Читать книгу Hidden Agendas - Paul Boardman - Страница 4

The meeting at DEA head quarters was subdued.

“Was there any sign of him?”

“Barely a scrap of flotsam. A bit of oil on the water. That’s it!”

“Christ! Can we dive? Can we do anything?”

“Not a damn thing! He was out in the Gulf Stream. It’s thousands of feet deep at that point. That explosion didn’t leave a scrap of evidence!”

“No word on the plane?”

“Nada. First our pilots were told to abort. Then they zeroed in on the explosion, and patrolled, searching for a survivor, hoping Jeff had baled in time. We ran back the tape. The satellite phone was live the whole time. From the message to abort until the communication went dead was less than thirty seconds. Even if he realized the bomb was there, he couldn’t have gotten away.”

“My God!”

For the next minute not a word was said. No one even moved. Finally the Director spoke again.

“That’s it, gentlemen. We’ll just have to regroup and go after those bastards again. We’ll start a strategy meeting at ten AM, tomorrow morning.”

With that, he walked out of the meeting, visibly shaken.

Eight men and one woman sat around the mahogany conference table, as the Director entered. They all began to rise but the Director waved them off with a grunt.

“You were all here yesterday. You all know we lost a key agent. Some of you lost a friend. Today we are not going to dwell on that. If there is one thing I am sure of, it's that Jeff wouldn’t want us sitting around mourning. We have a war going on. We have to regroup. And we have to do it quickly. All right. Any ideas?”

Everyone at the table sat silently, staring at the blank white, lined pads in front of each of them. No one looked up or tried to speak. Finally the Director spoke again. His voice was softer this time.

“Come on group. You know we can’t function like this. Erwin, how about you?”

Erwin did not appreciate being put on the spot.

“I guess we start again. We have to get someone inside. You know how long it takes.”

The group lapsed into silence.

Finally a thin man spoke up at the end of the conference table.

“Does anyone remember Michael Farris?”

There were a couple of grunts and two or three people looked up at the thin man who had spoken. He failed to return their eye contact and continued to stare at the blank pad in front of him, through thick glasses.

“Go ahead, Tom. What’s on your mind?”

Tom was the most introverted of the group, an analyst with almost no field experience, and therefore an outsider. He was respected for his analytical ability, though no one at the table had ever considered him a friend or invited him home for a bar-b-que.

Finally someone spoke up to take the pressure off Tom.

“Sure, I remember Farris. Normans Cay in the Bahamas. He was on our short list five or eight years ago but we never nabbed him. He was a runner. Didn’t really seem to be part of the system, beyond the delivery. But we suspected him of making a few huge runs. Then he dropped right off the radar. Haven’t heard his name in years.”

Tom spoke up.

“Exactly. Michael Farris was a smuggler. We never connected him to anything other than transportation, and frankly, we could never prove his connection to that, either. He could slip into American waters as if he was invisible. The only thing we really had on him was the fact that he accumulated a huge amount of money. We assumed it came from cocaine but we had nothing on him.”

“So what about now? Why bring him up?”

“OK. Look this idea might sound crazy but here goes. Farris was a top notch smuggler. We are sure of that. Then, about six years ago he stopped attracting any interest. I kept his file open and here is what I found. Six years ago he got married”.

That elicited a few groans.

“The person he married was Linda Wilson. That’s Ivy League “Wilson” with a net worth of Lord knows what! Linda was about as far away from a drug connection as the North Pole is from Antarctica. I think it’s fair to say, whatever Farris’s past, that he retired. Naturally, he fell off our radar, as you put it.

“Then, about six months ago, he reappeared. Just briefly and only as a rumor. At the same time, Ricky Ferungali disappeared.”

“Now there was a mad man, if ever there was one,” said someone.

“Ferungali was as close to Colombia as anyone in recent history. He was also mob, out of New York.”

“I thought we figured he’d been taken out by the Colombians?” questioned the woman.

“We did. We knew he had disappeared but we didn’t know where. And he wasn’t the kind of person to disappear. He wore being a criminal like it was a red coat. Then one day he was gone. We took it for an internal dispute and were all thankful for it. The funny part was that Michael Farris’s name came up briefly as being responsible. We didn’t pursue it because we didn’t care.”

“Are you saying Farris is taking over Ferungali’s turf?”

