the Governor’s Mansion, sipping a glass of iced tea as she watched the last commercial flight from Miami land at the St. Thomas airport. The short runway on the south shore was just visible from the mansion’s elevated perch above Charlotte Amalie.

Formally known as Villa Catherineberg, the chalk-white mansion occupied the summit of one of the city’s flanking hills. Anchored in place by red retainer walls, the property sat behind a tasteful line of security fencing. Stately columns and a wide portico that looked out over the harbor completed the typically tranquil scene.

A ring of tropical greenery isolated the mansion from the high-density housing that crowded the rest of Charlotte Amalie. Accessed by a curving asphalt road that swept around the hill, the estate presented the image of an elegant retreat.

Today, however, the property was under siege.

•

THE FIRST LADY
set her glass down on a decorative iron table next to her chair and took inventory of the personnel now occupying the residence.

An armed guard stood watch less than ten feet away. He was a member of the regular entourage that protected the first family, so at least his was a trusted face—as evidenced by the relaxed attitudes of her two Chihuahuas. The dogs, both wearing jeweled collars, played in the grass near her feet.

Additional guards from the territory’s regiment manned the front gates and strolled the grounds, but there was little pretense that they were monitoring the hillside for potential intruders. Their attention was focused inward, on the black-clad invaders who had swarmed the premises.

The FBI agents had arrived about an hour earlier, rolling up to the front gates in a convoy of black SUVs. After a tense standoff with the gate attendants, they had grudgingly been admitted—to the fierce barks and threatening growls of the Chihuahuas.

The First Lady had been excluded from the long list of federal indictments, and she had offered no response when the agents informed her of her husband’s arrest. Nor had she expressed surprise when the agents later announced he had eluded capture. As to the questions they put to her about where he might be hiding, she simply replied, “I don’t know.”

•

THE FIRST LADY
had been placed under surveillance in case the Governor attempted to contact her. She was, in effect, a prisoner in her own home—a home she was likely to lose in the coming days, if not hours, whether or not the FBI managed to track down her husband.

The couple owned a private estate on the island’s west end, a lavish but much more homey abode.

By contrast, the official mansion had the feel of a museum. Priceless artwork adorned the walls, and plush carpets covered the marble floors. Its primary function was to serve as a venue for hosting foreign dignitaries and for other government-related entertainment.

She and her husband had sprinkled only a few personal touches around the place: a couple of knickknacks, a handful of family photos, and a backgammon set her husband had recently purchased.

For the life of her, she couldn’t understand his sudden fascination with the game. She’d always seen it as an excuse for old men to sit around and gossip. She’d said as much after he’d spent an afternoon staring at his new board and the various checker pieces.

“This is a game of strategy,” he’d replied. “An exercise of the mind.”

If it was exercise he was after, she thought wryly, he would have been far better served by a jog down the hill and back.

•

IT WAS HER
strategizing husband who had suggested they reside full-time in the Governor’s Mansion over the past several months. He reasoned the move might prevent a full-scale invasion of their private quarters. So far, his plan had worked. Only a few federal agents had been sent to secure their estate.

The morning’s coup had been anticipated for weeks. It was an eventuality for which the First Lady was well prepared. She was an emotionally solid woman, beautiful but sturdy, and not easily unsettled.

Picking up her iced tea for another cooling sip, she turned her gaze south toward St. Croix, the long flat island of her birth located about forty miles away. Obscured by the sky’s thickening haze, the landmass wasn’t visible that day, even from her hilltop overlook. That made no difference; she was tethered to her homeland by a force stronger than sight.

The First Lady was fiercely proud of her Crucian heritage. True to her roots, she had an independent spirit, and her relationship with the Governor was rarely tranquil. Despite their fiery exchanges, she was deeply devoted to her husband.

Their enemies would have to do far worse than this to break them, she resolved as she stared across the cupped hillsides at another prominent landmark of only slightly lower elevation than the mansion.

Black-clad agents scurried across the one-way street in front of Government House. One of the foreigners strolled onto the balcony outside her husband’s office.

Her fingers wrapped around the glass, the only sign of tension in her otherwise composed figure.

She was willing to do anything to protect the Governor’s legacy.

If she had to marshal her home resources, so be it.

