by JB Sanders
Glen was still marveling at the Oscar Wilde quote when Kevin came back out and motioned them in.
The inside was crude but surprisingly pleasant. The nautical theme continued, with hanging nets, shells, oars, life preservers, life-rings and stuffed fish. Tables were mismatched and well-used, stained but clean. The chairs looked like someone had shopped at a second-hand store, and again nothing matched. There was a long bar on the right, largely made of bamboo and a slate with the day’s specials on it. There was an old time jukebox, but no large-screen TVs tuned to sports, flashy lighting, or piped-in muzak.
They got a table.
A young guy came up, maybe just a little younger than Glen and Tyler. He had an apron on and had obviously been dealing with some feisty seafood.
“What can I get you guys? We’ve got a special on Rum Swizzles.”
“I, uh…” Tyler looked slightly off-stride. “What’s a Rum Swizzle?”
The guy looked gob-smacked. “What?”
“Is that a local drink?”
“Yeah, local to the Caribbean.” The guy didn’t bother to sugarcoat his scorn. “It’s like the national drink of Bermuda, even. Want to try it?”
Tyler got a amused look on his face. “What’s in it, besides sarcasm?”
The guy had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I thought everybody had heard of it. You make it with a dark rum and a gold rum, some pineapple juice, orange juice, grenadine, a couple drops of bitters, and a bunch of ice.”
“Great, Rum Swizzles for everyone.” Tyler smiled engagingly.
The guy nodded and went back behind the bar. He began mixing.
The clientele appeared to consist of older men, at or near retirement age. Some were dressed in quietly expensive tropical outfits and drank their rum or scotch or whiskey with manicured hands. Others were dressed simply but in tired clothing that had seen better days. Glen thought the first group were knowledgable locals, rich guys who wanted a non-tourist spot to have a quiet drink. The second bunch were probably retired fishermen or crabbers or something nautical. Glen wasn’t sure exactly what made him think that but they kind of reminded him of his own cousins who’d been sailing on the Great Lakes for years. There was a salty hardness about them.
“Here ya go.” The bartender set out their drinks. Each was in what looked like an old beer glass, with a orange-colored beverage on the bottom and a dark liquid above it, the floating ice giving it very much the look of storm clouds. There was a bit of lime on the rim of each glass.
“Neat,” Tyler said, picking his up. He sipped. “Hmm, spiced rum, too.”
The guy nodded. “Get you some food or anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m looking for a man named Hurston Fields.”
Out of the corner of Glen’s eye, over Tyler’s shoulder, one of the older men at the bar, one of the hard-bitten ones, looked over.
“Don’t know him, sorry,” their waiter said.
Glen almost rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the worst lie he’d ever heard, but this guy wasn’t an eight-year-old with his hand in the cookie jar, either.
Tyler smiled. “Well, Dan, could you let Mr. Fields know that I have a bottle of Goslings Old Rum for him, if he can spare me five minutes of his time.”
Glen watched the man at the bar turn all the way around on his bar stool to look at their table. He hopped down off his stool, spry for his apparent age and came over.
“Let’s see the bottle,” the man said gruffly.
Tyler turned half around in his seat to eye the man, then turned back and motioned at Kevin. He lifted a small wooden crate from the floor, set it on the table and opened it. Inside was a black bottle with dried black wax covering the top. There was a red ribbon worked into the label that said ‘Old Rum’.
The old man sniffed.
Tyler turned and looked directly across the bar at one of the richer-looking men in a summer-weight suit. He was quietly sipping a bronze liquid from a tumbler. “What do you say, Mr. Fields? Will you spare me five minutes? You and Mr. Reynolds are welcome to join us for a drink, on me.”
The richer-looking man, apparently Mr. Fields, looked over in mild surprise. Mr. Reynolds, standing near their table, swore.
“Sorry, Happy,” Reynolds said.
Fields sighed, got up and came over, bringing his drink. “Thanks, John.” He clapped a hand on the Reynold’s shoulder. “Mr. Conrad.” He nodded at Tyler. “I can spare you five minutes, but it’ll be a waste of your time.”
