Off Kilter (11 page)

Collin watched carefully, learning.

Once finished, the Captain went topside. Collin moved down the narrow aisle to the right of the steps to the bunk where his backpack was stashed. He did an inventory of his belongings and counted the stacks of cash. As he worked, he questioned Lukas’s instruction to physically carry the money to Panama. Maybe he forgot how bulky and awkward it was to carry that much cash. None of this seemed logical. But Lukas was nothing if not logical. Lukas had guided him safely for the last six months. No reason to start doubting him now.

Just then, there arose a cry from Miguel, the crew member who spent most of his time on the lookout, binoculars in hand. “Five o’clock. Coming fast. Cigarette boat. Four guys. They got guns.”

A mad scramble of excitement erupted on deck as the Captain began barking out orders. Within moments, the ship was at full sail and veering southward. While the crew scurried into position and manned their stations, the Captain burst into the cabin and began pulling out the guns he had just cleaned. Collin was frozen, not sure what to do. Without a word, the Captain handed him two guns and motioned for him to take them up top. After handing the guns to Rojas, he returned. The Captain handed him two more guns and told Collin to stay below deck. The Captain carried an armload of ammunition clips to his men. Each man snapped the loaded clips into place and took up positions around the deck.

Collin stood on the steps, watching the activity. It was like a well-choreographed ballet. There was movement, urgent and serious, but it flowed. Each performer moving independently and with purpose.

Miguel positioned himself at the stern. Holding onto the railing in a sitting position, the gun in his right hand, a pair of binoculars in his left, while his feet and legs held on tight. He scanned the horizon to the rear of the ship and relayed what he saw loud enough for the Captain and crew to hear. “Incoming vessel at six o’clock. Two miles out and closing.”

Collin felt helpless as each of the other men performed his prescribed part while he watched, motionless and uncertain.

“Captain,” cried Miguel. “They are in uniform. Navy, I think. Yes, they are US Navy.”

The feeling of being hunted like wounded prey reemerged inside Collin, along with the accompanying sense of vulnerability. The swagger evaporated like water droplets on a hot skillet. Breathing became short and labored. An overpowering flood of emotions paralyzed Collin.

Still standing below deck, clutching the handrail, face and knuckles white as the clouds above, Collin was unable to move as he watched the cigarette boat closing in on them from the northeast. The closer it got, the louder the roar of its engines. Deep, throaty, and powerful.

Aboard the
Admiral Risty
, the men watched silently, their rifles pointing upward. The Captain ordered them to stand down and do nothing that would cause alarm. The wind whipped the sails, and they fluttered and snapped loudly as they harnessed the power of the ocean breeze. Water sprayed out from the leading edge of the hull with each wave and swell she cut through. However, she was no match for the approaching speed boat.

No one spoke.

The cigarette boat was a mile behind them, leaping through the swells, lurching ever closer. Suddenly aware of Collin’s presence on the steps, the Captain turned to him and barked, “Go below decks
now
and hide. In the spot Rojas showed you. Get out of sight, and stay there until I give you the signal. Hurry.” His voice was commanding but not panicked.

Collin understood the directions and the reason for them. He didn’t question. He just obeyed. It seemed logical, even comforting. He finally knew what to do and could take some action.

During Rojas’s tour, Collin learned that the Captain purchased this boat at auction in Miami. It was owned previously by a drug smuggler who had designed some special features into the hull and the cabin. In every other way, this boat was identical to its peers of the same model. The exceptions were few but critically important for its designer’s line of business. And of course, none of these “upgrades” were documented.

The first special feature was in the head. Hidden behind the toilet were two buttons, one on either side, that allowed the toilet and the floor around it to pivot forward on hinges, exposing a compartment that was no larger than a mid-sized suitcase. That was the perfect place for Collin to stuff the contents of his bulging backpack. With some exertion, he squeezed each garbage bag into place. Devoid of its contents, the backpack folded up so it could be wedged into a gap in the front of the compartment. Collin had to push and poke to make it fit so he could close the hatch.

The second feature was cleverly hidden in the otherwise normal-looking galley. Collin swung the small oven’s door open and removed the rack. He felt along the corners where the top panel met the side panels for two concealed buttons that released the back of the oven. The buttons were the same charcoal gray color as the inside panels, so they blended in perfectly. Behind the back panel was a compartment just the right size to conceal Collin’s computer bag. With some effort, he was able to make it fit, but he could not secure the back wall into its original position before his attention was diverted by the commotion on the deck.

