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  “Anyplace interesting?”

  Ford’s eyes landed on the marina’s black cat, curled in the corner, then moved to the cylindrical Plexiglas tank. “I’m presenting a paper on sea jellies. Near Orlando at one of those big no-name hotels that have a name. If you think about it, remind Jeth to tend to my aquariums after you lock the gate tomorrow. He’s been more forgetful than usual.”

  “Jellyfish, that’s what you’ll talk about?”

  “It’s a misnomer. They’re invertebrates, not fish.”

  Mack’s expression asked Who could possibly care?

  “Worldwide,” Ford explained, “there’ve been mega-blooms of sea jellies and no one has figured out why. They thrive in polluted water, so that might have something to do with it. I can show you the data, if you’re interested.”

  Mack’s eyes dulled. He got up. “A hotel full of scientists,” he said. “I’ve seen those female academic types. Like talking to textbooks with tits. But then, no one goes into your line of work for the excitement, do they?”

  “I’ll be back in a few days,” Ford said, “but don’t worry if I’m not.” He got up. “Oh, and Hannah might stop to check on things. I told her she’s welcome to overnight, if she wants.”

  Captain Hannah Smith, a top fly-fishing guide, was Ford’s on-again, off-again lover.

  Mack felt an obligation to remind him, “I hear she’s been dating someone. Understandable, of course. That girl’s a tough one to read—but aren’t they all?”

  Ford, moving toward the door, told him, “I’ve got to find my dog,” and went outside.

  • • •

  The next afternoon, he landed in Mexico, near Tulum on the Yucatán Peninsula, and traveled south to where a resort the size of a cruise ship was anchored to a silver beach. A Florida biologist wouldn’t be noticed among the eager tourist throngs, even if he loaded camping gear into a boat and didn’t return for several days.

  Ford paid cash for a locally built dugout—a cayuca—with an outboard. He pushed off before sunset.

  South of the resort was the Bay of Ascension, a small inland sea pocked with islands and blue craters called cenotes that were openings to underground rivers. The craters tunneled far into the earth and exited—if they did—no one knew where.

  Ford liked that. Along with sea jellies, he had been researching cenote formations in the Gulf of Mexico. Next week, he planned to dive a spot called the Captiva Blue Hole with a hipster friend of his, a boat bum mystic named Tomlinson, who was among the smartest men he knew. Also among the wealthiest, which is why some at the marina believed he was the mystery Santa.

  Cenotes were a pleasant coincidence that Tomlinson would have interpreted as a karmic omen.

  Good luck or bad?

  Marion Ford didn’t believe in either, for the same reason he had never believed in Santa Claus.

  • • •

  The resort was a five-star destination, a white concrete bluff encircled by bamboo-shack poverty where its employees lived—Mexican peasants the resort depended upon to keep tourists smiling. A typical worker-to-guest ratio was three to one. A typical income-to-income ratio wasn’t available, but probably obscene.

  Ford made use of the inequity, and the cash he’d brought, to create a loose safety net of goodwill. A very loose net, true, but worth the effort in an area where the resort was an island unto itself. Beyond the eastern fence was a hundred miles of jungle. Forty kilometers to the south, through littoral swamp and withering poverty, was Belize, once called British Honduras. Lying between was this shallow bay, with its islands and blue holes, where he had fashioned a remote base camp, as well as a separate spotting post, only a quarter mile from the hotel and beach.

  Ford had done some exploring. He knew more about the area, he suspected, than the corporate bosses who’d built the place. But the bosses, by god, knew their clientele. The wealthy jetted in from around the world for the sun and sex and gambling, and the illusion of limitless excess, which, in the minds of some, equaled freedom. What the guests didn’t realize was, despite the fixed smiles and amenities, the resort was an isolated outpost; a fragile life-support system for those who could not, would not, survive for long outside the property’s gate.

  Why would they bother? There was a long list of organized activities: yoga, golf, horseback riding, scuba trips to nearby atolls, billfish charters, and day trips to archaeological sites.

