Aground on St. Thomas (5 page)

The Rolling Stones

ONCE MORE, WHALER
approached the cistern ladder, this time, peering far more cautiously at the hole in the ceiling.

Dread rose from his seat at the table, disentangling himself from the many wires and cords cluttering its surface. He whispered across the room.

“What do you see?”

Whaler climbed onto the ladder’s lower rungs, trying to look out the hatch without poking his head over the rim. His wild frizz of hair bounced back and forth as he twisted his neck sideways, first one direction and then the other. Finally, he glanced back at Dread and issued his report.

“Sky.”

The Puerto Rican threw his hands up, urging his colleague to move higher for a better look.

Tentatively, Whaler lifted his left foot to the next rung. He was about to shift his weight onto the upper step when a small stone rolled across the roof, skipped over the edge, and
plinked
onto the concrete floor.

Startled, Whaler jumped to the ground, his flip-flops nearly catching on the ladder rungs as he dodged the falling object.

“What in the heck is this?” he said, bending to pick up the stone. He held it up so that Dread could see. The two men stared at what appeared to be an ordinary piece of gravel; then their gazes shifted back to the ceiling.

Had their broadcasting location been discovered? Were the pasty boys waiting for them in the courtyard above? Was this a ploy to flush them out?

Before either DJ could muster an answer to these questions, a second stone of similar size rolled through the hole and dropped to the floor.

Whaler stared at it for a long moment before offering his assessment. “
Hmnh
. Okay, I’m going up.”

Dread inched toward the ladder as Whaler brushed the sweaty hair from his brow, resolutely firmed his lips, and grabbed the metal handlebars.

“Violation of a court order. What’s the worst they can do to us?” Whaler asked as he hefted his slim frame toward the hatch.

Dread’s reply caused him to shudder.

“Send us down to Golden Grove for a couple of weeks.”

Whaler reached the ladder’s upper rungs and began to raise his head through the hole. Three inches of frizzy hair had emerged from the hatch when Dread called out a caution that made Whaler duck like a turtle pulling into its shell.

“Make sure they know you’re unarmed.”

“Dread, man. This is not worth getting shot.”

As Whaler hesitated, looking down into the cistern, a handful of rocks sprinkled through the opening, most of them landing on his head.

“Arrrrrgh!” The howl echoed through the concrete room. Whaler dislodged several pebbles from his scalp. “Okay, that’s it,” he growled, charging up toward the hatch. “I don’t care if it is the pasty boys. No one messes with the ’fro.”

Dread hurried the remaining distance to the ladder as Whaler surged out the opening, stopping with his midsection bent over the ledge. He looked across the cistern roof at the lawn outside the Lutheran church in downtown Charlotte Amalie, where they were located.

“Dread! It’s a couple of punk kids!” His voice cracked with indignation. “I’m going after ’em.”

“No!” Dread hollered up the ladder. “Forget the kids. You’ll blow our cover.”

There was no containing Whaler’s outrage. The stress of the day’s events had converted into aggression.

“Hey! Hey, you over there. You think you’re funny with the rocks? I’ll give you something to laugh about!”

Before Whaler could scramble from the hatch, Dread lunged for his legs. Sliding on the pebbles that had scattered across the floor, he managed to grab Whaler’s bony leg.

Whug
. Whaler’s flip-flops slipped from the ladder rungs. He caught the rim of the hatch with his arms, but he was quickly losing his grip.

“Let go, Dread!” He reached down with one hand and smashed his palm against the top of the Puerto Rican’s bald head.

The two swung, awkwardly, for two long seconds, before crashing to the bottom of the cistern.

The commotion caused the relay on the radio equipment to repeat the broadcast jingle as another pebble rolled across the roof and dropped onto the floor.

“I smell a rat . . .”

Charlotte Amalie

A Belligerent Lot

FBI ASSISTANT SPECIAL
Agent in Charge Gabe Stein entered the meeting chambers for the US Virgin Islands Legislative Assembly and shook his head in dismay.

