Dark Vessel (COIL Book 4), page 23
Continuing on, I turned south, the ground sloping gradually toward what I knew was a steep hillside down to the water's edge.
One thing for sure, Forglade wasn't alone. He had resources, maybe even governmentally affiliated. Was he really hiding? It seemed not. The man had been reassigned. Perhaps he was too valuable to arrest or kill.
Over the next ridge, I ran until I came to the steep hillside, practically a cliff. The water was peaceful below, the leeward side of the island. I crossed a dirt path, then sidestepped down the slope. A chartered fishing boat was a mile off shore, beyond the reefs, but in plain sight. Were they also enemies? An expert marksman with a .50-caliber could've ended me right then.
Reaching the water, I slipped on the steep bank and fell into the gentle waves up to my waist. I climbed back onto the rock high-tide shelf where there was no trail. If I wanted to get back to Gustavia, my boat, or flat ground, I'd have to swim.
Looking uphill, I wondered if my enemy knew I'd turned south. I prayed he continued east. Otherwise, I'd be fair game for a shooter once I entered the water.
Taking off my vest and shirt, I wrapped the telescope up. With a grunt, I shoved the wad of clothes and scope into a crack in the volcanic rock. Then, diving into the water, I shed my pants and shoes, kicking them free as I swam under water for a dozen yards. After a quick breath, I submerged again, and went farther, my lungs expanding to the task at hand, my mind disciplining my body against panic in the open sea.
Instead of swimming along the shore, I swam toward a cluster of rocks that I couldn't see yet, too small on which to build a shelter, but adequate for me. In the past, I'd noticed the rocks several times through my telescope. They were high enough from the waves to grow sparse vegetation. But could I swim the quarter-mile beyond the peninsula to reach them? The waves around me were high enough that I still couldn't see them when I took another breath. But when I turned and looked back at the island, I established a better sense of direction and plunged ahead, still swimming under water so I didn't deliberately draw any eyes. From the right angle, I guessed I could still be seen since the water was such a transparent green.
Three breaths later, I took another reading of the island. I was on target, swimming away from it, and I saw no one on the slope or ridge I'd left behind. And no boats approached me from the sea. Had I really evaded a killer? Maybe. If that's what he was, my safety was temporary. Gustavia was a small town. He'd come for me again, and I had to be ready. But right now, I was a man with no pants.
#######
Dusk settled over the island of St. Barts, but I still didn't move from my hiding place on the rocks offshore. I remained on the far side of my sanctuary, the waves lapping at my heels. The two tiny islands, if they could be called such, were a stone's throw apart, and each had barely the same surface area as my sailboat. They'd been my uncomfortable refuge all day, but now I was ready to return to the main island. My throat was parched and my stomach was beyond hunger.
An hour later, I judged it was dark enough, so I slipped into the warm water. A thrill moved through my being, appreciating the stealth with which I could now approach my boat. It was dark, and the island was lit up. That morning, I had to swim desperately through the water, but now I could take my time.
To save my energy, I floated on my back and kicked toward La Pointe at the end of the peninsula. As I neared the low cliffs, I found myself amongst anchored sailboats about fifty yards offshore, most of them monohulls. There was laughter and movement aboard some of them. Without disturbing anyone, I swam silently through the varied anchorages, and began to recognize buildings on La Pointe—the museum and gallery, even the local gendarmerie.
Gradually, I rounded the peninsula and started into the harbor. The water was warmer here since it was shallow with only one outlet. When I identified my boat from the others, I didn't approach it directly. I watched for shadowy movement across her bow, with the town lights behind it, but I didn't see anything alarming. Was she safe to board? An hour had passed since leaving the rocks and I was exhausted, so I climbed onto the stern step without any further caution.
No one met me with a silenced gunshot or glinting knife blade. Had I imagined an enemy earlier that morning on the island? The thought had plagued me all day as I was hiding. I'd seen no one exactly, only movement. Yes, I decided, there'd been someone. There was no room for ignoring signs of danger. During other operations, I'd been wounded for making that mistake.
