Hunter's Moon Read online

  Within months, owners of Western-owned vessels were complaining of a lack of security and unfair treatment while in the Canal Zone. Three crewmen on a Canadian containership had been beaten to death. The captain and cook of a Texas oil freighter were abducted and beheaded.

  Recently, when the U.S., in protest, imposed economic sanctions on the countries of Panama and Indonesia, IS&P announced it would turn away all U.S.-owned ships until the conflict was resolved.

  So far, the Panamanian government and the League of Latin Nations had refused to intercede.

  “Dangerous,” I said.

  “Worse than dangerous. I think Thomas Farrish is the most dangerous man on earth. Panama is like Noah’s Ark, the population’s so varied. You’ve been there, you know. It could potentially signal Arma—” He almost used the term again but caught himself. “It could start global war. That’s why I’m trying to get the message out. Dependency equals vulnerability. Fragility invites attack. Hook your wagon to a blind horse and sooner or later it’ll pull you off a cliff.

  “Mr. Tomlinson was telling me your paper has to do with plants and animals that go extinct because of overspecialization. Our country has become too specialized. Do you see the connection?”

  I nodded. Our paper’s working title was “Fatal Tracks of Adaptive Specialization.”

  But I didn’t believe for a minute that he contrived this meeting because of a research paper. What did the man want? If it had something to do with the assassination attempt in Colombia, why was he lecturing me on the dangers of technology?

  He continued talking about parallel dynamics, biological and social, but he was suddenly more formal. I realized that people were gravitating toward him, drinks in hand, munching hors d’oeuvres, as they eavesdropped. Private conversation over. Local power brokers present. Their courteous attention told me they didn’t take the man seriously.

  I stole a glance at Tomlinson. He smiled, sleepy-eyed, already pleasantly stoned, and flashed me the peace sign. Apparently, he’d forgotten our argument and the chilly civility that had followed. I’d heard he’d been living alone on a barrier island. Staying on his sailboat some nights, but also beach-camping. “Spiritual Bootcamp,” he told one of the fishing guides. I was glad to see him.

  I listened to the famous man say, “Reporters treat me like a circus act. Humoring me. Know why? Because I’ve called for mandatory drills—a couple of days a year, ban all but emergency use of cell phones and the Internet. Make citizens learn how to communicate by mail or, God forbid, face-to-face, like human beings. Same with personal transportation. Our people should know what to do during a gas crunch so they don’t panic when the inevitable happens. ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’ Everyone knows the quote but no one thinks about what FDR meant.”

  Anticipate the fear, that was his point. The economic depression of the 1930s, he said, wasn’t caused by the stock market collapse. It was caused by a panic sparked by the stock market collapse.

  “Schools have fire drills, ships have lifeboat drills. Is that crazy? But my colleagues in D.C., and the press, react like I’ve gone off my rocker. Tell me, do I look old enough to be senile?”

  He had the politician’s gift for self-deprecation. He chuckled as he combed fingers through his silver hair. I watched the power brokers mirror his smile, but their cheery condescension said yes, they thought he was irrational.

  Half an hour later, as the man left the party, he motioned me to a private corner. “I’ll be in Florida awhile. Would you mind if I came to Sanibel some night to discuss your research? Maybe get Vue to help me slip away.” He indicated his bodyguard. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine or a six-pack—or give you a signed picture for your son. It’s the least I can do for a man who maybe saved my life.”

  Later, when Tomlinson and I compared notes, I didn’t mention the incident in Colombia, but I told him the man wanted to visit the lab.

  Tomlinson already knew.

  I said, “You saw him after I left the party?”

  “Yeah. And we talked earlier, too. He’s entered what he calls his ‘redemption phase.’ He told me he spent a month at a Franciscan monastery studying the Bible and the Quran. Now he’s interested in meditation. Wanted to know if I could take him through the basics, ‘Zen Beginner’s Mind.’ ”

  “Why you?”

