Dave grinned, and grasping her hand firmly, let her around the corner to the blue E550 convertible. She slid into the driver's seat. He shrugged and hurdled the door into the passenger side.
"Keys," she demanded.
He handed her the keys. Behind them a car backfired. She started the engine and accelerated into traffic. He heard another car backfire and then a dull thud. There was the bullet hole in the windshield.
“What the hell,” he stammered, turning around.
In the street, a man carefully took aim at them and squeezed off a shot. It whined over his head. He took another long look at the woman. She was gorgeous, but not bullet in the back of the head gorgeous. She must be worth it somehow. The thought excited him.
"Where shall we go?" she asked, zipping around a tourist bus and narrowly avoiding an oncoming truck.
"Head for the Marina on Seven mile Beach," he nodded pointing to the right.
She nodded, accelerated around another line of cars, and running a red light turned left onto Shamrock. Six white-knuckle minutes later, they pulled into the Cayman Islands Yacht Club. He waved to Reggie at the gatehouse, and they were in.
"Your name?" she asked as they walked briskly down the dock.
"Dave," he replied as casually as possible, which was not easy after being shot at.
"Dave," she let it roll off her tongue as her face again lit up with an intense smile, "take me far away from here."
“It will be my pleasure,” he bowed, and led her to the slip of his Deerfoot 70.
She kissed him. “It’s beautiful. Let’s go quickly.”
He led her on board and started the engine while she undid the lines. He backed into the channel, and headed for the Harbor opening.
"You look pretty conspicuous in that red dress," he grinned.
"Why don't you change into something more nautical? There is probably a swimsuit that will fit you hanging behind the door in the forward cabin," he continued gesturing to the stairs leading to the cabin.
She smiled coyly, and lifted a miniscule yellow bikini bottom from her bag.
"Thank you, but I have my own."
He had just cleared the breakwater when he got a message from the Twins.
“Wear your knife,” was all it said.
Perplexed, Dave reached under the seat, removed his sheathed knife, and clipped it to his belt. She wasn't going to try to kill him too, was she?
She emerged a few moments later, barely clad in the tiny yellow bikini. He was so disappointed that she was wearing the top, that it took a moment to realize that her hair was now black. She intuited his disappointment.
"I can't be too conspicuous," she smiled, tilting her head, "yet."
It took him a few more minutes to pick through the parasails, watercraft, and sail boards rioting along the beach. A thousand meters out they put up the mainsail and a Genoa, and did a fast reach away from the island. Dave 2 had been right; Monique was a good sailor, working the winches like a pro.
When they were far out to sea, Monique tugged the wig from her head, and settled smiling into the rearward facing lounge chair.
"Don't stop there," he deadpanned.
She tilted her head and smiled. "Perhaps, but first tell me about Dave."
He engaged the autopilot, and sitting beside her in the lounge chair, slipped his arm around her shoulder.
"I'm just your typical millionaire options trader who saves beautiful damsels in his spare time."
It was corny, but she seemed to eat it up, leaning closer.
"Then today is my lucky day," she smiled wickedly.
"As long as it's my lucky day too.”
She stood, kissing him lightly. He slid his hand down her back and under the band of her suit.
"First, we fly to spinnaker," she declared and set off for the bow.
He scrambled to comply, disengaging the autopilot and turning the boat to run with the wind. Apparently, Monique knew everything about sailing, including the headings most conducive to romance.
He watched in admiration as she clipped a spinnaker bag to the pulpit on the bow of the boat, deftly snapped the spinnaker halyard to the spinnaker and set the port and starboard lines. She turned and blew him a kiss. He hauled on the spinnaker halyard, hoisting the chute. The enormous tricolor spinnaker filled half the sky. And then it happened.
The spinnaker disconnected from the spinnaker halyard. The sail spilled forward into the water, pulling the spinnaker pole which caught Monique, knocking her over the rail and down with the sinking sail. Then there was a thump against the bottom of the hull.
