“Not yet,” Sunday replied, his back still turned to his colleague.
“Nothing?” he mumbled through a mouthful of muffin. “I’ve got SIGINT on more than a dozen pirate gangs. And I’m mapping their scouting routes correlated with the tides in the Gulf of Aden. Cutting edge analytics. The task force team chief is gonna love it. And you’ve got nothing, S-Man?”
“No, Glen,” Sunday said. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. We are compartmentalized on this. Everything goes through the team chief, remember?”
“I know,” he said, choking down the last of the muffin top and taking another bite. “But I thought you were supposed to be some kind of expert at tracking financial data?”
“I’m not going to tell you that either.”
“Hall chatter says the DNI is waiting on this one.” Glen nodded to himself. “Iran is the big leagues.”
“I wouldn’t know, Glen.”
Just then, Sunday’s desk phone rang. The screen showed an external line with a code he recognized. “Sorry, Glen, I’ve got to take this. Can you scarf your muffin somewhere else?”
Glen snorted. “I’ve got pirates to catch,” he said, tucking the moose under one arm. “See you later, S-Man!”
Once Glen was safely out of earshot, Sunday picked up the receiver. “Sunday,” he whispered.
“You still chasing pirates?” Jessica asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you seen the news?”
“No time for TV, ma’am. Neck-deep in Somalia.”
“Turn on CNN. Last night, Cubans seized an American fishing boat. Four civilians on board,” she said. “I need everything. Background, motives, anything you can find.”
“Roger.”
“Both sides. I want to know what the Cubans are up to. And us.”
“Got it,” Sunday said.
“Story doesn’t make sense. Go deep.”
“Yes, ma’am. Cuba. I’m on it.”
“Do you need help with access or an alibi?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I thought you were neck-deep in Somali pirates?”
“Yes, ma’am. This sounds like pirates to me. Ship attacked and robbed at sea, right? Pirates of the Caribbean.”
“Treasure Island.”
22.
MARATHON, FLORIDA KEYS
THURSDAY, 11:44 A.M.
The parking lot of the Marathon Marina and Boat Yard was packed with television news vans, their satellite dishes sprouting like weeds reaching for the sun. A gaggle of well-coifed South Florida reporters were jostling for the same picturesque backdrop of a palm tree and the dock bar. The Monroe County Sheriff’s Office had set up a yellow police tape perimeter to keep back a crowd of onlookers.
Jessica Ryker drove slowly past the scene and parked her Mustang down the road, under a coconut tree at Castaways Bar & Grill. She slid on sunglasses, a sun hat, and walked inside.
“What’s all the fuss?” Jessica asked the bartender, a blonde in her late forties with leathery skin, name tag: BECKY.
“Fishin’ boat gone missin’.” The walls were covered in fishnets, dented street signs, starfish, and old wine bottles. A twelve-foot stuffed blue marlin, with a sharp dorsal fin and long bill like a sword, was mounted behind the bar.
“Oh my.” Jessica put her fingers to her lips. “Is that the boat on the TV?” she asked, pointing at the silent television above the bar where an overly tan brunette reporter was speaking into a microphone. “That broadcast is from . . . here?”
“Uh-huh. Right outside,” Becky said, jerking her thumb toward the front door.
“What happened?”
“Don’t know. They musta strayed too close to Cuba. That’s what the TV says.”
“Oh dear, that’s too awful.”
“Who knows what happens out there on the high seas. You wanna drink, girl?”
“It’s not too early?” Jessica shrugged.
“It’s Florida,” she said, nodding toward an armless clock that announced IT’S MARGARITA TIME!
“Okay.” Jessica slid onto a stool at the bar. “What’s your specialty?”
“Margarita, rocks, salt.”
“Perfect.”
A few minutes later, the barwoman delivered a lime green cocktail, chunky ice cubes, and the rim covered in white specks. “Here you go. Becky’s Marathon Special.”
Jessica took a sip, the sour lime juice mixing with the tequila and rock salt. She winced as she swallowed. “Yum. Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m Alexandra. From New York,” Jessica said.
“Nice ta’ meet you. Weather way too cold up there for me.”
“You get used to it,” Jessica said. “I wish I could live down here. Near the ocean.”
“Uh-huh,” said the barwoman. “It takes some gettin’ used to as well.”
“How long you been down here in Marathon?”
“Too long.”
“Oh, I think it’s lovely.”
“Uh-huh. Too quiet.”
“Not today!” Jessica said. “Kinda crazy out there with all those TV cameras, don’t you think?”
“Been like that all mornin’. They’ll be gone by tomorrow unless somethin’ happens to them boys.”
“Which boys? Did you know them?”
“Nah.”
“Not locals?”