He strained to hear what was going on, but the only sounds he could make out were Miguel’s high-pitched yells. Everything else, other than the noise of the water lashing against the hull, was too faint and muffled to make out.

“Five hundred meters and closing. Men . . . Driver is . . .” was all he could hear from Miguel. The other words were drowned in the commotion.

A loud squawk boomed from a PA system aboard the other ship. “This is the United States Navy. Prepare your vessel to be boarded for inspection.”

The Captain barked out orders, but Collin couldn’t make out the words. Immediately, he heard the pounding of feet on the deck above him, followed by the whirring of ropes through their pulleys, the rippling and flapping of the heavy nylon sails, and the clanging of those metal pulleys against the masts and cross bars. From the sounds, he knew the men were bringing down the sails and securing the riggings. The mighty sailboat slowed to a drift. A long ways away from their destination. A long ways from anything.

Panic set in and he froze in place. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Collin remembered the instructions the Captain had given him and tried to unglue his feet from the floor. But they felt so heavy he could hardly move them. His body was not responding. His brain was stuck, anticipating his doom. Exerting every ounce of energy he had, he darted into the bottom bunk and began to work.

Maneuvering into this cramped and smelly space, especially with so little time and the need for silence, required precision and focus. From the lower bunk, he had to pull up the corners of the mattress and feel for a pair of release buttons. When he found them, he pushed against the wall of the cabin and it gave ever so slightly, pivoting from a hinge concealed by the edge of the upper bunk. It swung toward the outside wall just enough for him to roll into the hideaway, suck in his breath to make himself as skinny as possible, and slide into the tiny space between the inner and outer walls of the boat. He had to pull his legs up, squeeze them through the tight opening, then extend them again so he could push with all his might to get the trap door back in place. There was just enough room for him to compress his shoulders against the outer wall so the door would swing shut again. This hiding place was designed for much smaller people.

This chamber was parallel to the lower bunk and less than a quarter of the width. The door of the hatch barely closed as it scraped across his belly, chest, and face as he lay on his shoulder, his body at the same angle as the side of the boat—not quite vertical, but sloping up and out—keeping himself as flat as he could. It was at that very moment that he heard the footsteps pounding down the stairs. He managed to get the door closed but not secured. He could still see light coming in around the three edges of the panel, which meant it wasn’t tight and could be seen from the other side. All it would take was a close look to see the outline of the hatch.

He had to reposition his body to snap the latches shut tightly. Doing this under pressure and in cramped quarters presented a formidable challenge that tested Collin’s ability to fight off his phobia of being locked up. It was imperative that he be as silent as possible. He hoped the water slapping and lashing the side of the boat would cover the clicking sound.

When the latches caught with a loud snap, Collin held his breath and strained to listen for a reaction. His heart was racing, his lungs were burning, and his head was aching, making it difficult to hear anything except his own pulse. Over the drumming in his ears, he heard the thud of footfalls moving toward him. They stopped. Two more thuds moved closer. A muffled voice hollered something Collin couldn’t make out, followed by a response from outside. The heavy thuds moved again, this time away from him, toward the bow.

It was all he could do to prevent his arms and legs from thrashing and flailing in hopes of escape. He squeezed his eyes closed and forced himself to relax by imagining himself lying in the sun on the deck above.

In the pitch black, hot, and stuffy space, Collin tried to slow his pulse and breathing. Beads of sweat covered his face, arms, and legs. Rivulets ran down his neck, behind his ears, down his chest, and into his armpits. His whole body itched as the perspiration trickled along his skin. He wanted to wipe it off to stop the tickling, but he couldn’t.

Collin’s body went rigid and motionless upon hearing a new noise. It was banging and thumping on the walls, the cabinets, and floors. The racket grew louder as the pounding sounds approached the bunk area. Collin wanted to scream or run or shrink to the size of a termite. Then it all stopped as if a discovery had been made. The unfamiliar voice was just beyond the wall that concealed him, asking questions forcefully. Collin remained still and uttered a silent prayer for deliverance.

