Джон Сэндфорд - Ocean Prey [calibre]

“Brought up eleven. We were told they were about ten kilos each, so that’s what? More than three million, I think. It was still on the boat when we left and it looked like everybody was taking off. Like they were planning to keep it on the boat until they were sure they could move it.”

“We saw you all leave and nobody’s been back to the boat,” Lucas said. “We’ve got a couple of FBI agents in an apartment across the waterway from the boat, they’ll be watching twenty-four-seven until they move the shit, and then we’ll track it.”

“Word gets around a condo, you know, if they’ve got somebody in there,” Rae said.

“Female agents. They’ve got actual jobs in a restaurant on Collins Avenue, different shifts.”

“That’s good, but listen,” Rae said. “Cattaneo let slip that there was somebody watching the boat from a parking lot across the water. I hope they didn’t see you guys when you were over there.”

“Ah, boy! We didn’t see anybody. I’ll warn our people, see if we can spot the guy. Nobody said anything to you?”

“No, but it’s something to worry about,” Virgil said. “The guy who came down to the boat was Behan. You see that?”

“Yes. We thought it was him,” Lucas said. “That’s good. That’s confident. No way Behan would have showed up if they’d spotted us watching.”

“All right,” Rae said. “By the way, we’re going to spend some of this money in case they’re watching us full-time.”

“Go ahead, spend it all if you want. Andres and I are in the back of the Pathfinder, a block or so away. About the time you were dropped off, a Jeep pulled over and nobody got out. It’s just sitting there. So . . . we don’t know if it’s a problem, but it could be.”

“Won’t be going out tomorrow,” Virgil said. “The cold front’s already in Palm Beach, it’s going to be rough out there for the next two or three days. They don’t want to lose their most valuable employee.”

“Okay. Listen, we want to get together tomorrow, if we can,” Lucas said. “I’ll figure out a spot to meet, probably at a motel somewhere. We’re going to put an FBI countersurveillance team on you tomorrow morning, whatever’s a good starting time. Ten o’clock?”

“That’d be okay,” Virgil said.

“When we’re sure nobody’s following you, I’ll call with an address for the meet. Figure out somewhere to go where we could spot anyone on your back.”

Rae: “I told them I wanted to buy some shoes and so on. I’m thinking we head down to the Bal Harbour Shops. It’s like north of Miami Beach.”

“That should be fine,” Lucas said. “Give us some time to spot them, if they’re out there. Watch this Jeep, though. Red Jeep, across the street, halfway down the block.”

When they rang off, Virgil said, “Let’s get cleaned up and head down to Ouroboros. Spend some money.”

“Soon as I get the salt off me. You want tough ghetto chick or cheap slut?”

“Slut’s always appealing,” Virgil said. “Haven’t seen that look so much.”

“You got it,” Rae said. She stepped closer and whispered, “You gonna have to carry the gun, because I won’t have a place.”

“It’s a very small gun,” Virgil whispered back.

“Outfit I’m gonna wear, I couldn’t hide a paper clip.”

She was right. She showered, wrapped a towel around herself, and headed to her bedroom. Virgil showered, got dressed in the bathroom, and when he emerged, Rae was waiting in a streaky short romper the color of walnut wood, excessively but not quite obscenely low cut, and strappy low heels. “How do I look?”

“I won’t say, because I could be arrested,” Virgil said. “We might have to shoot our way out of the bar.”

“You are such a gentleman,” Rae said.

Virgil hid his phone again, and they fired up a little more weed before they headed out the door. They spotted the red Jeep, still parked down the block, paid no attention to it, and walked on to the Ouroboros bar. Inside, Roy, the biker, was in his booth, back to the door, poking at a laptop.

He brightened when he saw them, said, “Hey, people,” and pointed at the seat opposite him. “Jeez, Ally, you look like a movie star.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and it could get you somewhere,” Rae said, as she slid into the booth.

Virgil ordered beers for the three of them and Rae leaned across the table and asked, quietly, “I don’t suppose Richard could get us couple of eight-balls?”

“He maybe could,” Roy said, dropping his voice. “You guys sell your house or something?”

“Nope. Sold some wheels, though.”

“Let me make a call.”

Roy made his call and the three of them were drinking beer when a guy in a flannel shirt too warm for the night sidled through the door and up to the bar and ordered a beer.

The conversation rolled along and the guy at the bar glanced at them from time to time, seriously uninterested in them, way too uninterested in them, and Rae nudged Virgil with an elbow and Virgil nodded. Richard showed up and slid in next to Roy, leaned across the table, mentioned a price, and said, “Two eight-balls.”

Virgil glanced around the place, pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket, made a big deal of hiding it and secretly counting it out, folded the cash in tight thirds and passed it across the table. Richard said, “Skinx.” He reached out to shake hands and left the eights-balls in Virgil’s palm.

Virgil said, “Party time,” and Rae said to Virgil, “Give him a couple more bills. Birthday gift for Roy.”

Roy said, “Thanks again.” And to Richard, “I’ll take it in weed.”

They sat and talked through two more beers; between the first and second, the flannel shirt guy finished his beer and left. When Virgil and Rae left, Rae stepped close to Virgil as they went through the door and asked, “You think he was smart enough to know a drug deal when he saw one?”

Virgil looked up the street: the red Jeep was gone.

“I believe he was. We’ve sold ourselves solid. At least for a while.”

The next morning, with a fat envelope of cash, they headed south to the Bal Harbour Shops. An FBI countersurveillance team tracked them and saw no one watching. Once inside the shopping mall, Rae hit a series of stores selling Italian shoes, pulling chunks of cash from her purse, collecting shopping bags from high-priced brands.

Virgil bought expensive shorts and boating shoes, and loose long-sleeved shirts with sleeves that could be rolled up; he found a men’s room, stepped into a toilet booth and changed. He threw his old shorts and T-shirt into the trash and when he emerged from the men’s room, Rae said, “My, my. You look like you own a banana plantation. Except for the sunglasses. The sunglasses look like they came from a Dollar Store sales bin.”

“I need some blades,” Virgil said, and they found some, with opaque gold lenses that wrapped nearly around to his ears.

Virgil shopped and enjoyed watching Rae shop, and watched for watchers, spotting no one. Lucas called and said, “You’re clean. We’re right across Collins Avenue at the St. Regis.”

“See you in ten minutes. Maybe . . . twenty. Rae’s found a La Perla lingerie shop.”

“Ah, Jesus, we’ve got everybody here waiting . . .”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman yanked out of La Perla . . .”

Virgil finally extracted Rae from La Perla and they crossed Collins Avenue to the hotel, took the elevator up to an ocean-view room, and found it populated with Weaver and three more FBI agents, plus Lucas and Andres Devlin. Devlin gave Rae a hug and said, “I’ve been told about La Perla, if you’re modeling . . .”

“In your dreams,” Rae said, but she liked the hug.