Anna noticed there was another bedroom downstairs with a bathroom beside it. Blane suggested that Anna could have the upstairs room but she told him not to be silly as she was perfectly happy to sleep downstairs. Reminding her she was his guest, he carried her bags upstairs. The bedroom was stunning and full of natural light from the windows and a door that opened out to a balcony. The four-poster bed was positioned so that you could lie and take in the view across the bay.
Anna, totally overwhelmed by the breathless beauty of the cabin and its surroundings, somehow managed to thank Blane for his thoughtfulness and hospitality.
Smiling, he told Anna to make herself at home and that although the place was very ‘olde worlde’, technology had caught up with it and there was hot running water, electricity and even Internet and mobile phone connections, though the signal could be weak or slow at times.
‘Even better.’ Anna grinned.
Langton lay in his cabin on board the FBI’s converted Mirage power-yacht and looked at his watch. It was nearly six p.m. on Saturday evening. He felt completely frustrated at having spent the previous night and most of the day cooped up in the command and control room, only able to watch the outside world and the interior of the suspect’s villa on an array of LCD monitors. He had tried to get some sleep during the night but the small cabin he shared was uncomfortable, and the top bunk bed he’d been given was far too small, the gap between the ceiling and his nose only about eight inches.
Try as he might he just couldn’t sleep due the anticipation of finally arresting Fitzpatrick. It didn’t help that his cabin was directly below the on-deck Jacuzzi, and the sound of the cavorting undercover officers laughing and splashing around kept him awake as well. Looking at his watch again he found that only three minutes had elapsed. The latest information was that their suspect Fitzpatrick was not expected to turn up until after sunset, which wasn’t until eight p.m., and if anything did start to happen, someone would come and get him.
Langton thought about the events that had occurred since they had set sail from Miami. There was nothing positive or even remotely encouraging to suggest Fitzpatrick would definitely show up and there was always the possibility it was not even him. Langton knew that the FBI had tapped into the villa’s landline but no calls of any interest had been recorded and no one apart from the young boy and the Hispanic-looking woman had come or gone from the property all day. They were picking up a mobile-phone signal coming from the villa but encryption equipment was being used so they could not hear the conversation. Jack Deans had told Langton this was a positive sign as it was a known method popular with drug dealers to prevent law enforcement agencies from listening to their calls.
Langton glanced at his watch again; in total eight minutes had passed since he last looked. God, was he bored. He finally had just dozed off when he was disturbed by a knock at the door, and one of the FBI agents entered. Without thinking he went to sit up and banged his head on the cabin ceiling and swore under his breath.
‘Detective Langton, sorry to disturb you, but Director Deans thought you’d want to be woken. There’s just been a call on the villa landline to a pizza joint. The young boy has ordered two extra-large with sides to be delivered. A big order for him and the housekeeper so we figure he’s expecting company.’
‘Thanks, I will be up in a minute,’ Langton replied as he got down from the bunk bed and, checking his watch, saw that it was 8.30 p.m.
In the control room, the LCD screens were showing the jetty area. Langton realized that because of the darkness, the surveillance team had switched to specialist night vision cameras, which detected and amplified any available light so an image could be displayed, albeit in black and white with a green aura. He knew that this would make it more difficult for him to recognize Fitzpatrick, plus the night-camera lens would make the suspect’s eyes a reflective white.
Jack Deans pointed to a screen that had a satellite view of the Florida coastline on it as he spoke into his head mike.
‘Intensify earlier satellite image to close-up,’ he said, as the picture zoomed inward from the skies like something on Google Earth. ‘This was taken while it was still light. Can’t make out who’s on board but close enough to track her and she’s heading our way.’
Langton couldn’t believe how good the picture quality was as a large powerboat came into view, bouncing along the sea at a high speed. A navigational indicator in the top right of the screen showed the boat’s speed and that its distance from them was twenty-two miles south.
‘Obviously, as it turned dark the picture was lost. We’ve got a helicopter following them.’ Deans said.
‘Won’t they see it from the boat?’ Langton asked.
‘Not unless they’ve got eyes like Superman – it’s a Sikorsky Black Hawk, heavily modified with stealth technology and flying three miles above them. They were used in the raid to take out Osama Bin Laden. Switch to the Black Hawk’s thermal-imaging camera,’ Deans ordered into his mike and a multicoloured image in the shape of the speedboat came up on the screen. Deans explained that the camera picked up heat and colourized objects that emitted thermal radiation. Langton knew exactly what the director was talking about as the Met’s helicopters had the same equipment. He suspected that Deans was just showing off to his men and decided to let him ramble on.
‘The reds, yellow and white in the picture are heat sources and the cooler objects are the blues, purple and green. From the movement of the yellows, we think there are three people on board,’ Deans explained.
Langton was amazed at what he was witnessing and shuddered to think what it all cost. ‘Are you going to use the Navy to stop the boat once it enters the canal waterways?’ he asked.
‘No, too risky,’ Deans told him. ‘I want him to moor the boat and be on terra firma when we take him out. He mustn’t make it into the villa; the last thing I want is a siege situation. So we’re dependent on you to make the ID.’
Langton prayed that the man he blamed for destroying his promotion and making a fool of him was on board the boat. He didn’t doubt his ability to recognize him again, even if he’d had more plastic surgery; it was the fact that he would have to make a split-second decision from a night-vision camera picture that worried him. He stood and waited in silence as the satellite tracked the boat’s movement towards them, the distance to go now ten miles.
Langton heard the sound of a doorbell and wondered where it had come from, before he realized it was from within the villa. He looked up at the screens, one showing the boy moving towards the front door and an exterior camera showing a pizza-delivery boy ringing the bell. Deans explained that the delivery boy was one of their agents, dubbed ‘Baby Face’ after the notorious 1930s public enemy Baby Face Nelson. Langton wondered why on earth the FBI agents so often used nicknames. He forced a smile but in reality it was to hide his anxiety as he saw the boat had entered the inland waterway and was less than a mile away. Langton’s stomach churned with the knowledge that within minutes he might hold Fitzpatrick’s future in the palm of his hand. It struck him that he hoped that the SWAT team didn’t shoot the dealer. He’d far rather look him in the eye, slap on the cuffs and tell him he’d been nicked, as he had done with every scumbag he had arrested over the last thirty-two years of his police service. Langton had never carried a firearm, or been on a unit that was trained to, and he was glad that was the case. He had only ever carried a truncheon and used it as a last resort.
Now he could hear a voice over the radio speaking in phonetic code, and from the background sound he suspected it was the pilot of the helicopter giving the boat’s position. Then there came the deep throbbing of a boat’s engine and the gurgling of bubbling water as it taxied towards them. The control room was eerily silent, until Deans spoke.