by Ed Teja
In that sense, I had to admit we'd asked for the rubbish heap in front of me. “Okay.”
He tossed another folder onto the desk. “On a more useful tack, here are the maps of the island and detailed charts of the surrounding waters you asked for.”
I opened the folder. It looked good. “Now we are talking. This is just what the rogue operations leader ordered,” I said. “Good work, Hank.”
“Is it Christmas already?”
We turned to see Amy's smiling face. Bill pointed to the papers now littering the desk. “If this chaotic mess is what you asked Santa for, it must be.”
She sat next to Bill, and I slid the intel folder over to her. She flipped through it. “My people would have a field day with this stuff, Hank. They'd be like pigs in shit. I have to say I'm impressed.”
He sat up. “Is that a compliment?”
“A back-handed one. Scanning through this, and knowing that you claim you have digested it, used this information to arrive at your so-specific conclusions about his operations, I find it impressive. Mind-boggling, actually.”
“That's most of the important information available, the most current,” Hank said.
“And somehow, in the process of analyzing all this, you and your people didn't find the need to categorize, sort, or cross-check any of it. They must be very special analysts.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if anyone has ever attempted to wade through this pile of dreck in a meaningful way, tried to find threads that wind together and make any sense, there is no sign of it. There are no reference numbers, much less any sign of an attempt to cross-reference or verify any of it.” She closed the folder. “I don't see any way a person could find a story in this mess. It might be buried in here but extracting it would take work.”
Hank brushed his hands together. “We knew what we were looking for and just dug it out.”
She laughed. “So you burrowed through, cherry picking anything that might reinforce your theory without bothering to see if there were any indications to the contrary?”
“No, we—”
“If this was what you used to support your little story of the buildup of Vermeer's mysterious army and his security operations, I'm not surprised the brass sent you packing.” She sat back. “Unless there is something else, of course.”
“Are you thinking Hank would hold out on his team?” Bill asked. “I'm shocked.”
Hank's face grew pinched. “Well—” The room was quiet. Finally, he opened a desk drawer and took out another folder, putting it on the desk. “This is the cornerstone.”
Amy reached for the file and opened it. “Pictures!” she said, spreading a series of 8x10 black and white photos across the desk. “I love show and tell.” She glanced at Hank. “So, while I look, do tell.”
“Those are the latest satellite recon photos of the island.” Hank puffed up. “Let me tell you that these clearly show the extent that Vermeer has militarized the island in recent months.”
Amy glanced through the photos, staring intently, then sliding them over to Bill. I peeked over his shoulder.
“Attack helicopters?” Amy said. “Hard bunkers? Damn, this boy is ready for war, all right.”
“As you can see, everything is here,” Hank said, pointing to the center of the island. “He's making himself a real military operation, and the focus is going to be this airstrip.”
“He built an airstrip while no one was looking?” I asked.
“No. It was there. Back when this was a research center, they used it to bring in supplies and VIPs. But it's been... improved for his purposes.”
“Vermeer is doing all this to pop one lousy senator?” Amy asked. She glanced at me. “Sorry, Martin. I didn't mean—”
“I get it,” I said. “And it's a valid question.”
“You guys don't get it,” Hank said.
“Then explain it better,” Amy said.
Hank turned away from us and let out a long breath.
“Give us the big picture, admiral,” I said. “It won't hurt that much to let us know why this story stinks so high.”
He turned away from the window but looked over our heads. “The big picture is this—Vermeer has done well. He has become a thorn in our sides, but he isn't satisfied with having a sophisticated drug running and human-trafficking operation. He is expanding it daily.”
“That's why we dislike him,” Amy said. “Vermeer bad man.”
“The new moves, into security, provide cover for making him a potent force in the region. As you see in the photos, he is moving fast. Soon he'll have a private army that he will use to protect his turf. He'll use them to defend his shipments and keep anyone, including his clients, including the US Navy, from cutting in on what is a lucrative business.”
“That is bad, but not scary,” Amy said. “I think the US government can handle him in a confrontation.”
“That's what my superiors think too. But I'm convinced he intends to begin subcontracting paramilitary operations. It's a logical step and incredibly profitable and would avoid confrontation.”
Amy pointed to the pile of transcripts. “And there is concrete proof in those somewhere? Is there an email asking him to bid on running a coup in a small African country or take out a rebel force? Because if there is, I promise you, I can call in a completely sanctioned air strike that will level that island in a heartbeat.”
Hank's face fell. “No. Nothing concrete. Vermeer is way too cagey. And waiting is out of the question. Right now, we can stop him. Down the road it would take a major assault force to do it—and regardless of your confidence, in the current political climate, your air strike against a Bahamian island isn't going to happen.”
Amy made a sour face. “No, probably not.”
It all sounded fishy to me. “Then you want us to look at your photos, be horrified, and decide we have to act to save Western civilization?” I asked.
He nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Forgive me if I think this entire enterprise seems to be shifting into a screenplay for a new Bond movie. If this stuff is real, our little incursion could be met with a huge force.”
“It's a work in progress,” Hank said. “If you look closely, you'll see there are still holes. Even if Polly wasn't in danger, that's why it's important to strike soon.”
“Then we need to digest this stuff,” Amy said, flipping through the pages of traffic as if she might stumble across an answer. “A lot of it, most of it, probably relates to his legitimate operations—although some of them seem to be doing some less than legitimate things, those aren't significant.”
“As in, you don't care,” Bill said.
“Exactly! Give the big man a hand-rolled Cuban.” She put her hand on the photos. “I agree that these point in a sinister direction. It also means with this massive military buildup, we have to see if a snatch and grab is even possible.”
“You might want to consider a simple assassination,” Hank said.
“And the timing?” I asked. “Hank said you told him Vermeer was in London.”
“He's heading back soon. My people are keeping tabs on him and will give me a heads up as soon as they are sure he is headed our way. We might as well fill the time figuring out a way we can get to him.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“We can put together a plan,” Hank said.
We stared at him.
“Do we have to?” Bill asked. “Planning is so overrated. So last year.”
“I want options,” Amy said. “We need to figure out some options and options for those options. Martin is in charge of getting in and out, so we need to identify ways in and ways out, and things to do in the middle.”
I liked the spirit. “Sounds good to me.”
“We can meet here tomorrow,” Hank said.
“No,” I said.
The surprise on his face pleased me.
“No?”
“I told
you from the beginning that I'd only be involved if it was my mission.”
“I need to know the plan if I'm going to provide support,” he said. “I need to know the equipment you'll require and so on.”
“True, but the team”—I nodded at Bill and Amy—” will do the planning all by our lonesomes. You should want that, Hank. If you aren't there when we plan it out, you can always claim you had no idea what we were up to. Plus, sitting here with your guys, surrounded by people that hate us and sulking and scowling in the next room isn't my idea of a proper creative atmosphere.”
“We need alone time,” Bill said. “Away from you.”
I pointed to the papers and photos covering the desk. “But we need all this. We will take it with us.”
“A lot of it is classified,” he said. “I can't let you take it out of here.
I put my hands flat on the table and stood. “Okay, Hank. You have fun with your mission. Bill and I can find our own way home.”
“Martin, you agreed—”
“I agreed to listen under the nonnegotiable condition that I have access to the information and get to plan my own mission. That doesn't mean working in the library with you looking over my shoulder or listening to you second-guessing the plan. But I'm willing to compromise.”
“You are?” Amy asked.
I gave her my best wink and grin. “Sure. I don't want Hank to have to explain to anyone that he let us walk out of here with classified material.”
Hank let his relief show. “Good.”
“So, we are going to leave and unwind. Tomorrow morning around breakfast time, you'll deliver every page to us at the hotel. We will take it to my room where we can spread it out on the floor and see what we can make of it. We will take our time and see what options might work best to keep us from getting shot.”
“That's not an improvement,” he said.
“But it is a compromise. Of course it's your choice, but if the stuff doesn't arrive by the time we finish breakfast, we won't be here by lunchtime.”
“There are specific rules—”
“Let me get this straight. You flew us here without going through immigration to prepare for a mission that will bend every fucking rule there is against invading a foreign country; you want us to run an off-the-books rendition of a civilian who isn't even wanted, but when it comes to handling classified information you suddenly need to stick to the letter of the law?” He started to answer, but I shut him up. “If that's your choice, Bill and I will head home. Don't worry about Polly, though. I'll give her a call and tell her what her hubby is up to and how even though there is a price on her head, he doesn't think it's important enough to warn anyone about.”
“Oh, that kind of compromise,” Amy said, grinning.
Exasperation, irritation, and pure hatred all took a turn parading across Hank's square face. My guess was he weighed every possible option before he finally nodded. “Fine, but not one single page of anything leaves that hotel.”
“Does the hotel have a safe?” I asked. He nodded. “Whenever we leave, I'll have your hotel manager, aka spy, lock it up for us.”
Bill stood. “If that's everything, I've had more than enough of a nice day at the office. Anyone for a tall, cool rum? And maybe lunch?”
“I never thought you'd ask,” Amy said, hopping up. “I hope that offer comes with a mandate for a change of conversational topics. Evil drug lords and mercenary armies are getting boring.”
“We can talk about how David Hume would view off-the-books escapades and rendition,” Bill suggested.
“I think Machiavelli might have more to say on the subject,” she said.
Bill grinned at me. “Junior, I got a powerful feeling that this lady is gonna fit in with this team perfectly.”
Then we turned and walked through the door, heading out into the reception area and the world beyond, leaving Hank stewing in rather disgruntled juices. The scowl Sullen-Faced Roberts gave us as we passed his desk barely even registered.
