Dexter noted the jerrycans of gasoline stored in the shade and headed toward the trees. The clump covered no more than two acres, and there was a walkway cut through the center. On either side were the bales, shaded by palms. They were stacked in low, cube-shaped blocks, about one hundred of them, about one and half tons each, the yield of nine months at sea by two covert raiders.

“Do you know what these are?” asked Dexter.

“No, sir,” said the master sergeant. Don’t ask, don’t tell; though in a slightly different context.

“Documents. Old records. But ultra-sensitive. That is why the President does not want them ever to fall into the hands of our country’s enemies. The Oval Office has decided they have to be destroyed. Hence, the gasoline. Please ask the men to haul up the cans and soak every pile.”

The mention of his country’s enemies was more than enough for the master sergeant. He shouted, “Yes, sir,” and strode back to the beach.

Dexter strolled slowly up the alley between the palms. He had seen a few bales since the previous March but never anything like this. Behind him the Marines had appeared, each toting a large can, and began dousing each pile of bales. Dexter had never seen cocaine burn, but he was told it was quite flammable if given a starter blaze with accelerant.

He had for many years carried a small Swiss Army-type penknife on his key chain, and as he was traveling on an official government passport it had not been confiscated at Dulles International. Out of curiosity, he opened the short blade and jabbed it into the nearest bale. Might as well, he thought. He had never tasted it before and probably never would again.

The short blade went through the buckram wrapping, through the tough polyethylene and into the powder. It came out with a knob of white dust on the end. He had his back to the Marines down the alley. They could not see what the “documents” contained.

He sucked the white blob off the point of his knife. Ran it around his mouth until the powder, dissolving in saliva, reached the taste buds. He was surprised. He knew the taste after all.

He approached another bale and did the same. But a bigger cut and a bigger sample. And another, and another. As a young man out of the Army, back from Vietnam, studying law at Fordham, New York, he had paid for his tuition with a series of menial jobs. One was in a pastry shop. He knew baking soda very well.

He made ten other incisions in different bales before they were doused and the powerful stench of gasoline took over. Then he walked thoughtfully back to the beach. He drew up an empty canister, sat on it and stared out to sea. Thirty minutes later, the master sergeant was at his side, towering over him.

“Job done, sir.”

“Torch it,” said Dexter.

He heard the barked orders of “Stand clear ” and the dull whump as the vaporizing fuel took flame and smoke rose from the palm grove. January is the time of winds in the Bahamas, and a stiff breeze turned the first flames into a blowtorch.

He turned to see the palms and their hidden contents consumed by flames. On the dock the floatplane pilot was on his feet, watching openmouthed. The dozen Marines were also staring at their handiwork.

“Tell me, Master Sergeant . . .”

“Sir?”

“How did the bales of documents reach you here?”

“By boat, sir.”

“All in one cargo, one at a time?”

“No, sir. At least a dozen visits. Over the weeks we’ve been here.”

“Same vessel each time?”

“Yes, sir. Same one.”

Of course. There had to be another vessel. The fleet auxiliaries that had replenished the SEALs and the British SBS at sea had removed trash and prisoners. They had delivered food and fuel. But the confiscated cargoes did not go back to Gibraltar or Virginia. The Cobra needed the labels, batch numbers and identification codes to fool the cartel. So these trophies he had kept. Apparently here.

“What kind of ship?”

“A small one, sir. Tramp steamer.”

“Nationality?”

“Don’t know, sir. She had a flag at the stern. Like two commas. One red, one blue. And her crew were Asian.”

“Name?”

The master sergeant’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall. Then he turned.

Tags: Frederick Forsyth Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net