Let me tell you a story about a Spaniard named Vazquez. A few weeks ago he staggers into a tavern on Port Royal. Takes a seat next to an English merchant captain. Vazquez, it turns out, is dying. Bleeding to death from a knife wound to the belly. The knife wound was courtesy of his former employer, La Casa del Contratacion, in Seville. Colonial intelligence. Naval, more specifically. One of their top agents in the Americas. Responsible for the security of one particular ship. A ship with a cargo so rich, the king of Spain is very anxious to see it launched. Vazquez warned that it was too late. Storm season was upon them and no escort could be mustered to guard her. But his superiors demanded that he sign off. They advised him that if he couldn’t arrange for an escort, he should plot a course for the ship unknown to anyone but her captain, and consider that route to be a state secret of the highest order. When Vazquez refused and threatened to report his concerns to the court, things got ugly. The ship in question L’Urca de Lima. The largest Spanish treasure galleon in the Americas. According to Vazquez, total cargo in excess of $5 million.