Tod Goldberg: The End Game

“And maybe ten or twenty others.”

“I know that, too,” I said.

Outside, the halogens clicked off and the once bright street fell into its usual darkness, which meant it still had the periodic blue glow from inside the club, but was otherwise now just a street, not a crime scene. Whoever had taken out Rob Roberge didn’t even want him thinking of hurting me, much less doing anything to hurt me. If I left the waters of the United States, it wouldn’t just be the people who burned me who’d be upset, it would possibly be plenty of other organizations, both known and unknown, who would scramble the appropriate response.

I needed to make this happen tomorrow with a minimum of collateral damage, to say nothing of sparing my own life.

“He’ll wear floaties,” Fi said to Sam, “in case I need to throw him overboard.”

A popular misconception is that spies are always armed. The spies we all know-James Bond, Napoleon Solo, Jim Phelps, even Maxwell Smart-didn’t just have guns, they also had cigarette cases that turned into grenade launchers, belt buckles that were also lasers, cars that doubled as nuclear submarines, watches that contained antishark sonar and tuxedos that morphed into rocket packs.

The truth is that spies are rarely armed. Operate in a country like China and be found with a gun on your person and you’re going to prison. Chinese prison. Get found in Russia with a gun on you, you’re likely to find yourself breaking ice in Siberia.

Gun laws in Florida aren’t exactly friendly, either. No American state looks kindly on people shooting up city blocks, and diplomatic cloak only goes so far if you happen to embarrass the right people. Generally, the government doesn’t want its people to be aware of the fact that counterintelligence is going on right under their nose. Get arrested for carrying in Miami and you’re likely to stay in jail until your handler can figure out a way to fake your death. You’ll get out eventually, but it might be no easy task.

Being a burned spy carries no such assurances of safety from criminal prosecution. Shoot someone in broad daylight and people are going to ask questions.

I might have guardian angels, as Alex Kyle said, but even they answered to someone; someone who likely would not want to answer to widespread carnage on the streets of Miami.

Use a gun in international or domestic waters, however, and it’s an entirely different standard, particularly if you’re on one boat and the person you’re shooting at is on another. You can be tried as a pirate. Contrary to Jimmy Buffett songs and Disney movies, this is not a good thing.

Piracy laws over the course of the last five years have been modified so that you’re not just committing maritime crimes, you’re actually being looked at under a standard normally reserved for terrorists.

Which is why I wasn’t about to put myself in that situation. But was happy to put Alex Kyle and Christopher Bonaventura there.

It was eleven forty-five a.m. and Biscayne Bay was filled with boats-pleasure yachts, sailboats, catamarans-and revelers. The marina at the Southern Cross Yacht Club was alive with partygoers. The Hurricane Cup, racing from Miami to Nassau over the course of two days, was a traveling party. It started here, in Miami, and over the next twenty-four hours on the open sea, boat to boat, it kept on.

The course was buoyed so the racers would know where to go and the partyers would know where to park. From Miami to Nassau harbor, drinks would roll down throats, money would change hands, and for most people worth millions of dollars, nothing would seem untoward.

Sam was aboard the Pax Bellicosa, but someone important was missing. “Dinino is nowhere,” Sam said when he called from the marina.

“What do you mean nowhere?” I asked.

“Gennaro says he’s always right in the marina for a launch, playing the big guy, but he’s not here.”

It didn’t make sense. He would either be watching the race or..

Up above, I heard the familiar whoop-whoop of a helicopter-there were several in the air covering the event, which made things even more likely to be newsworthy today-and a thought occurred to me.

“Why don’t you ask Gennaro if the family has a helicopter,” I said.

“You think he’s flying to the Ottone yacht?”

“That would be my play. Kill the girls himself if he has to.”

“Not even Bonaventura would let him do that,” Sam said.

“That’s the hope,” I said. In the background, I heard an announcement telling all the racers to make final preparations. “You better get moving.”

“Right. And hey, Mikey?”

“Yeah Sam?”

“If it turns out everything is aces here,” he said, “I’m just letting you know I’m prepared to give a portion of my cut of the winnings to a charity of your choice.”

“Still not happening,” I said and hung up. The reality of the situation was that I wasn’t convinced Gennaro could win on his own regardless. Once everyone was safe, once he knew his wife and child would be fine and that he wasn’t looking at running from Christopher Bonaventura the rest of his life, the odds were that he’d relax, lose that laser focus of fear and would probably just race.

In a fairytale, he’d win. But I felt I knew Gennaro now and if he said he wasn’t as good as the best on the water, I was inclined to believe him.

A large, all black party boat came up along our stern, rock music blaring. I looked and saw bodies writhing on the top deck. It was as if a nightclub sprung out of the clear blue ocean. No one seemed the least bit concerned about anything, which is perhaps because they hadn’t yet noticed the rickety boat from the mid-1970s floating nearby, the only passengers Fiona and me… and Virgil.

“Thanks for inviting me to the party,” Virgil said.

“My pleasure,” I said.

We’d departed from South Beach hours before but were just a few miles outside Government Cut, waiting for the racers to launch and come our way. They all moved at the same leisurely pace until they hit the open water and then the competition actually began. The first leg out of Miami was strictly show. A floating nightclub would only go so far. Right here was about the limit.

Our main goal was just to locate the Ottones’ yacht. Now more than ever, with the idea that Dinino might be aboard, I needed to make sure Bonaventura’s men got there. They might kill Dinino, but they’d never touch Maria and Liz.

The yacht was due to come through this shipping lane any moment now en route to the mouth of Government Cut for Maria to see her husband, which was her ritual. There was only another eight miles of sea between here and international waters, which meant I had a very narrow amount of ground to work in. I was confined to Miami by the government, but I was also confined by my enemies.

Both would shoot me.

Not much of a party.

“How’s your mom doing?”

“Good,” I said.

“I haven’t been able to see her for a bit,” Virgil said. “I’ve been doing some business in Pensacola.”

“Good,” I said. Fi and I were looking through binoculars now for any site of the Ottones’ ship. If Maria and Liz were going to be at Government Cut in time for Gennaro to stream by, that meant Bonaventura was likely to make his move immediately, too. All he needed to do was secure the ship.

And that would be enough to get him arrested.

But I needed to be there in case something, anything, went wrong. I’d promised Gennaro his wife and child would be safe and I wasn’t going to leave it solely in the hands of Christopher Bonaventura, or Alex Kyle, to make that happen. Plus, as soon as Alex Kyle saw us coming close, he was sure to redouble his efforts to stop the Ottones’ ship.