Tyler shrugged. “If you don’t mind listening, I’ll still talk.”
Fields nodded and sat. He was just past his sixtieth year, if Glen was any judge of age, though he had that leathery look that many men of the sea get, so he couldn’t be sure. He certainly possessed an air about him: confidence, control, determination. Glen saw it most in men used to command, and could inspire terrific loyalty.
Reynolds pulled up a chair behind Fields, sitting on it backwards and eying Tyler a little dismissively.
“I want to hire you to run a treasure recovery operation.”
Fields regarded Tyler without expression. Glen thought that he was maybe bored or annoyed, but he couldn’t be sure. Glen knew for certain that he did not want to play poker with this man. Reynolds snorted and shook his head.
“I’ve already talked to Dr. Elizabeth Harding about managing the operation, but she won’t sign on without you onboard as well.” Tyler tilted his head, regarding Fields with a slightly confused expression. Glen guessed that Tyler couldn’t figure out the man either.
Fields nodded. “I see you did your homework. I’m sorry to say that I’m retired.”
“And there isn’t anything that could interest you to come out of retirement?”
Fields met Tyler’s gaze. “I have three iron-clad rules for treasure recovery work.” Fields held up a finger. “One, I only work for academics. I don’t do treasure for treasure’s sake.” Fields held up a second finger. “Two, when I’m running an operation, I’m in charge of the dives and the recovery. Period.” Fields held up a third finger. “Three, I don’t work for landlubber assholes who think they know the sea.”
Fields put down his hand, and with his other sipped his drink. Rum, Glen guessed.
Tyler smiled widely. “I love direct! Direct is so much less cluttered than legalese and marketing bullshit. Let me address your points one at a time.” Tyler held up a finger. “One, I’ve already told Dr. Harding, and I’ve given it to her in writing, the treasure is being recovered for my amusement but will go directly to a museum right after I’ve gloated over it a little. Say, about a day. I even offered to build the museum, if we can’t find one she likes.” Fields nodded. Tyler put up another finger. “Two, if I’m smart enough to hire you, I’m sure as hell not going to be an idiot once we’re in the field. I’m going to do my best to stay out of your way if you sign up.” Tyler held up his third finger. “I’m so much a landlubber, I don’t even know starboard from port. I know how to swim, but that’s about it. However,” Tyler motioned at Glen. “My husband is super-nautical. You’d be working for both of us, so maybe you could stand fifty percent of a landlubber?”
Fields turned his steely gaze to Glen. “Him? Can he even go out in the sun? He looks like he hasn’t sailed a day in his life.”
“He worked a full shift as a crewman every day for the past week. Pulling rope, hoisting sail, swabbing the deck. We have a talented tall-ship captain who runs our schooner.”
“Schooner? Is that what you call your diesel-driven mega-yacht, Mr. Conrad?”
Tyler grinned. “Oh, it’s got some luxury, sure enough but it’s a proper sailing ship Mr. Fields.”
“Bullshit.”
“Wanna see?” Tyler stood and walked over to a window, then pointed. “We’re moored over there.”
Fields went over. He looked for a long moment, and then looked at Tyler again, full in the face. “Huh.”
“And one other little item. I brought along something that
I’d like to think of as a signing bonus.” Tyler motioned to Kevin, who brought up another small crate, and set it on the table very carefully. He lifted the lid off it, but did not remove the bottle. Tyler went over and stood looking down into the crate.
Fields walked over and looked down. His face finally cracked into an actual expression: surprise.
“Is that—!?”
“It’s a bottle of rum from the wreck of the Purple Rose, recovered earlier this year and sold at auction. It’s yours, if you want the job.”
Fields turned his hawkish gaze on Tyler for a long moment.
“I’ve got to say, you’re certainly bringing your ‘A’ game.” Fields shook his head. “But I really am retired. Treasure recovery is a young man’s game.”
