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“Use the satphone.”
“That’s insecure. I’d better wait until we pick up a cell tower, maybe at Fort Jefferson.”
“Good idea,” Dino said, tossing the passports onto the dining table. He shook the envelope again and a small, black object fell out.
“What’s that?” Stone asked.
“A tracker,” Viv said. She took a small hammer from her tool kit, set the object on the deck, and hammered it until it was in pieces. Then she scooped them up, walked to the rail, and dropped them overboard. “Or it was,” she said.
Suddenly, the unexpected: Stone’s CIA encrypted phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Lance.”
“Reception is bad. We may lose you.”
“Where are you?”
“Out of Key West, halfway to Fort Jefferson.”
“Say again.”
Stone repeated himself.
“Call me back when you have lots of bars,” Lance said, then hung up.
“Signal failed,” Stone said. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
A crewwoman materialized. “Dinner’s in half an hour,” she said. “It’s Boeuf Wellington, new potatoes, and haricots verts. Gazpacho to start.”
“Fine,” Stone said, and she left.
“You don’t look so good, Stone,” Viv said.
“That goes with how I feel,” he replied. He excused himself, walked to the rail, and vomited overboard.
“There,” he said, “that’s better.”
47
They finished updinner with Key lime pie and coffee. They had not discussed the contents of Vanessa’s bag or her intentions.
“Okay,” Stone said. “What do you deduce from the evidence at hand, Viv?”
“You mean, Vanessa’s Girl Scouts spy kit?”
“For want of a better term.”
“I think it originated with one of three sources,” she said. She held up a finger. “One: Valery Majorov. Two: Lance Cabot. Three: whatever they call the Russian spy agency these days.”
“I like KGB,” Stone said. “It has a nice ring to it, and I can’t remember what part of the alphabet they’re using to describe it these days.”
“Your choice?” Viv asked. “Or something else entirely?”
“Come back to me,” Stone said.
“Dino?”
“Valery Majorov.”
