Finally he grabbed the two fuel cans and poured enough diesel fuel out the back end of the plane to leave a sheen on the surface of the water below. Then he tossed the two empty fuel drums out. He took one last look to make sure everything was floating nicely on the surface of the sea down below. “Good!”

Then he went back up to the flight deck and closed the airstairs, bringing up the ramp. Thorn lifted the wheels, brought up the flaps, and took over the controls again. Checking his fuel, he goosed the throttles and brought the plane onto a heading due south.

He hopped the waves, hugging the water for more than eighty miles, and didn’t turn on the transponder. He did turn on the radio and listened while the tower at Mercedita called in the Coast Guard and launched a search and rescue for the downed plane.

Thorn stayed under the radar and didn’t pop up again, not even when he reached his destination. It was the small island of Vieques, off the southern tip of Puerto Rico. There was a fair-size general aviation airport on the eastern side of the island. From there Thorn could take one of the twin-engine commuter flights to San Juan and catch a direct flight to D.C. in the morning. But at the moment that wasn’t where he was headed.

On the western side, near a beautiful cove, the azure waters and white sand beaches concealed a deadly secret. The island was badly polluted. For fifty years the western side of Vieques had been a bombing range for the U.S. Navy. Tons of high-explosive ordnance had been dropped all over the island, and heavy metals, including mercury and lead, now contaminated large parts of it.

The people who lived there were territorial subjects. They lacked the wealth and political influence to launch the kind of “not in my backyard” movements that had shut down most of the military bombing ranges on the U.S. mainland. It wasn’t until the base closure commissions began shutting down military facilities across the country that a coalition of environmentalists and islanders finally waged a successful battle to oust the navy. The old bombing range was turned over to the Department of the Interior, while bureaucrats argued over who was going to clean up the mess.

Meanwhile, the buildings at what had been the navy’s old Camp Garcia lay abandoned. All that remained was a five-thousand-foot runway and a small unmanned weather station. It was the perfect location for stashing the plane.

All Thorn needed to buy two nights, two days, and a load of Jet A fuel from the airport on the other side of the island was a plausible story. The empty jet was under a lease arrangement, a replacement craft deadheading from Houston to San Juan to carry freight. The partially completed paint job would enhance the story, and they painted the logos on the side of the plane as they waited. The story would be that they had developed a serious engine problem and that Thorn had to set it down on the abandoned runway when he found it available on his charts. No one would be looking for him there. It would be at least a day or two, maybe longer, before they realized there was no real wreckage in the waters west of Mercedita. By then the plane would be gone, the mission completed.

Ten minutes before landing, just off the southern tip of Puerto Rico, Thorn checked his cell phone for a signal. When he got one he made one phone call, to the front desk at the Hotel Belgica.

FORTY-ONE

The Belgica is one of those cozy boutique hotels you often find tucked away in the old world cities of Europe, only this one has a Latin flavor to it.

When I walk through the front door behind Herman, I see that the lobby is small, and at the moment there is no one at the front desk.

Herman and I go up to his room. It takes him five minutes to throw his dirty underwear in his bag and gather his shaving kit and other toiletries from the bathroom. He does one last check of the closet and looks around to make sure he hasn’t left anything, and we head out.

As I turn toward the stairs, Herman is behind me.

“Hold on a second,” he says.

I turn. “Did you forget something?”

He shakes his head, puts his finger to his lips in a sign of silence, and then points back behind us down the hallway. “That’s Thorn’s room,” he whispers. The door is wide open and the light is on.

“You think maybe the cops?” I’m up close in his ear.

He shakes his head. Herman’s not sure.

We move slowly down the hall toward the open door. When we get there we see some luggage assembled on the floor, a large black roller and a smaller one. The bed’s been stripped, all the sheets and towels in a pile on the floor. The closet door is open and there is a light on in the bathroom but no sign of anyone inside.

Herman slowly steps into the room, looks one way and then the other. He doesn’t see anyone. I step in behind him. He checks the closet. There are two shirts hanging inside.

While he’s doing that, I check the luggage tags. They are only temporary, paper, the kind of tags you get from the airlines when you check your luggage. The name on them is Charles Johnston, 113 Calle Once, Havana, Cuba.

I look at the smaller case, reach down and start to unzip it.

“Excuse me! What do you think you are doing?”

The voice sends me out of my skin. I turn around and there’s a guy standing in the bathroom door looking at me. “Who are you?” he says.

Herman steps out of the closet. The guy looks at him. “Oh, señor, it’s you.” The guy in the doorway seems relieved.

Herman says: “Ah, my friend. This is the young man I was telling you about.” Herman looks at me and smiles. “Pablo, correct?”

“That’s right,” says the kid.

“This is the young man at the desk,” says Herman. “Very enterprising fellow. This is one of my associates. Pablo, meet Paul. Two Pablos, how about that?” he says.

I laugh and step away from the bag that I was about to rifle, so that I can shake his hand. Perhaps for a smile and a few dollars he’ll let us search the bags.

“Were you able to deliver your papers to Señor Johnston?” asks Pablo.

“Sadly, no,” says Herman.

“That’s too bad, because I’m afraid he’s checked out.”

Herman starts to laugh as if the kid has made a joke about death.

“I take it you’ve talked to the police?” I say.

“No.” The kid turns serious. “Why would I talk to the police?” It’s obvious he doesn’t know that Thorn is dead.

“You said he checked out,” says Herman.

“Sí, about an hour ago.”

Herman looks at me.

“He was here?” says Herman.

“No. No. He called to say that he couldn’t make it back to the hotel. Tol’ me to put all the charges on his credit card and have his bags forwarded to his new hotel.”

“Where’s that?” I say.

“Oh, well, I’m not sure I should say,” he says.

“Did he say where he was when he called?” I ask.

The kid makes a face, like maybe yes, maybe no.

“Listen, you’ve been very helpful,” says Herman. “Lemme show you how much we appreciate it.” Herman steps in front of me, then turns his back to the kid and rubs his thumb and forefinger together-the international gesture for money-as I reach for my wallet.

I pull out four twenties. Herman reaches around my hand and plucks out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from my open bill-fold. Before I can say a word, he is over in front of Pablo, stuffing them in the kid’s breast pocket.

“Oh, thank you, señor.”

“It’s nothing,” says Herman. “After all, we’re all in business to make a profit, and you are a very good businessman.”

“Oh, yes, I wish to be one day.”

“Oh, you already are,” says Herman. “It’s the information age. The most valuable commodity there is.”

“Yes, of course,” says the kid. “I dunno where he is. He called on his cell phone.”

“When exactly?” I say.