Authors: Glen Robins
The Captain ordered his men to double time it and cast off now. One of the men gave the boat a mighty push and jumped onboard as the Captain started the engine and steered his way into the channel. As they backed away, a police officer came running toward the dock. By the time he reached the locked gate, the boat was swinging around. Determined to do his duty, the officer found a nearby maintenance worker to open the gate. The men on the boat busied themselves and pretended not to see him. They were already two hundred yards away with their back to the marina when the officer reached the end of the dock. The cop yelled and waved his arms above his head in vain and finally threw his hat on the ground in defeat.
“Stay cool now,” barked the Captain. “No hasty maneuvers. Got it? We don’t want suspicions.” At the same time, he motioned nonchalantly for Collin to remain where he was.
The Captain smiled proudly as the men worked the sails, ropes, and rigging on the deck, while he steered the boat out of the harbor as fast as its engine would allow. Once they cleared the breakwater, the crew unfurled and hoisted all sails, and before he knew it, Collin’s personally chartered sail boat was moving along at an amazing clip. He came up to the deck at the Captain’s bidding and stood near the stern, clutching the railing.
The Captain claimed it had a top speed of nearly twenty-four knots when the wind was right. “And the winds are favorable this morning,” said the Captain with pride. “Yes, this is the fastest charter boat on the island. We can take you to Jamaica faster than any of them.” His hand swept toward the marina behind them.
Collin couldn’t gauge their speed, but the wind rushing through his hair and the sea spray wetting his face told him they were moving fast. His senses were alive. All of them. A sparkling, glittering sea of turquoise and the synchronized, almost orchestral movements of the four crew members dazzled him. His ears heard the rush of the warm air as they sliced a path through the water and the flapping of the mighty sails as they captured the wind and turned it into speed. Adrenaline coursed in his veins, tightening his muscles. Exhilaration spread through his chest at the thought of having outfoxed his pursuers again. His primal need to survive had kicked into high gear and was now guiding him down a previously unconsidered path. An unlikely path, given his Lukas-inspired want for planning and precision.
Collin kept checking behind them, watching the harbor become smaller and smaller as the distance from the shore steadily grew. So far, so good. No one coming after them.
“We’re near top speed now. Twenty-one knots at the moment,” said the Captain, as he surveyed the GPS monitor.
“That’s good. Thanks,” Collin said, not sure what else to say. Would it be fast enough? Was anyone coming after him? Now that they were away from the island, speed meant little to Collin because the destination meant nothing.
Collin stood in silence, his brow knit and his forehead creased. The Captain studied his face and grinned.
The Captain was wise. He knew things. It showed in his eyes. He occupied himself with the usual captain-like activities, checking the compass, the GPS, and the radar. He eyed the masts and the sails and barked a few nearly incoherent orders to his crew, who were lounging on the bow.
Settling back into his chair, the skipper glanced over at Collin and said, “Everything’s good. Nothing to worry about, man,” he declared.
“I wish that were true,” Collin muttered.
The Captain must have heard it. His eyebrows spiked up and the corners of his mouth turned down, but he said nothing.
Collin began to fidget. Sure, he was outdoors and they were moving, but there was nowhere to go, really. He turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the warm, salty air in long, deep breaths.
The silence was broken by the Captain’s baritone voice. “My name is Gordon Sewell. Welcome aboard the
Admiral Risty
.”
Collin’s eyes popped open, and he turned his head toward the sound, as if surprised. He saw the Captain’s outstretched hand and grasped it. “Collin Cook. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Was that fast enough for you, Mr. Cook?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Very fast. Very fast indeed.”
“Worth $15,000?”
“The money. Do you need me to pay you the rest now?”
“No, that’s not what I’m asking.” The Captain chuckled, an amused smile spreading across his jet black face.
Captain Sewell’s warmth eased the tension, but Collin’s face was still twisted in confusion.
“Look, man, it’s none of my business. I get paid to take people sailing. You pay me lots, we go sailing fast. No problem. My crew and I can go fast, as you have seen now.”