Tyler nodded, as if hearing something he agreed with or liked. “Uh huh. I can understand the sentiment. But I really have to have Dr. Harding and she’ll only work with you. So … Kevin?”
Kevin reached under the table and brought out a rolled up sheet of paper. He unrolled it on the table. It was a color photocopy of the pirate’s treasure map.
“This is a copy of a map that I believe Olivier Levasseur made for whomever smuggled his treasure out of Eastern Africa.”
Fields gave Tyler a hard look and then peered down at the map.
“This is the Caribbean.” Fields turned the map slightly.
“Yes.”
“And Levasseur operated solely in the Indian Ocean, particularly around Madagascar, half a world away.”
“Yes.”
Tyler had an expression on his face. He was trying for bland but Glen was seeing Tyler’s “gotchya!” face peeking out.
Fields nodded, as if agreeing telepathically with Glen. “That’s … interesting.”
“Isn’t it?” Tyler grinned. “It brings up all sorts of questions. Like, why would he hide his treasure so far from home? Who would he trust with it? Of course, it could be a fake. But if it’s not…”
“Why hasn’t it been found before now?” Fields ventured.
“Exactly! Either it’s so well hidden, and in a place that hasn’t been developed, or…” Tyler let that dangle.
“Or the ship carrying the treasure sank.” Fields straightened and regarded Tyler, chewing his lip. “Well, if there’s one thing that would bring me back to the diving and recovery world, it would be a mystery big enough to be worth it.”
Fields put out his hand. Tyler shook.
What's Another Name for Spy?
On the way back to the ship, James motioned for them to stop rowing. He put his hand to his ear.
“Check him out, give him the full weapons search and put him in the white cabin.” James frowned, and looked across the open water to the ship.
“What’s up, James?” Tyler relaxed in the prow. He had manfully refrained from either trying to advise the rowers, or gloating about his most recent hire.
“We have an unplanned visitor at the ship. Rowed in from the key.”
“Ah.” Tyler nodded. “I think I know who this one is.”
“You do?” Tim asked.
“Oh yeah, not too many people could have found us here. But we can discuss the rest inside our security bubble, thanks very much.”
Back at the ship, Tyler changed into a very nice blue 1960’s style tropical-weight suit and thin tie in which James Bond — the Sean Connery version — would have been thoroughly at home. Glen changed too, after a quick shower, although he opted for something a little more relaxed: a pale grey linen suit, cream shirt, no tie, tan woven belt, and tan shoes, no socks. For a little color, he tucked a sea foam, grey, and cream paisley pocket square into the jacket’s pocket.
“Dapper.” Tyler made a small adjustment of the pocket square, and then kissed Glen. “I like it.”
There was a quiet knock at the door. Whoever it was waited until Tyler said “Come in.”
There had been a few naked incidents when people just knocked and walked in without waiting. It had put the security folks off the habit.
Tim handed Tyler a file, and then passed Glen a tray with two tumblers of iced tea. “Everything I could get on our visitor in the time permitting, which is a lot, as it turns out. Rosa likes him.”
“How is Rosa?”
“Settling in running your spy group like a duck to water. Didn’t you talk with her earlier this week?” Tim said.
“Yeah, but that’s just business, we didn’t have time to chat. I want to know that she’s actually enjoying her job.”
Tim grinned. “Maybe too much. You read, I’ll get things fixed up out here.”
While they sipped the iced tea, Tyler read over the file.
***
Half an hour after boarding, Glen and Tyler entered the lounge. Well, it was called that, but aboard the luxury yacht, it was all polished wood, brass, and discreet lighting. There was nothing messy about it.
Sitting at the main table was a man in his mid-thirties, fit and with a bland expression on his face. Glen didn’t get a hardness vibe from him, the way he would have from someone in the military. Instead, Glen got a pronounced sense of academia from the guy.
The guy was flanked by two of their security men.
On the table was a waterproof document bag, and it looked pretty hefty.
“Mr. Conrad. I was wondering when I’d get to see you,” The man said.