It was only a quarter past nine, but it had already been a long day for the man everyone called Friday—the nickname was a better fit for his scratchy voice, deadpan demeanor, and just-the-facts-ma’am approach to law enforcement. His horsey face and buggy eyeballs had helped to make the moniker stick.

The Legislature’s rectangular building jutted out into the harbor at the east end of the shopping district, not far from Government Hill. Previously painted a distinctive mint green, the structure had recently been redone in a more demure cream.

The color overhaul hadn’t toned down the attitudes or emotions of the elected officials who met inside, Friday reflected. He surveyed the senators quarantined in the middle of the meeting chamber—and winced at the harassment they were inflicting on the federal agents guarding the perimeter.

He had a feeling that his day would get a lot worse before it got better.

•

WIPING A SLEEVE
across his brow, Friday shifted his focus from the senators to his team. Like him, the agents were conspicuously dressed from head to toe in black: black combat boots, black pants, black T-shirts, and black caps. It was an uncomfortable uniform selection for an operation staged in the hot and humid Caribbean.

While the flushed faces all belonged to familiar agents, people that Friday trusted from years of service together, he would have preferred to have brought on board a little local expertise.

The agency had a division office in nearby San Juan and a Resident Agency office on St. Thomas, but Agent Hightower, the special agent in charge, had stubbornly refused to involve them. Citing the potential for leaks, Hightower had insisted the team be staffed only with personnel from the Northern Virginia office.

Just another reason Friday hadn’t liked the look of this operation from the get-go, he thought with a sigh.

There were too many variables, too many unknowns, too many ways the whole thing could go haywire—and with several federal agencies weighing in on the process, too many career-minded individuals ready to point fingers when the inevitable glitches occurred.

The undertaking was a political hot potato.

“Operation Coconut,” he muttered to himself. Even the code name sounded hinky.

•

FRIDAY REACHED FOR
a bottle of water and guzzled down several gulps, as much to relieve the stress as to douse his thirst. Regardless of office affiliation, a much bigger team would have been needed to run this mission properly, but his requests for additional manpower had been summarily denied.

If necessary, a small unit of National Guard troops waited on the navy vessel docked on the east side of town. However, numerous restrictions had been placed on that resource. He had been instructed in the sternest possible manner that the Guard was only to be used as a last resort.

This was to be a peaceful, purely judicial action. The FBI was to do nothing that might escalate matters into a civil conflict.

Friday screwed the lid back on his bottle. Despite his misgivings, so far the operation was proceeding according to plan. He hadn’t yet heard from Hightower, who was leading the Government House group, but his crew had entered the Legislature with minimal resistance.

The primary obstacle had been a female security guard manning the front entrance. She had blocked the doorway, demanding to see the arrest warrant. Even after a close inspection of the paperwork, she had questioned their authority.

Friday had been on the verge of forcibly moving her to the side when she grudgingly allowed the agents through.

He rolled his eyes, remembering the woman’s miffed expression when he’d declined her request that they run their weapons through her security scanner.

•

AFTER CLEARING THE
entrance hurdle, Friday and his fellow agents had moved quickly through the building.

Each of the senators had their own office space, so it would take time to complete a thorough search, but they had already captured most of the elected officials on the list.

Therein lay the next challenge.

The senators were to be held in the Legislature’s meeting chambers until arrangements could be made to safely transport them, along with the Governor, to the navy vessel. A local federal district judge would be arriving shortly to preside over the formal reading of the charges. A third circuit appellate judge had flown down from Philadelphia to handle any pressing disputes that might arise. For the moment, the senators would have to sit tight.

Easier said than done, Friday thought. With an internal groan, he returned his gaze to the center of the room.

It was a belligerent, complaining bunch, but then, he supposed he would say that about most politicians. The senators were not shy in expressing their opinions.

Every possible insult and allegation had been hurled at Friday during their brief confinement—along with several pieces of trash and any other easily throwable items within reach.

