The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(16)
I stood at the rail and stared out at the ocean.
Two days ago I was a JAG lawyer, bored to tears. Then I shot a cheating wife, got arrested, and became a Justice Department recruit, which led to divers aiming spears at me. A supposed ally tried to blow me up, and now Juan Lopez Valdez, from of all places Cuba, wanted to shove me over the side. Since I was unarmed, outmanned, and on a boat in the middle of nowhere, his threat could not be ignored.
“You do realize that I’m not all that good with this intrigue stuff,” I said. “Look where I am. Captured.”
“Ah, amigo, you sell yourself short. My men told me you handled yourself quite skillfully in the water.” He found a fresh panatela and lit it up. “And let us not forget that you are the one who took my files from the wreck. But for you, I would have them and be on my way home with the coin.”
Incredibly, there was some twisted logic to his argument, which did not make the sour taste of failure, hanging thick in my mouth, any easier to swallow. I could spar, feinting and stalling, and try to buy time. But for what?
I decided to work with this guy.
At least until something better came along.
The bricks of Fort Jefferson appeared on the horizon. Valdez had doubled back and again found the Dry Tortugas.
“We will anchor south of the fort,” he said. “You can take the inflatable to the island. Get my coin and return it to me, and our business will be concluded. Any ideas on how to make that possible?”
I actually had been thinking on just that. “I need my wallet.”
He handed it over. “By the way, you were correct. Jansen is not your friend.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Be careful who you decide to trust. You have no idea what you are involved with, so you certainly have no idea who you can depend upon. Whether you realize it or not, I am all that you have at the moment.”
Which wasn’t comforting.
“I simply want the coin. Bring it to me and we will never see each other again.”
Still not comforting.
“I realize that you could easily go ashore and escape. So let me tell you something about me. I’ve always been a collector, but not of things. I like facts, which I savor and accumulate like old men keep stamps or coins. I say this so you will know that I am a man of great patience and, I assure you, I am good at what I do. Jansen can attest to that fact. So if you double-cross me, amigo, I will first learn all about you, then I will come and kill you. The fact that I reside in Cuba is not an impediment. I say this not from braggadocio but only so that you will not make the mistake of doubting me.”
I beached the inflatable in the shadow of the fort.
Up close the red-yellow walls were massive, a formidable obstacle to any would-be attacker. Over sixteen million bricks had been used, each one shipped from the mainland. The hexagon shape ensured that every cannon had a clear field of fire. Three sides fronted the ocean, the remaining three a strip of island that eventually accommodated coaling stations. Portions of the outer walls and the corner bastions were crumbling, the effect of time, sea, and weather. It had been built to hold four hundred cannons, in three hundred open-vaulted casements, among two thousand arches. It cost a fortune and was never finished, the whole thing rendered obsolete with the invention of large-caliber rifled cannons, capable of penetrating thick masonry walls.
Two seaplanes were beached to my right. No boats rested at the main dock. Visitors were out enjoying the clear, calm water just offshore where snorkeling seemed to be allowed. I headed for the fort’s sally port entrance at the end of a wooden bridge that crossed a saltwater moat. Odd that a fort, surrounded by ocean, would need a moat, but it actually made sense since it kept attacking ships from approaching too close. A stone counterscarp, which worked like a perimeter sidewalk, acted as an additional outer barrier.
Barracks, powder magazines, officers’ quarters, and storehouses once filled the interior parade. Now only grass, a few trees, and ruins were there. A different sense of perspective came inside, where the walls, arches, and colonnades blocked the horizon, concealing the fact that there was ocean all around. I imagined a time in the 1850s when the army utilized machinists, carpenters, blacksmiths, masons, general laborers, prisoners, and slaves to construct the fort. Officers brought their families, and enlisted personnel their wives. In all close to two thousand people once lived on this barren splotch of sand, their entire existence precarious.
Like my current situation.
I was looking for the park service office. I should find someone in authority, tell them the truth, and have them contact Stephanie Nelle. Surely there were sea-to-land communications. That was definitely the smart play. But a part of me believed Valdez. He was not a man to cross. And his point about who to trust was a good one. Even more important, I wanted Jim Jansen and I wanted to find out what was going on. Coleen Perry seemed the best route to achieve both of those objectives.
To my left I spotted a door marked park headquarters. I entered and was greeted by an eager young man in a service uniform. The Spartan office had been built right into the brick casements.
“My name is Malone. I understand you have Coleen Perry in custody.”
I’d decided on a direct approach, seeing if I could get a few minutes alone with Coleen before anyone thought things through.
“You mean the lady we found on Loggerhead? Yeah, we have her.”