  Some of the chilliness of the previous weeks returned. “I’m sure that surprises you—me being such a flake and all. Isn’t that what you called me? No, wait . . . you said I was a ‘weirdo flake.’ ”

  He was mistaken. During the argument, I’d called him a “flaky weirdo,” but I now shrugged as if I couldn’t remember. “How did he know you’re an ordained Buddhist monk? That’s what I’m asking.”

  “Oh. He’s read my book.”

  Tomlinson has published several books, but his little volume One Fathom Above Sea Level is considered a classic on spirituality by New Age mystic types. It’s the man’s own guide to life and the universe as seen through his eyes, six feet—or one fathom—above the water’s surface.

  “He sounded serious about studying Zen. But I think he’s got a secret agenda.”

  I said, “You don’t trust him?”

  “How can I tell? Politicians aren’t real. They’re not even actors. They’re characters in an opera. I voted for him the first election. Second time, no way. But I was still disappointed when he didn’t run.

  “When his wife was killed, though, he dropped all the partyline bullshit. Some things he says, he rages like a spiritual warrior. But then he’ll spout crap so outrageous, so offensive, it triggers my gag reflex. Which makes him . . . human, I guess.”

  I’ve never heard Tomlinson, a spiritual warrior himself, sound starstruck. He did now, adding, “Even so, he’s one of those rare, rare beings. A true un-shallow dude, man. Very heavy. How can you say no to a guy like Kal Wilson? The man was president of the United States.”

  3

  I knew the location of the president’s cabin. Did his assassins . . . ?

  I thought about dragging the canoe into the bushes and charging cross-country to his quarters. But the direct route was through swamp and it’s impossible to charge through mangroves. Or even walk. They are rubbery, salt-tolerant trees elevated above water on interlaced roots. The roots resemble fingers of a creeping hand or hoops in an obstacle course. You have to climb, duck, hurdle, and shimmy your way through mangroves.

  Maybe the assault team was discovering that now. Or maybe they were bound for the island’s northern point, where, according to aerial photos, there was a shell ridge—an easier place to go ashore.

  I hoped not. The shell ridge was where the president said he’d be waiting for me. Midnight sharp.

  I checked my watch. 11:32 p.m.

  The man had probably already left his cabin. If the hit team landed on the ridge, he’d walk into their arms. The president might even mistake one of his killers for me. I pictured him approaching with his hand outstretched. An easy target. I imagined his transitioning facial expressions—confusion, surprise, realization . . . then anger. The man was a fighter.

  Would his last thought be that I’d betrayed him? Yes, the logical conclusion. His brain might spend its final microseconds, racing a bullet’s furrow, trying to make sense of my treachery.

  I paddled harder.

  I’ve known patriots and I am no patriot, but communal allegiance is deep-wired; dates to the Paleolithic. We are predisposed to sacrifice for the greater good. The greater good for what—a nation, a sports team, a street gang, a religion, a murderous cult, a pal—varies with our backgrounds.

  The possibility that an American president might die believing I’d betrayed him was repugnant. But how could I stop four guys with automatic weapons?

  I had no idea. Maybe catch them in the swamp. Slip up from behind, and . . . then what?

  Not a clue.

  I’d have to manufacture opportunities. Not unfamiliar. Before restarting life in Florida, I’d spent yea
rs in small, vulnerable countries gathering data, ingratiating myself to locals, dealing with dangerous men, impossible situations, making up the moves as I went.

  I’d think of something.

  Right.

  I went through my list of makeshift weapons: emergency gear, mosquito spray, pocketknife, flashlights, a shaving kit, fire starter, lighter, flares, and a half-empty fifth of vodka—a prop to convince Secret Service I was drunk. There were also two wooden paddles, and a third made of aluminum and plastic.

  I pictured myself swinging a paddle like a broadsword. Attach a burning flare and I had . . . nothing. They’d shoot me the moment I was in range.

  I had flashlights that might be useful. Not the Maglite junk commonly carried. Some guys buy expensive golf clubs. I buy serious flashlights, and the best lab equipment I can afford. It’s a reaction to dealing with hurricanes and small wars.

  I had three, palm-sized LEDs. One, a high-tech marvel made by Blackhawk, was powerful enough to cause retina damage. It also had a strobe that caused blinding dizziness, according to the literature. Useful, if true.