Quietly, I moved across the deck. When I stepped down the dark companionway and inside, I smelled him. Someone had been there. A foreign smell, maybe cheap aftershave? Something sweet, but also something more natural—sweat.
Opening a drawer, I grasped a tranq-pen. If he was still on board, I might have a chance. The quarters were close and I knew the vessel well, even in the dark. But what if there were two men, or three? The pen could handle that many targets, if I could inject them without being killed first.
I sat at the navigation table aft the galley, and listened. Every touch of a wave, every whisper of loose canvas above, every creak of the hull made a unique sound. An hour I waited, and I heard nothing that signified the intruder was still aboard. To be certain, I checked the fore and aft cabins, the head, and both stowage spaces. No one was on board. Since the danger hadn't been identified, I thought it best to leave the lights off and abandon my sailboat. My dinghy was on shore, but I had a second one that I could inflate and row ashore. There was much I had to take with me, but it was time to leave the boat permanently.
Feeling along the counter, I hoped to fix a sandwich, then pack. But my hand touched something next to the sink that made me freeze. I felt it with both hands to be sure I wasn't mistaken. Cylindrical and narrowing at one end, broader at the other. Glass on both ends.
Scoffing at my own confusion, I reached for the switch to illuminate the galley. There on the counter rested my telescope on top of my vest and shirt.
Many were my foes. Few were my friends. The likelihood of meeting a friend on an isolated island under my strained circumstances, with death trailing behind me—was slight. And yet, there were my abandoned possessions.
No one knew I'd come to Gustavia. How could anyone know? I'd left no trail. Not many knew I was even alive. Well, someone did now, it seemed. But who?
*~*
Chapter 38
I awoke on the boat the next morning with a peculiar feeling. Someone on the island had acted friendly toward me, but I wouldn't go so far as to say I had a friend on the island. Not yet.
In the spy business, agents from allied nations and agencies frequently crossed paths. During the Cold War, British spies and American spies often stumbled upon one another. It wasn't so unexpected back then since we were vigilant in identical objectives to crumble the Berlin Wall, among other targets. Even if one expected to cross an ally in the field, it was still unnerving.
There was no one from my recent past on the island—I was fairly certain. So, I'd apparently been identified by someone from my distant past, someone intent on remaining unknown at this time. I was being watched, but not by an immediate foe. That was the message that the recovered telescope seemed to say to me.
Since I hadn't swam so far in years, my muscles ached in places I'd forgotten I had muscles. Nearing sixty, I took a few minutes to stretch my limbs before preparing a light breakfast. Moments like these excited me. God is ever active in the lives of His people, and I was startled at the idea of having a potential ally in the proverbial shadows near me. My mission for Forglade and Coleman's capture could continue unchecked.
My morning contemplations were further confirmed when I stepped onto the deck and found my dinghy tied to the stern. I stood on deck and chuckled at myself—and at the man who was probably chuckling at me right then, too. Sharks and drowning had been braved while running from someone who apparently meant me no harm. How much did my shadow know about my mission, though?
After motoring to shore, I rented another bicycle and rode it around the streets of Gustavia for an hour. Was anyone watching me? The town was busy in its relaxed Caribbean way. Merchants were buying fish from fishermen who'd been out on the sea all night. A couple joggers crossed paths with me three times, as they trained for that winter's Gustavialoppet, the Swedish Marathon, their shirts boasting their previous attendance. And tourists from the States were testing their French on the locals.
Satisfied with my surroundings, and with my cap pulled low, I cycled out to La Pointe to the St. Barts Municipal Museum. I'd heard the locals call it the Wall House, and I leaned my bike against its stone wall. Inside, I browsed the island's documented history—which included French, Swedish, and British occupation periods. Though I was looking for something specific, I wouldn't rush to discover it until I had a better context of what to ask for. An elderly man and woman, both with wire-framed glasses, glanced at me from their round reading table.