Another stomping sound on the floor. Then another. A knock on the bulkhead that supported the bottom bunk. A rustling that sounded like the mattress on the lower bunk being moved about. A metallic sound that Collin recognized as the latch to the storage area under the bed. More bumping and thumping as things were moved around within the storage area. Collin felt the vibrations through the fiberglass wall that separated him from the items in the storage compartment.

The seas picked up and the waves tossed the two boats about, causing them to knock and clang as they bumped and bounced into the rubber bumpers hanging between them. Another wave hit and the sound of bodies bumping into walls followed.

Collin heard the unfamiliar voice bark out more orders. The voices topside gave short responses, which Collin was nearly certain were, “Aye, aye.” The thudding of footsteps clamored up the steps as yet another wave crashed into the sides of the two boats. Voices were now high-pitched and urgent but growing more distant. More pounding on the deck as several pairs of heavy footsteps moved this way and that, then vanished altogether.

The next sound was the throaty purr of the powerful speed boat’s engines firing up. Within seconds, those sounds were moving away at an ever increasing pace until they faded completely.

Time passed, but Collin had no idea how much. As if in the distance, he heard the all-clear signal—a rap-a-tap-tap-rap on the push away wall. It repeated. Then again. Coming out of a haze, he felt thick-headed and sluggish, finally responding with a similar rap-a-tap-tap-rap. Jaime pushed from his side, and the trap door opened just enough to reveal Collin’s flushed and contorted face, his clothing dirty and soaking wet. But he smiled faintly as he breathed in the sweetness of the fresh air that rushed to greet him. The Captain and crew cheered and congratulated Collin as they pulled him out of his holding cell.

Off the Coast of Panama

May 11

Sailing through the Caribbean has a way of melting time and worries. Six days had passed since the Navy team boarded the
Admiral Risty
. The winds had cooperated, aiding their journey. Collin was as relaxed as he had been in years—ever, perhaps. Nothing but a vast ocean of turquoise, warm breezes, a few laughs with the crew, and enough work to keep him engaged. Since divulging his troubles to Captain Sewell, Collin’s mind was freer and less encumbered. No need to hide secrets anymore. Instead, he focused his energy on watching and learning everything he could about sailing, using the navigation equipment, and predicting the weather. Observing the crew members and Captain Sewell kept him occupied, as well. When there was work to be done, Collin jumped up and helped, happy to pitch in with any and all duties aboard. His willingness and ability to work, along with his cooking skills, endeared him to his fellow shipmates. Before long, he was treated almost like one of the other crew mates. There remained, however, a certain level of deference because he was a paying client.

Being helpful and staying busy was second nature to Collin, but it also helped his mind from slipping back into pain he was trying to push away. Because nighttime was the most difficult part of the day for Collin, he volunteered for the late shift, preferring to nap during the day and busy himself when darkness fell.

Late that afternoon, the Captain announced that they would arrive in Panama the next day. “We can take you to the city of Colón. There’s a very nice, very modern port there. It will have every accommodation you need,” he said to Collin.

“Yes, I read about it. Sounds like it’s a major hub for commerce through the Canal.”

“It is. But because of that, officials are careful and meticulous, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you worried about going there?” asked Collin.

“Friends of mine tell me the entry into Panama can be dicey,” said Captain Sewell. “They follow every rule in Colón. Nothing gets past them. That’s why I wonder if it might be best for you to enter the country somewhere less crowded, less popular.”

“Any suggestions?”

“With your recent experiences, I think it best to sail southeast of the Canal to the island of El Porvenir.”

“Never heard of it,” said Collin.

“That’s the point. It’s small, remote, and, by some standards, uncivilized.”

“I see where you’re going with this. That could work to our advantage,” said Collin, snapping his fingers in recognition of the brilliance of the idea.

“Yes, I’m sure you would like to draw less attention to yourself than you did in George Town.”

“That’s for sure.”

Pointing to the digital map on his navigation screen, Captain Sewell showed Collin Isla Porvenir, a small island among the Kuna Yala chain, which stretched eastward from the mainland into the Caribbean south of the Panama Canal. “These islands are inhabited by the Kuna Yala Indians, and they control their own Customs and Immigration office. I understand that they are much less rigorous than in Colón,” said the Captain.

