"Anybody follow us?" Mitch asked, pulling money from his pocket.
"No, mon. Four dollars and ten cents."
Mitch threw a five over the seat and walked quickly into the terminal. The Cayman Airways flight to Cayman Brae would leave at nine. At a gift shop Mitch bought a cup of coffee and hid between two rows of shelves filled with souvenirs. He watched the waiting area and saw no one. Of course, he had no idea what they looked like, but he saw no one sniffing around and searching for lost people. Perhaps they were following the jeep or combing the shopping district looking for him. Perhaps.
For seventy-five Cayman dollars he had reserved the last seat on the ten-passenger, three-engine Trislandef. Abby had made the reservation by pay phone the night they arrived. At the last possible second, he jogged from the terminal onto the tarmac and climbed on board. The pilot slammed and locked the doors, and they taxied down the runway. No other planes were visible. A small hangar sat to the right.
The ten tourists admired the brilliant blue sea and said little during the twenty-minute flight. As they approached Cayman Brae, the pilot became the tour guide and made a wide circle around the small island. He pajd special attention to the tall bluffs that fell into the sea on the east end. Without the bluffs, he said, the island would be as flat as Grand Cayman. He landed the plane softly on a narrow asphalt strip.
Next to the small white frame building with the word AIRPORT painted on all sides, a clean-cut Caucasian waited and watched the passengers quickly disembark. He was Rick Acklin, Special Agent, and sweat dripped from his nose and glued his shirt to his back. He stepped slightly forward. "Mitch," he said almost to himself.
Mitch hesitated and then walked over.
"Car's out front," Acklin said.
"Where's Tarrance?" Mitch looked around.
"He's waiting."
"Does the car have air conditioning?"
"Afraid not. Sorry."
The car was minus air, power anything and signal lights. It was a 1974 Ltd., and Acklin explained as they followed the dusty road that there simply was not much of a selection of rental cars on Cayman Brae. And the reason the U.S. government had rented the car was because he and Tarrance had been unable to find a taxi. They were lucky to find a room, on such late notice.
The small neat homes were closer together, and sea appeared. They parked in the sand parking lot of an establishment called Brae Divers. An aging pier jutted into the water and anchored a hundred boats of all sizes. To the west along the beach a dozen thatched-roof cabins sat two feet above the sand and housed divers who came from around the world. Next to the pier was an open-air bar, nameless, but complete with a domino game and a dartboard. Oak-and-brass fans hung from the ceiling through the rafters and rotated slowly and silently, cooling the domino players and the bartender.
Wayne Tarrance sat at a table by himself drinking a Coke and watching a dive crew load a thousand identical yellow tanks from the pier onto a boat. Even for a tourist, his dress was hysterical. Dark sunglasses with yellow frames, brown straw sandals, obviously brand-new, with black socks, a tight Hawaiian luau shirt with twenty loud colors and a pair of gold gym shorts that were very old and very short and covered little of the shiny, sickly-white legs under the table. He waved his Coke at the two empty chairs.
"Nice shirt, Tarrance," Mitch said in undisguised amusement.
"Thanks. You gotta real winner yourself."
"Nice tan too."
"Yeah, yeah. Gotta look the part, you know."
The waiter hovered nearby and waited for them to speak. Acklin ordered a Coke. Mitch said he wanted a Coke with a splash of rum in it. All three became engrossed with the dive boat and the divers loading their bulky gear.
"What happened in Holly Springs?" Mitch finally asked.
"Sorry, we couldn't help it. They followed you out of Memphis and had two cars waiting in Holly Springs. We couldn't get near you."
"Did you and your wife discuss the trip before you left?" asked Acklin.
"I think so. We probably mentioned it around the house a couple of times."
Acklin seemed satisfied. "They were certainly ready for you. A green Skylark followed you for about twenty miles, then got lost. We called it off then."
Tarrance sipped his Coke and said, "Late Saturday night the Lear left Memphis and flew nonstop to Grand Cayman. We think two or three of the goons were on board. The plane left early Sunday morning and returned to Memphis."
"So they're here and they're following us?"
"Of course. They probably had one or two people on the plane with you and Abby. Might have been men, women or both. Could've been a black dude or an oriental woman. Who knows? Remember, Mitch, they have plenty of money. There are two that we recognize. One was in Washington when you were there. A blond fellow, about forty, six-one, maybe six-two, with real short hair, almost a crew cut, and real strong, Nordic-looking features. He moves quickly. We saw him yesterday driving a red Escort he got from Coconut Car Rentals on the island."
"I think I've seen him," Mitch said.
"Where?" asked Acklin.
"In a bar in the Memphis airport the night I returned from Washington. I caught him watching me, and I thought at the time that I had seen him in Washington."
"That's him. He's here."
"Who's the other one?"
"Tony Verkler, or Two-Ton Tony as we call him. He's a con with an impressive record of convictions, most of it in Chicago. He's worked for Morolto for years. Weighs about three hundred pounds and does a great job of watching people because no one would ever suspect him."
"He was at Rumheads last night," Acklin added.
"Last night? We were there last night."
With great ceremony, the dive boat pushed from the pier and headed for open water. Beyond the pier, fishermen in their small catboats pulled their nets and sailors navigated their brightly colored catamarans away from land. After a gentle and dreamy start, the island was awake now. Half the boats tied to the pier had left or were in the process of leaving.
"So when did you boys get in town?" Mitch asked, sipping his drink, which was more rum than Coke.
"Sunday night," Tarrance answered while watching the dive boat slowly disappear.
"Just out of curiosity, how many men do you have on the islands?"
"Four men, two women," said Tarrance. Acklin became mute and deferred all conversation to his supervisor.
"And why exactly are you here?" Mitch asked.
"Oh, several reasons. Number one, we wanted to talk to you and nail down our little deal. Director Voyles is terribly anxious about reaching an agreement you can live with. Number two, we want to watch them to determine how many goons are here. We'll spend the week trying to identify these people. The island is small, and it's a good place to observe."
"And number three, you wanted to work on your sun-tan?"
Acklin managed a slight giggle. Tarrance smiled and then frowned. "No, not exactly. We're here for your protection."
"My protection?"
"Yes. The last time I sat at this very table I was talking to Joe Hodge and Marty Kozinski. About nine months ago. The day before they were killed, to be exact."
"And you think I'm about to be killed?"
"No. Not yet."
Mitch motioned at the bartender for another drink. The domino game grew heated, and he watched the natives argue and drink beer.
"Look, boys, as we speak the goons, as you call them, are probably following my wife all over Grand Cayman. I'll be sort of nervous until I get back. Now, what about the deal?"