Читать книгу Hidden Agendas - Paul Boardman - Страница 9

As the Iron Pyrate eased its way through the reef into the harbor at Normans Cay in the Bahamas, it was met by a cigarette boat. Victor, a tall, thin, black man with a sparkling white smile and an easy-going manner was at the wheel. In the passenger seat sat George, a quiet and introspective African American who lacked Victor’s good looks and charm but nevertheless he was equally well liked and respected for his competence and loyalty.

“Thought you’d never come home, mon,” called Victor with a wicked grin. “I was going to sell the place but I was enjoying it too much without you. We have a couple of moorings set up to make it easier. If you keep buying bigger boats we’re going to have to build a bigger dock.”

Both couples were on deck and shouted “Hello” to Victor and George, pretending to ignore his humor but responding to his docking instructions. Victor was right. The Iron Pyrate was a lot of boat for the harbor that had never seemed small in the past. Michael threw a bow line to George who accepted it over the stern of the cigarette boat. Judy and Linda stood on either side of the boat with Phil at the wheel, preparing to dock as slowly and gently as possible.

There was no need to tow the boat but an extra line for safety was simply good seamanship. Phil looked over his shoulder to check that the stern line was clear and could be thrown easily.

Two young Bahamian ladies stood on the dock, waving. Both were smartly dressed in designer crew uniforms made up of black shorts and white blouses with gold embroidery in a nautical theme. A few pleasantries were exchanged but it was not until the boat was secured to the dock, with fenders in place and lines coiled that the group merged together for hugs and handshakes.

Linda put an arm around Michael and whispered in his ear. “It’s good to be home, Michael.”

Phil and Judy also exchanged a hug. This was Michael and Linda’s home but it was also the only land base Phil and Judy had known together, so it was considered home to them as well. Victor and George had worked for Farris for years and had their own apartments over the boat house. The two young women who had previously worked as cooks and housekeepers were promoted to crew with the purchase of Iron Pyrate. The arrangement was casual and their duties still included cooking but often the two couples chose to take care of the boat themselves. If crew was required, the girls, George, and occasionally Victor, appeared immediately.

“The bar is stocked, champagne is on ice, and dinner will be ready in a half hour”, announced one of the two girls.

“Wonderful,” said Michael. “Let’s all go up to the patio and all have a drink. “Everybody,” he added.

The young Bahamian girls who were sisters giggled. They had been only thirteen and fourteen when they started working part time for Michael and Linda. Now at nineteen and twenty they were thrilled to be invited to join their employers for a drink. They would then head back to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the gourmet meal they had prepared. The sisters had attended a gourmet cooking school in Nassau, paid for by Michael and Linda were both well on their way to becoming full scale chefs.

After a couple of drinks the girls retreated to the kitchen. Judy and Linda decided they wanted to luxuriate in steaming hot baths and went off in separate directions to their rooms. The house was a cross between a Spanish hacienda and a modern California design. It sprawled out in several directions allowing Phil and Judy to have their own wing. The girls did an amazing job of preparing for the home coming. There were flowers in vases and chocolates on pillows and an array of soaps, oils and shampoos around the Jacuzzi tubs. As Judy entered her room she felt as if she were stepping into a ten star hotel room, if there is such a thing. She felt pampered and was flattered by the detailed attention. She was glad she had gone shopping with Linda and bought gifts for Yolanda and Marcia.

Phil, Michael, Victor and George, remained on the patio after the women left.

“So what’s up now, boss?” asked Victor.

“We have a delivery to make, boys.”

Almost imperceptibly you could see the muscles tighten in both George’s and Victor’s shoulders.

“Where to, mon?” asked George.

“To the USA. From Colombia,” answered Farris.

Victor let out a slow, quiet whistle.

“It’s been a while,” he said directly to Farris.

“Yes it has. You boys still up to it?”

“Yah mon,” answered George.

Victor was slow to answer until both Phil and Michael looked directly at him.

“I thought we gave that up, long time ago, mon.” He sounded uncertain and a bit dejected.

“We did. This time it’s different. This time we’re delivering to the DEA. Special Request!”

That brought a huge grin to Victor’s face and a laughing snort from George.

“Yah, mon. We’re up to it, mon!” Victor reached out and slapped Michael’s hand, Bahamian style, then turned to George and did the same. He looked at Phil who had been silent thus far in the conversation. He hesitated for a second and looked into Phil’s eyes. He was met by a cool, steady gaze. After a moment he reached out and slapped hands with Phil. “Yah, mon,” he repeated, grinning.

