The Racketeer Page 0,118
a UPS office and go through the same procedure. I return to Palmetto Trust and it takes an hour to get into my lockbox. I leave behind the rest of the cash and the four remaining mini-bars.
It takes a while to find the DHL shipping desk in the sprawl of Miami International, but I eventually negotiate my way there and drop off more packages. I finally part with my Impala at an Avis station and take a cab to the general aviation section of the airport, far away from the main terminal. There are blocks of private aircraft hangars, and charter companies, and flight schools, and my driver gets lost as we search in vain for an outfit called Maritime Aviation. It needs a larger sign because the one currently in use can hardly be seen from the nearest street, and I'm tempted to bark this at the clerk when I walk in the door. I manage to bite my tongue and relax.
There is no scanner to examine me or my luggage, and I assume private aircraft terminals are not equipped with these machines. I expect to be scanned at some level upon my arrival in Antigua, so I'm playing it safe. I have about $30,000 in cash, with most of it hidden in my luggage, and if they dig through it and get excited, I'll play dumb and pay the fine. I was tempted to try to smuggle in a gold bar or two, to see if it can be done, but the risk is greater than the reward.
At 1:30, the pilots say it's time to board, and we crawl inside a Learjet 35, a small jet about half the size of the Challenger Nathan and I enjoyed briefly during our recent trip to Jamaica. The 35 can perhaps seat six people, but full-sized men would be shoulder to shoulder. Instead of a restroom, there is an emergency potty under a seat. It's cramped, to say the least, but who cares? It's far cheaper than a big plane, but just as fast. I'm the only passenger, and I'm in a hurry.
Max Baldwin on board here, with proper documentation. Malcolm Bannister has been retired, for the final time. I'm sure Customs will eventually notify some spook within the FBI, and after some puzzlement he'll report to his boss. They'll rub their chins and wonder what Baldwin is doing, what's his thing with private jets, why is he spending all his money? A lot of questions, but the big one is still, What the hell is he doing?
They will have no clue unless I tell them.
As we taxi away from the terminal, I quickly review the e-mail to Mumphrey and Westlake, then I press Send.
It is July 28. Four months ago I left Frostburg, and two months ago I left Fort Carson with a new face and name. As I try to recall these past few weeks and put them into perspective, I begin to nod off. When we reach our altitude of forty thousand feet, I fall asleep.
Two hours later I am awakened by turbulence and look through the window. We are streaking over a summer thunderstorm and the small jet is getting bounced around. One of the pilots turns around and gives me a thumbs-up - everything's okay. If you say so, pal. Minutes later the sky is calm again, the storm is behind us, and I gaze down at the beautiful waters of the Caribbean. According to the NavScreen on the bulkhead in front of me, we are about to pass over St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands.
There are so many beautiful islands down there, and so much variety. When I was in prison, I kept hidden in the library a Fodor's Guide to the Caribbean, a thick reference book with two dozen color photos, maps, lists of things to do, and brief histories of all the islands. I dreamed that I would one day be loose in the Caribbean, alone with Vanessa, just the two of us on a small sailboat, drifting from island to island in complete and unrestrained freedom. I do not know how to sail and I've never owned a boat, but that was Malcolm. Today, Max is starting a new life at forty-three, and if he wants to buy a skiff, learn to sail, and spend the rest of his life drifting from beach to beach, who can stop him?
The plane jolts slightly as the engines cut back a notch. I watch