“Yes, and I thank you for that. Fantastic job.” Collin regarded him cautiously.
The Captain returned his gaze with a look of concern. A moment later he said, “You know, I see some crazy stuff sometimes. Crazy stuff. Lots of it. It seems to find this place.” Then with a flash of his white teeth, he added, “Like you.”
“What do you mean, like me? I’m not crazy.”
“No? You sure about that, man? You jump out of that taxi all excited and willing to pay big money to get off the island. You think that’s not crazy?”
“When you put it that way, sure it seems crazy. But I’m not. I’m quite normal. I just want to sail to Jamaica.”
“Yeah, man. That’s right. You just need to sail to Jamaica right now, and you need me to forget I ever saw you. Cops come speeding up behind you. Yeah, that’s not crazy.”
“OK. I needed to get off the island, and I’m willing to pay $15,000 to do so. I’ve got my reasons, even if it seems a bit crazy.” Collin felt the need to deflect the attention from himself and move to another topic. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve seen?”
With only a moment’s pause, the veteran seafarer came back with a story. In his heavy Caribbean accent, the Captain unwound a tale. “I lost a boat to pirates once. That was crazy. They came up, two of them speedy boats. One on each side. They yelling and screaming. They was crazy, I knew it right away. I just do what they say.” The Captain looked off in the distance, gazing at nothing in particular but squinting toward the horizon. “They look through my boat, searching for drugs or money or other stuff they can use. Then they burn it. Burn it, I say. Just like that.”
“How’d you get away?”
“I used the dinghy. They let me and my crew get in the dinghy– four grown men in a tiny rubber boat in the middle of the ocean. That was a bad day, man.” He chuckled, but behind the chuckle was a grimace. He drew in his breath through clinched teeth, shaking his head. “Yeah, that was a crazy bad day.”
Collin searched for the right thing to say, but before he knew it, he was uttering the words, “Wow. That must’ve sucked.”
The Captain’s countenance dropped; then his gaze turned to Collin and fixated on his mouth for a moment. His face grew tense as he surveyed Collin. He squinted hard and bit his lip. All of a sudden, he let out a boisterous laugh. “You damn right, man! That really sucked! Like you wouldn’t believe, it sucked!” he blurted out between chortles.
The two men laughed together for several minutes. Collin laughed because the Captain was laughing. He laughed harder when he realized how horribly wrong this exchange could have gone. The laughter didn’t come easily at first. He hadn’t laughed much in the past ten months.
Once the jocularity subsided, Collin asked his next question, “How’d you get through it? I mean, how long were you out there, and how’d you, you know, make it?”
The perceptive Captain went on and told the story. His voice was soft, and it reminded Collin of the way his dad often told stories, slowly and deliberately, making a point. Captain Sewell explained that they spent one very long day and an even longer night bobbing at sea before they were spotted and picked up by a fishing boat. Luckily for them, the seas were calm that day.
He put in a claim with the insurance company and got this boat, like new, paid for mostly by insurance money. Now, business was better than it had ever been. This boat was larger, more stylish, faster, and much, much prettier to look at. This, he was sure, helped him attract the rich American and European clients.
“So, I guess, them pirates helped me. That day sucked, but better days came because of it.” Captain Sewell stopped, letting the last sentence sink in, then turned and studied Collin’s face before asking a question of his own. “What brings you here? Why Cayman?”
Collin was slow to respond, his mind still caught on what the Captain had said about his life being better since his run-in with the pirates. His life going forward, Collin had come to believe, would amount to nothing more than running from unknown people. Survival in a game of hide-and-seek. That was it. That was all he could see. Finally, he worked out an answer to the Captain’s question.
“I don’t know. I just like it. Always have, ever since I first heard about it when I was a kid.” Collin looked back at the man who was obviously waiting for more. “Well, you know, they advertise it a lot in the dive shops, and when my buddies and I were getting certified for SCUBA, the Cayman Islands were talked about as ‘the place’ to dive. So I decided that one day when I had the money, I’d come here.”