  I thought about how to work it: Come up from behind with a paddle, then with my unusual flashlight, and then . . . ? Well . . . hope my survival instincts kicked in.

  There was that word again.

  I paddled through pockets of sulfur-warm air, then bubbles of cooler air, the density of mist varying with each advection exchange. For a few minutes, it seemed as if the fog might be lifting. Then, abruptly, three strong strokes sent the canoe gliding into a cloud so thick that I couldn’t see beyond my knees.

  Disorienting. I drifted, expecting visibility to improve. It didn’t.

  There was no visual reference. I took a couple of experimental strokes and it felt as if the canoe veered wildly to the left. I used the paddle as a brake, applying back pressure, but it only magnified the sensation. I tried to touch bottom, couldn’t.

  I sat motionless for a moment, yet it still felt as if the canoe was rotating at the same cauldroning speed as the fog. With a couple of sweep strokes, I attempted to compensate but made it worse. I became more confused.

  I couldn’t see the island; didn’t know its direction. If I’d been flying an airplane, I would have panicked. Instead, I was just peeved at my incompetence. The only choice was to sit patiently until visibility improved.

  I placed the paddle across my knees and reached into the pack for another look at the GPS. That’s when I heard it: the springratchet clatter of someone trying to start a motor. A pull starter with a rope. I heard it again . . . then again.

  A lawn mower makes a similar sound when it’s out of fuel: spark plugs firing into dry cylinders. But this was no lawn mower. It was an outboard . . . probably the outboard motor on the assault team’s rubber boat.

  I couldn’t see the inflatable, but it was no more than a few dozen yards away. The starter cord was being pulled with enough force to create small waves that reached me seconds after the ratcheting sound. I fought the urge to escape blindly into the fog. Instead, I sat immobile. I touched one hand to a paddle . . . then began to search inside my bag with the other, feeling for a flashlight. I found one, put it in my jacket pocket. Found another, then found the lighter, too.

  As I drifted, water molecules moved inside my inner ear, bursting as if carbonated. The silence amplified a nearby exchange: men whispering, strident, frustrated. The language was unfamiliar. Complicated syllabics, vowels harsh, rhythmic. There was a momentary silence . . . then, much closer, I heard the outboard’s starter gear clatter four times in quick succession.

  The motor wouldn’t start.

  I felt a balmy gust of wind. Fog stirred. My canoe pivoted as if under sail. I drifted in silence for several seconds, removed my glasses and cleaned them as I waited. I thought I was staring in the direction of the inflatable when, from behind, I felt something bump the canoe . . . something elastic, springy, no sensation of weight.

  I turned, expecting to discover I’d drifted into mangrove limbs. No. I’d collided with the rubber boat.

  THE MOON WAS HIGH, SILVER AS AN ARCTIC SUN. ENOUGH light to cast shadows but not enough to reveal detail. I couldn’t see facial expressions but the men in the inflatable had to be stunned. We stared at each other dumbly as our vessels revolved, then bumped again.

  That roused them. They lunged for their weapons; I threw my hands out as if to fend them off. It’s a reflexive, defensive posture, and why most people shot in the face at close range are also missing fingers. That’s what came into my mind as they stabbed rifles at me—I’d be missing fingers when my body was found. An odd, final vanity for a man who was about to die.

  I lowered my hands to hide them . . . or perhaps because, even as a victim, I remained a determined disciple of the clean kill. I released my breath, curious, at some remote level, how my brain would signal the intrusion of a bullet. Darkness or a shattering light? If these men were pros, they wouldn’t hesitate . . . but they did hesitate.

  Why?

  I realized that my eyes were closed. I opened them. I gulped for air and voiced the first finesse that came to mind. “Don’t shoot. You need me. I can start your engine.” My voice was improbably calm.

  The men replied with threatening gestures that I interpreted as commands. I raised my hands again, still expecting the killers to fire. They didn’t. I became more confident when a voice asked, “Who are you?”

  The man was whispering for a reason. He didn’t want to give away their position.

