Читать книгу Mysterious Islands - David Meade - Страница 5

Some say romance finds you when you are least looking for it. Ahead of us loomed an elaborate room with chandeliers from another era, and black-jacketed waiters were before us as we entered the dining room of the hotel. The hotel had been founded by an Englishman at the turn of the century, and the decor reflected his European tastes. Fine linen and crystal abounded on the tables. Flowers, freshly cut, were the centerpiece of each table. A romantic atmosphere added to the electric nature of the evening. Cassandra looked at me rather coyly and asked, “Would you prefer wine, champagne, or something else?”

“Something else,” I answered. I noticed her strong perfume, the dark eyes and the long hair covering her petite figure.

So began an evening of quiet discourse as we listened to piano music in the background and watched the endless parade of the wealthy patrons of the hotel. It reminded me of a comment I had heard on my last trip here - at a jewelry store - the man had asked a customer if his “wife, girlfriend, mistress or whatever relationship might exist” would like to look at a certain bauble.

It was time to order and we tried filet mignon for two. A magnum of wine from the wine cellar, Chateau Haut Brion, complemented the mood of the evening. I was being lured into a dream, I thought, but I liked it and I hoped it would continue. It was a far cry from my daytime life and I enjoyed it - it was an escape.

“And what about your family?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re in Arizona , and points west. They’ve all migrated from their original cities, to wherever.”

“How about your immediate family?”

This was an interesting question as there was none, and the fact that she was inquisitive on this point had me thinking that perhaps there was more than an immediate interest in the point at hand. “My immediate family - you’re looking at.”

“In Palm Beach you never mentioned your line of work...”

“Well, I’m here for an International Conference on Securities Management. I represent principals - primarily out of London, who investment bank deals of various sorts. . . and I act as both a principal and an intermediary in some of the deals . . .”

She looked at me quizzically for a moment... and then said, “Anyone with a job description that complex, who’s out of the country on business constantly, must be with one of the government intelligence agencies - which one are you with?”

Taken aback, I smiled and said, “Well, from what I’ve heard, if that was true...they’re all pretty much in the same business - so it doesn’t really matter - if it were true, right?”

She responded, “I read a lot, and I’m not your average - you know what I mean...”

“Precisely...” I answered back.

Cassandra had led a privileged life and one which involved the study of relationships and people. She strategized instantly in her mind, almost with computer-like precision. She had spent her early years in Massachusetts and the winters in Palm Beach. Her parents had inherited a tremendous tract of land bordering on the edge of a city, Scoville, which caused the value of the land as the city developed to be worth well in excess of twenty million dollars. It was developed as they required cash. She never had any money concerns...but she had been through two previous marriages

The marriages I understood from my meeting friends of hers in Palm Beach had been one-sided affairs. She brought both the money and the intellect to the partnership - they contributed only some social skills - and those quite limited. She had dissolved both marriages upon discovery of - to be quite blunt about it - multiple extramarital flings with close friends. In a small town those matters are not privy to just a few.

It was spring time in Bermuda and the night looked lovely so we walked after dinner, and took our after-dinner drinks to the pool. Colored lights reflected on the calm waters of the pool as a full moon illuminated the night sky. A croquet game was set up on a large green expanse next to the pool. A few couples walked through the field, onto the paths to an adjacent hotel. Between the next hotel and ours was a beautiful cove, where one looked straight down into the churning waters, illuminated by floodlights at night. A rocky path led down to the cove. At night the waters were deep blue, and the waves crashed in the distance as we talked by the poolside.

“When will you be back in the States?” she inquired.

“Two weeks...that’s how long I’m scheduled for here.”

“Funny - I’ll be here that exact length of time, too - it’s enough time to show my aunt the whole island...and shop - once you’ve been here two weeks, you start running out of things to do!”

“Bermuda’s like that ...shuts down early at night.”

We both looked towards the ocean as a helicopter appeared and its bright lights illuminated the ocean and the beach. “Must be a special visitor,” she remarked. It moved towards the helipad and landed softly. In the distance it was hard to make out who it might be. A group of four men disembarked. One attended to the luggage and the rest walked in the opposite direction - towards the cove in the ocean. It was as if they didn’t care to be seen or bothered. They walked until they were out of sight and then the noise of the helicopter’s rotors began again and it lifted off into the distance.

“Probably back to the airport,” I remarked.

“Only Governors and celebrities travel that way,” she said.

“And Presidents,” I added.

“What do you plan to do with the rest of your life?” she asked inquisitively.

“Well, at this point. I’m more or less day by day - but open to any options that may develop.” I looked at her to determine her reaction but she showed none. A slight smile. A penetrating gaze.