Midway Between St. Croix and St. Thomas

A Bullet for Every Occasion

THE CARIBBEAN SEA
stretched across the horizon, a sapphire fan dotted with brown hues of submerged coral and rafts of floating seaweed. A heavy blue sky pressed against the water, the upper atmosphere streaked with plodding elephant clouds.

A midsized powerboat cut across the open sea, churning a foamy wake as it sped north toward St. Thomas.

The boat was functional and fast, the typical white-painted vessel common throughout the region. No bright decals or signature stripe marks decorated its hull; the generic design was easy to maintain and intentionally indistinguishable—unlike the man who stood at its helm.

Nova gripped the boat’s front railing, his arms flexed like oiled pistons. Barefoot and brazen, he let the salty spray mist his skin.

He was joined by his ever-present team of brutes, Crucian toughs who followed his lead without question or complaint. It had only taken a couple of hours to round them up. They had quickly signed on for the trip to the Rock—and for anything else he commanded them to do once they arrived at their sister island.

A fearsome aura surrounded Casanova. The tales of his strength and cunning far exceeded his actual capabilities, but this was of no concern to the man at the center of the myth. He believed his own propaganda, a trait that made him all the more dangerous even as he flirted ever closer with disaster.

The boat hit a wave, leapt out of the water, and bounced down with a splash. Nova licked his lips, tasting the salt.

He envisioned himself a modern-day pirate, a mercenary for hire with allegiance to no one but himself. His natural advantages of physique and appearance entitled him to inflict misery upon others.

A deviant smile spread across his face.

He had left the nervous taxi driver behind at the Christiansted pier. The man from Nevis had been released from his unpaid chauffer duties—if only temporarily.

“I’ll send word when I’m headed back,” Nova had admonished darkly. “You’ll meet me here at the boardwalk.” He paused for a wink, a gesture that caused Nevis to shrink behind the taxi van’s steering wheel. “That is, unless I happen to run into the Coconut Boys while I’m taking care of my other business on the Rock.”

Still smiling, Nova reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a handful of bullets. He rolled the smooth metal in his fingers, savoring the feel of the familiar round rods.

His parting comment had been more than just a cruel tease. He’d heard a rumor that the Coconut Boys had fled to St. Thomas. They certainly weren’t hiding out on Santa Cruz—if they were, someone would have given him their location by now.

He selected two bullets and slid the rest back into his pocket. Holding up the metal casings, he tilted the points so that they glinted in the morning sun.

The Governor was the main focus of this trip, but if he could kill two birds with one stone, all the better.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a little multitasking,” he murmured, thinking of the woman who had hired his services.

“This one’s for Mic,” he said, tapping his thumb against the far right rod.

Squinting at the shadow of St. Thomas in the distance, he shifted his thumb to caress the other casing.

“And this one’s for Currie.”

St. Thomas

The Coconut Boys

IT WAS A
lazy morning at Coki Beach. News of the turmoil in Charlotte Amalie had yet to reach St. Thomas’s sleepy north shore. As the sun inched toward its midday zenith, the angled rays cast frond-shaped shadows across the sand where two scruffy West Indians sat enjoying the breeze.

“Currie-mon, can you get us a drink?”

Grimacing at the “mon” affectation, a stubby man—the shorter of the pair—popped up from his seat and walked over to a grove of coconut trees.

Currie selected a tree, grabbed a rusty machete, and hoisted himself up the curved trunk, expertly gripping the grooved bark with his bare feet. The palm’s spindly frame bent and swayed as he reached the top. Wrapping his legs around the trunk, he dropped the rest of his body so that he could access the coconuts bunched beneath the crown of fronds.

The machete’s ragged blade swung through the air, knocking loose a pair of green nuts that fell, one after the other, with a loud
thunk
onto the sand.

Currie slid halfway down the tree and then dropped the rest of the way, landing safely on the ground. Picking up the closest piece of fruit, he lopped off the top and took a sip of the watery juice inside. He swirled the liquid in his mouth, as if evaluating the flavor. With a satisfied nod, he passed the coconut to his long-legged friend.

“Here you go, Mic.”

“Thanks, Currie-mon.”

Currie rolled his eyes.

“No problem,” he replied and then added under his breath, “mon.”

•

RUNAWAYS MIC AND
Currie had settled into their new life at Coki Beach, a popular tourist spot on the island’s northeast shore. The Crucian pair had been living on St. Thomas for the past couple of months—ever since their dramatic departure from St. Croix.

