To Iceland, With Love Read online

At which point they were added to the domestic Joint Prioritized Effect List. Capture or kill.”

  One final screen, one final word: “STATUS.”

  “Targets’ last confirmed location was La Paz, Mexico. Current whereabouts unknown.”

  The screen faded to black. A door opened in one corner of the room, and most of the honchos rose silently and drifted, like so many spirits of the damned, toward the gray light of the hallway. Two heads remained. Once the room was clear, the fireworks began.

  Head #1: “What the fuck?! If this shit ever hits the fan –“

  Head #2: “Nobody can connect that many dots.”

  Head #1: “The fuck you say.”

  Head #2: “The fuck I say. And if they did, who’s going to believe it?”

  1 Once in a Lifetime

  They were lucky to get out with their skins. They were alive, they had each other, and that was about it. Plenty of nothing – and the boat.

  A sleek and agile sloop, about thirty feet, painted black. At that particular moment in the history of the world she was riding gently at anchor off the coast of Cayo Largo. Turquoise waters that seemed to stretch all the way to Mexico underlined the flowing white script of her name. Not that there was anyone to admire her or read what was written on her hull; all the nudists had gone back to their nice warm hotels for the evening. And reading is a dying art aboard this dying planet anyway. But, for the record, the one word scrawled across her oil-dark flank was ‘Casablanca.’

  She was headed into the sunset, a show that went on despite the absence of audience. Plum and coral clouds rippled from horizon to horizon like cheap ostrich plumes. Behind them, the bawdy old sun finished up her fan dance and left the stage in a naked blaze of every worn out cliché you can think of. A flock of vagrant seabirds dropped by for a nightcap and fell asleep right there on the rocking face of the deep, like so many drunks in a strip joint. The party was definitely over. In the cockpit of the sailboat, someone had shoved a champagne bottle head first into a battered silver ice bucket. The deck was otherwise deserted, the sails furled for the day. Somewhere some cosmic stagehand threw a switch and the shivering curtain of night descended.

  Down below, the teak-lined cabin rated comparison with an antique jewelry box. Or a really nice casket. Lots of highly polished wood and brass fittings. There was a double berth forward, wedged into the triangle of the bow. The galley and head were aft, while the main salon with its beige upholstered benches and drop-leaf table occupied the midship. To one side of the salon, near a desk with a built-in two-way radio, two tall, ridiculously attractive people held champagne flutes and each other. In the tiny available space, they were slow-dancing. Or perhaps just swaying with the rise and fall of the waves:

  Let's fall in love, why shouldn't we fall in love?

  Our hearts are made of it, let's take a chance, why be afraid of it?

  “Ahoy there, you two. It’s been awhile.” Reluctantly, the dancers unwound from one another and turned to face a computer open on the desktop. Not too terribly far away in the Caymen Islands, their mild-mannered accountant could be seen sipping a glass of sherry in his posh office. Behind him rose shelves stuffed to the breaking point with legal and accounting tomes. The jovial Gerald, his craggy face topped with a shock of white hair, spoke in the clipped tones of an upper crust Brit. “Tired of playing Pirates of the Caribbean yet?”

  John looked at Jane, who was entirely fetching in jeans and a rough-knit fisherman’s sweater. In his mind’s eye he exchanged the sweater for a lacy pirate’s shirt and the jeans for thigh-high leather boots. “Now there’s a little idea, matey.”

  Jane gave John her best one-eyed pirate leer. “Yarrr, swash-buckle our way up around the Hamptons, maybe.” She reached up to stroke his cheek, which was covered with stubble, razor blades being one of the items they were currently rationing. “You could definitely give Blackbeard a run for his money.”

  “Well, you’d best do something, and quick, dear boy,” Gerald advised. “I’m about to cash out your BP position and after that you’ll be running very nearly on empty. Which, as I warned you often enough, is what comes of spendthrift ways--”

  “And not saving for retirement or a rainy day.” Jane finished his sentence for him, hectoring tone and all. “Blaming the victim, you know. We got shafted in the defined contribution changeover? Also the house was supposed to be an investment. And let’s not forget that little financial crisis thing last fall,” Jane pushed her long dark hair behind one ear. “A third of everything – poof.” She waved her champagne flute like a magic wand.