He rubbed a bump on the side of his forehead. One of the feisty senators had nicked him with a wooden gavel.

Friday rubbed the scruff beneath his chin. Some of the protestations of innocence were probably true.

The six-month investigation into the USVI corruption charges had been rushed to its conclusion. Nebulous sources from high up the chain of command had exerted enormous pressure to move the case forward.

Even though investigators were still working to untangle the various interweaving lines of bribes, payoffs, and influence peddling, a decision had been made to throw a wide net around the territory’s entire elected government.

Friday pulled off his black cap and fiddled with the size adjuster strap, seeking to lessen the pressure against his pounding temple.

It wasn’t within his purview to question the justice department’s legal analysis, but the collected evidence looked flimsy to him.

Given all of the procedural oddities surrounding the case, he wondered if someone behind the scenes had orchestrated the situation as a de facto coup.

With a frown, he slid his cap back on his head.

They wouldn’t have been able to get the indictments at all without the cooperation and sworn testimony of a highly placed source within the Governor’s cabinet.

“That’s a whole lot of credence to place on just one witness.”

•

FRIDAY TURNED AS
an agent approached with the current inventory of the arrested senators.

“We’re missing two, sir.” The man looked down at a clipboard.

“Senator Bobo from St. Croix. Apparently he’s a reverend, although I’m a little unclear on the religious denomination.” Shrugging, he moved on to the other name. “And Senator Sanchez from St. Thomas.”

Here it is
, Friday thought as he switched on an earpiece radio device and prepared to brief Agent Hightower.

The first crack in the Coconut
.

Charlotte Amalie

The Missing Senators

FORT CHRISTIAN SPRAWLED
across a short rise just above the shoreline, a strategic position it had occupied for over three hundred years. Reputed to be the oldest standing structure in the Virgin Islands, the fort had anchored the first Danish settlements on St. Thomas.

Fort Christian stood with its back turned to the Legislature Building, as if shunning the upstart democratic institution. From the fort’s inland-facing entrance, it was a straight path down the waterfront to Market Square, a forum that bore the shameful distinction of having hosted some of the largest slave auctions in the West Indies.

Looking up the gentle slope from the fort’s crumbling front steps, additional historic landmarks could be spotted. The stately Frederick Lutheran Church was only a few blocks away. Farther up the hillside, Government House was easy to pick out. A slight squint at the overlooking peak brought into focus Blackbeard’s Tower.

The oldest of the city’s Colonial monuments, Fort Christian was in the greatest state of disrepair. Its storybook façade was best viewed from a distance, where the cracking red plaster took on the romantic blur of a relic from an earlier era.

Up close, it wasn’t so pretty.

The fort had been closed for several years, pending a much-needed renovation, but that work had stopped not long after it began. Disputes between the VI government and the job’s contractor had left the project in limbo. After lengthy exposure to the elements, the unfinished repair work would likely have to be redone. Despite constant promises to the contrary, it would be some time before the building would be ready to reopen to the public.

As a temporary measure, a small volunteer-staffed museum had been set up inside the fort, but given the curators’ competing obligations, the hours of operation were sporadic.

In its prime, Fort Christian had cut an impressive figure. Named for one of Denmark’s many kings, the massive walls soared up to Gothic arches and a top edging of crenellated battlements. A clock tower rose from the front wall, pointing timepieces at both the town and the harbor.

But nowadays, padlocks secured the building’s rotting wooden doors. The windows were barred or boarded over. In the park that flanked the front entrance, a mishmash of telephone wires and power lines dangled from the limbs of battered trees.

Over the centuries, the fort had served as the seat of local government, a church, and a local jail.

Currently, it wasn’t used for much of anything—except as a hiding place for two renegade USVI senators.

IT WAS HOT
inside Fort Christian’s center courtyard. The sun beat down on the concrete-covered ground, its heat radiating up into the feet of Senators Bobo and Sanchez.

After evading capture inside the Legislature Building, the panting pair had sprinted across the street to the rear of the fort.