I felt uplifted to be with someone like her but at the same time I was cautious - my mind moved back and forth to the missing call tonight. And to what tomorrow would bring. My cellphone began to ring and I pulled it out of my coat pocket. The voice on the other end spoke in a brief code - “0800 - Lakeview.” I understood this to mean tomorrow at the cove - right here at the hotel. Lakeview was the term to refer to a meeting at your residence and by the water - so the cove was the only solution. Process of elimination. She looked at me with some concern when I so quickly put it back.

“Wrong number, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” she answered back. “One of your girlfriends?”

“Let’s walk to the cove - have you ever seen it at night?”

“No, never...my first time here at the hotel.”

“It’s quite magnificent at night...it’s quite startling, actually.”

“I’m open to new experiences...” she answered.

We walked to the cove and the darkness gave way to a bright view of a roaring ocean. A strange feeling came over me as we approached the area. Two of the three men who had disembarked the helicopter were there - and as they saw us approach they looked hard at us and then went on their way. One had a VHF radio...the other carried a briefcase and was wearing an expensive suit - Bernini from what I could tell. They had been having a private conversation but when they saw us approaching they decided to leave.

We entered the area above the cove and looked down over two hundred feet to the beach below. It was a rocky beach - the waves were loud and the path was only lit part of the way down. “On second thought, maybe night time is not the best time to investigate this particular cove,” I said. She looked like she agreed. It was time for a look out to sea, but not to investigate the circular path down to the water.

I thought about my last visit to Bermuda and though brief how I had viewed the entire island. From one end to the other I had explored the restaurants, hotels and scenery. It was a magnificently beautiful, almost perfect island.

“Look at the lighthouse,” she said as she pointed west. Its bright reflecting light hit us every ten seconds. It was marble white and had blue window coverings. It was lighted from the ground up by floodlights and was a lone sentry to the seagoing vessels.

“I’ve been at the top of it,” I responded. “And you can have breakfast in the first floor - like a tea room.”

“Perhaps this week - we’ll do that.”

“Any day except tomorrow - how about Wednesday?” I asked hopefully.

“I’ll see you then ..meet you there.”

“It’s a nice walk...it’s quite safe. It gets uphill at the end, though - wear walking shoes. And it’s cold and windy at the top.”

“Thanks for the advice,” she replied. We looked down at the sea and then back at the lighthouse and I wondered what would have transpired by then. I always wondered what would happen at a future point with my life - and lately that wonder extended from day to day. I sensed that something important was going to happen. The waves broke against the rocks and the eerie light illumined the shore.

The bells on the shore from various craft rang as I left the hotel and morning appeared in Bermuda. Bankers in their navy coats were having breakfast on the verandah. The hotel was alive with activity in the morning. I walked along the path to the cove, glancing at my watch. It was 7:58. No one was in sight I continued to the edge, looking over the railing at the waves crashing against the rocks. I looked further down the path and saw no one, so I decided to walk down to the ocean. The path was circular and had guard rails at the top. The spray of the ocean hit me as I walked downwards. The sun felt warm and good. I had my briefcase with me.

As I entered the area between the rocks, I saw no one. Then I waited. Sea gulls flew overhead. It was a lonely area, covered by high rock formations all around. Sea spray moved across the small landing every time the waves hit the rocks offshore. The rocks offshore were probably twenty feet away. The cliffs above me were hundreds of feet high. In the distance I heard rotors - like last night. I looked out over the ocean and saw nothing. But the sound was getting louder. So I looked back at the hotel, and it looked like the same helicopter as last night. I couldn’t really tell.

I saw two men - a pilot and one other. The pilot had sunglasses and a cap. The other man was wearing a suit. I didn’t recognize him. They landed at the top of the cove, and I saw the other man walking down the steps to the ocean. The helicopter blades were still whirring, smoothly and heavily. The man approaching me was wearing a grey pin-striped suit. He looked about fifty. I had never seen him before. “Sorenson, my name is Hausmann. First Bermuda is expecting you, but we’re meeting at a different location.”

I watched him carefully. Nodding, I said, “Let’s go.” I followed him up the stairs to the waiting helicopter. As soon as we entered we lifted off. Bermuda from the air is magnificent. I could see the harbor, the hotels and shops, the offices gleaming in the morning sun. We flew down the beach until we came to a hotel and golf course, and we veered inland. We descended until we were at three hundred feet, and then we leveled off and I saw a large estate on the edge of the country, opposite the ocean. It had three stories and was a Mediterranean style. A pool with deep blue water was in its yard. The estate was surrounded by shrubbery on three sides and a gate at the entrance. The gate was large and ornate, and closed. A large green space in front of the pool was apparently used for landings. That’s where we were headed.

As we set down another man - this one I recognized - emerged from the back of the villa. Jason Meadows. With short-cropped hair, tanned and heavy set and wearing wire-rim glasses, I remembered him well from prior meetings. He looked up at me with recognition.

“Vince, good to see you,” Jason cheerfully spoke above the sound of the rotors.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you,” I carefully replied.

