by Vince Milam
He recovered, pasted on a less sincere expression of accolades received, and sat back down. No one in the room noticed our three second eye-lock. Except for JJ. She turned in her seat two rows forward of me and raised one eyebrow. I kept the deadpan expression plastered. No visual clues. An important thing when intent involved someone’s demise.
Crystalline clarity arrived, bright and sure. Stinnett was a rogue operative. Why and for who was still unanswered, but the moment’s hero operated outside the realm of CIA case officer. He hired hitters. Ran an off-the-books conspiracy. And wanted me dead. Right back at you, bub.
Five minutes later, as the head suit spoke about the aftermath of the attack, their operational framework, and media management, Stinnett stood and performed a discrete exit through a service door at the front of the room. Along with two FBI agents. I rose and unlocked the main entrance double doors. Scooted toward the service area of the hotel. The main entrance door opened a second time as I checked for behind-the-scenes entrances and hallways.
JJ ran and caught up, on fire. “You want to tell me what is going on? Like right now?”
“Nope.”
On the left, a hotel staff member exited a discrete door. I took it, a long hallway running parallel to our conference room. Pipes overhead, walls white, and the door at my back never had the opportunity to close. JJ on my tail.
“How about I arrest your butt so we can talk,” she said to my fast-striding backside.
“Good luck with that.”
At the far corner I paused and raised the pistol from my waistband a bit. Ensured it could be quick-drawn. I sensed her riled presence at my rear, inches away. “Aren’t you going to be missed in the meeting?” I asked.
“I’m so low on the pecking order the short answer is no. What are you doing and why? And stop being an ass.”
On the right, along another long hallway, metallic exit doors clanged. I headed toward the sound. Along with JJ. She positioned alongside me and addressed the side of my face. “Well?”
“The one big item, I’m learning, is full tilt at the moment.”
“What one big item?”
I paused before exiting. Stinnett was still with the two FBI agents headed God-knows-where. I could have my own personal agent as well. Momentary cover. But I wanted him alone.
“Nothing is ever as it seems.”
Shaking JJ and Stinnett’s two FBI agents became paramount if the opportunity for direct action appeared. I’d have to lose her when the time came. Plus the gravity of confronting and perhaps killing a CIA operative was no small thing. Especially our hero, the man of the hour. Rock, hard place.
“You been taking lessons from Bo?” she asked.
“Funny. Walk with me, JJ.” No other viable operational plan presented.
I threw the service exit open and stepped into the pre-dawn darkness. The town was quiet, still in shock. I sought sound and movement. Both came together. A sedan pulled away from the hotel and headed east. Too dark, until they passed under a streetlight. I could make out three passengers.
“You have a vehicle?” I asked. “If not, walk away because I’m going to steal one.”
It may have been the trust, the bond, developed through combat. Or simple curiosity. It didn’t matter. She dropped the badge protocols.
“I’m parked over there. Let’s go.”
We both dashed, she drove, and I asked her to find and follow the vehicle. She didn’t hesitate. We hauled from the parking lot and took the same road. JJ goosed the accelerator until we gained on distant taillights. Taillights which now showed a right blinker and brake lights.
“What’s there? Where they’re turning?” She’d know. This was her turf.
“Yacht club.”
Scenarios flashed, opportunities sought. Not a helluva lot I could do with three badges present. But I could eyeball the guy, assess, probe weaknesses. And maybe take action.
“You’ve met Stinnett?” I asked.
“He briefed me when he arrived here two days ago. About the possibility of an attack. I sent it up the chain, but was told to, in essence, chill. My bosses didn’t bite.”
She turned right. The sedan we tailed parked at the entrance to a substantial pier. A lone figure strode under the pier lights toward a line of tied-up yachts. Two figures stood alongside the vehicle.
“They’re sure biting now.”
“My hope is they don’t shoot the messenger.”
Our tires crackled over gravel. “Slow approach, JJ. No alarms.”
“You want to provide a few details on what is going on?”
“Nope.”