15
Amy took us to a neighborhood restaurant where she was known and the people running it were cheerful. They were also decent cooks, and we had a good time, eating good food and having a few drinks, but ending the evening early.
The next morning, Amy joined us for breakfast at a small cafe next door to the hotel where we learned the food was adequate, the coffee weak. I was about to ask Amy if there was any good coffee on the island when Petty Officer First Class Sullen Roberts (which is how I'd come to think of him) arrived. He was heading toward the front door of the hotel with his arms full of a thick bundle of documents.
I waved and caught his attention, and he came over to the table.
“The admiral said that you needed these first thing,” he said.
“And glad we are to see them,” I said. I got up and took them from him. “I'll be right back,” I said. “I want to put these in the room. It will be nicer to work there.”
“Say, since you are going up, could I see the room?” Roberts asked, surprising me. “I've been here a couple of times, but never seen how we treat guests.”
“Sure,” I said. He took half the documents back and followed me up the stairs. As I opened the door and let him in, it seemed he was curious. “It's nothing special,” I said. “Not standard government issue, but the civilian equivalent, with no frills.”
“I didn't figure they put folks up like they were royalty.”
“You'd be right,” I said.
“The room is clean, though. Looks pretty comfortable.”
“I haven't complained.”
“Look, I don't give a shit about the accommodations,” he said. “It's nice you are comfortable, but—”
“You wanted to talk privately.”
He nodded. “I understand you were a SEAL.”
“Yes.”
“And an officer—I wanted you to know that—that night, we didn't know who you were. We were given a mission—to abduct a target as quietly as possible.”
“That didn't work out so well.”
“Well, like always, we went in with minimal information. We were told to grab you and get you here. We didn't intend to hurt anyone.”
“So you brought assault weapons along to ensure it was a peaceful abduction?”
He shrugged. “When does the military ever send a team out with slingshots? You must remember how it is.”
“All too well.”
“Then you know that the brass thinks that if you've got firepower, you should have it handy.”
His attempt to be chatty, to walk the precipice without tumbling into an actual apology was not convincing, but it was curious.
“I don't blame you,” I told him. “I don't blame your chief, for that matter, although he's an asshole for holding a grudge against us because his team lost that skirmish.”
“Chief Chandler doesn't like being bested at anything, even in paintball missions.”
“When you report back to him, be sure to tell him that I dislike the idea that his crappy attitude makes me feel like I need to look over my shoulder, even among supposed friendlies. But I'm happy to do it. If he decides to try to settle the score, I'll see him coming, and I won't let him compromise the mission by taking me out. The admiral has me motivated.”
“He's quite the warrior,” Roberts said. “Does all that martial arts shit.”
“Then remind him that the problem with trying to be the fastest gun is twofold: One, there is almost always someone out there who is faster, and even if there isn't, in a few years you slow down and new, faster kids come along. It's hell to feel like a fast gun getting slow.”
“I guess so,” Roberts said.
And then we went downstairs.
“What the fuck was that about?” Bill asked as Roberts headed for the office.
“Sullen-Faced Roberts turns into a real chatty Cathy away from Larry of the glowing eyes,” I said. “Wanted me to know how broken up he is about t
rying to board the ship by force, not knowing who we were and all.”
“Really?”
“No. But it was a decent opening gambit. I'm sure Chief Larry told him to say it. I'm supposed to understand that Larry is a swell guy most of the time, but he just has this competitive streak.”
“A sore loser.”
“That's an unkind way to put it. But accurate, according to Sullen-Faced.”
“Interesting,” Bill said. “Why are they bothering to make nice?”
I raised a finger. “I find not having the answer to that question rather bothersome.”
“It comes from Hank,” Amy said.
“It does? Do you know something we don't?”
That earned me a laugh. “Many things, most of which I can't tell you. I can tell you that I ran some checks. Hank's job is primarily that of a liaison with our allies, coordinating and supporting their efforts against drug smuggling. He also acts as a conduit of information—from here to their ears, not the other way around. He's a bureaucrat and unveiling conspiracies of Dutch master criminals is above even his lofty pay grade. It is curious that he would have that mountain of intelligence, messy as it is, at hand. You see, regardless of any previous accomplishments, his recent performance in this job hasn't pleased the higher ups in the Navy, or in the larger task force.”
“What's to screw up?” I asked.
“I don't know those particulars, but I do know that local Coast Guards he is supposed to work with have complained about a lack of intel and cooperation from him. They've complained that he asks them to make raids that turn up nothing and he doesn't respond to requests of theirs.”
“I smell a trend,” I said.
“Word is he is about to be recalled.”
“That makes the need for this raid, its timing, an interesting coincidence.”
She nodded. “It's all of that. When I heard about his plans, my first thought was that he is looking for a way to score major points. Single-handedly putting such a sophisticated operation out of business could rehabilitate his reputation with Washington even if it goes against protocols.”
“So he is making a criminal mountain out of a Dutch molehill?” Bill asked.