  “We hear you, Gerry. We’re scraping bottom. But you know how we’re situated. Just give it to us straight,” John said, putting an arm around Jane’s waist and squeezing to signal that they needed to focus on the matter at hand.

  “Right,” Jane chimed in with unwonted meekness, “how long have we got?” She reached up and gave John’s nascent beard a sly yank.

  “Ow!” John complained and pretended to bite the hand that hurt him.

  “Chin up, children,” Gerald tried to sound encouraging as he put down the sherry to don a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He surveyed with a perplexed air the broad and cluttered expanse of his desk. “Given that it’s black days all around, you’re actually doing better than most. Which should tell you something. Your homeowner’s insurance paid off the mortgage. Of course your neighbors wish you’d do something about the smoking ruins, but half of them are under water and looking at foreclosure, so I wouldn’t let it keep me up nights. Ah!” Having pawed through a pile of nearly identical folders, he selected one, opened it, and ran a finger down a ledger sheet affixed to the left flap.

  Jane made a mournful little sound. “I miss the house.”

  John bent to kiss her neck. “Different world.” Then, feeling he still hadn’t gotten the answer he needed, he persisted. “So? How far are we from absolute zero? Three months? Six?”

  “More like two,” Gerald admitted reluctantly. “If you’re lucky. And stop spending money entirely. No more pain au chocolat shipped to Costa Rica from,” he squinted to make out an entry on the ledger sheet, “Patisserie Claude, for heaven’s sake.”

  “It was our anniversary,” Jane pouted. “We always have breakfast at Claude’s on our anniversary.”

  “And dinner at Le Meurice,” John added.

  “Le Meurice. In Paris? That Le Meurice?” Gerald asked.

  “Standing reservation,” John affirmed.

  “Ooh, you know? We forgot to cancel,” Jane winced. “But naturally, since we couldn’t fly to France, the least we could do was -“

  “Have French pastries flown in from New York. Naturally,” Gerald agreed drily.

  “I thought we were being downright frugal,” Jane insisted. “And we did buy American.”

  Gerald looked down his nose. “Judging from what they cost, pain d’or would be closer to the mark. I’d advise you to avoid nostalgia for the nonce. You can’t afford it. At least till you manage to reinvigorate the old cash flow. Where are you, by the by?” Gerald put down his eyeglasses and reclaimed his glass of sherry.

  “Wrong side of Cuba,” John said.

  “I’ll wire what’s left to Havana, then.” Gerald lifted his glass in a toast. “Cheerio, pip-pip!”

  “Cheerio,” Jane echoed half-heartedly, lifting her empty glass.

  John groaned, dropped onto one of the benches, and flopped over sideways. “OK. That’s that. Honeymoon’s over. Again.”

  Jane sat down next to him and removed his champagne flute to safety. “Cheer up.”

  “Oh right. It’s only money. Was that the last bottle of champagne, by the way?”

  “Now, now. Tell you what. If all else fails – and nobody kills us,” she was careful to stipulate, “I’ll buy you a parrot.”

  “We’re too broke to buy a parrot,” John maintained dolefully.

  Jane reach
ed into the bookshelf above him and pulled out a slightly dog-eared copy of the Wall Street Journal. “Ah-ah-ah! It’s capital equipment. No pirate ship can be expected to operate without one. Under new depreciation rules we can write off the entire cost” she paused to consult the relevant article, “year one.”

  “Yo-ho-ho!” John grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him, newspaper and all. “Anything in there about a bottle of rum? On second thought, you better make it a case.”

  2 Road to Nowhere

  It was a twenty-minute trip from Marina Hemingway to Old Havana. They had trouble boarding the only local transport option, a cross between a tractor-trailer and a bus known as ‘el camello’ – ‘the camel.’ It was already bursting at the seams with overheated, long-suffering Cubans. Jane stopped short, though the driver smiled and beckoned them forward.

  “Problem?” John looked from Jane, in her simple black shift dress and ballet flats, to the ramshackle conveyance.

  “Pink.” Jane shuddered. “Why’d it have to be pink?” She was correct. Underneath about a decade of dust and poorly expunged graffiti, the camel sported an industrial grade coat of princess pink. “BCD?” she asked the driver, indicating the graffiti.

  “Bajo condiciones dificiles. Dos dolares, por favor, senor, senora.”

  “’Under difficult conditions.’ That’s not graffiti, that’s truth in advertising.” Jane shook her head at the driver.