He was now feet away from the gangplank and he had a sense that when he set foot on board he would be immune. Of course, it wasn’t as if he’d be in international waters. He would be subject to the laws of whatever state the ship was passing through. Still, the protection he was afforded was not of legality but of anonymity. Which was by far the better of the two.
And he had the added safety net that even if the hounds were focusing on him they would be pursuing hapless Marianne, the remnants of Dom Ryan’s crew and a black Cadillac.
Ten feet, then five. His footsteps gritted on the asphalt.
The chunky pulse of marimbas and horns and guitar filled the air.
Then he heard:
“Martin Harmon! FBI! Drop the bags and put your hands up!”
“Hands up!”
“Now!”
He exhaled in disgust.
He turned. The three workers were not workers at all. And they were joined by a number of other men and women, wearing navy-blue windbreakers with the letters of their employer on the front and back. All had pistols in their hands and half were aiming directly at him. The others were scanning the dock for any hostiles Harmon might have invited along.
Jesus Lord...
“Drop the bags! Hands up!”
He complied.
Several charged forward, clicking on handcuffs and frisking, removing everything in his pockets, looking through the luggage and backpack.
“Weapon,” one called.
Harmon had brought an old revolver and a box of ammunition. He hadn’t fired a gun in years but he thought it might be helpful.
The gun was unloaded and sealed into an evidence bag.
The man who seemed to be the lead agent approached and formally arrested him on a blur of charges, flight to avoid prosecution, conspiracy to commit murder, wire fraud, battery... Harmon lost track. He did not waive his right to remain silent.
Another figure approached.
Ah, but who else could it possibly be?
The FBI agent looked to Colter Shaw. “You got it right. What’d you say the odds were that he’d trick the drones at a truck stop and head here?”
The man said laconically, “I recall, it was about eighty-five percent.”
The agent looked Harmon over. “Mr. Shaw had the idea that theonly place you could hide is Africa and the only way you’d beat the watchlists was to take a cruise.”
“What proof do you—”
Shaw interrupted. “Sonja matched the explosives in the bomb at her Range Rover to what was used in the Pocket Sun triggers. And she got you on tape going into the Secured Substances room at HEP an hour before the explosion. And before you ask how could a CEO like you make a bomb, remember that you’re an engineer with a chemistry degree.”
Shit...
An agent gripped the man’s arm. “This way.”
Harmon, though, turned and looked from Shaw to the agent. “You have to understand. I wanted to improve people’s lives. Get them out of poverty. My Pocket Suns could do that! I did what I did to make the world a better place.”
The look Shaw gave him seemed to say: Which is exactly what we’re doing right now.
PART THREE