The Zimmer Doctrine (Corps Justice Book 11) (11 page)

Chapter 21

Great Sale Cay

The Bahamas

August 28th, 8:31pm

“Thank you for the update, Doctor. I hope I did not keep you too long.” Chance Baxter wiped his mouth before refolding the cloth napkin, setting it on the table.

“I am happy to answer any questions you might have, Mr. Baxter,” Dr. Aviel Nahas replied. He could feel the white wine going to his head. There was still work do be done that night, but part of him wanted to stay and talk to his host. “If I may say, Mr. Baxter, it has been a pleasure to work with someone who not only cares for my work, but also has gone to such extremes to ensure I am well taken care of. The laboratory alone must have cost…”

“Do not worry about the cost, Doctor. Your research and development are well worth the modest investment. Perhaps once we have concluded this particular project we can talk about your future with us.”

“I would like that very much, Mr. Baxter. Thank you.”

Baxter smiled and rose from the table. “Now, if you will excuse me, there are certain matters that I must attend to. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”

He was gone from the room before Dr. Nahas could properly stand up from his chair. The Israeli inventor watched his new benefactor depart. He was in awe of the man really. How could he not be? Baxter genuinely cared about Nahas’s work and had even proposed his own ideas in the most diplomatic way possible. He listened. Nahas had never worked for such a man. One word came to mind when he tried to describe the billionaire - benevolent. 

It was easy to try to please such a man, a man whose family had done such great things over the centuries. Nahas had known some of the Baxter family history, but his host had filled in the details. There was no bravado in Baxter’s retelling only the fond pride a good man has for his ancestors.

The Israeli smiled at the thought. He felt fortunate to be working for a man like Baxter. Nahas hoped that boded well for his own future within the Baxter organization, as well as for the success of his current undertaking.

+++

Chance Baxter was pleased. Not only was Dr. Nahas ahead of schedule, but also he’d  improved on his concept. Baxter watched as the updated software and schematics left his outbox and sped out to the intended recipients. He’d meant every word he’d uttered to Nahas. It was a pleasure to work with an innovator whose mind knew no bounds. Given the right tools, time, and resources, Nahas could become one of his greatest assets.

After he’d initially apologized for the abrupt departure from Israel, Baxter soothed Nahas with promises of unlimited funding. But it was what he’d uncovered in their first conversation that really made all the difference. It became painfully obvious to Baxter that Nahas wanted one thing - recognition. He might not know the breadth of what he was building until the very end, if at all, but Baxter would wrap him in praise and boost the inventor’s self-worth until Nahas was ready to burst with well-earned pride.

It was one of the many ways Chance Baxter had secured his company for the modern age. He had an eye for talent and a gift for solemn flattery. Men like Nahas melted under the praise of men like Baxter. It remained to be seen whether Nahas would grasp the value of their mission but that could wait. He didn’t have to know the whole picture to complete his task. After all, compartmentalization was the way of the world now. It was “need to know,” as they say in the movies.

When the message signaling the successful transmission appeared on his screen, Chance Baxter closed the browser and made his way downstairs. His staff said the helicopter had just left. A new shipment had been delivered – ah, a new traitor to enjoy. He’d read the report, and the man knew little. He was a simple saboteur who’d been caught red-handed. It might have been easier for the vessel’s captain to dispose of the man, but Baxter’s instructions had been clear.

Baxter smiled when he saw the sealed white cooler at the entrance to the hallway leading to his secret chamber. His house manager, George, was standing next to the package, ever the dutiful employee.

“Would you like help pushing the cooler, Mr. Baxter?”

“Thank you, George, but I think I can manage.”

George nodded and left the entryway.

Less than a minute later, Baxter was inside his soundproof room. He took his time changing, this time opting to go with a set of swim trunks and no shirt. It was messy work and he did hate to spoil good clothing.

When he’d finished depositing his dinner clothes in the plastic bag George had left on top of the locked cooler, Baxter carefully entered the combinations for the two locks on the side of the container. The pressure seal popped open with very little effort and Baxter was greeted with the familiar smell of fear. It might have been repugnant to most but the odor aroused Baxter’s senses. His arousal increased all the more when he looked into the cooler and saw the frightened eyes of his newest guest. The man was strapped to the bottom and his nose and mouth were covered with a clear mask with tubes winding down to the twin oxygen tanks at the man’s side.

Baxter lifted the mask from the man’s face.

“What are you…?”

Baxter put a finger to his own mouth and said, “Shh. We don’t want to wake the sharks yet.”

+++

Off the coast of Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

9:01pm

As the chief steward of the mega-yacht,
Suprema
, it was Jeanette Locke’s job to keep the guests happy. She was very good at her job or she would have been fired long ago. Catering to the upper crust of society took both patience and an eye for detail. It also required utmost discretion, which her current captain harped on regularly.

“Our guests pay for our silence,” he would say. “Let us prove to them the crew of
Suprema
understands that need.”