  From the distance came the rumble of engines: a patrol boat, Coast Guard probably. The hunters were now being hunted and here they were with a motor that wouldn’t start.

  My confidence grew.

  A red beam drilled a smoky conduit through the mist. The flashlight panned across my face, the canoe’s deck, my backpack, my clothes duffel. “You are Secret Service?”

  I laughed, careful not to force it. “Me? I’m a . . . mechanic.”

  The man’s English was spotty. I had to repeat the word twice.

  “Why you then following us?”

  He kept his voice low. I raised mine as if we were a hundred yards apart.

  “Following you? In this fog? I couldn’t follow you if we were in the same boat and your ass was on fire.”

  They didn’t laugh. But they didn’t shoot, either. That was the way to play it, I decided. Stay aggressive.

  “Not so loud. Not necessary to be shouting.”

  “I’ll speak any damn way I want. I paddled over trying to be a nice guy, help you start that engine. And this is the thanks I get?”

  There was a pause of reconsideration. They were desperate, I realized. Escape mode.

  The man doing the talking was next to the throttle—their leader. I watched him focus for a moment on the patrol boat. It sounded closer.

  He began to hurry . . . turned and pulled the outboard’s starter cord. Nothing. He adjusted the choke, then pulled again, three times fast—it wouldn’t start. He made a blowing sound.

  “If you are mechanic, why this boat for rowing?”

  “Because I don’t want to go to jail for drunk driving. That’s why.”

  I reached toward my feet, found the vodka bottle, and held it up. At the same time, I palmed a flare from my open bag and slid it into my pocket. “I figured you were cops. But that can’t be. So why you got those guns in my face?”

  In the silence that followed, I wondered if I’d pushed too far. I was relieved when a man with better English interceded.

  “We are soldiers. Guests of your military—but this is secret. You know war games? But we can’t get goddamn engine started. We are supposed to be at a certain location by midnight but now we have this goddamn trouble.”

  He used slang like an ornament, profanity learned from a book. I couldn’t place the accent or his static progressive verbs. Indonesian or Middle Eastern. It meshed with the million-dollar reward.

  “You’re foreigners.”

  “Yes . . . Singapore. America�
��s friends.”

  He sounded friendly, but I didn’t buy it. I’d worked with Singapore’s Special Operations Forces. Pros, very tough, and they didn’t carry AK-47s.

  “If you’re friends, lower those goddamn guns.”

  The friendly terrorist thought for a moment, then pretended not to understand. “We must find location named ‘Palm Island Resort.’ ”

  “In this fog? Palm Island’s six or seven miles of thin water and oyster bars. Good luck.”

  “Yes, good luck. Already too much bad. You know way?”

  He’d missed my meaning, but I replied, “Palm Island? Sure.” I nodded, and made a vague gesture with the vodka bottle, maybe pointing east toward the mainland or west toward the Gulf of Mexico. I didn’t have a clue. “It’s not far. I could run it blindfolded.”

  The men were getting impatient. One of them held my canoe’s forward thwart. The boat rocked precariously as he reached beneath his seat. “Engine. You fix?” He was holding an object vertically. A small knife.

  “They haven’t made the engine I can’t fix.”

  He touched the blade to his neck. “Then fix.” I pretended to take a gulp of vodka, then thrust the bottle toward him. He was so surprised he nearly dropped the knife. “Have a drink. You’re not mad, you’re just thirsty. But move your ass first. I need room to work.”

  I LIVE NEXT TO A MARINA AND IT’S A RARE WEEK THAT I don’t help some newcomer start his boat. The problems are typically minor because small outboards require only three essentials: fuel, air, spark. It simplifies troubleshooting.

  The plastic gas tank was full, fuel hose connected. I removed the hose from the engine and sniffed. The smell of gasoline should have been strong. It wasn’t.

  As I said, “I need a screwdriver or a knife,” I felt the boat shift. I turned. Knife guy had moved behind me, close enough that his knee brushed my back. He had a full, black beard, heavy glasses.

  He was positioning himself to cut my throat—probably as soon as I got the engine going.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Thanks.”