Tyler pulled a small remote out of his jacket pocket, pressed a button, and the windows in the room went opaque. Lights came up automatically. There was a slight buzz in the air, as if there was a wasp nest in the next room.
“Mr. Tucker. Nice to meet you.” Tyler sat down across from him. Glen joined Tyler at the table.
Tucker raised his eyebrows just slightly. “What did you call me?”
Tyler smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I know your ID stuff says we’re supposed to call you Evan Von Rees — really, where do they come up with these names? — but I prefer the honest approach. How is the President?”
Tucker blinked twice at Tyler. “Sir, we really shouldn’t be discussing that topic openly.”
Tyler leaned back as much as the bolted-to-the-deck chair permitted. “Oh please.” He waved his hand around. “You happen to be sitting in one of the few Triple-A Class security-hardened rooms in the world. With the glass turned opaque, and randomly vibrating, it’s pretty much impossible to overhear whatever we discuss in here. In addition, it’s swept for listening or recording devices randomly every hour or so.”
Tucker scratched his head. “That’s … ok, the room is secure.” He darted his eyes to his left and then right. “What about these guys?”
“It’s harder to be a part of my bodyguards than it is to be assigned to the President’s security detail.”
Tucker looked skeptical. “I find that hard to believe.”
Kevin, one of the two men, snorted. He gave Tyler a look, and Tyler nodded at him.
Kevin made an exasperated face, though he kept his voice deadpan. “They talked to my third grade teacher, my shop teacher from high school, and my first girlfriend as part of the background check.”
“So, as you see, I take my security very seriously indeed.”
“Yeah, I have to say, I don’t think I’ve ever been as thoroughly searched for weapons.” Tucker winced. “Not even when I got briefed on this crazy job.”
“That had to be interesting.”
Tucker seemed to thaw. “I’ve had less creepy meetings in Bogota. I got a hand-written note, delivered to me in a handshake from the fucking director of the CIA, if you can believe it. The note said to meet someone in an alley at midnight. This limo pulls up and out steps the fucking President of the USA. In an alley! In Baltimore!” Tucker shook his head. “It’s one of those stories that are so crazy, no one would believe you.”
“Unless you’re me. What did the President tell you?”
“Not a lot. Two agents missing, one found dead and no clear info on what they were supposed to be doing, what happened to their handlers, or w
here everything went wrong. But he gave me this.” Tucker nodded at the waterproof package.
Tyler glanced at his security guys. “I assume since me and that package are in the same room, it was sniffed for bombs and poisons?”
Tucker snorted. “Paranoid much?”
Tyler grinned. “I love people who have problems with authority figures. And it’s not paranoid if they’re actually out to get you, Mr. Tucker. You may have noticed that I recently angered a lot of very powerful — well, formerly very powerful — people?”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that. The whole Paris thing.”
Tyler leaned over, and pulled the rip cord the rest of the way on the waterproof package. Inside were quite a few file folders, all of them stamped in bright red letters “TOP SECRET”. Tyler opened one and glanced at the contents.
“Ah, ok, finally. Actual intelligence.” Tyler set the folder back down. “Right, Mr. Tucker, before we go much farther, nothing in our fancy background check tells us who you screwed to get assigned to us. Which Admiral’s daughter did you mess with?”
Glen coughed, nudged Tyler with his elbow, and said: “Or son?”
Tyler grinned at his husband and then back to Tucker. “Sorry, even after a few years being married to this guy, I still stupidly assume things.” Tyler tilted his head. “You know, now that Glen brings that up, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess it was someone’s son, wasn’t it?”
Tucker blushed slightly and ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Uh, no comment. Thanks.”
Tyler nodded more. “And as you’ve been suspended, none of the shenanigans that have been going on at the CIA would involve you. Plus, you’re not a field agent, you’re an analyst. Good. That clears the deck nicely. So, besides a stack of files, what do you bring to the table?”
Tucker looked a little more alert and leaned forward. “I’m supposed to advise you and provide access to official assets where needed.”
