Hunter's Moon Page 7

  I was surprised to see that the president had his sleeve rolled up. Vue was using a penlight, concentrating on the man’s shoulder as if inspecting a wound. Why?

  I was considering explanations when I noticed a third person approaching. A man. The moon was so bright his shadow glided with him along the white shell ridge. Vue and the president were oblivious.

  I whispered the only warning I could—“Pssst! On your six!”— and ducked into the mangroves. A fighter pilot would understand.

  Wilson did.

  CALMLY, THE FORMER PRESIDENT TURNED. AT THE SAME time, he hurried to get his sleeve down. Vue took a couple steps forward, placing himself between the approaching figure and Wilson. I hid in the bushes, listening.

  “Identify yourself.”

  A flashlight went on. A man in slacks and sports jacket used the light to show himself. “It’s me, Mr. President. Agent Wren.” Short man, styled hair, eye sockets in shadow because the light angled from below his chin. He switched off the flashlight and continued walking.

  “You’re looking for me?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. I was worried, sir. Am I intruding?”

  “Yep, Adrian. You’re intruding. I didn’t make myself clear at the briefing? As of an hour ago—midnight—I began my retreat. My wedding anniversary is today. First day of November—it would’ve been our fortieth. Or maybe you forgot.”

  “Of course I didn’t forget. You and the late Mrs. Wilson, a very special day. But what you don’t understand is, the security situation has become serious. Coast Guard has detained four men, foreign nationals, all Muslims—”

  “Islamicists or Muslims?”

  “I don’t understand the distinction—”

  “Then you need to do some reading.”

  I knew the distinction, but only because of recent research I’d done. I listened to the president say, “What you should understand is that no one, and I mean no one, is supposed to bother me for the next fourteen days. It’s a spiritual matter, Adrian, which means it’s private. In an emergency, you contact Mr. Vue. He brings my meals and delivers messages too important to wait.”

  The agent had stopped a few yards away. Vue moved to Wilson’s left—a mobile wall. I got the impression Vue didn’t like Agent Wren. Same with the president.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. Our understanding was that sequestering yourself meant you weren’t going to leave your cabin. Two weeks of solitary meditation. Very healing, I’m sure. But here you are outside your cabin.” The man had the infuriating ability to sound compliant but with a subtle, superior edge.

  “Our understanding, Adrian? I missed the evening news. Were you named director, Secret Service?”

  “Of course not, sir—”

  “Then maybe you have something in your pocket. A special little friend? My guess is, it’s the GPS tracker.”

  Tracker?

  Wren reached into his jacket and produced something the size of a TV remote. When I saw green lights blinking, I knew what it was.

  “Sorry, Mr. President, but I took extra precautions tonight for obvious reasons. The tracker indicated you’d left your cabin. I thought it was a false reading, so I tried to find Vue. When Vue didn’t respond, I knocked on your cabin door—”

  “You what?”

  Vue took it as a cue. “He did right thing, Mr. President. That’s procedure.”

  “Bullshit. I gave orders not to be disturbed. Period.”

  “He was just doing his job, sir.”

  “His job, my ass. Agent Wren’s job is to follow orders. Don’t take his side in this, Vue—”

  Good cop, bad cop, Wilson and his bodyguard knew their roles.

  “Vue’s right, Mr. President. I wouldn’t risk disturbing you unless agency protocol required—”

  Like heat, Wilson’s voice began to rise. “Agent Wren, for the next two weeks I want you to pretend like agency protocol requires you to follow my orders. Pretend as if I’m the man in charge, not you. Do you read me, mister?”

  “I understand, sir, but—”

  “. . . Because, Agent Wren, if I’d known a GPS chip in my shoulder gave you permission to stick your nose into my personal business I’d’ve had the doctors stick it up my ass instead of sewing it into my arm!”

  “If you got the impression I’m snooping, sir, I want to reassure you—”

  “I don’t want to be reassured. I want to be obeyed. For your information, Agent Wren, we are on an island. Do you know the sailor’s definition of an island? An island is a navigational hazard inhabited by drunks, whores, farmers, thieves, and other sons of bitches who were dumb enough to get off the fucking boat . . .”