She pulled alongside the other vehicle, opened the door, and while standing raised the FBI badge up to the overhead dock lights. The two FBI agents removed their hands from inside dress jackets, prepared to draw and fire if necessary. I exited.
JJ didn’t know them and introductions were made among the three. I raised a casual hand greeting and began to stride past them, onto the pier.
“Whoa,” one barked. “No access for a few minutes, sir.”
“Who’s this guy?” the other asked JJ.
The first one positioned himself in my path, officious and unyielding. The FBI badge dangled on his chest and glistened with his movement. His stance proclaimed no trespass. Oh man. Three FBI agents, one rogue CIA operative, and one guy who wanted nothing to do with the FBI and everything to do with the spook of the hour. And now their question directed at JJ. A seminal moment.
“Tilly. Jack Tilly,” JJ said. “A friend. Helped me last night.”
Bless her. “And what’s your business here, Mr. Tilly?” my blockade asked.
“Roger and I are old friends. Thought I’d say goodbye. Just a quick visit.”
A flawed plan but it was all I had. Walk the pier while the three FBI agents stood around. Say goodbye to Stinnett. Maybe the sleeper hold again, held way too long. Then call down the pier from his yacht, ask for help. Ol’ Roger has had a heart attack. But it would appear too weird, too suspect for the badges. Man, I needed a break, a bit of luck.
“Case Officer Stinnett was explicit with his request. No one allowed nearby. He’s departing the island.”
I bet. “Just a quick chat. Couple of minutes.”
“Sorry, Mr. Tilly.”
Son of a bitch. Dual diesel engines fired far along the pier, rumbled in idle, warming up. A vague figure appeared back on the pier, untying lines.
Frozen, with no viable options. Rock. Hard place, again. A plan formed. A poor plan, but something. A ray of hope. I could wait them out. Wait until Stinnett pulled away and the badges left. Steal a boat. Chase him down. Deal with him on the high seas.
A lighter flared as the badge near JJ lit a smoke. I focused on Stinnett’s yacht. As it edged away from the pier I gained a decent visual of the profile. An ocean cruiser. Seventy footer. Two million bucks, easy. And I was more than pretty sure the CIA didn’t pony up for it. And more than sure Stinnett’s salary wouldn’t cover the cost. A loaner or higher odds, a gift. A bribe, plain and simple. The FBI agents glanced toward the departing yacht. They must have figured it was funded from the CIA’s black ops budget. Yeah, boys, the Company funds a litany of strange things. But a multi-million dollar yacht for a case officer’s play toy wasn’t one of them.
Stinnett didn’t lollygag around making his exit. The diesel engines throttled up and their low rumble echoed across the water. I scanned other docked yachts. Nothing the size of Stinnett’s, but potentially faster. If he didn’t get too much of a lead. And if I absconded with one that held sufficient fuel.
JJ and the other badges chatted, my pier access now open. At one point, she caught my eye and mouthed the word, “Sorry.” I appreciated it. But stealing a yacht in front of them wasn’t an option. Among other things, this was US turf. They were badges. And would take the theft of a yacht seriously. And ask far too many questions regarding my relationship with Stinnett.
They talked among themselves for a full twenty minute
s. Lots to talk about. Stinnett’s running lights faded, as did my opportunity.
A run-down and worn-out former operator stood in the pre-dawn Caribbean dark, operationally frozen and frustrated, fists clenched. Run, you bastard. But CIA or not, I’d find you. And when I did, hiring someone else to do my dirty work wasn’t on the menu.
Chapter 26
We sat in her vehicle after the other two badges left. Windows open, the fresh breeze lifted several fly-aways around JJ’s face. A classic Caribbean dawn. Warm air movement created ripples across crystal-blue water. Boats bobbed at the pier or at anchor, palm trees swayed. A postcard idyllic scene. Less than twelve hours earlier, a massive terrorist attack. You wouldn’t know it.
“What can you tell me about Stinnett?” I asked. Fatigue, a bone-tiredness, settled as a wet fishing net. A quiet moment and head-shake amazement at once again landing smack dab in the middle of these situations.
