Navajo Echoes

“Denver,” John said.

“A grand coincidence,” Ramon said.

Lily dug her elbow into John’s ribs, reminding him that she didn’t believe in coincidence.

The governor continued, “We have another visitor from Denver. His name is Drew Kirshner.”

“Small world.” One in which a governor of a Caribbean island was linked with a businessman connected to the Russian mob in Denver. Why would Kirshner be here? Several possibilities presented themselves. All were negative.

Lily kept the conversation going. “We’d really like to try some of the local foods. Do you recommend any restaurants?”

He waggled a forefinger at her. “I cannot choose just one. The others would be insulted. But I can warn you that many of our dishes are very spicy.”

“I love hot food. And all these wonderful fruits. Mangos and guava.”

She played the role of innocent tourist to the hilt, leading the governor and his entourage through a litany of small talk, even soliciting a recipe for curried goat that was used by the governor’s housekeeper.

John wasn’t sure where she was headed with this chat until she slipped in a casual question. “I’d really like to know how to make that dish. May I stop by and talk with your housekeeper? If it’s not too much of an imposition.”

“I have a better idea,” Ramon said. “Tomorrow afternoon at four, I am hosting a cocktail party at the governor’s mansion, where many of our local specialties will be served as appetizers. I would be pleased to have you join us.”

“Thank you, Governor,” Lily said. “You’re so gracious. We’ll be there.”

After a few more words, they rejoined the throng of dancers on the sand. John leaned close to her ear. “Nice work on wrangling that invite.”

“Like Sun Tzu said—keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“You think the governor is an enemy?”

“He’s suspicious, especially since he knows Kirshner.”

John agreed. When Lily put her mind to the task, she had the makings of a damned good agent. Not that he intended to tell her so. She had plenty of ego without his compliments.

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK, THE NIGHT was still warm, but Lily was glad that she’d purchased a couple of black sweatshirts to cover their colorful island clothes. They needed to be subtle and careful as they headed out for their midnight meeting with Robert Prescott.

As soon as they left the hotel, John pointed out the small, dark man who followed them at a consistent twenty-foot distance, stopping when they stopped and starting up again when they moved on. They meandered along the main road in town, crossing from one side of the street to the other. Most of the storefront shops were closed, but the restaurants and taverns were still open for the tourists. She paused to look in a window and turned her gaze toward the street behind them. For a moment, she thought they’d shaken their silent pursuer. But no. “He’s still there. Who sent him?”

“Your new best friend. The governor.”

“Because I wanted the recipe for curried goat?”

“You know why we’re being followed,” John said.

Because they might lead the way to Robert Prescott. In spite of the easygoing Caribbean atmosphere, she was aware of the long grasp of danger that reached all the way from Denver to Cuerva. Other agents at PPS had been threatened. They had lost one of their own.

The reappearance and return of Robert Prescott signaled the end game. The final solution. And someone wanted to stop them.

John checked his wristwatch. “We’re running out of time.”

“How far to Pirate Cove?”

“Three miles. We can follow the road that runs along the perimeter of the island and then cut down to the beach.”

“Why not start on the beach? We could swim.”

“Bad idea.”

She resented the way he dismissed her suggestion without even considering it. “Why?”

“On the beach, there’s no cover. We’d be too obvious. And if somebody wanted to shoot us—”

“No way. If this guy intended to gun us down, he’s had plenty of opportunities.”

“Not really. I’ve kept to populated areas.”

“It’s a long walk.” She shuffled along beside him. After the freedom of dancing on the sand, her sandals felt like bricks strapped to her feet and the idea of another cross-island trek almost brought tears to her eyes.

He pointed to a colorfully painted bench beside a beige stucco wall. “Wait here.”

Splitting up seemed like a terrible plan, but she did as John ordered, sinking onto the bench, bending down to massage her calf and putting her ankle holster within easy reach.

John didn’t go far. He approached a young man sitting on a beat-up motor scooter. After a quick negotiation and an exchange of cash from John’s money belt, they had transportation.

“Did you rent this?” she asked.

“Bought it.”

His extravagance surprised her. “What about the expense account?”

“I’ll resell when we’re done. Maybe even turn a profit.”

She perched behind John on the scooter, which was only slightly larger than a moped and not much faster. Top speed was probably about thirty miles per hour, but it was better than walking.

On the scooter, they doubled back, passing the man who had been following them. He jogged after them. John whipped onto a side street, then took a couple more zigzags. Then, they were on an unlit two-lane asphalt road, bordered by thick vegetation on either side.

Despite the crowds in town, there were no cars out here. She held on to John’s waist for balance, but her gaze fastened on the road behind them. If the man who had been following them gave pursuit, her backside presented an obvious target. She saw no one. No headlights. No light at all except for the full moon. No sounds but the putt-putt of the scooter and the squawks of island parrots.

The entire island was only sixteen miles from end to end, and it didn’t take long to get to the far end, where John turned right onto a road that was little more than a bike path. At a rocky strip of beach, he stopped. “This must be it. Pirate Cove.”

“How are we doing for time?”

He checked his watch. “Six minutes to midnight.”

While John hid the scooter in the lush under-growth, she found a shadowed hiding place near the shore. She sat with her knees pulled up and her back leaning against the limestone.

She could see how Pirate Cove had gotten its name. Jagged rocks thrust into the sea, creating a natural barrier where smugglers could hide. Blackbeard and his crew of buccaneers might have rowed ashore to this very place and buried their treasure of gold doubloons.

John joined her and stretched his long legs out straight in front of him.