But it wasn’t the guests that had Jeanette on edge or her never-ending duties as chief steward. What concerned Jeanette most was what was happening in the bowels of the yacht. To the untrained eye, the new crew members appeared to be your run-of-the mill yacht enthusiasts, but there was something about them that only amplified Jeanette’s unease. It appeared there were now two separate crews on the yacht ; one crew cared for the guests and the other crew's mission was yet unknown. She was aware of them working odd hours in the secure cargo hold, and their mission was off limits to even the captain of the yacht.

She’d already relayed this information to her superiors in London, despite the captain’s stranglehold on communication with the outside world. But it had been easy for Jeanette. As chief steward she required access to ship-to-shore communications. It was her job to order all items that her rich guests desired or required.

The message had been encoded like she’d been instructed. Nobody would know that she’d just reported the sighting of “unusual activity” to MI6. She only wished that it could have been sent earlier. However, it had taken an unusual request for a rare brand of tequila from their thirty-something millionaire guest to allow the transmission.

As Jeanette closed the door to the master cabin, the captain’s voice came over her earpiece. “Jeanette, could you please come to the bridge?”

“On my way, captain,” she replied, hurrying to the nearest staircase. Little did she know that she’d just performed her final act as yacht chief steward. 

Chapter 22

Off the coast of Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

August 28th, 9:17pm

The yacht was anchored so when Jeanette entered the dimly lit bridge of
Suprema
the only person on watch was the captain. He was standing behind the wheel, hands at 10 and 2 like he was about to take her underway.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” Jeanette asked.

His head turned slowly. He was the youngest captain she’d ever worked for. He was possibly in his mid forties. The heavily-bearded master of the vessel rarely yelled and never had to ask his employees twice to complete his orders. His eyes said far more than any curse he could have uttered.

As Jeanette waited for a response, she noted that the captain’s eyes had softened, looking wistful.

“How are our guests?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Preparing for tonight’s festivities, Captain.”

Their primary charter guest had requested a Mexican themed fiesta for their last night aboard the yacht. That meant Jeanette had to obtain multiple bottles of tequila and enough quesadillas to soak up some of the day’s alcohol.

“Good,” the captain said. “There’s been another request.”

Jeanette flashed a knowing smile. “Trying to milk every last minute of their charter, are they?”

The captain nodded, but he didn’t return the smile. Jeanette stared at him, waiting.

Finally, his hand slipped into his tunic. Jeanette’s body tensed. When the hand emerged again it held a folded piece of paper.

“Here’s the list,” the captain said, handing her the paper.

Jeanette unfolded the sheet and read the list. They all looked like items currently stocked in the ship’s galley, nothing out of the ordinary. There was an address under the list, not located in Mexico, but instead in the Bahamas. She almost looked up in confusion, but then she read the the final two words at the bottom of the page.

They know.

Jeanette’s breath caught as fear and panic swam over her.

“I would commit the list to memory, just in case,” the captain was saying even as Jeanette’s heart thudded in her chest. “I suggest you have Edison take you to shore now. The man at that address will assist you in obtaining the more obscure items.”

Jeanette nodded, her eyes wide. The captain’s eyes glanced in the direction of the digital display. It took a second for her to realize what he was trying to convey.
The cameras,
she thought. There were cameras all over the yacht. While that wasn’t uncommon, she’d always suspected that the video being taken on
Suprema
was being watched in some place other than the multi million-dollar craft.

She did her best to look unconcerned even as her stomach did somersaults. Then it hit her. If the captain knew, didn’t that mean that he was working for MI6, as well? No one had told her that the captain was in on the surveillance, but then again, why would they? And if he stayed, didn’t that mean that he would be caught? Maybe he had a contingency plan for that, or at least, that’s what she told herself as she said goodbye to the captain, who had already turned his attention to the wheel.

+++

There was a leak
. That’s what the message had said. Carefully inserted into the package of Toblerone chocolate was a thin piece of flash paper. The decoded message, for security reasons, had been brief and to the point.

Leak confirmed. Two compromised. Good luck.

Montgomery Weir had been captain of
Suprema
for five years. He’d worked for MI6 for half of that time. The secret intelligence organization initially recruited him because of the growing number of wealthy Arabs
Suprema
hosted. As a former sailor and a devout British citizen, Weir had the perfect cover. Then the order had come suggesting that he put his name in for some undertaking that the billionaire Chance Baxter was organizing. The assignment was all very hush-hush. Weir was approved only after providing his credentials and after sitting through no less than eight interviews.

Initially, it seemed like more of a patriotic fraternity. The yacht captains, many of whom already knew one another, either from their time in the British Navy or from their yachting days, gathered twice a year at Baxter’s London headquarters. There they were treated like a brotherhood, and much was discussed about the future of the British empire. They lamented the loss of Hong Kong and India. Over endless cocktails, they shared the hope that  one day their country might regain its rightful place in the world.

What had seemed like nostalgic camaraderie took a serious turn. Baxter had a plan to consolidate many of the world’s private yachts under his umbrella. With the help of their captains, he was able to accomplish this feat. So,in just under three years, Chance Baxter had control of some of the world’s finest private vessels. In short, he’d bought his own private navy comprised of 28 super-yachts.