“That’s rubbish, man. Pure rubbish. You know what I mean. What are you doing here?”
Collin struggled with what he should tell a stranger. But he needed an ally, and this guy was reaching out. He looked up from his shoes and met the Captain’s eyes. They were not harsh, critical eyes. The man was curious and seemed to genuinely want to know more. “I find myself unexpectedly single and with enough money to travel in style. So here I am. Seeing the world.”
Captain Sewell nodded his head knowingly and winked an eye. “Okay. Let me show you a little bit of our world. It’s beautiful, no?” He swept his hand in an arc and smiled proudly.
Collin smiled, too. A new relationship was forming. The first new relationship in a year.
It felt good.
The sense of safety and peace returned. If only for a short time.
London, England
May 3
Nic Lancaster hustled into Alastair Montgomery’s cramped office. At twenty-eight, Nic was the youngest and most ambitious investigator on Alastair’s handpicked team of corporate crime geniuses, but that was only part of the reason he was chosen for this special, potentially high profile task. Always eager to further his career, Nic had caught his boss working around the rules, taking advantage of his position, and had threatened to hold it over him. Alastair knew the kid was bright. Bright enough, perhaps, to make them both look good fulfilling what seemed like a dreadful assignment. He decided last night, after his third drink, to give the kid the chance he was looking for. Maybe then Lancaster would stop hounding him.
“Nic, I have a special assignment for you,” he said as he waved his hand in the direction of a chair on the other side of the desk. “There’s an American on the loose in Europe that may have ties to the Komodos – the group from Southeast Asia that blindsided RBS last week. I need you to find him and bring him in. What do you say?”
“Right, boss. Finding an American in Europe is a special assignment?” said Nic.
“Well, yes, in fact, it is. He hasn’t been seen in half a year. Not until five days ago, that is,” said Alastair, ignoring Nic’s skepticism.
“Right. I’ll drop everything to find this chap who’s lost his way. It’s got all the elements of a monumental international crisis.” Nic’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Look here, chum. The FBI called from Los Angeles and asked for our cooperation. Top priority it is. They think he might lead us to some bigger fish.”
“Oh, really? Like how big a fish?”
“Real big. The kind of big fish that could launch one’s career if he plays his cards right.”
“Now we’re talking. Who is this guy that can lead to the big fish, and what do we know about him?”
“His name is Collin Cook. We know that he disappeared from his home in Northern California back in November after his family was killed in a traffic wreck. Horrible thing, really. Must’ve turned him to the dark side. Regardless, two days before the RBS thing, he’s photographed with the top man from this Asian crime ring that we have been trying to get our arms around. These photos surfaced Tuesday,” Alastair said as he turned his computer monitor toward Nic and clicked his mouse. “They were taken at a pub in Kings Cross on Monday. This guy is Pho Nam Penh, the big fish I mentioned. An evil bloke bent on destroying Western lifestyle. Been branded a terrorist, but hasn’t been seen much. Keeps a very low profile . . .”
“Wait a minute,” said Nic, wagging a finger at the image on the screen. “That’s the bloke connected to all those penny-skimming scams months ago, isn’t it? He skimmed from dozens of European banks for months until we shut it down. Apparently he’s stepped it up, eh?”
Alastair’s eyebrows lifted and his head nodded. “You know about this guy, do you?”
“A bit, yeah. But I’m sure there’s more I don’t know,” said Nic.
“Well, then you might also know that our investment banks have suffered the wrath of his attacks, as have others in Germany, France, Australia, and, of course, the United States. He’s slick, real slick. He’s made us look like fools for months now.”
“You want me to go after Pho Nam Penh and break up his operation?” asked Nic, rubbing his hands together. “Sounds quite high profile. I like it.”
“I know you’re ambitious, Nic. But for now, just find the American. Follow him, try to figure out the connection, if there is one, and let him lead us to Penh. Shouldn’t be that difficult really. This guy was nothing but a salesman a year ago.”