  There were many such ruins. This was Mexico’s ancient region of Quintana Roo, home of Mayan kings and gods, and temples that, amid choking vines, mocked them both, but were still worth the hundred-euro excursion fee (with a “traditional” lunch included).

  Ford was more interested in solitary activities. Hopefully, the man he’d been sent to find would not be afraid to go out alone. There was unsupervised snorkeling, kayaks and paddleboards for rent, a two-mile “nature trail” that featured caged toucans and monkeys, and a lookout pavilion over a pond where caimans—a variety of alligator—waited patiently to be fed.

  The pavilion was an ideal spot. Better yet, catch the man alone while he was snorkeling the reef that lay midway between the beach and Ford’s spotting post hidden by trees.

  It didn’t happen.

  He had been assigned an anonymous assistant; a “facilitator,” housed somewhere on the resort property. By the third day, he or she was getting antsy, too. Via encrypted phone, Ford received a text in Spanish: Máx is leaving Wednesday, not Thursday. What now?

  Máx, as in Máximo, the maximum bad guy. It was code for the man he had been sent to find. Three days ago, more information had been provided about the videos, including details about the victims and their killer. The man with the ruby-handled knife was a failed actor named David Abdel Cashmere, who’d converted to Islam in 2010 at a Chicago mosque and was considered “homegrown.” It was an important distinction to law enforcement and terrorist organizations. Homegrown meant his conversion was so profound, he would do anything, including harm his own country, to advance his cause. He attended training camps for Lashkar-

  e-Taiba, a Pakistani militant group, and for the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria—ISIS. By 2013, he had emerged as an occasional spokesman for an al-Qaeda cell in the UK. ISIS came to power at about the same time.

  In 2014, the FBI added Cashmere to the Most Wanted list, citing his involvement with a dozen bombings. They included Marriott hotels in Bali and Singapore, and several Christian day care centers in the Middle East—346 children killed.

  In 2015, ISIS amped up Cashmere’s status by naming him “American Senior Operative and Media Advisor,” but under the name of Máximo al-Amriki. Soon afterward, the group began to release videos of far superior quality to the cell phone variety the group was known for. Beheadings took on a Hollywood polish.

  Cashmere, the anonymous assassin, was becoming a star.

  No surprise there, but the news about Cashmere’s schedule change gave Ford only two more days.

  He was sitting, cross-legged, in muck and mosquitoes, across from the beach, binoculars nearby. It was noon; had to be eighty in the shade. He threw back the hood of his bug jacket and jabbed a question into the phone: What’s his afternoon schedule?

  His ally, who went by the initials KAT, replied, Golfing w/financial backers. Tonight SOP: gets drunk, gambles, gets drunker, hires whores.

  SOP stood for “standard operating procedure.” KAT’s meaning: The man was never alone.

  Ford asked, Tomorrow?

  Breakfast meeting; massage; lunch meeting. Booked sunset parasailing; cocktail reception, more whores.

  The unnecessary use of the word whore suggested either disapproval or contempt. Ford already suspected his ally was female, not that it mattered. He’d never worked with an assigned “facilitator”; didn’t trust the concept or the judgment of anyone naïve enough to be involved. For that reason, he had led KAT to believe he was thirty miles north, sta
ying in the touristy village Playa del Carmen, awaiting more intel before showing his face at the resort.

  Now this.

  The obvious move: wait until Cashmere was drunk, then pay an early-morning visit to his room. He would need a key and a diversion of some sort . . . And what else? While he considered that, he reread the text. A phrase jumped out:

  Booked sunset parasailing . . .

  Hmm . . .

  Ford mulled that over. All day, every day, a twin-engine boat towed a steady stream of thrill seekers belted to a parachute that soared two or three hundred feet into the air. One solitary person at a time. The boat was out there now, making the same damn boring circle, taking care not to stray too close to the bay, where there were shoals and reefs and thickets of mangrove trees laced into limestone.

  Ford typed Stand by and picked up the binocs. The boat was the go-fast variety, a yellow V-hull with twin inboard engines built for ocean racing or running cocaine. It would be useless in shallow water.