“How can you be sure?” asked Collin.

“I have been here once. I found the Kuna Indians to be warm and friendly people. They still speak their native language and follow many of their native customs. A very interesting people—very proud and independent. They don’t care too much about the rest of the world. Their life is simple, and they like it that way.”

“Do any of you speak their language? It won’t help us too much if we can’t communicate with them.”

“There are some who have learned Spanish. Those are the ones that have all the good jobs, like in the government offices. That kind of job brings status. But, they still like doing things their own way, and they thumb their noses, whenever possible, at the Panamanian government. That is why many sailors prefer to go there to get into the country.”

“Excellent,” said Collin with a sense of satisfaction and relief. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

*              *              *              *

Isla Porvenir, Panama

May 12

The sun glowed pinkish orange through a band of silvery clouds highlighted in purple on the western horizon, just above the land mass that was Panama, as the
Admiral Risty
sailed into the outer harbor of Porvenir. Palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze, and the sound of waves skimming along the sand greeted the weary sailors. On the radio, the Captain tried to make contact with the local authorities, but no one responded. It was a Sunday evening, after all. He positioned the boat in a semi-protected cove, a hundred yards off a rocky outcropping at the harbor mouth. They would handle the formalities in the morning. According to local custom, it could be ten o’clock before officials made their way over.

With nothing else to do, the six men onboard the
Admiral Risty
sat on the bow and soaked it all in—the sound of the waves and the birds, the last rays of the sun before it hid itself behind the western horizon, and the stillness, glad for a respite after their long journey. This was indeed a tranquil paradise. They shared stories late into the night.

*              *              *              *

Isla Porvenir, Panama

May 13

Collin woke the next morning with the sun, eager to begin the next phase of his mission. He dragged his bags out from semi-darkness below deck to the cockpit so as not to disturb the others. To get into character, Collin pulled out his supplies and went to work. By the time he was finished, his fake blond hair was dark brown to match his rather full beard. Per Lukas’s fastidious instructions, he traveled with home hair coloring kits in colors to match the pictures in each of his passports. His hair had become long and unkempt, which fit the British passport he carried bearing the name of Nigel Spencer.

Using his electric razor, he trimmed the beard, then donned a pair of round-rimmed glasses, and equipped the pockets of his knapsack with falsified documents that would verify his status as a Research Fellow with the Archaeology Foundation of England. Brilliant forgeries put together by Lukas’s shadowy team of helpers. He also put on the requisite long, nylon, cargo shorts and multi-pocketed, long-sleeve shirt of a field scientist, complemented by hiking sandals. The red bandana and the beaded necklace around his neck added to the costume. A regular British naturalist.

When the local authority finally appeared in a small patrol boat, Nigel Spencer surprised his crew mates by speaking fluent Spanish. He introduced himself and explained, when asked, the purpose of his visit to Panama: “To explore and study the ruins of LaVieja for the Archaeological Society of Leeds under a grant from Archaeology Foundation of England.”

Collin’s matter-of-fact explanation, combined with his mastery of Spanish and convincing persona, gave the customs agent little reason to inspect the boat or its contents any further. He poked around the boat, asked questions about how long and where he would be staying in Panama, but he hardly listened to the answers. A cursory examination of Collin’s pack and computer bag lasted scarcely twenty seconds. Collin talked non-stop, trying to divert the man’s attention as he explained in breathless detail the goals of his archaeological expedition and his eagerness to get started. His excitement was not contagious. In fact, the man seemed impatient and ready to leave, so he escorted Collin and Captain Sewell onto the Customs boat and took them to the office at the far end of the harbor. Collin jabbered the whole way.

After nearly two hours of waiting, explaining, filling out papers, explaining some more, and waiting again, the Customs Master invited them into his office. He signed Collin’s entry papers, granting him permission to enter Panama. He promptly dismissed them to return to their boat. The problem was the
Admiral Risty
was anchored a mile away, necessitating the exchange of US currency in order to pay for Captain Sewell’s return trip to his vessel.

Before they parted, Collin programmed the number for Captain’s satellite phone into his iPhone. It was only the second contact saved in his address book. He promised to call him within twenty-four hours to let him know if he would need a ride out of Panama.