“Not at all. Farris had no mob connection and after that blip he went off the radar again.”

“So what is this all about?” asked the Director.

“It’s just an idea I had. It’s a bit of a wild idea so cut me a bit of slack until I finish. Suppose that Farris did retire, perhaps because of pressure from Wilson.”

“His wife?” parroted someone.

Tom seemed to be put off by being interrupted so often and paused for a second.

“Right. If Farris did have something to do with the removal of Ricky Ferungali, and didn’t take over Ferungali’s turf, it might indicate that Farris has turned. He might even be an ally.”

There was a huge guffaw from one of the members and Tom’s face reddened severely. The Director, however, was intrigued.

“Cut that out. And let Tom finish,” he ordered curtly.

The guffaw stopped abruptly and a second face at the table reddened.

“I know it’s a stretch, but look … it took two years to get Jeff inside Fernandez’ organization. Suppose we do try someone new. It would take that long again, and probably with the same results,” said the analyst.

“Hold on,” said one of the members defensively.

“Everybody hold on. I don’t want to hear a sneeze until Tom has finished,” snapped the Director.

“If Farris has turned, it may not have been a total about face. If we could persuade him to work on our side, we could get someone inside faster and with more credibility than by starting from scratch.”

Tom simply stopped talking and stared at the pad on the table.

There was a long period of silence before someone spoke.

“Jesus, Tom. How did you come up with this? From a comic book?”

Tom reddened, again.

“It’s a stretch all right, but it might work,” someone mumbled.

“What, we just walk up to Michael Farris and offer him a job? Yah, right!”

The Director took control immediately ending the banter.

“I’d like to thank all of you for your ideas,” he said dryly. “Tom’s seems to have the most merit. Let’s find out everything we can about Michael Farris. Priority One! We’ll meet again on Thursday and I’ll expect a full report! Meeting adjourned.”

Without another word he rose and left the room. Tom rushed to leave, immediately after him and turned the opposite direction as soon as he set foot in the hallway.

The remaining eight people began talking amongst themselves. Four were dead against the idea. The other four were skeptical but non-committal.

Tom hurried toward the refuge of his office. He detoured only long enough to buy a health bar from the vending machine. Once behind his closed office door, let out a sigh and stood there, catching his breath. Finally he sat down at his computer. He checked his e-mails and decided nothing was important. Then, after assuring himself that his mini-blinds were closed, he put his feet up on his desk and ripped open the wrapper on the health bar. He reached into a desk drawer and extracted a bottle of water. For the next fifteen minutes he did nothing more than crunching periodically on the bar or sipping on his water.

Rejuvenated and composed, he viciously attacked his keyboard, sorting out every scrap of information he could find on Michael Farris and his wife. Near the end of the day, he logged onto a Customs site, using an address and password he had traded with an employee from that department. Both would probably be fired if word of the trade escaped but hackers had their own code of ethics. He doubted that his indiscretion would ever surface.

“Damn”, he thought as he studied the screen. “Michael Farris, his wife and two other people registered with US Customs two weeks previously. They had arrived by boat. There was the name of the boat … Iron Pyrate … Fools Gold … but spelt incorrectly. Somehow Tom didn’t think the spelling was a mistake. Address, a local marina in Fort Lauderdale.

“I wonder if you are still there?” he thought to himself. He pounded a few more keys. There was the list of passengers and crew. “What’s this? Farris is listed as crew. The boat is Bahamian registry. The Captain is listed as Phil Harrison. He picked up a phone and dialed.

The Bahamian government cooperated, in varying degrees, with the DEA. After Tom identified himself, a senior Bahamian official informed him that Iron Pyrate was registered in four names. Phil Harrison, Judy Simpson, Michael Farris and Linda Farris. In fact, the official knew the boat. Black hull with gold trim and a lot of teak. One of the prettiest boats he had ever seen. It was listed as being eighty feet. Just as Tom was about to hang up the official said “two masts”.

“It’s a sailboat?” demanded Tom.

“It’s a ketch.”

Tom didn’t know what that meant but he scribbled the word on a notepad. He thanked the Bahamian official and hung up.

Then Tom did a strange thing which was completely out of character, for him. He grabbed a sports jacket from the coat tree and left the office, nearly an hour before his usual time.