“I was going to ask the same thing,” JJ said. She slumped, head back, eyes closed. “And you could view what I just did as lying to fellow agents.”
“Not a lie. A bit of obfuscation. There’s a difference. And thanks for the cover. Sincerely.”
“I’ve got to get back,” she said and straightened. She checked the rear view mirror and opened eyes wide, sussing the reflected tired factor on her appearance. “There’s lots of work, lots of clean-up.”
“Stinnett?”
“It’s classified.” A quick glance my way. Her eyes also displayed a touch of sadness and resignation.
“I know. And I lived in their world for years. All I’m looking for is background.”
“Does this have anything to do with Pettis?” she asked.
I shifted the conversation, a benefit for us both. And I was worn out, aware how desultory my voice sounded. Concerned it came across as don’t-give-a-damn. Not the case.
“The Trinidad thing. Highest recruitment rate of ISIS fighters. True?”
“Yes. We’ve known about it for a while. Now what does this have to do with Pettis?”
“Just tell me where he’s based. Which Caribbean island?”
A quick answer, honest and blunt. “I don’t know.”
I stared out the window and considered the obstacles presented the last forty-five minutes. They could be construed as a lucky break. Hot emotions propelled unwise actions. You couldn’t whack CIA agents without more than careful consideration. I knew. Spookville maintained a strange and violent protective bubble. Yeah, he might be dirty, a rogue, but he’s our dirty rogue. We’ll handle it. Stay away.
I’d tread with care. Work this out. And make sure US-based Feds never received a whiff of the whole mess. JJ’s questions about Pettis cracked open too many doors. And pulled a new friend into uncomfortable decisions. Enough. I’d handle it.
“Let’s head back, JJ.”
She started the car, sat still, and turned the key back off. Something else weighed. She shifted toward me and asked the next question.
“So what’s the deal with Bo?”
A legitimate question on many levels. And not surprising. They clicked, and she sought inside intel. I’d shoot honest as possible, within bounds.
“My blood brother and closest friend.”
“I mean, what’s his background?”
“He can tell you that. We go back a long way.”
“Look. This is a little weird, I know. The timing and all, given what’s happened around us. But I’m asking about his relationship background. Is he married? Girlfriend?”
“No and no. But he’s special, JJ. And I don’t mean the cosmic worldview stuff. Although that’s part and parcel and real enough.” I mulled over a descriptive of my best friend. “Bo is an old soul. There’s wisdom buried there, and insights. And love.”
Two vehicles cruised along the road outside the yacht club. Charlotte Amalie stirred. A semblance of normalcy cast hope after last night’s events.
“I guess what I’m asking about is stability. Or maybe his ability to commit. He has this vagabond thing going.” She shook her head, shot me a quick smile, and started the car. “And I sound like a high-schooler. Never mind.”
We drove a sedate twenty miles an hour toward my hotel. I stuck a hand out the window and surfed with the pressing air. Perhaps it was fatigue or obligation or heartfelt concern, but a pull to provide insight drew my response.
“Bo is on a bit of a quest right now. He always searches, but right now, in this time and place, he seeks something. Maybe the stability you asked about. Maybe a new path.” I laid my head back. “A lousy answer, I know. But it’s about the best I can do right now.”
She nodded and chewed her lower lip. A tough business, describing Bo. And tough doing so without violating his privacy, his personal thoughts shared. We pulled up to the hotel, and I cracked the door.
“Thanks for the ride. And I think it’s great you have an interest in Bo. Pretty sure it’s reciprocated.” We shared tired stares. “Acceptance. I guess if there’s any one thing about Bo, call it acceptance. He’s the real deal, with no artifice. And I love him for it.”
Smiles, sincere and heartfelt, were cast both directions. I waved goodbye.