Collin thanked the Captain for bringing him safely to this point. “I left your payment in the secret compartment behind the microwave. It’s all there with a little extra to share with the crew.”

Captain Sewell held out a hand, and when Collin reached out to shake it, the Captain pulled Collin in for a brotherly embrace. “It’s been a pleasure, wanderer. You take care of yourself and be careful.” As Collin pulled back, he added with a big smile on his face, “You were right about one thing.”

“Oh, yeah? What was I right about?” asked Collin.

“I miss adventure . . . and danger . . . and helping the good guys.”

Collin flashed a crooked smile. “Good. I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned and walked down the dock toward the island. The confidence he displayed was mostly for show. The next steps in his plan, though spelled out in his elaborate spreadsheet, felt very uncertain. But he knew the Captain was watching him, so he put on a good show. Toward the end of the dock, he stopped, turned, set down his computer bag, and with one last gesture, waved a hand above his head to the Captain. The Captain, in return, doffed his cap, then climbed aboard the patrol boat.

The big backpack was full and weighed about fifty pounds. It was bound to his body with a heavily padded belt and two padded shoulder straps. Collin had repacked most of the money into it amongst clothing and supplies. He also carried the smaller pack and his computer bag, one in each hand. After paying the Captain and crew and keeping some out for spending, he was down to $2.7 million of cold, hard cash. Enough to make him wince as he schlepped it through town.

It was time to check in with Lukas.

“You’re wise to enter Panama that way. Much safer,” Lukas said after they exchanged greetings. “That Captain knows what he’s talking about.”

“Yeah, but now I have to get from here to Panama City with all this cash. I feel like a slow-moving target.”

“Won’t be a problem, my friend,” said Lukas. “On your end, you just need to get on a plane for Panama City. According to our operatives, things are pretty loose and casual down there. The Kuna people have little concern for the government’s rules. Plus they have immunity, thanks to a long-standing arrangement between the Kuna tribal leaders and Panama City. The native people on the islands are self-governed and don’t give a rip what the Panamanian authorities want. So don’t worry yourself.”

“Okay, that’s only half the problem. What if I get mugged?”

“What if? That’s not going to happen, either. They are a peaceful people that wouldn’t hurt a person just for the sake of money.”

“Okay, let’s suppose you’re right, and I have no trouble here on the island. What next? What happens when I land in Panama City?”

“Don’t worry about that, either. We’ve got contacts set up there. I’ll have everything in place for you. For now just get yourself there, and text me your flight number, OK? You’re burning daylight, and you’ve got a lot to do in a very short time,” said Lukas.

“What do you mean?” asked Collin.

“I mean the EU and US governments are clamping down hard on offshore accounts and monitoring large transfers. We’ve got to consolidate your funds, all of them if possible, into InterCon Bank. At the rate they’re going, it’s got to be today. We have no time to waste.”

“How do you know I can trust InterCon?”

“The US is not going to audit the bank that handles the funds for all of their covert operations in Central and South America. Trust me, they do not want to open that can of worms,” Lukas said. Collin found this information disconcerting. The more of these tidbits he picked up, the more he realized he didn’t know—about  the world, his own government, and life beyond the little sphere he had lived in for thirty years.

Lukas then outlined the game plan for his stay in Panama City. Parts of it sounded easier than others. Some parts sounded downright frightening. He had to trust Lukas.

From the dock at Porvenir, Collin walked through the tiny village, looking for transportation. Life on this little Caribbean island was indeed slow-paced. Nothing, it seemed, was urgent. Plus it wasn’t laid out like any town he had visited, either. There were few streets per se. There were huts and shacks and a few stores down near the water, separated by tall palm trees. Right next to the Customs and Immigration building where they had filled out their paperwork was a museum celebrating the culture of the Kuna Yala. Beyond that it was hard to identify a downtown or a shopping district. Even finding the main boulevard took effort.

Throughout the village, Collin noticed contrasts. Some of the buildings had stucco walls and tiled roofs. Others were built in the traditional Kuna way with mud walls and roofs made from palm fronds. Since he did not want to call undue attention to himself, Collin tried to slow himself down but found it to be no easy task. He was geared up for the mission ahead of him. Carrying $2.7 million in cash on his back wasn’t helping him to relax, either. Despite Lukas’s assurances, he continued to glance over his shoulder.