Warren Murphy: Troubled Waters

"So what? I hear the President dated a lot of people in his college days."

"Two weeks ago, Senator Armitage lost his son and daughter-in-law in the Devil's Triangle," Smith said morosely. "That is, both were presumed lost until Saturday, when Kelly Bauer Armitage was pulled from the water west of Fort-de-France by a pair of sport fishermen from South Carolina. She was half-dead from exposure, nearly drowned and she had suffered ...um...extensive physical abuse. It's no immense surprise to learn that she was-and remains-nearly incoherent."

"Nearly?" Remo prodded, sensing that he was about to hear the crux of Dr. Smith's unusual problem.

"She was able to report her husband's death-a homicide-and to describe her own abduction by... well, that is ...by a group of pirates."

"Hijackers, you mean," said Remo.

"Not exactly," Dr. Smith replied. "From her description, sketchy and disjointed as it was, it would appear that her assailants were, in fact, for all intents and purposes identical to pirates of the seventeenth or eighteenth century."

"Identical?"

"I'm filling in some gaps, of course, but from the woman's somewhat fanciful description of their primitive lifestyle-boats and weapons aside, I believe we may safely assume-they appear to emulate the tactics of such men as Blackbeard and Captain Kidd."

"So we are talking yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum," Remo said. "So what's CURE got to do with it? Why can't the FBI and Coast Guard handle this?"

"Normally, I would assume they would," Dr. Smith allowed. "They've tried and gotten nowhere. They have no leads, Remo. The woman can't provide them with directions or locations, names or any meaningful descriptions-anything at all, in other words. She doesn't know or can't remember where her husband's yacht was captured by the men who killed him and abducted her. There's a suggestion that a newly added member of the crew was possibly involved, but the only name she can offer is Enrique. After the murder and abduction, of course, she has no clue where she was taken or exactly how long she was held or by whom. In short, she's virtually useless."

"So the Feds are giving up," Remo said.

"But not the senator," Mark Howard chimed in. Remo could guess the rest: an urgent phone call to his college chum on Pennsylvania Avenue, demanding justice. If he played the angles properly, there was a decent chance the senator could parley private tragedy into a winning hook for his next election campaign, combining the tried-and-true sympathy vote for a grieving father with support for a tough, no-nonsense law-and-order candidate. A die-hard cynic might suggest that a dead or missing son was a reasonable down payment on six more years in Washington, sitting at the right hand of power.

Or maybe not.

The man could just be grieving, like any other outraged father, pulling any strings within his reach to gain justice, revenge, satisfaction-call it what you like. Who would deny him that, except for certain bleeding hearts who still regarded vicious criminals as the moral superiors of their victims?

Still. "Smitty," Remo said testily, "don't tell me we're doing a freaking favor for somebody."

The expression of distaste was back on Dr. Smith's face, as if a reek of flatulence had crept into his office. "We're not in the business of doing favors," he said tartly. "That's not what CURE is for."

"Oh, sure, I know that. And you know that. But every good old boy who gets into the White House has a hard time figuring out this is the one and only thing in their lives that can't be treated as a political tool."

Smith looked sharply at Remo. "We're not being used as a political tool, but you've raised a good point."

"Huh?"

"I was called by the President and he suggested CURE look into this," Smith said.

"So it is a favor," Remo said.

"Once we started looking into it, we began seeing the possible true extent of the damage being done in the Caribbean to U.S. interests," Mark Howard explained. "Since we don't know who or what is behind this, we can only make assumptions about their implication in various losses throughout the region going back over the past few years. But the scale is staggering."

"That qualifies it as a threat to U.S. security?" Remo probed. "Convenient justification."

"We don't do justification, Remo," Smith retorted seriously.

"Sure. I believe you."

"We're going to have to make sure the President believes that, too," Smith said to Howard. "But that doesn't mean we're not going to check into it."

"Check into what?" Remo said. "I mean, if you're expecting me to search the whole Caribbean, it just might take a while."

"Richard Armitage and his wife departed from Miami aboard their private yacht, Solon II, on the morning of March seventeenth. They stopped at Nassau and at Caicos on their way to the Dominican Republic, where they apparently hired an extra crewman, an elusive figure named Enrique, at Puerta Plata, on the twentieth. We've no idea why he was needed, how they met him-anything at all, in fact. You may be able to learn more from the woman herself."

"Say again?"

"You have a scheduled interview this afternoon," said Dr. Smith.

"You told me she was incoherent," Remo said.

"It's relative. You may get lucky," Smith replied. "I'm hoping that you can draw her out in ways the authorities could not."

"Uh-huh." Remo was clearly skeptical. "You said they found her west of Fort-de-France. No sign of the yacht or her husband?"

"None so far," Dr. Smith replied. "Of course, if the DEA and Coast Guard suppositions are correct, the Solon II will have a new paint job by now, perhaps new ID numbers. Nothing that an expert couldn't spot, but ample change to get it through a cursory inspection. With any luck, it could make two or three smuggling runs into the Keys before it has to be replaced."

Remo didn't have to ask about Richard Armitage. The Caribbean was wide and deep enough to hide countless bodies, its shark and barracuda hungry enough to make short work of human remains. Pirate victims in the old days had traditionally gone over the side. It would be simple for a modern-day practitioner to emulate their lethal methods.

"Who was Richard Armitage," Remo asked, "besides an influential politician's son?"

"CEO of a smallish but expanding software company in his own right, Harvard educated, with a trust fund and family stock portfolio to see him over the rough spots."

"It's a tough life," Remo said.

"From all appearances, his life is over," Dr. Smith replied.

"Well," said Remo, "what kind of an investigation did you have in mind? Am I supposed to drift around the islands until Long John Silver tries to take me off, or what?"

"Essentially," said Dr. Smith, "you'll be provided with a boat, of course, and cash enough to make your cover stick."

"Which is?"

"You'll be executive material, well-bred and groomed. I hope that won't be too much of a stretch."

"I'll try to manage," Remo said. "There must be more to it than looking rich, though, or the Coast Guard would be losing half the tourists in the islands."

"You'll attempt to duplicate the Armitage itinerary, inasmuch as possible from information we possess. Leave from Miami, make the stops at Nassau and Caicos. See about hiring a crewman or two at Puerta Plata, if the opportunity presents itself."

"Not too obvious," said Remo.

"Let's assume our targets may be something less than brilliant," Dr. Smith replied. "If nothing else, it may be safe to say they stick with a technique that works."

"Except the woman got away," said Remo.

"Yes, which brings me to your next stop." Dr. Smith paused for a moment, his blunt fingertips shuffling invisible papers around the vacant, polished desktop before he spoke again. "They've got her in a private room at Walter Reed."