Chapter 1 – Fascination with Hemingway
Port of Civitavecchia, Rome, Italy
Sunday August 30, 2015
REX DALTON WAS A man who could behold a thing of beauty and enjoy it. She was magnificent. He had seen a picture of her, but that was a long time ago. Seeing her in real life took his breath away.
“Digger, would you look at her? Is she not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on?”
Digger responded only with a big dog-grin on his face and a wagging tail, which Rex was sure meant, “It’s only a boat. We’ve seen many of them. What’s got you so stirred up, buddy?”
The TOMATS was exactly what she looked like—a luxury superyacht. Two-hundred and seventy feet of it, three-quarters the length of a football field, and thirty-seven feet wide. A masterpiece, custom designed and built by some of the world’s leading exterior and interior designers.
It had only one previous owner, the late prince Mutaib bin Faisal bin Saud, an international black-market arms dealer and human trafficker. A scumbag whom Rex had killed more than a year ago. It was only a few months later that he had learned about the existence of the yacht and appropriated it, along with much of Mutaib’s other hidden wealth. He had distributed the money, either directly to Mutaib’s victims or to be held in trust for their future needs.
Other matters had then captured his attention, until he and John Brandt, the Old Man, CEO of CRC, his former employer, had landed in a hospital together after Rex was instrumental in rescuing The Old Man from kidnappers. One of the loose ends Rex had found the time to handle while he was laid up was the disposition of this yacht at which he was now staring. He’d signed the yacht over to CRC and agreed that the Old Man would instruct his lawyers to erase the yacht’s history, rename it, and hide its new owner’s name through an untraceable maze of dummy corporations. In return, Rex would have a permanent home on the yacht for the token amount of one dollar per year for life. Otherwise, CRC could use it as they wished.
The Old Man had kept his word; that he accomplished it in four weeks, was remarkable.
Now, Rex and Digger were on the pier at Roma Marina Yachting, the first marina to be built in Rome’s historic, 2,000-year-old port of Civitavecchia, also known as the Port of Rome, about fifty-five miles from the city center.
His reverie was broken when he noticed a sinewy man about six feet tall, with silver-gray hair and sun-tanned skin, dressed in black jeans, dark-blue shirt and matching color windbreaker, with a black baseball cap, descending the gangplank making his way to him and Digger.
This must be the guy the Old Man told me about two days ago. Declan Spencer, the Old Man’s best friend and captain of the yacht.
He was right.
When the man was a few yards away, he smiled and said, “Hi there, I’m Declan Spencer, the captain of the TOMATS. And you must be Rex Dalton?”
Rex hesitated for a split second before extending his hand to shake Spencer’s. He had been living under assumed names for so long, he still found it somewhat unsettling to hear his real name, especially from strangers.
“Yes, I am, and this is my friend, Digger.”
Digger, always up to a bit of grandstanding when humans paid attention to him, sat down and raised his right paw.
Spencer laughed and shook Digger’s paw. “I’ve heard all about you, Digger. Apparently, you’re one clever boy.”
Ah, the Old Man must have changed his mind about the ‘damn dog’ then.
Brandt and Digger met in the hospital a few weeks before, and there was no love lost between the two of them then. Brandt kept referring to Digger as the ‘damn dog’, which of course, neither Rex nor Digger appreciated. Brandt kept admonishing Rex about how stupid it was for an agent of his to go around with a ‘damn dog’.
But now, Digger was basking in the praise, and Rex immediately relaxed.
Rex was trained to pay close attention to people’s micro-expressions and detect when they were deceitful, but since he and Digger had teamed up, he had come to realize that Digger was much better at it. The dog was a living, breathing, four-legged lie detector that outstripped any man-made device or human observation.
Spencer and Digger were off to a good start. And therefore, so were Rex and Spencer.
He invited them to come on board and meet the crew and get a tour of what was going to be Rex and Digger’s abode for... well, as long as they wanted it to be.
