Randy White: Hunter's moon

I knew the island would be protected by a dozen or so agents working in three shifts. They would’ve created an on-site command post that would include liaison people from the local sheriff’s department and the Coast Guard. The command post would maintain direct contact with the agency’s intelligence division in Washington and also their main headquarters in Beltsville, Maryland. Unique code names would be assigned to the island, the protectee, members of the protectee’s family (if any), even the protectee’s boat.

Tony told me, “The agency’s dealt with all types of celebrities and they’re all assigned a name. Prince Charles was ‘Unicorn.’ Ted Kennedy,‘Sunburn.’Amy Carter was ‘Dynamo’; Frank Sinatra, ‘Napoleon.’ A protectee’s limo might be called ‘Stagecoach.’ An island might be called ‘The Rock’ or ‘Fort Apache’-a name that’s immediately understood but still maintains security.”

The more I learned, the more I came to think of Ligarto Island as The Rock.

The agents would be armed with MP5 submachine guns and semiautomatic SIG-Sauer pistols, although some older members might still carry Smith amp; Wesson Model 19s. Other tools, such as night-vision goggles, Remington street-sweeper shotguns, and antiaircraft ordnance, would be included in their arsenal.

Security might include sharpshooters from the uniformed division of the agency’s countersniper team. The team would establish a shooting post on one of the island’s highest points-a tree, maybe, or water tower. In agency slang, the sniper would be armed with a JAR (Just Another Rifle), which, in fact, was a high-tech weapon custom-designed for the Secret Service. The sniper team would be in radio contact with Beltsville, which would provide the shooter with sight adjustments, depending on the island’s temperature and humidity.

I’d also learned there would be at least two boats. One would be smaller, capable of running onto the beach if necessary. The other would be a fast patrol boat.

Daunting. So I planned on being intercepted. Because I didn’t want to be arrested or shot, I also planned on lying my ass off. A believable lie, I hoped.

I would tell agents I was on my way to the annual Halloween party at the friendliest of nearby islands: Cabbage Key, a popular bar and restaurant, accessible only by water. I’d have to do some acting. Pretend to be appropriately sloshed, tell agents I’d gotten lost in the fog.

If they contacted Cabbage Key’s superb dining room, they would find my name on the guest list: Marion D. Ford, Dinkin’s Bay Marina. Reservation for one, admission paid in advance.

Establishing plausible deniability is not a subject taught in college. The famous man was right: My past includes training in subjects other than marine biology.

Nearby, I heard a heron’s reptilian growl. I was passing an oyster bar where wading birds had gathered-unusual for this time of night. Maybe they were grounded by fog. Was that possible? Or maybe feeding in the light of this full moon.

I touched my paddle to the bottom. Felt shells crunch as the canoe pivoted with the current. Once again, I listened for the patrol boat. Nothing. Could still hear the distant outboard… could hear the river-rush of tide flushing seaward… then I was surprised to hear voices. Men’s voices whispering: a few staccato fragments, words indecipherable.

Garbled by distance?

No. They were close.

I waited, using the paddle as a stake, my canoe pointing downtide like a weather vane.

Water drizzled from leaves… yowl of raccoons… creak of trees… then another muffled exchange: two men, maybe three.

The island was to my right. The voices came from my left. The men had to be in a boat. Or wading. The syllabic patterns were exotic, not English, not Spanish. That’s why it registered as garble. I didn’t hear enough to guess at the language.

Fog is romantic in a cozy sort of way, but, in primitive lobes of our brain, it also keys primitive alarms. The alarms remind us that tribal enemies use fog as cover.

During thunderstorms, people retreat in clusters, voices hushed. The same is true of the slow, silent storm that is fog. Men were out there in the gloom. Foreigners in a Florida backwater. Why?

There were plausible explanations.

I didn’t like any of them.

A million-dollar bounty had been offered for the celebrated man’s head. My guess: They were here to collect it.

The night the celebrated man appeared at my door, I’d said to him, “If you travel outside the country, no security, what happens if the bad guys take you hostage, or worse? It could get some of our people killed, maybe even start a war. To be blunt, you’d be putting the nation at risk. Is that worth a couple weeks of personal freedom?”

I’d expected indignation. Instead, he became philosophical, which is an effective cloaking technique. “History’s fickle. Small events have started wars. I suppose some minor event could also prevent war-who can predict? The only time I depend on men and nations to behave like they have any brains is when there’s no other choice. I’m speaking theoretically, of course.”

Was he?

“Who knows what I might stir up. The risks depend on where I go. And who you consider to be bad guys. It’s far more likely someone will take a shot at me in the States instead of in a country I’m not scheduled to visit.

“That’s another reason I’m eager to get on the road, Dr. Ford. Someone’s going to take that shot -soon, I think. My enemies view me as unfinished business. What they don’t suspect is, I have some unfinished business of my own.”

He used his fighter pilot’s voice-a combat vet on a mission.

“It sounds like you have a target in mind.”

“Maybe.”

“Something to do with your wife’s death?” I knew the accident was still under investigation. It had only been a few months.

“Possibly. Her plane caught fire after it landed. Seven people killed, no survivors. Do you find that suggestive?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know the details.”

“I think you know more than you realize.” The man was looking at me strangely.

“Are you suggesting something? Or am I missing something?”

“Maybe both.” I watched his jaw muscles knot. “But I think I’ll reserve the details until we come to an agreement. For now, let’s just say there are several stops I’d like to make. I’ve lived a big life. I’ve called liars liars, frauds frauds, and I’ve stood toe-to-toe with every variety of despot and egotistical ass. When enemies visit my grave, it won’t be to plant flowers.”

“You have old scores to settle.”

“You disapprove; it’s in your tone. Good. Getting even is for amateurs. I want revenge.” After a moment, he chuckled. “I’m joking. My plans aren’t that dramatic.”

It was disturbing. Witness a wounded beast stumble and most of us wince. I winced inwardly at his stumbling paranoia, his outdated bravado; his weak attempt to cover malice with humor. I was thinking Yes, he’s mentally ill.

According to my pal Tomlinson, who turns into a newspaper junkie the instant his Birkenstocks touch soil, the man dropped from public view shortly after his wife’s death. He retreated to a Franciscan monastery, then spent time with a famous Buddhist scholar on Long Island.

When he reappeared, he had changed. The man had always been dignified, under control, even when speaking his mind. In the last few months, though, his behavior had bordered on the outrageous.

“He’s doing what no one in his position has ever done,” Tomlinson told me. “If he’s asked a question, he tells the truth-his version, anyway. He’s managed to offend just about every political and religious organization in the world.”