Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

With the fuse bypassed and the batteries recharged, the solar panels and wind generator kept up with our electrical needs. Having electric light made sunsets less ominous. Unfortunately, the water maker, the radar, the autopilot and computer navigation remained unserviceable. I emailed Gavin to reassure him that, thanks to my brilliance, we were back in action electricity-wise, and then on a whim, I once more tried sending our GPS coordinates to Tom.

This time we got a reply, a terse message with coordinates, instructions and some hope for a landing in Las Palmas, Canary Islands.

“It’s about bloody time! I figure he was ticked off and embarrassed about Gibraltar.” I said to Anna. “I wonder how much we can trust him on Las Palmas?”

After a couple of days, following Tom’s emailed instructions, the lacy outlines of huge cranes coalesced through a smoky haze a few miles north of Gran Canaria.

“Jess, we’ve made it!” Anna pointed at the cranes.

“Not until we’re sitting at the dock sipping fruity blender cocktails.”

It would be a far cry better than the seawater I’d stupidly started sucking from soaked washcloths. It’s probably what gave me a nasty case of the runs. Regardless, the intestinal distress kept me running below often enough that satellite emails had little time to sit in the inbox unnoticed. The latest provided Tom’s final instructions for landing in Las Palmas. I followed them to the letter, but without the confidence I’d felt pulling in to Gibraltar. As instructed, we kept radio silence and tied up to a Texaco fuel dock just after closing time.

Tom’s orders were to keep Anna hidden while waiting for his friend to take over. By the time a harried looking Spanish government official showed up, he was over an hour late. He made sure we knew he owed Tom a favor, a debt he wasn’t terribly happy settling by helping us. Nonetheless, he was going to let us in as long as we stuck to his rules which he made very clear. He was adamant that he had never seen Anna and knew nothing about her. He granted me, and only me, one week in the country. Wrapping up his visit, he called a couple of his sail-maker friends to help ensure that the week was as productive as possible for me and the boat.

“Only seven days. One minute more and I must report you myself. The girl must stay hidden. If anything happens, I only know I checked you in, I inspected your boat and only saw you on board.” The official instructed.

“I understand that I cannot leave the boat. Thank you for this, sir.” Anna said.

“You can do what you like, but if you are caught, I must arrest your friend and you will go to a camp for detention before you are sent back to Russia. Illegal immigration, the smuggling of people, is the most big problem facing the Canary Islands now.” He looked at Anna. “Believe me, you will not want to be caught.”

Anna nodded. She knew what the stakes were and what was at risk.

The sail-makers, a couple of jovial British fellows, showed up bright and early the next morning to get things started. One of them was tall, skinny, and nervous, with a full head of thick curly graying hair. The other was the complete opposite: short, round, bald and gregarious. They came aboard knowing there were two souls on board and that one of us had to stay hidden. It turned out they were knowledgeable and well connected. They coordinated the trades and repairmen along with driving me to suppliers and machine shops to get the necessary parts manufactured in record time.

Thanks to their Herculean efforts, we had Shadow re-provisioned, refueled, repaired, and ready to go with a couple of days to spare. The only hold-up was the autopilot. It had been removed several days before by an obese dark-skinned and completely bald Spaniard. He and his blasé semi-clad female assistant were apparently the only licensed technicians for my brand of autopilot on the island. When he arrived in a banana-yellow Hummer, announcing himself with tooth loosening sub-woofers, I had second thoughts about hiring the guy. But we really didn’t relish hand steering across the Atlantic and I didn’t want to void the warranty on the thing. The sail-makers were not impressed with my logic, especially after I let them know the Spaniard had called to tell me he wouldn’t get the parts for at least another week.

“I thought you said that thing only needed brushes.” The short sail-maker said.

“That’s what I thought.” I looked at my watch. “The asshole said he wouldn’t do anything for at least ten days. I told him I only had a couple more days.”

“Un huh, I bet he liked the sound of that.”

“Actually he told me where to go. I told him to bring the unit back and I’d pay him for the service call. He treated me to some truly vile Spanish.”

“If I was you, I’d forget the autopilot and make for the high seas,” cautioned the friendly little sail-maker.

“True enough,” the tall one added, “The autopilot’s not worth it. That guy is a notorious swindler, with crooked connections all through this town. Probably had you pegged as a mark right from your phone call. He’s up to something or you’d have your autopilot by now, fixed or otherwise.”

“Yeah, it sounds like the same scam he pulled on that German couple.” The short sail-maker pulled out his phone. “Bloody hell, that was a nice boat, Hanse 400, brand new.”

“What do you mean by was a nice boat’?” I asked.

“When they tried to leave, the bastard had their boat seized and chained ’fore they knew what hit em. Swindled them! Nothing they could do,” the tall curly one filled me in.

“Better give him a call.” Baldy punched keys on his phone, climbing to the cockpit.

“It’s like this,” Curly continued, “A scammer claims a foreigner with an expensive boat owes him money. The foreigner says ‘bugger off’ and makes to leave. Then the coppers seize their boat until the claim is settled in court. ’Course, with the right connections, that can take years. Meantime, the poor sods are getting whacked huge storage fees for the boat. By the time the case gets to court, either someone forgets to tell the owners back in America or Europe, or the storage and legal fees have become more than the boat is worth. Then the boat goes to the swindler to cover the costs.”

“Bloody Christ! Just ditch the autopilot and get out of here.” Baldy blurted suddenly, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. “All I did was ask if I could come by with some cash and get the thing and he said he’d feed my dog steak and razor blades.”

“The hydraulic pump on that thing’s worth five thousand bucks! I’m not going to just leave it.”

“Well, he’s right pissed. He’s on his way over to stick that thing back in your boat and stick you with the bill.”

“Fine, I get the thing back, pay him for whatever and fix it myself.”

“You’ll likely find his bill’s gonna be entirely outrageous.”

“So, I’ll call the police.”

“You can’t do that! It’s exactly what’s supposed to happen in this scam. He’ll have a claim against your yacht, the police will seize it, and in your case, you have a lot more to worry about than losing your boat.” The short sail-maker gestured at Anna. “Just go. You’ve already paid your marina bill and you’re all set except for that autopilot. I’m off. I have to get my dog.”

The sail-makers hurried away down the dock. Fuming, I weighed things out. The boat was ready, but I wasn’t keen on leaving the autopilot behind or admitting to being stupid enough to get screwed like that.

“Hola?” It was the scantily clad assistant. “My boss, he is coming soon. I will install back your autopilot.”