The fort’s back parking area was blocked off with chain-link fencing and marked with warning placards. Perhaps due to the lengthy absence of the construction crews, parts of the fencing had sagged. A two-piece gate that stretched across the vehicle access had twisted at its midpoint to create a hole big enough for a full-sized adult to squeeze through.

Senator Bobo had hopped between the loosened gates like a seasoned rabbit, as if accustomed to the maneuver.

Senator Sanchez had followed him inside—with great hesitation.

•

JULIA SANCHEZ TURNED
a slow pivot in the fort’s courtyard, staring at the construction debris and abandoned scaffolding.

She had grown up in a residential area a few miles out of town. Like most children on the island, she’d visited the fort on school field trips and summer camp outings, but it had been more than a decade since she’d been inside the structure. The place looked far more run-down than she remembered, but, she supposed, childhood memories were often like that. Certainly, the dilapidated fort was a stark contrast to the recently painted Legislature Building across the street.

She shifted her attention to her fellow senator. “Lucky for us, you had a key to that back door.”

“I’ve been volunteering in the museum,” he replied, patting the pocket where he’d stashed the key ring. Solemnly, he tapped the four corners of a cross on his chest. “The good Lord looks out for Bobo.”

Sanchez gave the man a dubious look.

“And the gate?” she prompted skeptically.

Reverend Bobo gave her a sly wink. “Providence provides to him who is prepared.”

•

SENATOR BOBO LIVED
in Frederiksted, a small community on the west end of St. Croix. He had taken the commuter seaplane up to St. Thomas earlier that morning in order to participate in the day’s legislative activities.

He was a devoutly religious man—at least by all outward appearances. He ran a tiny but well-attended church in his neighborhood. It adhered to a strict conservative doctrine, but it was unaffiliated with any organized sect or denomination. As such, Bobo had never been officially ordained, but he had formally changed his first name to “Reverend,” allowing him to use the title freely.

This deficiency (or perhaps, delusion) appeared not to matter to his loyal followers. The close-knit group had been instrumental to his repeated election to the Legislature, the clan tirelessly campaigning and fundraising for him. The other senators generally considered him a kook, but they rarely expressed this opinion out loud.

Bobo’s political clout had been proven time and time again.

Sanchez glanced at the rainbow-colored scarf looped around Bobo’s neck, an accessory he wore almost everywhere he went. The rest of his regular outfit comprised a white linen tunic draped over matching harem pants and, on his feet, huarache sandals. A musky coconut oil kept his frizzled gray hair swept back and the thinning strands plastered against his skull.

It was a distinctive look, one designed to stand out from the crowd.

The hair oil scent made the female senator want to gag.

“Bobo,” Sanchez muttered to herself. “How did I get stuck with Bobo?”

•

JULIA SANCHEZ SHUFFLED
sideways, increasing her distance from the fragrant hair oil. She was no stranger to the spotlight, but she preferred a more refined approach to publicity.

About five years earlier, she’d snagged a job as a junior weather girl for the island’s main television station. The position had given her plenty of media experience and public exposure. She was accustomed to performing for cameras. At a moment’s notice, she could switch from a pretty smile and a cute giggle to a solemn a-Cat-5-hurricane-is-coming-our-way expression.

After working her way up to senior weatherperson, she had channeled her growing popularity into politics, narrowly winning her first senate seat in the last election cycle.

It had been a nasty race, with a number of aspersions cast against her ethnicity. While her mother was a native Virgin Islander, her father was a Puerto Rican immigrant, leading some groups to insist on categorizing her as “other.”

She had weathered the storm, so to speak, with class, dignity and the backing of her mother’s family, who had deep roots in the West Indian community.

Despite the heavy makeup and flirty demeanor that had been required for success in the television industry, she was a tomboy at heart. She wasn’t easily pushed around by chauvinistic newsmen, fractious politicians, or the daily rough-and-tumble of the USVI Legislature.

Or, for that matter, Senator Bobo.