When I arrived at the display of ancient fishing boats, I studied them closely. It was of particular importance for me to make my attention to the boats concrete in the curators' minds, though I didn't care about the boats at all. But if someone came in and asked the elderly couple what I'd been interested in, they could say I'd paid special attention to the old fishing boats.
For ten minutes, I fostered this impression, then moved casually to a display of Creole houses. The models were detailed, and I collected as much information as I could in just a few seconds, my trained mind like a camera, filing everything away for later use. Then, I moved on, hoping to recall the architecture of the models. The houses were what interested me, of course, especially the older ones. Though Forglade's cottage was almost modern, it had probably been built on the site of an older Creole dwelling. Whatever basement or cavern existed there now was probably not new, or it wouldn't be an adequate covert hideout. It had probably been passed from those who sought hiding places to others who now also wanted to hide.
"Do you have a history of the Caribbean War?" I asked the curators in French. "The plaque says it was in the eighteenth century."
"About Gustavia exactly?" the woman asked. She stood and moved to a bookcase. "There is so much. We remained neutral during the war, you know. It was one of our wealthiest eras. Here it is."
"You can sit here, young man," the man invited, and moved a stack of brochures so I could sit across from them at their table. "Anything specific you're looking for?"
"Oh, I'm a writer." I didn't look up as I paged through fragile pages. My writing career was no lie. COIL operations were partially funded by my children's series penned under the name A.B. Leever. A cover is only good if it's real. "I may write an adventure involving Gustavia. The port and its fishing vessels fascinate me."
That set them both off, and I multitasked to read as I half-listened to them describe the fishing industry during the war—as if they had the history memorized, or had been there themselves. More books were brought to me, and I opened them, but I continued to actually read the one about the Caribbean War.
Two hours later, I found what I wanted, but not before learning facts about bonito and barracuda deep-sea fishing, which I guessed I'd never need, but one never knew.
Closing the history book on the war, I made a final effort to pay attention to a map of excellent fishing holes, the old man's bony finger pointing to each as he'd experienced them in his youth.
By the time I left the Wall House, it was noon. When I reached for my bicycle, I noticed someone had placed a jagged stone on the seat! Without showing too much regard outwardly, I stuck it in my pocket and pedaled away. But inside I was laughing. Someone was definitely watching me, even making a point to let me know I was being watched!
Was the rock a warning? I thought not, but my first glance had been insufficient to determine if the rock had a symbol or message scratched onto it. A skull and crossbones would've been an immediate signal. Even the word "GO" would've effected the impression I had in my mind about my shadow.
At Boulangerie Choisy, I stopped for a few edibles and to check the rock, risking a run-in with Forglade. It was a volcanic rock, I noticed, as I studied it over a mango drink. There were no markings on it, though. And it wasn't from the sea or from Shell Beach, with all its imported pebbles. This was a stone from the island, and I couldn't help but think I'd seen its color before.
Yes! Even the brief look inside the vault in Forglade's cottage was recent enough to recall the color of the cavern wall. Some volcanic rock changes color as it's exposed to the elements. The stone wasn't the color of exposed volcanic rock, but from rock that had been sheltered. Was I being told that my shadow was aware of the same cavern as me? That Forglade's cottage had been built over a cavern?
Indeed, I'd confirmed this much from my reading in the museum. Gustavia had remained neutral during the Caribbean War, but as the old woman had said, the port had prospered. They had traded in contraband. The Swedes had utilized a cavern on the peninsula, the journal had said, to hide gunpowder and whiskey. From the cavern, the underground merchants had taken their wares and lowered them down the southern cliffs to waiting boats—to avoid the eyes of spies in town. Noticeably selling to one side of the war over another could've changed the port's neutrality, so the secret was kept by all, for the sake of the merchandise. The cavern had been hidden, covered, and rumored to have been dynamited later during the rebuilding for a foundation. Apparently, the cavern hadn't been destroyed at all.
I guessed my shadow had left the stone to indicate he'd actually been inside the volcanic rock cavern.