  “Really. That’s quite amusing, sir—”

  “. . . which is why I strongly suggest that unless that electronic gizmo your holding, the whatchamacallit, ‘Angel Tracker,’ indicates I’m swimming out to sea, or drifting toward Mars, you’d better mind your own goddamn business. Or you will find yourself on a boat headed for an assignment that includes icebergs and sex-starved polar bears. Not palm trees and moonlit beaches. Am I getting through to you, mister?”

  “Well . . . of course, sir. When you put it that way. And it really is such a beautiful tropical night . . .”

  I continued listening, impressed by Wilson’s gift for seagoing profanity. But I was also picturing the president with his sleeve rolled up, Vue concentrating.

  Angel Tracker.

  Suddenly, I understood.

  I’ve done a lot of fish-tagging projects. Worldwide, the electronic fish tag of choice is made by Applied Digital Solutions, a Florida-based company. Because I’m on their mailing list, I knew that the company had patented an implantable microchip for humans. The chip is the size of a rice grain and transmits its location, along with a unique verification number, via satellite. The system is called “Digital Angel.”

  Kal Wilson had a locator microchip in his shoulder. Vue had been in the process of removing the Digital Angel when Agent Wren interrupted them. Smart.

  The president was leaving with me. The microchip was staying in his cabin.

  Something else smart: Wilson had established the precedent of spending long periods of time alone—Tomlinson had mentioned his month at a Franciscan monastery. Maybe it was possible that the former president could sneak out for a week or two without Secret Service missing him.

  Maybe.

  But I didn’t believe it. I doubted if Kal Wilson believed it.

  7

  The former president told me, “Stop calling me ‘Mr. President.’ Same with ‘sir.’ Even when we’re alone. Break the habit before we go public.” Ligarto Island was two miles behind us but he kept his voice low. Something about being in a canoe in darkness causes people to whisper.

  I said, “I’ll try. But it’ll seem strange.”

  “Not as strange as it’ll seem to me. Vue’s one of the few who calls me by name. And my wife, of course. It’s not because I’m a prick—though I can be. It’s because the office demands that degree of respect.”

  “Then I should call you by your real first name?” I knew that Kal, although his legal first name, was an acronym made up of his given name and two middle names.

  Because I wasn’t sure of the pronunciation, I was relieved when he said, “No. For now, use something impersonal. Military. Nautical, maybe.”

  I said, “What about your Secret Service code name?” Vue had used it a couple of times on the radio.

  Wilson shook his head.

  I tried again. “Captain?” I waited through his silence, then said, “Skipper?”

  “ ‘Skipper’ . . . yes, that works. Use it. Drop all the other formal baloney. No, wait . . .” He thought about it for a moment. “I spent June on Long Island. Seaside mansions, and about half the people there were named Skipper. Skipper’s too old money. I grew up on a farm.”

  “Well, how about—”

  “How about ‘Chief.’ I left the Navy as a lieutenant commander so it’s a bump in rank. But it’s better tha
n Skipper.” There was a smile in his voice. The man had known some chief petty officers.

  I said, “It fits.” I was thinking chief executive, commander in chief.

  “Hold it. No . . . Chief’s too pushy. If we run into strangers, they’ll start asking questions if you call me Chief. It needs to be bland. I don’t want to attract attention.”

  I remembered Vue using the military acronym FIGMO, and said, “Why not ‘Sam.’ That’s as simple as it gets.” It was short for Samson bit, the cleat on the bow of a ship. It was also an acronym with a couple of meanings. One was profane, and stood for ‘Shit Awful Mess’; the other, a type of missile.

  Wilson laughed when I reminded him of SAM’s three meanings. He thought it for a few minutes before saying, “I like that. For now, that’s what you call me. Sam. Try to treat me like I’m just a regular guy.”

  “Okay. You’re making it easier for me. Sam.”

  “Making what easier?”

