Aground on St. Thomas (20 page)

Blackbeard’s Bum

BLACKBEARD’S CASTLE HAD
been relatively quiet since the departure of Agent Friday and team yellow.

The sole hotel guest slumped in a cushioned rattan chair on the far side of the bar’s pavilion, his arms draped over the sides, his spindly legs propped on a matching footrest. The limp log of wasting flesh was dwarfed by the surrounding pillows, the body barely visible from the lawn.

The serving station was vacant. The bartender was on a break, having sated his demanding customer with another potent rum concoction.

For his part, the guest had come to terms with the mojito substitution. He would never admit it to the bartender, but he was starting to enjoy the rum punch variation. There had been a nice kick to the most recent glass; he felt a pleasant numbness in his toes.

He gazed blearily across the pavilion at the expansive view overlooking the harbor, the storm-streaked sky, and the undulating cityscape. A pleasant breeze swept in, soothing his aching bones.

This is what he had envisioned for his final days, he thought with another slurp from his straw. Blackbeard’s was quite an upgrade from the scene at his last hospital room.

The flat walls, uninspiring décor, and antiseptic smell of the place had been more than he could stand. He’d spent far too many desolate hours sealed off in a world of plastic tubing and beeping equipment—before checking himself out and heading for the Caribbean.

There was no comparison, really, he thought with a peaceful sigh.

He just wished he’d been more specific about mojito supplies when he made the reservations for his intended deathbed location.

He set the glass on a table beside his chair, a shaky motion that nearly spilled the remaining liquid. His head tilted back into the cushions, and his mouth dropped open. He felt the cloud of another stupor coming on.

His fingers fumbled for a packet of pills tucked into his shirt pocket. Two of the blister foil compartments had already been ripped open, the contents dumped inside his glass. Rousing himself, he dissolved a third pill in the last third of his cocktail and then drained the mixture in one long gulp.

As his condition had deteriorated over the past year, he had gradually modified the delivery mechanism for his pain-numbing narcotics.

Alcoholic beverages, specifically mojito cocktails, were his chosen method of administration—a prescription modification that had been frowned upon by the staff at the hospital where he’d been admitted.

The man’s dry lips slurred out a mumble.

“Bollocks to you, Dr. Killjoy.”

•

SPITTING RAIN DRILLED
through to the Mojito Man’s subconscious, drawing him back to the foggy edge of reality. He hovered in a hazy atmosphere of hallucination and pain, before a disturbance across the lawn caught his attention.

“Where’s the Governor?”

He shifted his weight, silently bringing his feet to the ground. He leaned forward in his chair. Blinking, he tried to focus his vision.

Two figures glared at one another from opposite sides of a statue of dueling pirates. One stood closer to the pool, with his back turned to the hotel guest. He wore an oversized mint green golf shirt and baggy chinos; both garments flapped in the wet wind.

The Fixer’s voice rose above the gale, taunting Cedric through the fencing statues.

“The Governor has no use for you. He makes no concessions for traitors.”

Bent at the waist, the hotel guest crept across the bar toward the pool. Crouching behind the corner of the rock wall that separated the two areas, he was now close enough to hear the Fixer’s sneering chuckle—and to see the shocked expression on the aide’s face.

“What happened, Cedric? Have they thrown you overboard already?” The Fixer began to edge around the pirates. “Did you really think she was going to appoint you king?”

“She.” Cedric repeated the pronoun, stunned by the revelation. “So . . .” He gulped. “He knows.”

And with that, the last hope of a desperate man was gone. Cedric had nothing left to bargain with, no more chips to play. He was alone, vulnerable, and abandoned by both sides of the civil war. His words lashed out across the pavilion.

“You tell the Governor that he needs me. I have too much information for him to shut me out. I know all his secrets.”

The Fixer rounded the far end of the dueling pirates.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself—especially for someone who’s just been kicked to the curb.”

Cedric pushed his bluff a step further.

“I know your real identity. And I know how you’ve been communicating with the Governor.”

“Yes, Cedric. You’re the only one who knows. Don’t you see what that makes you?”

The wind howled through the verbal silence.

