The Lost Island

17

The dinner had been excellent and the half bottle of Montrachet had improved Gideon’s outlook, tempered only slightly by Amy’s announcement that she was a teetotaler. It had been a quick dinner; Gideon had felt disinclined to chat and Amy was practically mute, eating so fast he had hardly begun when she was shoveling the last forkful of fish into her mouth. He was beginning to feel as if he’d been victimized by an arranged marriage of sorts. Vintage Eli Glinn. And now — as they climbed aboard the gorgeous, sleek yacht, berthed at a fancy marina — Gideon stole another glance at Amy. He was usually good at reading people, but he felt like he didn’t understand her at all yet. She seemed about as accessible as the Kremlin. He vowed to keep an open mind and stay cool.

It was ten PM and the marina was starting to settle down, many of the big yachts ablaze with light, people eating late suppers or drinking cocktails on the decks. It was a warm evening, with the gentle sound of water lapping the hulls, the clink of rigging on masts, the whisper of wind, the murmur of voices, distant cries of gulls. Gideon paused on deck to breathe in the fragrant air. Despite the awkward company, this wasn’t so bad.

“I’d like to give you a tour of the boat,” said Amy. “So you’ll know where everything is.”

“Good idea, thanks.”

“When we get under way, we’ll be sharing responsibilities. You’ll be the first mate, of sorts. You’ll have to know how to take the helm, operate all the navigational systems. I’ll show you a few simple knots and how to cleat a line. It’s not really that hard.”

Gideon nodded. As they entered the pilothouse, he reached for a light switch, flipped it on. “Uh-oh. No juice.”

“The power’s off,” Amy said. “Turning it on is the first thing you do.” She showed him the battery dial, then turned it to HOUSE. Lights went on. He followed her to the helm and listened while she lectured him on how to use the radar, chartplotters, sonar, and VHF radio. Next, she went through the wipers, fuel gauge, fuel consumption, temperature gauges, oil pressure, the wheel, throttles, shifts, and joystick. Gideon nodded, hands clasped behind his back, murmuring his understanding, not retaining a quarter of it.

“I know it’s a lot to absorb all at once. Once we’re under way, it’ll get clearer.”

“I hope so.”

“There’s some very special scientific equipment on the boat,” she said, flipping her raven hair back. “Sidescan sonar, a small ROV and controls, towing gear, scuba equipment with tether line reel, tank racks and air compressor, pingers, sand strobes, water dredges and jets, that sort of thing. We may never need that stuff, so I won’t bother showing it to you unless it becomes necessary. But here’s something that is very necessary.” She pointed to a device built into a nearby bulkhead. “It’s the sat phone we’ll be using to communicate with EES. There’s also a spare portable phone stowed away in the cabin that we’ll be able to use on land.”

Next, Gideon got a tour of the engine room, with more obscure dials, gauges, and dipsticks. Then came the galley. This was something he could relate to — stovetop, oven, microwave, dining nook, along with a workstation with giant-screen satellite TV, laptop computers, all surrounded by mahogany, teak, and brass. There was even a climate-controlled wine cabinet — filled with wine bottles.

Gideon could kiss Garza for that.

“Glinn tells me you cook,” said Amy. “That’s something useful.”

Gideon didn’t quite like the tone of the remark, but let it pass.

“The staterooms are through there.” She made a vague gesture.

“Could we see them? If you don’t mind.”

She pushed through the door. A short corridor divided the two rooms. “Yours is starboard, mine’s port.”

“Starboard and port. That’s right and left, right?”

“Yes.”

Gideon couldn’t resist. “So we’re not sharing the same stateroom?”

“You snore.”

Gideon laughed. “I do not.”

She looked at him, unamused. “That’s the reason why we don’t sleep in the same room, if anyone should ask. You snore.”

“I think you should be the snorer.”

Finally, for the first time, Amy smiled. “Do I look like a snorer?” She paused. “Gideon, we have to be realistic about this. Look at you — tall, awkward. I’m sure you do snore.”

Gideon swallowed his irritation. Okay, so she had a dry sense of humor. That was at least one mark in her favor. Maybe.

Time to move to ground he was comfortable with: identities and disguises. “Speaking of our backstory,” he said, “we’d better start figuring it out. I was thinking that—”

But Amy was already removing a notebook from her case. “It’s all here.”

“But—”

“Glinn and I have already worked out all the details of how we met, fell in love, the whole works.”

“Jesus. I can’t wait to hear our story.” He followed her into the galley, deflated.

“Have a seat.”

