The Espionage Effect(63)
“Thought you were sleeping.” His low voice slipped into the silence.
“Thought I’d been stealthy.”
Without turning or breaking stride, he remained a dark silhouette against the ever-lightening gray sky. His next move began with a lunge and finished with pushing open palms outward from his chest. Then holding his right arm stationary, he swept his left outward across a horizontal plane while pivoting on his weight-bearing foot and flexing his extended foot as it rotated to rest on its heel.
“Help yourself to coffee or espresso.” He turned forty-five degrees in the same direction again, leaning more weight on his back foot as he bent the other leg and propped it on a toe while arcing both hands toward his chest again. “On the far edge of the counter.”
The mundane kitchen task he’d suggested became a welcome distraction out of my head. Beside a chrome Nespresso machine, four double-walled glass Bodum espresso cups were arranged in a line, resting upside down. A Cuisinart coffeemaker and two larger glass coffee cups sat on the nearer edge. Between the two, a stainless steel carousel held a variety of espresso pods. I turned on the espresso machine, chose a midnight-blue pod, and inserted it before securing the chrome latch. When I depressed the illuminated green button, a loud motor whirred into the peaceful silence, like I’d revved an aircraft engine inside a monastery garden.
On the off chance he might want one, I perched a second espresso cup on the chrome shelf, inserted another pod, then depressed the button again before walking away as a stream of liquid filled another tiny glass cup.
By the time I reached to the other side of the counter and took a sip of the rich espresso through its foamy crema, he’d finished his kata. He stood in a relaxed stance, facing away from me, toward the sunrise.
I gazed out toward the ocean, not wanting to disturb him any more than I’d already done.
Charcoal shapes smudged the ocean at the horizon line. They stretched long, appearing taller and narrow in sections; three were uniform in length. I stared harder, seeking to identify the vessels. No lights illuminated any cabins, so they differed from the cruise ships we’d spotted gliding by a few nights ago. Were they freighters? Maybe commercial vessels traveled on a morning schedule.
Seconds later, beams of fiery orange pierced through the unidentified images, casting bright color over all the monochrome. The shapes remained unidentified no longer: Dense clouds ruled the edge of the world. But they were no match for the power of the rising sun.
A beautiful scene unfolded as I cupped my warm espresso glass. Every second brought another facet to shimmering life, every millimeter of change, a new perspective. I sipped the hot liquid, watching intently as the thick clouds gave the sun a great fight. But in the end, the determined rays multiplied, bursting through.
In the span of my next breath, an epiphany crashed into me, pieces colliding into place. I straightened, tensing my arms, and bumped into Alec who’d apparently snuck beside me while I’d been entranced by the sunrise.
“The ships…” The realization came out on a breathless whisper. “The lights.” My voice grew louder. “On the ships. On the house.”
He paused, his espresso cup frozen in midtilt at his lips. He lowered the glass. “What lights? What house?”
“Escobar’s.” Brows drawn in concentration, I stared down at a bamboo knot in the floorboard right in front of my emerald-polished toes. “Remember on the catamaran? How I thought it odd that the lights in his house were going on and off?”
“Like the staff were going through the rooms for the night,” he replied.
I gave a nod, then turned fully toward him. “Only what if it was something else? What if Escobar was sending a coded message?”
His eyes widened. “To the cruise ships.”
“Right. One of the ships, probably. Or one of many sailing under the same cruise line.”
His gaze dropped to the counter in thought. “The catamaran cruise. That was two days ago. A Thursday.”
“The night before Escobar’s light show, when we were watching the ships from my balcony, one had strands of green lights running from the high points, captain’s bridge to bow.” I rested my espresso cup onto the counter, then tapped my chin. “I remember the green lights blinked out for about twenty seconds, then flashed on again.”
“That’s their method of communication.” He slapped a palm on the counter.
“And maybe more.”
“Like they plan to transport their cargo on a cruise ship?”
I nodded, turning toward him.
“Brilliant.”
His gaze locked on to mine, intensity shining there. I didn’t know if his comment meant Escobar’s plan or my discovering a piece of it.
I frowned. “But I’m sure customs keeps a lockdown on what cargo is unloaded from cruise ships.” I paused, thinking it through, remembering the tourist captives, the very American-seeming captives. “What if it isn’t cargo? What if it’s a person?”
He turned and leaned back against the counter edge, arms folding over his chest. “Or a weapon.” His tone held conviction.
“A weapon in a person…” I added to our unfolding joint revelation. “A deadly virus…you’d suspected it earlier.”
At the slight turn of his head, he stared hard at me. “I didn’t see the details of Escobar’s laboratory through the same lenses you did. What are the statistical probabilities?”