by Sco Thorson
had to wait 15 minutes, and by the time he was off the phone she was very annoyed. All she wanted to do was make a report get back to work.
"Bob, an acquaintance called with information that someone might find interesting."
"Something we could use for code breaking?" he asked without interest.
"No, something that may be related to Green Ferret."
"Green ferret, you haven't been talking about this have you?" He leaned forward, concerned.
"I haven't said a word. He just called out of the blue. He said that someone was betting heavily that the US markets would fall later this week. The timing is identical to green ferret."
He shook his head dismissively. “The CIA probably put him up to it. They’re desperate to get access to the array.”
Bob leaned back in his chair. She could almost feel his reptile brain turn over all the different ways he could use this information to his own advantage. He smiled, and she cringed.
"Tiffany, I want you to learn more about this tip.” Bob leaned forward in his chair. “Green ferret is the most important thing we're working on right now. Since he's your contact, you should be able to figure out how he got the information."
"But Bob, tomorrow is the demonstration. I need to be here."
He smirked cruelly, "I guess I'll just have to handle it for you."
She struggled for composure. The demonstration would give her the recognition she needed to move forward with her work, but it was clear Bob wanted all the glory for himself.
"But I'm a scientist not an agent. We should let the CIA handled this."
"Tiffany, that’s what they want. Here at the NSA, team players wear many hats. This is your chance to show you’re a team player. Now, I've been a little disappointed in the pace of progress on the array. Think of this as your chance to redeem yourself.”
He looked at her long and hard, and suddenly she realized what was about to happen. Now that the array was complete, Bob wanted her out of the way so he could reap the glory and promotions himself. Without another word, she turned, and walked out of his office.
The Player
Tuesday 1:28 p.m.
Monique listened as Dave ended the call. She risked opening her eyes for just a second and saw that he was smiling contentedly. He didn’t appear to have staged the call to impress his new girlfriend. He might actually have connections and influence.
This one hadn't done so badly on the altruism test either. She suspected that half the men she had picked up in the past would have let her drown, and cursed her for getting the spinnaker wet. No, Dave seemed decent, for a man. He was young too; a nice change from lecherous old men.
She heard him cut the engine and set the sails. The yacht tilted to the side, and she heard the hum of taut, well-set sails. So he could sail too. And he hadn't tried to rape her while she feigned unconsciousness. That was unusual. He might have enough self-control that she could control him. Now to find out if it really was his boat, and if he actually had money.
She let her eyes flutter open. He wasn't watching so she closed them, waited, and tried again. This time he noticed and she gave him a big smile.
"Merci,” she smiled appreciatively.
"I’m sorry you were hurt. I should have set the spinnaker. We'll just cruise around out here for a few hours until your husband stops looking for you."
She could see from the way his eyes caressed her body that his intentions were less than chivalrous. Her smile returned to her face. She leaned forward, gave him a platonic peck on the cheek, and curled up in the lounge chair.
"I lied to that waiter. I have no husband. It was just the fastest way to get us out the door."
"Then who is Max?" He asked.
"A very possessive friend."
She looked at him thoughtfully.
"How do you know Max?"
He struggled for an answer. Then his phone chirped and he looked at it quickly.
"Let's just say I am good at picking up odd bits of useful knowledge. I hope I was of some service."
She smiled warmly, rose and gave him a passionate kiss over the steering wheel.
"You are very brave."
He lit up, genuinely pleased. Now to try managing his libido, and find out if he had any money of his own.
"Where are you from?" He asked conversationally obviously trying to reduce the tension from the accident, and trying a little too hard. He wanted to get back to the sex. She would see if she could hold him off until the next day. If she couldn't, he would probably dump her before he was of any use to her.
"I was a girl in Marseille. Now I am a citizen of the world."
"How long you been in Grand Cayman," he continued casually.
"I arrived just yesterday."
"And how long will you be staying?"
That was good. The ones to avoid were only interested in the next 30 minutes.