That, in and of itself, wasn’t the problem. Until a few weeks ago, Weir had had little to report. However, then the team of engineers had arrived on his command and the retrofit had begun. And then, just before leaving port to pick up their guests, a large shipment was loaded onto
Suprema
.

He was never given a reason, just the order to comply with the engineers instructions. Then once the cargo was loaded into the modified hold a small team was left behind to tend to it. Captain Weir couldn’t be sure, but an educated guess marked the six-man team as former military, possibly special operations. The team volunteered to assist his crew. However, they reminded Weir of Soviet political officers who had boarded Soviet ships to ensure the Communist ideals were being met.

Fortunately, he’d saved Jeanette. The address on the sheet he’d given her was an MI6 safe house. They knew she was coming, and both a fake passport and plane ticket were waiting at the Los Cabos International Airport. Weir hoped she would make it. At least he’d given her a fighting chance.

As for him, he didn’t know how much time he had. They hadn’t received orders from Baxter in twenty-four hours. Maybe that was part of the master plan or maybe they were waiting until all MI6 agents were caught. Weir wondered how many agents there were. Were their orders the same as his, to watch and wait?

They’d been clear during his training. If the word ever came that his mission was compromised, he was on his own. As the captain of the craft, he did not have the protection that its chief steward had. It hadn’t seemed like much of a risk at the time, but now the knowledge of being disavowed weighed heavily on Weir like a lead life jacket.

It would seem odd if he went ashore. What business could he have in Cabo San Lucas? A yacht captain’s place was on his yacht.

Weir let go of the wheel and radioed for his first mate. The man appeared minutes later, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“I thought you might like some, Captain,” the young man said. He was a good lad, always patient with the crew and wise beyond his years.

“I’ve already had some. Thank you.”

“Is there anything I should know, sir?”

“All’s quiet,” the captain replied. “I sent Jeanette ashore with Edison.”

“Another bottle of tequila for our young guest?” the first mate asked, grinning.

“Something like that. I told her to get a room at the usual hotel if it gets too late. We can always send someone to fetch her in the morning.” If the man was one of Baxter’s spies, he was very good. He showed no signs of worry over the chief steward’s absence. “I’ll be up to relieve you at two,” he said, with a nod.

“Good night, Captain.”

“Good night.”

Captain Montgomery Weir stayed in his stateroom for thirty minutes. It was long enough to hear that Jeanette had made it safely to shore. It also gave him ample time to retrieve a backpack from his private safe. With a decisive grunt, he strapped it over one shoulder and made his way aft. He could feel the thumping of the music as he got closer. The party overhead must be in full swing. No doubt the guests were dancing on top of the tables like kids on spring break.

But he wasn’t going to visit the guests, and when he got to the stairs leading up to the helipad he passed that too. When he got to his destination, he knocked on the heavy metal door. A moment later, one of the six men guarding the cargo opened the door.

“Yes, Captain?” the man asked politely.

“The chef had some leftovers from the party. I was on my way to bed and thought I’d bring them by.” He motioned to the pack on his shoulder.

The man put out a hand to take the bag but Weir didn’t move.

“There’s also been word. Didn't you get the message?”

The man’s face twisted in confusion.

“There’s been no message.”

“Damn. They said something like this might happen. Some issue with communications. May I come in? You can eat while I tell you what I know.”

Weir held his breath as the man mulled it over. The captain knew what he was thinking. On the one hand, the cargo cell was not supposed to talk to the captain about the operation without explicit word from London. But, on the other hand, if there was word, shouldn’t they listen to what the captain had to say? After all, he was one person against six of them.

Finally, the man nodded and opened the door.

Weir stepped inside and took in the modified space. Three of the men were stretched out on cots chatting. The talk ceased when they saw him. Two more men were staring at computer screens that had wires running into the large capsule taking up the bulk of the space.

“The captain says he has a message,” the man behind him reported.

One of the men at the computers turned.

“How can I help you, Captain?”

Weir saw annoyance in the man’s eyes. He was in their domain.

Weir stepped forward, shifting the pack on his shoulder. It felt heavy now, like someone had added a fifty-pound plate on his way below deck.

“Here,” he said, handing the pack to the man in charge.

“What is it?” the man asked, already beginning to open the zipper.

Six, five, four
…Weir thought.

“A gift,” Weir said, all nervousness gone now. He could feel the ominous power of whatever sat inside the mounted capsule. It was the last resort but he was ready. He’d done his patriotic duty. Maybe this would put Baxter on his heels. Maybe…

Three, two, one
.

The explosives detonated at the precise moment when the man had opened the main compartment. They hadn’t explained to Weir exactly what it was, but he had seen the video. This “gift” acted no differently. The explosives ripped
Suprema
in half and then like a supernova the explosion tore outward engulfing the entire vessel in fire.
Suprema
, its obliterated crew and guests all hit the bottom of the ocean two minutes later.