Kurt narrowed his gaze against the blinding glare of the high-noon sun. “Sharks,” he said grimly. “The whole lot of you.”
He threw down a hand of cards in disgust, tossing them onto a flat section of wood that was serving as a makeshift poker table.
Across from him, Davidov grinned as he collected a literal pot of gold from the center. “I assure you, I played honestly,” he said.
“A spymaster who played fairly,” Joe said from the other side of the table. “I doubt it.”
“Scrupulously,” Davidov insisted. “Is it my fault you have squandered all your chips?”
Kurt leaned back. They were sitting on a pristine white sand beach with the turquoise Caribbean waters lapping at the shore just beyond. Among their few possessions were a rubber raft, a deck of cards, a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch that was nearly empty and a million dollars in Russian gold coins that Davidov had brought along in case the Falconer tried to gouge him further on the price.
They’d survived ejecting from the bomber because, unlike a fighter aircraft, the Blackjack ejected the entire cockpit in an enclosed ballistic capsule. They’d landed in the sea, floating down on three large parachutes and then transferred to the rubber life raft. After a day at sea, they’d rowed ashore on the island and set up a small camp.
Two fires burned. The first, a signal fire; the second, to heat water as part of a jury-rigged desalinization system that Joe had designed. It provided several cups of water each hour. Plenty to keep them going. Though none of them wanted a drop until the scotch was used up.
Using a long, jagged stick as a spear, Kurt had caught several fish, which they’d deboned, cooked and eaten with gusto.
Since then, there had been nothing to do but drink and play cards and wait for someone to rescue them. The gold coins were their chips, but after starting with even amounts, Kurt was down to his last ten chips.
“Deal again,” Kurt said. “And, this time, from the top of the deck.”
Davidov laughed and shuffled.
As Kurt waited for the cards to be dealt, he grabbed the bottle of scotch, brought it up toward his mouth and then put it back down again. “I think I hear a boat,” he said.
“Nonsense,” Timonovski said. “You’re just trying to get out of the game.”
Despite the Russian’s doubts, the sound grew louder until a twenty-foot fiberglass powerboat rounded the point and cruised into the empty cove. It came straight toward them and the signal fire, beaching on the sand a few yards from the poker table.
A young man in a red polo shirt and white shorts was at the wheel. He jumped down onto the shore. “What are you people doing here?” His official tone clashed with the outfit and the soft lilt of his Caribbean accent.
“Losing at poker,” Kurt said.
The others laughed. The young man seemed baffled.
“You can’t be here,” he said. “This is private property.”
“We didn’t have much of a choice,” Joe said. “Our plane crashed. We bailed out. This is where we ended up.”
“But why did you stay on this side of the island?” the man asked.
Kurt, Joe and the Russians looked at one another, confused by the strange conversation.
“Is the other side of the island more hospitable?” Davidov asked.
“I should hope so,” the man said. “They have a Ritz-Carlton over there.”
Kurt looked at Joe and burst into laughter. The island was several miles across; the center was all hills and sand dunes; it had appeared completely deserted. It was pitch black at night, without the slightest hint of civilization.
“Don’t they have lights at the Ritz-Carlton?” Kurt asked.
“All lights are out since the big flash in the sky.”
“Ahh,” Kurt said. “That’s kind of our fault.”
Joe and the Russians laughed at that, but the man in the red polo shirt did not seem amused.
Kurt held out the last of his gold coins. “I offer ten thousand dollars for a ride to the Ritz.”