“A loose end.”

The Fixer lunged toward the aide, and the pair scuffled to the ground.

But what happened next was lost to the Mojito Man.

A second wave of pain medication kicked in, and his vision faded to black. He crumpled to a heap behind the wall.

The Conspirator

WENDY SURVEYED THE
scene inside the Governor’s office, appraising the upended chairs, ripped upholstery, and the books, papers, and backgammon pieces strewn across the floor. Hightower’s drunken rampage had destroyed the place.

The Gorilla had played his role well. Her nose crinkled at the stench of spilled rum on the desk where he was sleeping.

Perhaps a little too well.

Unlike Cedric, Wendy had never expected the federal agents to find the real governor. In fact, she and her fellow separatist conspirators had never intended for there to be a public arrest, but they hadn’t trusted Cedric with that information.

They had a far more permanent outcome in mind for the former head of state.

•

PICKING HER WAY
around the debris, Wendy crossed the room to close the balcony’s sliding door, shutting out the rain, which had dampened the nearest throw rugs.

On her way back through the office, she bent to pick up one of the backgammon pieces and slipped it into her pocket, a souvenir of the monumental events that were still unfolding.

Sensing her presence, Hightower began to stir, causing the recliner to creak as he shifted his weight.

Wendy moved in behind him, placed a careful hand on his shoulder, and lightly pressed down. “It’s time to let those people downstairs go home.”

The Gorilla’s eyelids fluttered. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” His thick lips struggled to form words. “I can’t believe the Governor got away. The guy slipped right through our fingers.” His hands clenched together. “I’ll be blamed for this, you know.”

Wendy reached for the open bottle on the desk and dumped the remaining liquid into Hightower’s glass.

“Thank ya, Wendy.”

“My pleasure, Agent Hightower.”

AGENT FRIDAY ARRIVED
at Government House as the last employees departed the lobby. The rain had soaked his cap and shoulders. He’d trekked up from the FBI field office in the hopes of getting a word with the attorney general’s local representative—who had been difficult to reach by phone.

Wendy managed a pleasant greeting, while internally suppressing a grimace. No one had expected Hightower’s second in command to be so diligent at addressing his leader’s shortcomings.

I’d give anything for a docile yes-man, she thought wearily. Outwardly, she opted for an assertive stance.

“What do you have to report, Agent Friday?”

“No word yet on the Governor, ma’am.” His cleared his throat. “I thought I might have a word. You’re headed back to the Legislature Building?”

“Yes,” she replied, tapping a large umbrella she’d borrowed from the lobby—even though she had no intention of returning to the Legislature’s hotbed. The senators had indicated they were prepared to extend their sit-in through the night.

“I’ll escort you, then.” Friday held the door as Wendy walked through. He waited patiently under the front porch while she opened the umbrella.

Friday wasted no time getting to the point. “We’ve got to track down this radio station. The two missing senators found the KRAT broadcast location. There has to be a connection there.”

Wendy glanced up at Hotel 1829 as they passed. She smiled at the woman sitting on the veranda, an action meant only to stall while she considered her response.

“Yes, I agree. Can you spare some men to search for them?”

Friday nodded a grunt. “I’ll manage.”

She paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the post office.

“Is that all, Friday?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tapped the brim of his cap. “I’ll get to it, then.”

•

FRIDAY BROKE AWAY
from the umbrella and waved the lawyer good-bye. He watched her continue down the staircase, her heels planting firmly on the slick brick steps.

He’d spoken to the attorney general in Washington, DC an hour earlier. The AG had been unable to reach the woman since early that morning.

Friday was beginning to think Hightower had been right about one aspect of Operation Coconut.

Don’t trust the locals.

FRIDAY’S BULGING EYES
followed Wendy all the way to the bottom of the stairs. She crossed the street in front of the post office without looking back.

She knew exactly where the radio station had been broadcasting that day—and where the missing senators were hiding. Despite her best efforts to conceal her thoughts, she sensed Friday had suspected the truth.

It was important to keep Senator Sanchez securely muzzled for the next twenty-four hours.

Surely, she could put the agents off for that long.