Nic stroked his chin, a look of warm satisfaction spreading across his boyish face. The lights were on and the wheels were turning. His lucky break. As he stood, he looked again at the photo on the screen and said, “I’m on it.”
* * * *
Nic strode purposefully down the hallway back to his cubicle, chin up and chest out. Nic wasn’t big on exercise and didn’t see the sun often. As a child, he had been rather sickly. The result was an unimpressive physique that was pasty white and thin as a tent pole. The thinning hair didn’t help, either. What he lacked physically, he made up for in effort and cunning. He wiggled and stretched his fingers as he sat in front of his computer. “Here we go. Collin Cook, you’re mine now,” he said out loud. Alastair’s warning that there was no evidence against Cook went unheeded.
The clicking of his mouse and keyboard continued nearly unabated until late afternoon, searching and reading and learning all he could about Collin Cook, Pho Nam Penh, and the Komodo syndicate. The news stories about the cyber attacks were vicious in their treatment of Interpol and Scotland Yard, calling them “an incompetent lot” and “asleep at the controls.” Their reports decried it a disgrace that the culprits were still at large after bringing one of Europe’s preeminent financial institutions to a grinding halt for nearly a day. Billions of pounds of lost income and lost opportunity had yet to be punished.
No one seemed to know much about this Pho Nam Penh chap or his band of operators, known as the Komodos. The news outlets never mentioned him by name. The intra-agency bulletins made reference to the group as suspects in various cyber crimes and hack attacks, including the penny-skimming scam. As of yet, no law enforcement agency had collected the kind of solid evidence that could support a warrant for any arrests, cease and desists, or other sanctions. Penh and the members of his enigmatic band had proven so elusive that surveillance and tracking were not possible.
Turning his attention to another enigma, Nic searched Collin Cook online and found a trove of news articles. As he read, Nic discovered Collin’s tragic but well-chronicled story on the local Bay Area news stations’ websites. He learned that Amy Cook and her three children were returning to their Petaluma home after celebrating the Fourth of July at her family’s Lake Tahoe cabin. A semi truck hauling twenty tons of rock from the highway construction project on Interstate 80 lost control and tumbled onto the minivan Mrs. Cook was driving. The pictures were horrifying. The Toyota Sienna was flattened. Nic paused to catch his breath.
Curiosity piqued, Nic continued to read. Another article reported that Collin Cook was hospitalized after being found unconscious on his living room floor in a pool of his own blood and vomit by a California Highway Patrol Officer investigating the accident. The officer was dispatched to the Cook home when Mr. Cook did not answer CHP calls. It was discovered through phone records that Mr. and Mrs. Cook were on the phone to each other at the time of the accident. Nic stopped again. He couldn’t help but feel for this guy. No wonder he came unhinged.
The last article he read summarized the mysterious disappearance of the same Collin Cook. It recapped the tragedy and quoted the concerned parents of Mr. Cook who asked for help bringing their son home. That was shortly after Thanksgiving. Mr. Cook reportedly received an insurance settlement estimated to be more than $25 Million, according to unnamed sources.
I guess he took the money and ran, thought Nic. Why not? Seemed like a nice enough guy according to all accounts, but don’t they all, up until they cross the line?
With his findings on the two men fresh in his mind, Nic tried to surmise the mysterious link between Penh and Collin Cook. Why? Why would an average Joe like Collin Cook start colluding with an enemy like Pho Nam Penh? Nic had to make sense of it, but none of it fit together. Yet.
* * * *
Alastair Montgomery had spent the entire day in and out of meetings with his superiors and his subordinates. Non-stop status updates on this RBS thing. It was enough to drive a man insane. There were too many demands, too many opinions, and not enough credible information to act on. All the media frenzy, all the accusations, all the commotion had taken its toll. His head felt like it might explode. He needed a drink.
As Alastair draped his coat over his arm and hefted his computer bag, Nic Lancaster swept breathlessly into his office waving a stack of papers. “Sir, I think I’m onto something,” he said.
“What have you got there, Nic?” said Alastair. His eyebrows rose, but his facial expression remained unchanged.