“Come this way...we’re waiting for you.” He led me into the house via a path that led past brightly-colored vegetation and plant growth. The pool shimmered in the morning sun. I was in deep thought about my last visit - to their trading office off Front Street. It’s located up a small via, four flights up, in a Penthouse. It has a receptionist, and one administrative assistant named Shana. The Penthouse overlooks the harbor and has a patio outside the office for lunches. It has computerized, on-line transaction ability with bond trading, both in London and New York. It actually has a few real clients who are friends of the Company, but it existed mostly just to perform trades for the fund - the black ops fund.

Entering the house I found the rooms to be unusually large and well-done in terms of appointments. The paintings on the wall were of European castles and forests. A breeze entered from the open doors. We entered a room whose ceilings were topped by large long beams of wood. A nautical theme dominated the room. Models of sailboats and trawlers and cruisers were on the tables and desks. A splendid array of museum-quality artwork decorated the walls.

Inside the room were piles of paper and photographs - I couldn’t make out the nature of the files but there were at least six of them. I placed the briefcase on a small credenza and waited. Jason shut the doors behind us.

“It’s all right to speak - this house is ours. We use it for debriefings.”

I spoke. “All right - in the briefcase are the securities - the denominations are one hundred thousand, they’re bearer - it’s just a matter of filling in the endorsements.”

Jason shot back, “Leave it there and let’s take a walk.”

We exited and went outside, into the blue and green expanse of sky, sea and land. We walked towards a bluff. Jason looked at me and said, “Are you aware of what these payoffs are for?”

“Two recent hits - one in South America, one the ex-Director - and to fund a third – a foreign assassination called Operation Cassandra.”

“Did you know anything about the plan?” he asked.

“Not at all. Not until I was in Rock Key,” I responded coolly.

“The driver will be given capsules in his drink that morning - they later expand in his stomach and cause him to lose control.”

“How many know about the plan?” I asked.

He answered, “Mover, yourself, myself, Ranier, and the team that’s involved ”

I asked, “Which team ?”

He answered, “Victor Team - four men, one ex-Special Forces, and three are our assets.”

“Are they here?”

“They’re arriving this afternoon. They’re going to use the money to go to a safe haven - plan it and then wait everything out. We’ve already handled new passports.”

I answered back, “U.S. newspapers - they’ll count it a tragedy and blame the condition of the roads. But the Egyptian newspapers. Middle Eastern news - they’ll call it a conspiracy.”

He said, “They’ll have disinformation planted. How I feel about it is one thing - when we took these jobs we knew there would be some cases we wouldn’t have complete peace about - on a personal level.”

I knew what he meant. On a personal level, to authorize something - or be part of something - against the very nature of our beliefs is hard to accept. On a professional level - we do the job and forget the moral codes. But I could tell he was deeply disturbed by the incident - that we had financed it - arranged it and authorized it. And if anyone was listening right now, we might both be targets. Too sympathetic. Too personal. Security risks. I looked around and saw no one. But that didn’t guarantee anything.

I thought of past relationships I had with Company people. They had always been straight arrows. You knew their direction - and their purpose. Once in a while - in a great while - one went off on his own. That didn’t last long. There was a euphemism we used about eliminating a target - about ‘getting the measles.’ The other alternative was to discredit them - a trumped-up charge. Neither alternative was pleasant. They were rare - having to deal with people like this - but I understood it happened. No one wanted it to happen to them.

The other alternative, if you disagreed with policy, was to take a lateral transfer - out of the Company. And into one of its many fronts - travel agencies, detective agencies, offshore consulting groups. That would have been my preference. If I had been given one.

Jason came from a family of intellectuals - he pretty much accepted what he was told by the New York Times. Not that they’re often wrong - there’s a story about a man in North Africa - head of one of the stations. He decided to transfer intelligence to another station on a test basis and he used only one source - the New York Times. The briefings were so accurate they thought it took him months to develop the scenarios he listed. He ‘gamed’ a certain situation as if he were one of the players - method acting transferred to the Intelligence Community. But all of his information came from the Times - a few dollars from petty cash developed his briefing reports.

This same station chief had at one time developed a tremendous level of disinformation he wanted to influence Israeli Intelligence with. He provided briefing reports to them - they wouldn’t read it. And so then he took a briefing report - changed the name on the cover and marked it ‘Top Secret’ - left it in the King David Hotel in a conference room and within one hour it was missing. It was later read and acted on by Israeli Intelligence. There’s always more than one way to operate.

There’s always more than one way to operate - those words filled my mind as Jason and I looked over the beach, into the sun and sky. Each thinking his own thoughts. Each looking for a way - maybe a way out. My thoughts were on survival - I knew not to say too much. I knew my thoughts couldn’t be read and I was safe to think and plan. In my thought life just then I reflected on what an unusual coincidence that I was meeting a beautiful woman of the same name as a paramilitary operation we were covertly conducting.