Читать книгу Hidden Agendas - Paul Boardman - Страница 5

Tom drove through the Miami traffic toward Fort Lauderdale in his six year old Toyota. He made no attempt to fight the traffic. Eventually he found himself in a parking lot, overlooking a harbor filled with big, expensive boats. It didn’t take long to find his target. The Bahamian official had been correct. The boat’s hull was shiny black with gold striping below the gunwales and at the waterline. The hardware was polished brass and a magnificent maidenhead rested below the bowsprit with her golden hair flowing back on either side of the hull. The cabin and deck were all teak with gold trim.

“So that’s what smuggling buys,” thought Tom with a hint of jealousy. He really didn’t know if he liked boats but he could easily imagine a lifestyle that would allow someone a boat like that. “I wouldn’t mind trying it out … maybe I would like it.”

He could see two men on board. They were lowering a Zodiac inflatable into the water from the davits at the stern of the vessel. Tom bent over and extracted a camera worth more than his car, from under the passenger seat. He sat there, zooming in with a powerful telephoto lens snapping a series of pictures of the two men as they motored quietly around the harbor. They soon disappeared under a huge deck, part of a seaside bar and restaurant. Tom studied the building, concentrating on the massive covered deck that extended far out, over the water.

He reached under the seat and replaced his camera in its well worn canvas camera bag. He could distinguish two men sitting down under the veranda roof. He thought they might be the same men but they were too far away to be sure.

He started his car and began his drive home.

Tom worked exclusively on his report the next day, editing it, adding file photos and finally inserting his surveillance photos. The following morning, at the appointed time he entered the conference room and sat down, while mumbling hellos to the other attendees. The Director entered last.

“OK. What do you all have?” he asked.

A couple of people tabled file photos and a few scraps of data. Tom remained silent.

“Tom, you have anything to add?”

“Yes sir,” he answered quietly.

“Well let’s see it,” demanded the Director.

Tom reached into his briefcase and extracted nine copies of his report which he passed around nervously. The Director picked up his copy and began to read it. Everyone else did the same but with less attention to the content and more attention on their boss. Simply put, Tom had done his homework and they had not.

“Comments?” said the Director, looking up.

He was met with silence.

“All right. This is good work. Go ahead and contact Farris. See if you can find out more about this Phil Harrison.” He rose to leave. “Tom, you’re in charge. You’ll answer to Dick Whitehorn. He’ll be back in town tomorrow.”

“Sir, I really think someone with more experience in the field should take over for Tom.”

Tom squirmed uncomfortably. He was low man on the totem pole and now the Director was shoving him forward, ahead of more senior people. This, he hadn’t planned on. He opened his mouth to agree.

“Well I don’t!” snapped the Director.

“Tom, have you thought of a name for this operation?”

“No, sir. I thought it was just a report, not an operation.”

“Well you have five seconds to come up with a name. What will it be?”

Tom’s face turned scarlet and his mind momentarily shut down. Just before the five seconds were up he spouted out “Iron Pyrate”.

“Can’t use that …. It’s the name of the boat.”

“What about “Fools Gold?” said one of the committee members. That drew a couple of snickers and a brutal stare from the Director.

“Call it “Plan B”, mumbled Tom.

“Plan Bee,” said the director. “A bumble bee. Yellow and black like the boat. Good name for a sting!” He abruptly left the room.

Tom began to say that wasn’t at all what he had been thinking but decided it was better to keep his mouth shut. Involuntarily, his mouth opened again in an attempt to apologize to the other members, but after quick thinking, he prudently closed it.

With his face still crimson, Tom rose from the conference table and left the room almost running. As the door swung shut he could hear the swearing of some very disgruntled agents.