“This is a list of banks in the Caribbean that have received an influx of electronic funds transfers into numbered accounts during the three days after the RBS attack. I’ve eliminated all but those that received at least $1 million in a single transaction.”
“That’s great, Nic. What do you plan to do with that information?”
“I’ve informed these banks that we’re tracking down the funds that were stolen from RBS.”
“And what’s that going to do? You don’t expect them to jump up and say, ‘Oh, yes, we’d be glad to give your money back’? Is that where you’re going with this, Mr. Lancaster?”
“No, sir. But, with your permission, I’d like to put a temporary freeze on all electronic transfers out of those bank accounts without verification of identities of the accountholders,” Nic said, his eyes pleading.
“What makes you think they’ll cooperate? We don’t have that kind of jurisdictional authority.”
“Maybe not, but it should give them a pretty good scare. I’m willing to bet some will cooperate. Who knows, maybe I’ll catch a lucky break. I figure I’ll send out that photo of Collin Cook, the American you wanted me to track down, and see if I get any bites.”
“Fine, Nic. Good luck with that,” Alastair said as he moved toward the open door. “Time you be getting home, too. It’s past eight o’clock.”
“Right, sir. I’ll just finish up a few things here, then head out.”
Alastair gave Nic a quizzical look as the young investigator spun and headed down the hallway.
Nic checked his watch as he marched back to his cubicle. It was still mid-afternoon in the Caribbean. He could reach at least half the banks on his list before they closed. Maybe he would get lucky. It was worth a try.
* * * *
Near Kingston, Jamaica
May 3
As the
Admiral Risty
approached the outer harbor at Kingston, Jamaica, seagulls circled above, cawing and squawking, their white bodies gliding effortlessly overhead against the backdrop of blue sky. Captain Sewell stood beside his chair in the cockpit and surveyed the area near the docks through his high powered binoculars, scanning back and forth. His countenance grew stern. “There is an unusual amount of activity on shore, over there, near the commercial fishing dock,” he said as he pointed with his finger. “I’ll go check it out, make sure everything’s OK.” He handed the binoculars to Collin and continued to indicate the area of concern.
“I’ve never been here, so I don’t know what’s unusual for this place,” said Collin.
“I’m telling you, that crowd and all that activity is different.” Turning to his crew, he ordered Tog and Mickey to prepare the dinghy. He returned his focus to Collin. “Might be nothing. Who knows? For your own safety, you should stay here until I return.”
Collin’s face turned serious. “I guess, if you think that’s best,” he said, running his hand through his hair. He did not want to step into another trap.
“The three of us will go ashore to see what it’s all about. You stay here with Rojas and Jaime. But, you must stay out of sight, below deck, until we return. Rojas, show him the hiding place, just in case.”
* * * *
Below deck, Collin switched on his phone for the first time since boarding the boat. He wanted to save his battery with no signal at sea. As the phone powered up and locked into satellite reception, three message alert chimes sounded. All from Lukas, of course.
The first one read:
Sorry I missed your call. Busy with another urgent matter. Did you land safely?
The second one read:
Where are you going? You should be at the Comfort Inn.
The time stamp on the last one was roughly twelve hours after the second message. It read:
The money in Grand Keys Bank is not safe. Need to move it right away.
Relieved to have something to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t feel like a captive, Collin opened his laptop and used the signal from his phone to get on the Internet and do some research of his own. He read bulletins on a few reliable web pages for information but found nothing pertinent to Grand Keys Bank.
London Herald
, however, quoted a source close to the investigation into the Royal Bank of Scotland fiasco as saying that Interpol was examining all of the major banks in the Caribbean, looking for suspicious activity. They had, in fact, ordered an injunction against all non-verified electronic transactions out of the banks until Interpol could sort out the origination point of the monies in question.
After reading two other articles that alluded to the banking situation, Collin rang Lukas. “What do I need to do?” he asked as soon as Lukas answered.
“Whoa, you’re OK? That’s great. I was worried,” said Lukas. “You’ve been off the grid a long time. What happened?”