Gulf of Mexico, near Cat Island
Early the next morning, Billy, Rosie, and Raul return to the same spot where Billy had laid out the buoys. Again, Rosie steers the boat, running it at a slow trawl. Raul operates the winch that pulls up the drag line. As the cages come up, Billy unhitches them from the drag and empties out the contents into the refrigerated catch hold. For one man working the drag alone, it is exhausting labor. But after little more than an hour of intense work, Billy has all the cages back on board the boat.
Rosie is having fun. She has been steering the boat and watching the catch come in. “How’d we do?” she calls down to him from the wheelhouse.
Billy looks up to the bridge and gives a big thumbs up. For the next two hours, the whole crew—Billy, Rosie, and Raul—work together breaking off the valuable leg parts, rinsing them, and putting them in iced bins. The crabs’ bodies go overboard—back into the ocean.
The Kremlin, Moscow
It is 10:00 AM Moscow time. The president of Russia is at his desk in his Kremlin office when the red light on his phone starts to blink. He picks up the receiver.
“Yes,” the president says in a curt and surly tone of voice.
“Mr. President,” the caller starts. Tsar Peter immediately recognizes the voice. It is one of the dark suits. An aide enters the office with an old-style Russian samovar on a sterling silver tray. On a plate are some lemon cakes and a small porcelain cup. The president of Russia gestures for the aide to put the tray down on the corner of the desk. Quietly the aide departs. Tsar Peter serves himself a cup of tea. He takes a bite of the lemon cake and a sip of tea.
The dark suit says, “The girl was spotted at the airport in Washington by one of our people. We have a picture of her waiting at the gate for departure to New Orleans.”
“Where are you now?” the president demands to know.
“We are in New Orleans, Mr. President. We found a cab driver at the airport here who remembered the girl because he has seen her many times on the U.S. television. He directed us to a private dock at the wharf in Rigolets where the fishing boats are docked. A couple of the locals think she is staying on one of the trawlers.”
The president of Russia is blunt. “Find her, do you hear me? And kill her!” There is a moment’s pause. “And make sure you adequately dispose of the body.” Tsar Peter, the former KGB officer, is ordering what in the old KGB had been called a “special task.” In the current Russian Federation spy vernacular, this would be a “Wet Job,” a political assassination. Tsar Peter, who has ordered the assassination of dissidents and activist Russian journalists—most notably Boris Nemtsov and Anna Politkovskaya—now is ordering the murder of another journalist—this time a U.S. journalist.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
The president of Russia puts the gilded receiver back into its cradle and takes another bite of lemon cake and another sip of tea. He smiles and laughs to himself. The Americans are so stupid and greedy. He is amazed how for a few paltry millions of dollars of “dark money” funneled into their campaigns these so-called Republican “patriots” will readily sell their souls, compromise themselves ethically and financially, and betray their country. He feels only contempt for them. Already the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee—a traitor from California and a White House stooge—has been working for more than a year to obstruct the committee’s investigation into Russian meddling in the 2016 election and whether The Bad King and his associates had knowingly colluded with the Russians to hurt Hillary Clinton and help the Republican candidate. Two-thirds of the Republicans in the U.S. Congress (considered by the Russian president to be just “useful idiots”) are financially compromised by the Kremlin.
The president of Russia reminds himself how the Kremlin’s currently compromised U.S. president has proved himself a better than “useful idiot” in advancing the Russian cause. The Bad King has lifted or failed to enforce sanctions imposed by the prior administration. And now with the capable assistance of his cyber trolls in St. Petersburg, Tsar Peter will—through “active measures” and cyber disinformation—take over complete control of the American political apparatus. The president of Russia wants no more NATO tanks on his borders, no U.S. meddling in Ukraine politics, and no more so-called “defensive missiles” in the Baltic states.
Rigolets, New Orleans
Billy and Rosie bring the Delta Queen into the harbor. Rosie is still at the wheel steering the boat. “How’d I do today,” she asks.