Rex picked up his grip bag and followed. “TOMATS. Peculiar name,” Rex said as they approached the gangplank.
Spencer smiled. “I have no idea what went through John Brandt’s head when he chose that name. He refused to tell me. I’ve given up, don’t even have a clue what it means. However, he said you would ask, and I should tell you to try and figure it out.”
Rex stopped and stared at the yacht and the name painted on the side in gold cursive letters, mumbling softly, “TOMATS… hmm TOMATS…” Then he started grinning. “The old geezer had to get the last word in, didn’t he?”
“What is it?”
“Ernest Hemingway, the first letters of his short novel, ‘The Old Man and the Sea’—TOMATS. John Brandt is obsessed with Hemingway. He has read everything the man ever wrote and devoured every scrap of information about him. And let me tell you, just between us, I am convinced some of Hemingway’s rudeness and abruptness has rubbed off on Brandt.”
By now, Spencer was doubling over with laughter. He had known John Brandt all his life. They were bosom friends, born in the same year, in the same hospital, lived in the same neighborhood, grew up together, went to the same school, same university, and joined the Navy SEALS at the same time. John was recruited into the CIA, and Spencer retired as a Commander in the SEALS at the age of sixty-five. Both lost their wives. John’s wife, a fellow CIA field agent, had been killed in an operation gone bad. A heart attack took Spencer’s wife five years ago. He knew all about his best friend’s fascination with Hemingway.
“That’s John Brandt for you,” Spencer said when he recovered from the bout of laughter. “He always gets the last word.”
If Rex knew Declan Spencer as well as John Brandt did, he would also have known that Spencer always had one dream for his retirement—to be the captain of his own yacht and sail the world. This was not Spencer’s yacht, he couldn’t afford her, neither to buy nor to maintain. But in terms of the deal between John and Rex, he didn’t have to worry about any of that, CRC would take care of it. To keep overheads low, he would not get paid for captaining the boat. And that didn’t bother him at all; his military pension and savings, as well as the rental income from a mortgage-free house in DC, provided much more than he would ever need. Besides, he had no board and lodging to pay while on the yacht.
What Rex also didn’t know was when Brandt had contacted Spencer to offer him the captaincy, he had also asked for his advice and assistance to get the yacht transferred to CRC’s untraceable dummy corporation. Brandt wasn’t sure at the time how CRC could put the yacht to good use. Spencer came up with the idea that the yacht could be used for R&R by CRC agents and Special Forces operators—free of charge—in exchange for fulfilling crew duties.
Brandt shook his head. “I don’t know if that’ll work, but you’re the captain. Enjoy yourself. Oh, and keep in mind, from time to time, we might want to use it as a base for a quick reaction team, if the need arises.”
Spencer had a big smile. “This deal is getting better all the time. Not only will I be out on the sea, I’ll be part of some action as well. Music to the ears of a retired SEAL.”
“Yeah, I am glad you’re excited about it,” John said. “But, unfortunately, I have to rain on your parade; you’re not a spring chicken anymore. So, don’t you start planning on kicking down doors and shooting bad guys. Our use-by dates are gone.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll have to see about that.”
A few days later, Spencer was back in touch with Brandt and told him the registration had been completed; the yacht had its first crew and would be ready to sail in another week or so.
“Who did you have to bribe or lie to, to get it done so quickly?” Brandt wanted to know.
Spencer laughed, ignored the question, and explained that to get the crew all he had to do was let a few of the US Special Forces commanding officers, former colleagues, know about the exceptional holiday deal for Special Forces operators where they could spend some of their R&R on a luxury yacht, free of charge, food and accommodation included, but not alcoholic drinks.
Brandt was shaking his head when Spencer told him, since putting the word out, he had become inundated with applications. Apparently, Spencer’s biggest problem now was to manage the waiting list of very keen operatives who wanted to spend time on a luxury yacht, even if it meant they had to attend to menial chores. Obviously, the fact that they could bring a wife or girlfriend with them as long as she performed crew duties, made it even more appealing. Even the chefs were military personnel.