  Aboard was a crew of two, a Mexican driver and a spotter, and several European-looking passengers whose eyes were fixed on the sky. They reminded Ford of happy children flying a kite.

  He swung the binoculars and tracked a hundred meters of yellow rope upward to the parachute. It was a massive scarlet umbrella attached by threads and a harness to a miniature person, who, when the binocs were focused, became a laughing blonde in a bikini. Laughing because she’d removed her top to taunt her male companions far below.

  Ford lowered the binoculars but continued to observe. He’d been wrong about the boat steering a circle. It followed a triangular course because of prevailing winds; a steady northeasterly breeze. Steer downwind, even for a minute, the parachute might collapse. Apply too much throttle while steering across the wind, the rope might break.

  He got to his feet, ducked through some brush, and exited bayside into quiet sunlight. The water was gelatin green, seldom more than a meter deep, and formed a waxen bond with distant islands and nearby hedgerows of rock and mangroves that separated the bay from deeper water.

  No breeze here on the leeward side. At his feet was the spiraled egg casing from a whelk shell, dried and brittle. He returned to his spotting post; waited until the parasail swung to within a few hundred meters, then used segments of the egg casing to gauge the wind. One after another, he tossed segments into the air and watched them flutter to earth like miniature parachutes. With his boot, he marked off a grid. With his index finger, he measured variations of descent. All proportions were rough estimates, but close enough for what he had in mind.

  His shoulder pack was a high-tech tactical bag, made by Vertx. In a hidden pocket, next to the Sig Sauer pistol, was the pocket laser. It resembled the gadgets used by college professors but was thicker, heavier, constructed of military-grade aluminum and carbon fiber. More like an LED flashlight, but with a security lock aft because it was to be used only in an emergency. The laser was powerful enough to signal an evacuation chopper, or even a satellite, sixty miles overhead, although it was designed to pinpoint targets for high-flying planes.

  But was that all it could do?

  Ford flipped up the tiny peep sight, twisted the lock to activate a sizzling green beam, and experimented on a nearby twig . . . then a mangrove root twenty meters away.

  “Geezus . . . thing’s dangerous,” he muttered, then engaged the lock and hid it away.

  Ford sent two messages, one to a man he trusted; another to his facilitator, which read Must meet tonight.

  That evening, KAT, whose lapel pin said her name was Astra, sat within a circle of tiki torches, legs crossed, silky blouse buttoned, waiting for him at the pool bar. All guests wore green wristbands. Hers was black or dark blue. She was an Ecotour Advisor, according to the badge over her breast.

  Ford, thirty meters away, was hidden by bushes and shadows. They had agreed to meet at eight. It was now eight forty-five. Using binoculars, he watched KAT check and recheck her watch. Watched her drum glossy fingernails on the table. She signaled the waiter and ordered another daiquiri. The bartender poured double strength and served it without making eye contact.

  The woman, an exotic-looking brunette, was accustomed to third-world deference and other perks of the ruling class. But she was not accustomed to being stood up. She opened her purse, retrieved what appeared to be an iPhone but wasn’t, and typed a message in Spanish. The satellite phone in Ford’s pocket vibrated in response. He read, You’re late. I have a car if you need transport.

  Instead of responding, he continued to observe, no longer using the binocs. Between the hotel and patio bar was a courtyard where, on this tropical night, small brown men on ladders wove lighted icicles through the palms, a shimmering umbrella effect. It was a reminder that even here, near the equator, Christmas was only a few weeks away.

  Ford changed into tourist garb and hid his bag and swim fins in the bushes while the woman finished her drink. When she left in a huff, he followed. She made two stops before returning to a row of luxury cabanas that overlooked the beach. She was in Cinnamon Cottage—the buildings were named after spices or flowers—and her movements inside the cottage could be tracked by the lights she switched on. When he was convinced she was alone, he responded to her last text in English.

  Mission scrubbed.