Back on my sailboat, I tempered my excitement. Whatever clues I found to the mystery before me, the mission was still deadly. Men wanted me dead, and they'd mercilessly killed my wife and daughter when they couldn't kill or manipulate me. Such pressure on my shoulders required time with my Lord, precious time of solitude.
Since becoming a Christian and leaving the CIA, this priority in my life had been difficult to preserve over time—during missions, while on the run, or in hiding. But always, I knew my place, and it was with this attitude of submission that I sat at the navigation table with a Bible. I was a man of unclean lips, my flesh every bit at war with the Spirit as was any other true Christian. And the only way to remain in my Father's will was to commune with Him by prayer and reading from His Word. This wasn't a method that I'd discovered for success in order to achieve all my goals, as I'd heard false teachers of Christianity teach. Rather, I was a man who starved for my Lord's presence—and eternity with Him—now, more than ever. My family was gone, and my life was for God's purpose. Was I in His will now? These were things I examined at the heart level. If my motives were wrong to remain on the island, I believed God would impress upon me to sail away. But my path seemed straight, however narrow it was, and I finished my time of prayer refreshed.
The next stage of my operation was before me. I had to approach it with care, even if I did have a mysterious shadow who seemed to be watching my actions.
*~*
Chapter 39
The hurricane was a surprise to me, but the island seemed to have had adequate warning. I'd cut myself off from the world—no radio, Internet, or even the sat-phone in the comm-room of the sailboat. The world was turning while I was toiling.
Because of the depth of the harbor, the other sailors familiar with Gustavia told me they usually crowded all the boats into the port and put out extra bumpers. The harbormaster had my trust to do as he deemed fit with my Bavaria, and I went ashore around noon as the waves began to roll and the rain began to sting.
There seemed to be too many boats even for the sizeable harbor. The largest vessels were moored at the mouth of the inlet, cabled together from Shell Beach to La Pointe. Several small boats had been dry-docked to give others more space. It seemed everyone in the Caribbean was seeking refuge in Gustavia's leeward harbor. Much of the island's income came from tourism, but fishing was a large part of the islanders' lives as well. Thus, the safety of their vessels in the harbor was paramount, drawing a huge crowd.
Numerous luxury hotels were open for business, but I didn't immediately go indoors. Instead, I took advantage of the crowd that came out to see the storm. This was my opportunity to see new arrivals on the island—and any potential enemies. With my rain slicker and hood tied tight against the wind, I shielded my face from the pelting rain.
That's when I saw him. It was just a glimpse, but I knew it was Karl Coleman. He was among others climbing from boat deck to boat deck to reach land. I wasn't sure which vessel was his, but he was among the last few to arrive and pay the harbormaster to include them in the sheltered waters.
I moved south, toward the peninsula, cautiously glancing in the direction of Coleman's entourage. In my right pants pocket, I felt the tranq-pen. A hurricane hardly seemed an appropriate time to abduct a killer, and it was with this thought that I realized I was ridiculously unprepared to take anyone into custody. Nor had I been in contact with the local law enforcement, the gendarmerie. Where would I even hold Coleman captive?
Hesitating on the crowded street, I looked back toward the center of town. I needed to get word to the mainland, to Chloe. Certainly, there were Gustavian officials in this crowd to whom I could explain my position—and the danger for their people.
A man in a dark green raincoat turned away from me and seemed to be watching the crowd as the boats began to take a beating. But I was certain he'd been watching me, maybe even following me. Was this my shadow? With Coleman on site, I couldn't be certain. The man who'd admitted with his own mouth to killing my family was trapped in a storm. There were too many variables to be careless.
Moving toward the man in the green raincoat, I approached from behind his left side. When he turned to look for me, it was obvious, and he immediately moved to his right toward the center of town.
With whom was I dealing? His hood had shadowed his dark face, and the boiling sky wasn't helping with visibility. I needed to look into this man's face to be certain whether he was an enemy or a friend. It wouldn't be possible to go after Coleman until I was certain I wasn't about to get a blade in my back from another quarter.