Coki was a pleasurable place to camp out, with several leafy trees to sleep under when it rained, and an abundance of coconuts, which provided basic sustenance. Deep sand led to crystal-clear water with excellent snorkeling. Directly offshore, the blocking length of Thatch Cay protected the cove from the Atlantic’s bigger waves.

But by far the most important benefit to their beach retreat was the concealment it provided from the man who was out to kill them.

So far, there had been no sign of Casanova.

•

COKI BEACH WAS
located next to an aquatic theme park, whose white observation dome could be seen hovering over the water about a hundred yards away. The combination of pristine beach and entertaining sea life resulted in a high volume of visitors. This, in turn, attracted a number of enterprising vendors, most of them Jamaican in origin, giving the area a colorful flair.

The Jamaicans had flourished, expanding their commercial endeavors to a wide range of services.

All manner of beach-related equipment could be rented, from snorkel and scuba gear to lounge chairs and umbrellas. In addition to the typical rum and beer shacks that lined the waterfront, an assortment of palm readers, massage therapists, and hair braiders plied their trades.

It was this last profession that Mic had enthusiastically embraced. He sat next to a plastic box containing an assortment of colorful rubber bands and other hair-tying accessories.

Currie preferred to stick to coconuts, a medium with which he was more familiar. In addition to being their basic source of nutrition, the scalped nuts could be sold to thirsty sunbathers.

Mic passed the coconut back to his pal, and Currie stared down at the globe-shaped fruit, ruefully reflecting.

They had been selling coconuts on the Christiansted boardwalk when Nova approached them with his fateful proposal. It was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Currie sighed, wistfully missing his home island.

And yet, he was grateful to be alive.

•

CONCERNED THAT THEY
might be recognized by visiting Crucians, Mic and Currie had tried to pass themselves off (generally unsuccessfully) as Jamaicans. As Currie took a seat on the sand next to Mic’s hair-braiding operation, he slipped on a tattered wig of dangling dreadlocks, his main effort at disguise.

Mic had managed to grow three inches of the real thing, but at this point in the process, his stubs of twisted hair made him look more like a porcupine than a Rastafarian.

Mic had taken their Jamaican integration a step further. He had begun speaking with a strange lilted accent, and he sprinkled “mon” into his sentences at every opportunity.

It was an unconvincing imitation, but Currie didn’t have the heart to tell that to his friend. As for the Jamaicans, they were amused by the pair’s attempts at assimilation and had adopted Mic and Currie into their ranks.

“Currie-mon, hand me that other coconut. I’ve devised a new marketing tool.”

Skeptically, Currie tossed the second round ball through the air. Mic caught the coconut in the palm of his hand and planted it in the sand by a placard advertising his hair-braiding services. Gently, he lifted a helmet of weaved palm fronds, plaited into braids, each one tied off at the end with a colored rubber band. Turning the helmet to its proper orientation, he placed it on top of the nut.

“I call her Cinderella-mon.”

Currie shook his head.

“You can take the man outta St. Croix, but you can’t take the Santa Cruz outta duh man.”

•

WHILE MIC REVELED
in his hairdressing duties, Currie remained vigilant, surveilling the beach and surrounding vendor areas for Nova and his cronies.

As a result of Mic and Currie’s escape from the grocery store caper gone awry, Nova had spent several weeks at the Golden Grove incarceration facility on St. Croix.

Currie hadn’t received any updates on Nova’s status, but the gangster never stayed locked up for long. It was only a matter of time before they crossed paths again. Nova might be temporarily distracted by other matters, but he would never stop looking for the two men who had betrayed him.

Currie’s gut told him they had gained but a temporary reprieve.

•

WITH ANOTHER GLANCE
up and down the beach, Currie laid back in the sand. It had been a quiet morning at Coki. After a late night socializing under the stars, the full-time residents had taken their time starting their day.

As a few tourists rolled in from the nearby resorts, the Jamaican crew, along with the Crucian impersonators, began to casually hustle the arrivals.

“Hey there, bee-you-tiful lady-mon,” Mic crooned to a passing tourist, a rather large woman in a strapless halter top. “Let me run my magic fingers through your hair.”

From a nearby rum shack, a battery-operated radio released a sharp feedback of static, followed by lead-in music that was instantly recognized by the locals on the beach.

“I smell a rat . . .”