"I don't know," she feigned a pout, "it depends on whether I meet any interesting people."
She gave him another megawatt smile. He grinned back like écolier, oblivious that the sails were no longer humming. Perhaps she could manage him.
Unloading the Bomb
Tuesday 4:42 p.m.
The Caribbean sun broiled the Cay, blistered the dock, and shimmered off the ancient freighter. Max frowned with disapproval, sweltering in a blazer and Harvard tie. The tropics were so unaccommodating of civilized dress.
He watched the men working languidly in the heat. Amateur terrorists would have unloaded at night. But working at night was a red flag that you are doing something illicit. And at night, work lights would have highlighted the dock, while the dark hid any observers.
“Listo, Jefe,” the Jorge called.
Max walked up the gangplank to the deck of the small freighter. He peered in the open hatch. The hold was full of crates identical to the five resting in a neat row along the dock. All were filled with cheap women's lingerie, except for the one now secured to the sling of the crane below. It held something special.
He descended the ladder and circled the crate, carefully inspecting every cable, bolt, and strap. Everything came down to good business practices, and this was one of them - take care of the important details. That was why he was handling this job, and not his clients.
The thought of his clients made him shudder. They were such barbarians. No, they were fanatics, and fanatics were simply incapable of making rational decisions. Like the women's lingerie.
The clients never would have used women's lingerie to hide the cargo. They would have used something serious, noble. But if the freighter had been inspected, the lingerie would've distracted the inspectors, increasing the odds that the cargo would pass unnoticed.
He climbed the ladder and signaled to the foreman. The foreman nodded and issued a stream of orders. The new diesel engine of the crane roared to life, and the crate rose slowly out of the hold. The operator swung the crate slowly over the dock until it was precisely above the flatbed truck. Jorge looked at him, and he nodded his approval. Slowly the crate settled onto the bed of the truck. Max descended the gangplank.
No, the clients had no head for business, but that was good for Max. They were about to make him a fabulously rich man. The crew removed the cables and slings from the crate then strapped it to the bed of truck. He climbed into the truck beside the driver. The captain of the freighter climbed in beside him.
"Vamos,” he said thickly.
The truck full slowly down the dock, a half-dozen men with machine guns walking on either side.
His technicians should have the bomb ready to go by nightfall, hours ahead of schedule. It was important to be on time; he intended to earn more than the client's paltry fee. The key to making money on this job was knowing what was going to happen when.
He had been betting heavily that the US markets would fall precipitously on Friday afternoon. So, he had to deliver the package Friday morning or he would be ruined.
>
He smiled to himself. Sometimes the risks were good business.
The truck arrived at the warehouse. He followed the freighter captain out the door. He picked up a radio and pressed the transmit button.
"Bueno.”
He pulled a pistol from a holster beneath his jacket and shot the captain in the back of the head. The report has answered with more gunfire erupting from the dock. 30 seconds later, all is quiet. The crew of the freighter didn't have a chance, just like poor saps attaching the bomb to the hangar crane wouldn't have a chance in three days. He briefly considered selling the freighter and the remaining cargo, but decided against it.
Best not to take chances over trifles.
Planting Clues
Tuesday 5:07 p.m.
Dave set down his workstation. He wondered briefly if what he was about to do was illegal, but quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. Everything he'd been doing was probably illegal. Sending a deceptive email was the least of his worries.
He checked his phone, hoping that Dave 2 had already done the work, but there was no message. Disappointed, activated the security system and typed in the password. A matrix of video feeds filled the screen. He selected the cameras in Monique’s suite, found her in the shower, and studied her appreciatively.
Without looking away from the video screen, he opened a text editor and fingers poised above the keyboard, considered what he should write. The email would have to sound cryptic, because his imagined recipients would already know of the bomb and plot. He couldn't just say "Guess what? We are bombing Washington on Friday."
He would have to hint at a nuclear weapon without