Victor had seen Phil in action. Though he and George had a much longer history with Farris, Phil was as solid as the rock of Gibraltar. If this plan included Phil, it was OK by Victor.

Tom sat at his computer console reviewing the test results of his four recruits all of which were higher than he had expected. The physicals were all above average. All four had returned in good physical shape. Running had started out slow, especially for the men, but for both, their speed and distance had steadily increased. The girls had done much better at first but showed less improvement overall. Judy showed little change but it was Linda who was the real surprise. She had the Ivy League look. Her face and figure were sculpted with only a few extra pounds, but she looked soft, exuding a cushy, tennis club look. She was the type who would perspire but never sweat. Well she might not look athletic like Judy did, he surmised, but she must have spent a fair amount of time in the gym taking aerobics classes with a personal trainer, as her scores were right up there. Tom smiled, and continued reading.

The work on the gun range was impressive too. Phil was by far the most accurate shot. Next was Farris. Not quite as accurate but faster. Judy and Linda both ranked evenly. Seldom did either one shoot a “good guy” but they could both use a bit more speed even though their accuracy passed muster.

There was just one weak link. Linda couldn’t swim a stroke. She refused to leave the shallow end of the pool without a life jacket and never made it across the pool unless her instructor was within reach. Jesus. A full week of intensive training and she barely showed any improvement.

Tom sat back in his chair and stroked his chin, mulling over that problem. “How in the Hell can she live on a boat for months at a time and not know how to swim?” he mused to himself. He reviewed her other scores and came up with nothing new. Finally he closed the program and switched to another.

Normans Cay. What a shack! It must be eight or ten thousand square feet. Tom reviewed his surveillance photos. It was hard not to be awed by its simple luxury. There was nothing garish about it. Just plain old tropical luxury. Big spaces. A huge patio overlooking a private harbor and a small hanger with a long paved runway. Now that was odd. He could see a plane half way out of the hanger. It was a bi-plane, an antique! Linda was the only one who possessed a pilot’s license. What was she doing flying an old bi-plane?

Tom smiled at the corners of his mouth. His recruits were not easy people to pin down. Farris was a known smuggler who had followed in the footsteps of his father, also a professional smuggler. Tom reminded himself that Farris was Bahamian and smuggling in the Bahamas was a well respected profession. He had owned that shack long before he met his wife. Linda Wilson was Ivy League. She came from old, industrial money. All she had to do was let her accountants clip coupons and deposit whatever she needed in her bank account. She was still a member of the Board of the company she had inherited but other than a few meetings a year she seemed to leave operations entirely to others. Phil Harrison was a tall, handsome engineer who seemed to have made a lot of money over a five year period in both the stock market and in real estate and was now living the life of Riley with his girlfriend, Judy Simpson. He had worked for a large engineering firm and later formed a small consulting firm with a senior co-worker. They had made a lot of money in just a few consulting contracts but when his partner died suddenly, Phil cashed in his partnership insurance, closed down the firm and went off treasure hunting. Apparently Judy had accompanied him but they had no past between them prior to Phil setting sail for the Bahamas. Judy. She had no particular claim to fame other than that she was handy around computers and had worked for a couple of big names in that field. She seemed to have an extraordinary ability in programming and seemed to know intuitively how and where to look for solutions for a problem. Tom checked out her declaration of income. She had been well paid for her endeavors.

Four people, either rich or at least comfortable, all from different fields and yet they operated with a sense of teamwork and co-operation seldom found in today’s egocentric world.

Now Tom noted that the two couples were currently on a private island in the Bahamas, packing their suitcases for a trip to Colombia on board an eighty-foot sailboat. He felt the beginnings of another twinge of jealousy. While he tried to displace that emotion it continued to fester, lingering barely below the surface.

“And I’m all excited about a five thousand dollar a year raise!” he muttered. “Those people probably spend that much on a bottle of wine.”

He banged out a quick covering letter, added his comments to the report and forwarded it to his boss, Dick Whitehorn, who would in turn forward it to the Director. He knew the Director was impatient to hear some information about the contact. What if Eduardo Fernandez refused to meet with Michael Farris and Phil Harrison? If Fernandez delegated someone else, that wouldn’t be too bad. Certainly it would be someone high in the organization. But a flat refusal to do business with an old associate would put Tom Barrens back to pushing paperclips around his desk and avoiding the confectionary when the heavyweights were present. He asked himself the same question he had previously asked, every day for the last three weeks.

“What can I do, today, to successfully further this operation?”