  Through the window, he saw her hurry into the kitchenette, blouse unbuttoned, hair wrapped in a towel, and pick up the phone. Frustration; disapproval. It was in her mannerisms. She used her thumbs to type Why?

  He didn’t respond.

  She demanded, On whose authority?

  Ford wrote, End contact, and powered off his phone. A satellite log, which she might be able to access, would confirm that he could no longer receive messages. The same satellites would also confirm his location was in Playa del Carmen. He had stashed a little GPS transmitter behind the bumper of a public bus after syncing, then disabling, the GPS in his own phone.

  Security cameras were a concern. In his pocket was a night vision monocular, or NVG, the newest incarnation made by American Technologies Network. Generation 4. No more halo glare around lights, and precise resolution. From his hiding spot, he could see details of the woman’s face that weren’t visible even after cleaning his glasses. Also visible was the until now invisible strobe of an infrared camera in the courtyard. Two more cameras were mounted high atop an inland wing of the hotel.

  A wall of jasmine separated the pool bar from the beach. Ford used the cover to move to an unlit shuffleboard court beyond the view of the cameras. From there, he could see the front entrance of the woman’s cottage. Giant moths beat themselves against a porch light. Bats carved meteoric shadows; the siren throb of frogs registered in the brain as silence.

  KAT stepped out, wearing a white skirt and blouse with sandals, and walked briskly toward the main building, which housed the reception area, shops, and a restaurant. In her rush to leave, she failed to lock the cottage door. Ford slipped inside the room with its ceiling fans. The air smelled of shampoo and wicker. He planted a stickpin transmitter in the bedroom, another in the sitting room, where KAT’s laptop was on a table but closed. Next to it was a pad of paper, with the resort’s logo, the top sheet blank but veined from previous notes.

  He tore off the top sheet, left the cottage, then jogged to catch up. The woman was just entering the lobby, up the steps through the double doors and past a security guard. A minute later, she reappeared on the terrace of the main bar. Soon she was joined by a tall man, wearing a white dinner jacket, no tie, and wire-rimmed glasses. A wisp of hair was combed across a head that was bald and unusually large.

  The guy was a moneyed businessman, Ford guessed, but looked more like a professor from some elite liberal arts college. Twenty years older than KAT, which would have meant nothing under different circumstances, but the timing and contrast set off alarm bells.

  There was something familiar about the guy.
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  He retreated to a safe place and used Gen-4 optics to confirm what his instincts wanted to deny: the man in the dinner jacket bore an uncanny resemblance to a kidnap victim in the videos, an Australian named Shepherd.

  Unlikely, but a closer look was required. Twice, he moved to get a better view; used optical contrast and focus to study facial features that are difficult to disguise: earlobes, chin, eye sockets. Without digital analysis, there was no way to be certain, but the guy sure as hell looked like the aging Caucasian who had been dragged, kicking and screaming, to the executioner’s knife.

  Why would a kidnap victim conspire with terrorists to fake his own death?

  Ford let the question go and skipped to something more important. If it was Shepherd, this was a setup and there could be only one reason: days ago, in the lab, he had written, “Victim #3 might still be alive.”

  That observation had been shared with only one person. Not that that meant too much. Procedure required the information to be passed along to at least a few others for analysis. If true, someone on the inside had leaked his notes about the videos. Or . . . their communications had been hacked.

  That’s what Ford wanted to believe, but, either way, this was serious.

  He switched off the NVG monocular. In his career, no assignment had gone exactly as planned. The need to adapt was a Darwinian component that, in his mind, vindicated whatever action was required. If war—or life—were easy, the weak would have been eliminated from the gene pool eons ago. But this was different. This was the first assignment that had the feel of an elaborate trap.

  The man in the white dinner jacket was laughing, a wineglass in his delicate hands. Ford watched them interact until he was convinced they shared a professional bond and, if they hadn’t yet shared a bed, they soon would.

  That was a plus. Emotional ties were a potential weakness. The bedroom required an investment of time. People talked. They let their guard down. And the stickpin transmitters he’d planted in the cottage were all but invisible.