  “Talking about the way you handle a canoe. You’ve got us zigzagging like drunks. It’s going to take forever to make land unless we switch places.”

  The paddler in the stern controls the boat and Wilson had insisted on taking that seat.

  “But I want to steer.”

  “I’m aware of that . . . but it’s not working out. I should be in the back.”

  “You’re saying I’m not competent?”

  “I’m saying I’ll get us there faster.”

  “Come on, Ford. What’s the problem? I prefer honesty to—”

  “Okay, okay, you’re not competent. In fact, you’re worse than not competent. You bang the hull, and you splash me about every third stroke. You suck at the helm.”

  “I didn’t say to be crude—”

  “Don’t be offended. I have more experience. That’s why I should be steering.”

  In a flat voice, he replied, “But you don’t know where we’re going.”

  I was aware of that, too. When we left Ligarto, I’d told him my truck was two miles east, loaded and ready, as he had ordered. The former president replied, “There’s been a change of plans. We’re not using your truck.”

  Instead of east he was steering us west—trying, anyway—toward the chain of barrier islands that separates mainland Florida from the Gulf of Mexico.

  “It’s time to trust me. Tell me where you want to go. We’ll find shallow water and trade places.”

  “I share my plans on a need-to-know basis. I’ve already explained that. A few details at a time, that’s all. It’s a standard security measure.”

  With exaggerated patience, I said, “I need to know the boat’s destination because I will soon be sitting where you’re sitting and I will be steering, not you. Which means we will be going in a straight line, not zigzagging, or making little tiny circles on the great big ocean. So why not tell me the destination now, before we switch places? Give me something to aim for . . . Sam.”

  The man softened. “Am I that bad? Or are you in a pissy mood?”

  I said, “Both.”

  He laughed. “Know what? You’ve got a point. I try to pick the best people available and let them do their jobs. No second-guessing, ever. Out here, Doc, you’re the expert. And you’ve had a long night.”

  He said it so amiably, I felt bad for snapping at him. But I also realized that by challenging me, then deferring, he’d created a sense of indebtedness—the precursor to loyalty. The man knew how to leverage, pushing, then backing off.

  But he was right. I’d had a long night.

  ON LIGARTO, AGENT WREN HAD INSISTED ON ESCORTING the former president to his cabin. That left me alone, waiting in swamp and mosquitoes, unsure what to do. Leave or stay?

  I stayed . . . stayed for two miserable hours before Vue returned. “President be here soon,” he said, then surprised me by adding, “He is sick. How sick is he?”

  Vue didn’t know—my first revelation of how private and stubborn Wilson could be.

  I evaded, telling him I knew nothing about Wilson’s health.

  Vue’s reaction was strange. He sounded pleased. “Already, you are lying for him. Good. I lie for him many times. I would die for President Wilson, he is such a friend. That how I know he must be very sick or he would not be determined to do this thing.”

  I said, “Determined to do what?”

  It was Vue’s turn to lie. “How would I know? I am his bodyguard. If I could travel, he maybe tell me. For all these years, I go everywhere with him. That’s why I must stay here. It is the only way to fool Secret Service. But there’s something I want to ask you.” He was eager to change subjects. “Where that knife you say you take from those men?”

  I found the knife and handed it to him. He used his penlight to inspect it, then shook his head solemnly. “I believed what you tell us before, but I believe more now. This is knife, very rare. It called a ‘badek,’ some places; Indonesia. Or a ‘khyber’ in Burma and the Himalayas.” He touched the knife’s edge. “Very best steel, hand-forged, and sharp. It curved for this”—Vue swiped a finger across his throat—“You don’t have weapons. How you take this knife from a man?”

  He seemed impressed when I told him, but it didn’t make him any more talkative. He shrugged when I pressed for details about Wilson’s travel plans. When I asked for an update on the men in the inflatable, his answers were vague; he seemed preoccupied. He kept returning to the subject of President Kal Wilson.

  “This very hard for me ’cause I used to taking care of the man. Dr. Ford, you must be his bodyguard now. When you return safe with the president, you and me, we meet privately. I expect you give me full report.”