Billy smiles. “Pretty good. No doubt you’re the prettiest captain I’ve ever worked with.”
“Rosie smiles back.” Yeah, I bet you say that to all the girls you take out on your boat,” she sarcastically replies.
Billy takes over the wheel to maneuver and dock the boat alongside the fish market pier where the fishermen sell and off-load their catch. Then, donning a pair of heavy rubber waders and some protective vinyl gloves, he climbs down into the hold of his boat to work with Raul to load the iced crab’s legs into steel mesh baskets. The baskets are then hoisted up by a crane and emptied into a weigh-bin. The batch is weighed, and the crab’s legs are then dumped onto a conveyor that takes them up to the refrigerated storage facility at the dock to again be put on ice before they get sorted, cleaned, and packaged, sold to a wholesale distributor, and then finally shipped out.
When it is all done, Rosie and Raul go with Billy up to the office to collect the payment for their catch. The total comes to eighteen-hundred dollars.
“How do you want to be paid?” the buyer asks, “cash or check?”
Billy looks at Rosie. “We’ll take the cash,” she says without hesitation.
The manager counts out eighteen-hundred-dollar bills. He hands the money to Billy. Outside the office, Billy gives Raul three-hundred dollars, their agreed sum. Raul thanks Billy and they shake hands. He says a pleasant goodbye to Rosie and leaves. According to the usual fisherman’s protocol, Billy counts out five one-hundred-dollar bills and hands the money to Rosie.
“Your share,” he says. “One-third for the boat, and two-thirds to be split by each of the boat hands.”
“Wait a minute, that’s not fair,” Rosie complains. “We were partners on this deal.”
Billy stars back in amazement. “But it’s my boat. I was the one who did all the heavy work.”
Rosie holds firm. “That doesn’t make any difference. This was a partnership. And besides, I was the captain, the one driving the boat.”
Billy could only shake his head in disbelief. He has never encountered a woman like this before. “You’re a tough lady,” he says, and grudgingly counts out two more hundred-dollar bills and gives the money to Rosie.
Here, partner,” he says, “I owe you fifty bucks.”
Rosie smiles back. “Thanks, partner,” she says, pointedly mimicking Billy, “You can be sure I’ll collect.”
They return with the Delta Queen and park it in its slip at Billy’s dock. They had got an early start that morning, but it is still mid-afternoon before they get back to the dock.
“I’ve got an idea,” Billy volunteers. “I’ll get cleaned up and we can take the jeep into the city for a late lunch. I know a place in the Quarter that’s got the best Cajun shrimp and steak in Louisiana.”
“Sounds good,” Rosie readily agrees. “But let me in the bathroom first.” Rosy showers and changes clothes. Then Billy cleans up. Rosie is sitting on her bunk combing her hair when Billy comes into the cabin.
“Are we ready to go?” he asks.
“Yup.” Rosie grins. “Is this going to be our first official date?” she asks with a cutesy smile.
Billy is bland. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“Well, just so you know,” Rosie comes back, “I never kiss on the first date.”
Billy stares back at her. “Neither do I,” he says with a strained little smile, “—just so you know.”
The popular Estrella—a restaurant renowned for its Cajun-style steak, lobster, and seafood—is on Decatur Street downtown in the French Quarter.
Rosie looks around and nods her approval. “Order anything you want,” she announces. “Dinner and drinks are on me. I just made a bunch of money crabbing.” She smiles demurely at Billy.
They enjoy a late lunch, and then linger well into the afternoon over drinks. Rosie celebrates with two Bloody Mary’s and tall beer chasers—to start. Billy drinks his usual beer. They talk about the odd set of circumstances that have brought them together.
“Scott told me that if something ever happened, I was to come straight to you,” Rosie tells Billy. “He told me that you have done some dirty work for the CIA—that you might possibly have even been involved in some political assassinations. But he said that you could be trusted and that you would know what to do.”