“Okay, Declan, that’s great news. Just keep in mind that whatever waiting list you have; my CRC agents always get highest priority.”
“Yep, that goes without saying.”
The TOMATS had three decks, was equipped for ocean travel with ultra-modern stabilization technology, advanced communications equipment, a helipad, and every nod to comfort that one could think of. It had a range of six-thousand nautical miles, a top speed of seventeen knots, and a cruise speed of fifteen. It was powered by two Caterpillar diesel engines producing close to five-thousand horsepower.
Rex was astounded by what he saw as Spencer took him on a tour of the yacht after meeting the crew. He had never seen so much luxury and comfort and elegance in such a small space. Apart from the very comfortable lodgings for the seventeen crew members, including the captain, there were accommodations for fourteen guests in seven luxurious staterooms. There was a hot tub, sauna, Turkish bath, infinity pool, gym, dining room, and several lounges. One of the lounges had been repurposed to house the sophisticated electronics gear and computer equipment that could be concealed when necessary. Another was turned into a secured communications room. Inside the latter was, among others, an impenetrable encrypted satellite video system, the latest technology in communications.
Declan Spencer was the only person on the yacht who knew Rex’s background, and that’s how it would stay. Spencer assured him it was not going to be a problem, even if the crew would find it strange that Rex was the only non-military person onboard. Being military, the crew understood the need-to-know principle. Besides, they would be on holiday, cruising around on a luxury super-yacht, seeing new places. What more could they wish for?
That night, Rex was treated to an exquisite sea-food dinner with Captain Spencer and his first officer. Digger was a hit with all of the crew from the moment they met him. He, of course, had quickly figured out who was responsible for the food in this new place and became fast friends with the two chefs. When Rex saw what was going on, he had a quick word with Digger’s new best friends to let them know that he had no problem if they spoiled him a bit as long as they didn’t overdo it and didn’t feed him anything that was not good for him such as chocolate, dairy products, nuts, grapes, raisins, and such. It was the first time since Rex and Digger had teamed up that Digger fell asleep during a meal and didn't bother sitting around waiting for someone to give him leftovers.
That night, Rex slept in one of the most comfortable beds he had ever had the privilege of sleeping in. He wasn’t sure if Digger had ever slept on a better bed but suspected he would have been happy to sleep anywhere as long as it was close to Rex.
With an adult life that so far consisted of university, military training, special operations training, black ops missions, violence and killing, traveling and hiding, it felt strange to think that it was all over. This was the beginning of a new life, and this yacht would be his and Digger’s new place of residence for as long as he wanted it to be. He even allowed himself to fantasize that if everything worked out between him and Catia as he had hoped and dreamed for the past four years, maybe she would soon live with him on the TOMATS.
If Rex had any idea of the conversation happening at that very moment about 1,300 miles to the north of Rome, in a restaurant in Narva, Estonia, on the border with Russia, he would have had a very restless night.
Chapter 2 – Brains in a tangle
Rome, Italy
Monday August 31, 2015
HE’D SEEN HER about seven weeks before, but it had been only for a few fleeting moments, and she wasn’t even aware he was there. The last time they’d talked to each other was when he kissed her goodbye, more than four years ago. Since then, there was no contact, but Rex thought of her every day. For the first two years or so after saying goodbye, he was still working for CRC, and they were prohibited from contacting each other or knowing anything about the other, let alone fraternizing. For the remainder of the time, Rex was on the run under a fake identity and couldn’t contact her because that would’ve blown his cover.
Seven weeks ago, when he was in Rome, he had disguised himself in order to check on her first, then he would try to figure out how he was going to contact her. But just as he caught a glimpse of her, he got a call from his IT specialist, Rehka Gyan, telling him John Brandt had been abducted and CRC needed his help in finding him—urgently.