Terrified, he quickly spun the wheel, turning 180° into the wind, then ran forward and looked over the rail. The spinnaker extended from the pulpit into the water, drifting in great billows, but there was no sign of Monique. He dived over the side and searched the bottom of the boat. The salt water stung his eyes, but he found her, tangled in sail and line, unable to break free. Dave kicked forward, drew the knife, and slashed through the lines. After ten eternal seconds, she came free and he pulled her to the surface.
He dragged her to the ladder and into the boat, where he wrapped her in a blanket from the cabin and set her in the lounge chair of the cockpit.
Wear a knife?
What kind of a warning was that? Why not ‘check the spinnaker clip’ or ‘don’t hoist the spinnaker.’ He was shaking with fury at himself as he furled the sails and started the engine. He kicked a winch handle overboard and was about to throw his phone after it. Sometimes he was an idiot. He checked her pulse. It was strong.
"Are you okay?" he asked futilely.
She didn't answer. Glancing at the chair, he saw that she was asleep. He sighed. His phone chirped. He fished it out from under the seat and unlocked the display.
“Wash DC destroyed by A bomb Feb 12 10:47 a.m. EST. TJ missing. D2”
"Great," he muttered.
He had always wanted to do something important with Dave 2, but not now. He glanced at Monique sleeping in the chair, and wondered if he could clean up this new disaster in Washington before she awoke. If only there was someone he could call. He looked to the message again.
TJ, I can call TJ.
Sounding the Alarm
Tuesday 1:23 p.m.
TJ Jones slipped on a pair of protective goggles and entered the lab. With her black hair tied in tight bun and white lab coat over pinstripe skirt and cream blouse, she looked efficient. She walked along the long row of equipment racks that ran the length of the room, listening carefully. Everything seemed to be in order. She slid behind a terminal facing the racks and checked the throughput.
The array was cracking codes with amazing speed, faster than any electronic, optical, or quantum computer in the world. And it had uncovered green ferret. The big shots from headquarters were certain to be impressed at the demonstration tomorrow.
She switched her attention to the three racks in the corner, ran another diagnostic, and shook her head. The beryllium atoms still showed no sign of general ordered entanglement. When she got that working, the new array should be able to break codes a hundred times faster, if she got it working.
The wall phone by the fire extinguisher rang. She crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
"Dr. Jones."
"TJ," her secretary Alice intoned, "Mr. Richards on line one."
She brought the receiver to her chin, staring at the blinking number on the phone thoughtfully. She was glad that Dave called, and on her guard. He had an annoying habit of flitting into her life, creating chaos, and disappearing just as quickly. But he was fun, about the only break from work TJ ever had. She pressed the button.
"Dr. Jones," she said flatly.
"TJ. How is the world's most beautiful doctor of quantum engineering?"
"Just dealing with unwanted interruptions," she replied, but there was no anger in her voice.
"This isn't an interruption TJ. I'm calling to g
et you promoted."
"This isn't another sailing invitation, is it? Because serving on your crew is definitely a demotion," she stated firmly.
"Now that you mention it, sailing again is a good idea. But I'm calling with a hot tip, one that will make your spy masters clap their gloved hands for joy."
"I don't need another stock tip," she smirked.
"Dr. Jones, this concerns national security."
She laughed involuntarily.
"TJ, I'm serious. Something big is going to happen in three days. I know because someone, not someones but someone, is betting heavily that the markets will crash. I think there's going to be a terrorist attack."
She stared intently at the phone, carefully considering the information. The source was unreliable, but the information fit. She would have to report it.
"Dave, I'm a scientist, not a spy. But I will report this. If the real spies want to know more, they'll call you."
"This is big, babe. Have them call soon." There was a long pause. "Your sailing idea is a good one too. I'm sure you could use a little more sun, on your thighs, on your stomach, your breasts…"
"Dave," she snapped.
"Yes Dr. Jones," he continued with mock humility, "but a little fresh air would certainly improve your temper." And he hung up.
She sighed heavily and replaced the phone. She would have to tell Bob.
Best get it over with.
She found Robert Hudson in his office, talking on the phone, sucking up to some assistant under secretary. He had short white hair and a thick white mustache. Talking up the chain of command, he was amiable and polished. When he talked to his subordinates, well that was a different story. It was like having Machiavelli for a boss. She