The hotel’s small café stood open and coffee called. Coffee and cogitation. Clandestine operations loomed. Well, I had an insider for that world. And this required thought, planning. Take out a CIA operative. One who’d prevented a terrorist assault from a ten times worse outcome. Who’d helped eliminate a large collection of ISIS fighters. Stone-cold killers. So I gave him his due. Well done.
But also a CIA operative who’d taken payment for commercial services from an unknown source. And who’d continue his attempts at murdering me. A blatant assault, as I’d prepared to perform at the pier an hour earlier, wouldn’t do. Welcome to my personal high-wire act.
I texted Jules and requested a meetup, late afternoon. I had no other choice. Well, there were two other choices, neither of which fell heavy on the take action table. One option—activate an unofficial pipeline to the head of the CIA’s clandestine operations. With no guarantee of action, much less results. A tug of obligation and respect kept this option present, possible.
The second option was a non-starter. Walk away. Hope for the best. Pretend Stinnett wouldn’t try whacking me again. Fat chance.
Five minutes later Bo arrived and sat across the table. His eyes reflected a disconcerting flatness. I reviewed the morning activities. Stinnett the hero and Stinnett the yacht captain. Bo’s body slumped, both forearms on the table as he spun a salt shaker.
“My strategic whiteboard isn’t wiped clean at the moment, my brother,” he said. “So let’s start with the mundane. What’s a vessel like that cost?”
“Couple of million. At least.”
“So he’s dirty. If the Company gets wind of it, they’ll handle the situation.”
The unofficial pipeline option. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“She’ll listen to you,” he said, rearranging the salt and pepper shakers.
“Yeah, but the trust factor—both ways—stands on shaky ground.”
Bo knew Marilyn Townsend. The secret head of the CIA’s clandestine operations. All my Delta brothers knew her. She was a high-ranked clandestine operative during our Delta days. We’d worked with her—hammer for her pointed-out nails—and recognized her type of person, her character. The perfect spy master. Cold, ruthless, mission-focused to the point of disturbing. And I’d met with her recently. We’d held a terse discussion about a little matter of her playing me like a New Guinea drum.
“I take it you’re not considering a quick skedaddle out of the picture, either,” Bo said.
“Nope. This guy will keep coming after me. The people who provided his multi-million dollar toy will make that abundantly clear. And my gut says he knows about the bounty. Used it as leverage.”
“Seems like half the spooks we run into know about the bounty.”
“Yeah. The ever-present migraine. But that’s not the current focus.�
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“Jules mentioned the Chinese. You see their hand in all this?” Bo asked.
“No. They wouldn’t touch anything related to ISIS. Stinnett works for another commercial entity.”
The waiter brought more coffee. And a carafe of hot water along with a wide selection of tea bags. While Bo perused the selection, he asked, “Honey? And if so, may I ask what kind?”
It threw the islander waiter, who shrugged at the question with a smile. Who knows and it’ll be okay and it’s just tea, mon. A smile delivered toward us, sincere, twelve hours after wide-spread horror visited his island. Life would go on. Man, I loved the Caribbean.
While Bo engaged the waiter, I called Pettis. “Need a plane ride. One hour. To Norfolk, Virginia. Any questions?”
“None.” He hung up.
Bo raised an eyebrow at the Norfolk destination. “The Clubhouse?”
“The best starting point I can think of.”
“Fair enough. But consider this, Mr. Bond. Once she starts the wheels turning they won’t stop.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Before you light her fuse, consider the other options.”
“It’s a self-serving fuse, Bo. I admit it. Direct action. Because it’s my ass on the line.”
A sad smile and deep sigh. “So let me toss something new in the mix. First, you know I’d bleed out for you,” he said.
“Yeah. And likewise. Nothing new there.”
“What’s new is my path. It isn’t toward Norfolk.”
“I know. Wasn’t planning on you joining.”
He dipped his tea bag and added honey. “But joining or not I have to reiterate the big thing.”
“Jules has the market on those.”
“No she doesn’t. The real big thing is my expectation of you. Because you’re hard-headed, my Georgia peach.”
“Okay.”
“And wherever your new path leads, you’ll try and fly solo.”