Now, seven weeks later, he and Digger had arrived in Rome in a rental car from Lyon, France, the day before.
This morning, finally, he was ready to pursue his love interest, Catia Romano. He didn't know if that was her real name; in the black ops world people seldom went by their real names. She knew him as Marco, he never gave her a surname, it would have been fake, just like the first name he gave her.
Over the past seven weeks, Rex was able to take care of a lot of unfinished business that had burdened him since that fateful night of the ambush in Afghanistan. But now, he no longer had to live in hiding and didn’t work for CRC anymore. For the first time in four years, he had no encumberment, he was free to approach Catia openly. What he didn’t know was what her situation was, and there was only one way to find out.
That morning he had woken up with excitement, this was the day he had been thinking and dreaming of for the past four years. He and Digger slept late and had a nice breakfast, served by the chefs on the yacht, before they got into his rental car which he had to return to the agency in Rome not far from the Piazza del Popolo, the ‘people’s square’. It was a little more than half a mile from Catia’s apartment located above a little trattoria in Via delle Carrozze, close to the famous Piazza di Spagna, Spanish Square.
After returning the car to the agency, shortly after 10:00 A.M., he and Digger had to cross the Piazza del Popolo to get to Catia’s apartment. Rex, with a double major in history and linguistics, always had a keen interest in history and couldn’t help but slow down and look around when they entered the historical oval-shaped ‘square’ bordered by three churches.
The most noticeable feature, right in the center of the piazza, was the obelisk of Ramesses from Heliopolis, Egypt, known as the Flaminio or Popolo Obelisk, brought to Rome by Augustus, the first emperor of the Roman empire, in 10 BC.
On the north side of the piazza was the Porta del Popolo, a large gate, through which Rex and Digger had just entered. Constructed by order of Pope Pius IV in 1562, the sole purpose of the gate was to impress the pilgrims who entered the city from the Via Flaminia, one of the first roads built in Rome around 220 BC by emperor Flaminius.
And as with so many historical sites in Rome, and all over Italy for that matter, the Piazza del Popolo also boasted its fair share of fountains. After taking a short detour, walking slowly along the perimeters of the square, taking note of all the inscriptions and information boards, Rex ended up on the south side.
From there, all he had to do was continue along the narrow cobblestoned road in front of him, and in less than ten minutes he would have been outside Catia’s AirBnB. But then he’d been struck by a spell of doubt. All of a sudden, his brain was swarmed with questions. Should he just walk up to the trattoria and send the coded message to her through one of the waiters? That was if that method of contacting her was still used and if that waiter was still there.
Too many ifs.
Maybe it would be best to do it like he did on a previous occasion—wait for her to come down from her apartment above the trattoria, sidle up to her, and slip a note into her hand or handbag or something like that?
That is all well and good, but she is probably still working for whatever security agency she worked for four years ago, and she might not be allowed to have contact with you without authorization.
Is she still single?
Does she feel the same about me as I about her?
Did she even think of me the past four years?
Worse, would she even remember me?
“Just one way to find out,” he mumbled to himself.
There is no danger in it. Just do it.
But why do I feel like there is?
And then it hit him—it was fear of failure.
He had been thinking and dreaming about Catia for so long and was so convinced it was going to be easy. Just take up where they left off and live happily ever after.
A fairytale?
And now, when push came to shove, his courage had all but deserted him.
He had stopped walking and became aware that Digger was staring at him—with a big smile on his face, tongue lolling out. Rex could swear if Digger could talk, he would have said, “Come on, buddy. It can’t be that bad. You and I have been through much worse. Damn, man, we have been in battle, many times, and we survived. Pull yourself together, let’s go see this woman that’s got your brains in such a tangle.”
“Yeah right. That’s easy for you to say,” Rex mumbled. “What would you know about the affection between a man and a woman?”
Digger woofed once, sat down, and looked at Rex.
“Exactly my point.”
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