  He spoke unemotionally, but there was an implicit threat.

  Less veiled was Vue’s interest in the electronics I was carrying, or had aboard. I told him I had a GPS, and a cell phone, adding, “My VHF radio’s broken and the cell phone’s worthless. I can’t get a signal out here.”

  I was lying about the VHF—I’d dropped the damn thing overboard when I was loading the canoe. But the man’s interest wasn’t conversational, I discovered.

  “You very sure that all you have?”

  “Yep. Very sure.”

  Without warning, he took my wrist. “What about your watch? They lots of electronic watches now.” I was wearing my old stainless Rolex Submariner, something I rarely do, but it seemed to fit the situation.

  He inspected both sides of the watch, then said, “No laptop? iPod? No personal data file?”

  “In a canoe? Nope. Canoes and electronics don’t mix. Plus, I don’t own any of that crap, anyway.”

  Vue didn’t see the humor. He held out his hand. “You give me GPS and cell phone. President be here soon and you go.”

  That made no sense. “Why would I leave the GPS? There’s still fog out there. And it’s my personal cell phone.”

  His hand didn’t waver, nor did his tone. “You give me all electronics. President’s orders. I keep them safe ’til you get back.”

  “But why?”

  Vue shrugged, another lie. “I dunno. He call these things blind horses. Maybe he want you to use your own eyes.”

  I felt like telling him to spare me the aphorisms. Instead, I said, “He’s worried about being tracked. Why don’t you just say so?” I handed him my phone and little GPS, finally grasping why Wilson had refused to let me use my twenty-one-foot Maverick flats boat. I could have poled in just as quietly, and the skiff was specially rigged for night travel—tactical LED lights mounted beneath the poling platform; a spotlight, with an infrared lens, mounted above. The Maverick will do fifty knots in a foot of water—only a helicopter could have caught us.

  But Wilson had demanded I come by canoe. Less chance of hidden electronics, I realized.

  Before Vue left me, he loaded the president’s bags into the canoe, saying, “I am from the snow mountains, Burma, near the Chinese border. There are men in my village who think they know of you. You had many friends, some with green faces. And yet, our men say, you always tra
veled alone.”

  I waited. He was talking about Indochina.

  “You not traveling alone now. Understand? You never leave the president alone. Not for a minute, because he die soon, I think. In my village, when a great man dies we place his body on a platform where the wind can take it. President Wilson, he is a great man, and he must not die alone.”

  Vue, I was guessing, came from one of the many tribes that inhabit mountainous regions from Afghanistan to Nepal, from Burma into Southeast Asia. Like Great Britain’s infamous mercenaries the Gurkhas, the tribesmen are known for their loyalty and their fearlessness. According to legend, they are the descendants of mountain gods, but the ethnic majorities of Burma, Cambodia, and Vietnam refer to them as “Mois”—a racial slur that means “savages.”

  I said, “I’ve been in those border areas. I attended a funeral like you’re describing. It was for the father of a friend, a member of the Hmong tribe. You call it a ‘wind burial’?”

  “Yes. Put the body high among the trees, so the spirit flies.”

  As he added, “Mong, that word mean ‘brave,’ ”I was remembering a line of mourners in colorful dress, winding up a hill with a red coffin, and chanting as vultures cauldroned overhead. There was the smell of incense and ox dung.

  “The burial ceremony is important. But it more important how a great man dies. Do you understand? There must be wind and light so the sky can take him.”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t understand.”

  Vue shrugged his massive shoulders, then turned, done with it. I watched him disappear into the darkness of the shell ridge.

  The former president arrived an hour later, carrying a backpack. “Secret Service thinks I’m locked in my cabin,” he whispered. “Let’s get our feet wet.”

  AT 4 A.M., WIND FRESHENED OFF THE GULF OF MEXICO; heat radiating from the Everglades was siphoning weather from the open sea. I was in the stern, paddling toward the Gulf, using the October moon as a beacon. It was desert yellow, gaseous. It cast a column of light broad as a highway.