Billy is somewhat taken aback, surprised and a little shocked that his friend had talked so openly and so candidly about his background. Obviously, Scott had enjoyed a relationship of special trust with Rosie. Billy had not told or confided in anyone about his clandestine work for the CIA. It was probable though that Scott had learned about it through his top-secret clearance—his work on the NSC staff.
Billy is frank and takes Rosie into his confidence. He tells her about his past role as an Army Ranger—a Special Forces sniper operating Iraq and Afghanistan. He explains to Rosie that after the service he did some clandestine special assignment work at the request of the CIA involving political assassinations for foreign intelligence services. Mostly this was work for the Israeli Mossad in actions against Islamist terrorists. “Some really bad actors,” as Billy characterizes them.
“Then you are just a paid killer—an assassin,” Rosie bluntly says.
Billy is unperturbed. “Yeah—I guess that’s a fair characterization.”
Rosie stays aggressively on the attack. “Are you still working for the government—still killing people?
“I’m not supposed to talk about that,” Billy honestly responds.
Rosie looks grim. “I go from the frying pan right into the fire.” she says, rolling her eyes in mock dismay “First, I am forced to flee Washington after I lose my best deep background source in what looks like a political hit, and now I am sitting down to lunch—in of all places, Louisiana—with a crab fisherman who moonlights as a paid political assassin.” Rosie smiles. “Call it just another day in the colorful life of Rosie,” she says with a sardonic grin.
The waiter stops at the table, and Billy orders another round of drinks.
“So,” Rosie says, after the waiter has departed, “tell me, who do you think killed Scott? Was it somebody in our government—the CIA, the FBI—or some foreign intelligence service?”
Billy considers for a moment and says, “Probably the Russians. I think they figured out that he was the leak, the one feeding you dirt on the administration. If the file you showed me is accurate, then anything that could hurt the president’s chances of getting re-elected in the coming 2020 election would be looked on by them—particularly the Kremlin—as an impediment and a set-back to their over-all strategic plan.”
Billy pauses, then says to Rosie, “They are going to come looking for that file.”
Rosie sighs. She realizes full well the danger she is in. On the advice of her friend, Scott, she has put herself in Billy’s hands, and though she is slowly being won over by him and his charm—given his background as a CIA assassin—she is not sure, however, she can fully trust him. She worries she might just end up a pawn (collateral damage) in some dark spy intrigue.
“It’s all so unfair,” Rosie laments. “Why pick on me? I’m just a girl, a journalist—not a spy.”
Billy takes a thoughtful sip of his beer, stares back at her, and finally says, “Look, Rosie, this is serious. Wittingly or not—you have gotten yourself involved in a high stakes game of international espionage being played at the ultimate level. This is no game for amateurs. These people—the Russians—have a lot at stake here and they are serious, ruthless, and very thorough. They keep their friends close and their enemies even closer. This is literally life or death for them, and they will not balk at spending money to get access to information. They have agents and informers watching and just following people they are interested in and want to keep tabs on. I think they probably already knew your connection with Scott long before they killed him. And afterward, they were more than likely watching the airport—looking for you.”
Rosie feels a sudden chill. “Then you think they are going to come looking for me?” she asks.
Billy wants to be honest with Rosie—is slow to respond. “Yes,” he finally says. “I believe you are in considerable danger.”
Rosie looks glum. “Order me another drink.” She is starting to feel the effects of the liquor, and a growing sense of panic. What? she wonders, has she gotten herself into. The couple finish their food and move with their drinks out to the patio. They stay another hour or so and enjoy a pleasant afternoon together. Rosie enjoys Billy’s company, and she is determined to make the best of a bad situation.
Later, when they are in the jeep driving back to the port, Rosie says, “Just because I’m a little bit drunk, I don’t want you to think you can take advantage of me.”
Billy is blasé. “Trust me. The idea never entered my head—partner.”