Instead of sitting down, he went over to the wine cabinet, opened it, and perused the bottles. It was a superb and expensive selection. He felt another rush of gratitude toward Garza. He selected a French Bordeaux. “I’ll need a glass of wine if I’m to hear the heartwarming story of how we met and fell in love.”

“Feel free.”

He uncorked the bottle, poured a taste into a glass, swirled it about, sipped. It badly needed air, but he badly needed a drink.

She primly opened the notebook. This was feeling odder by the minute. Go with the flow, Gideon told himself.

“Okay. Your name is Mark.” She reached into her case. “Here’s your wallet, with driver’s license, credit cards, passport, the works.”

“Glinn never said anything about a new identity.”

“You can’t lie about yourself these days. If you go by Gideon Crew, any moron with an Internet connection could figure out in five minutes this whole thing is a sham.”

“That’s not the point. I prefer to create my own identities.” Gideon took a goodly drink from the wineglass.

“Glinn assembled most of this for us and asked me to brief you. You’re Mark Johnson. Which makes me Amy Johnson. Amy’s a common enough name — I might as well keep it. My maiden name was Suzuki. I’m half Japanese — which happens to be true, by the way.”

“Mark Johnson? How dull. I would have preferred a name like Ernest Quatermain.”

“Mark Johnson has the advantage of being Internet-anonymous. There are too many Mark and Amy Johnsons online. And Suzuki is one of the most common Japanese surnames. Now for the marital details. We met in college. MIT, senior year. I was majoring in classical languages, you in physics. We took a class together — the theory of computing.”

“How romantic. Tell me about our wedding night.”

She ignored the comment. “We got married in Boston the year after graduation. You’re a banker, I’m an attorney. We live on the Upper East Side of New York. We have no kids. We’re both into physical fitness, skiing, and of course yachting — me more so than you.”

“What’s our song?”

“Song?” She looked up. “Hmmm. How about ‘Opposites Attract’ by Paula Abdul?”

“I’m going to shoot myself, we’re so boring. Make it ‘Atomic’ by Blondie.”

“Very well.” She jotted a note in her notebook. “This cruise is an anniversary dream come true. We’re exploring this part of the Caribbean because we’re looking for privacy and adventure, getting away from the crowds. We’re a little naive and don’t realize these waters are frequented by drug smugglers. We rented this boat, of course, paying for the trip out of my year-end bonus.”

“Your year-end bonus. Don’t I make enough money?”

“I make more than you do.”

“I see. So what bank do I work for?”

“That’s the kind of detail you don’t want to go into — not that it’s likely to come up. Stay generic and avoid saying anything that might individuate us.”

“Stay generic with whom? Just how many people are we going to meet?”

“You never know. These are simply precautions. As for most everything else — other questions regarding interests, political beliefs, religions, and so forth — we’ll tell the truth.”

Gideon looked at her oddly. An idea just struck him. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this.”

“No, it’s not.”

“So who are you, really? And what line of work are you normally in?”

“Those details would only confuse you. Just stick with the cover story and forget who I really am.”

He looked at her left hand. “Are you really married, or is that ring a fake like mine?”

She held it up. “All right. You get one more detail. It’s a fake, like yours. I’m not married, never have been.”

Gideon shook his head, poured himself another glass of wine. “Are you sure you don’t want a glass? It’s opening up — a wonderful wine.”

She shook her head. “No thanks.”

Gideon momentarily wondered whether Glinn had told her about his terminal condition. Probably not. He also wondered if Amy didn’t have some medical condition of her own to motivate her. It would be just like Glinn to find someone he could exploit like that.

She shut her notebook. “Any questions?”

“Yeah. Where are the guns?”

She pointed behind him. A pair of mahogany doors opened to a metal cabinet. It was unlocked. He pulled the doors open to reveal a small arsenal of weaponry: assault rifles, handguns, spearguns, a Heckler & Koch PSG 1 sniper rifle with a five-round detachable magazine. There was even an RPG and a rack of handheld incendiary and fragmentation grenades. Gideon whistled, reached in and removed a Colt .45 1911, ejected the magazine. Fully loaded. The piece had been customized, fully rounded for tactical use, fitted front and rear with combat sights with tritium inserts. A beautiful, expensive custom gun.

“You know how to use these?” Gideon asked, putting it back.

“That’s my 1911 you were toying with. So yes.”

“We could start a war with these weapons.”

“Hopefully we’ll never need to even open this case.”

Gideon turned and looked steadily at Amy. She returned the gaze, her face neutral, thoughts inscrutable. “I wonder just where Glinn found you,” he said.

Another rare smile. “You’ll never know.”