“After everything we went through, I…”
“I know—believe me. But, I’ll cover your tracks and make it look as though you died on this old fishing boat. You’ll be free to make a new start anywhere you want.”
“Yeah, except America and Europe—which leaves?”
“Somewhere. It’s a big world.”
Farid tried to be stoic, but I could see the confusion and despair behind his dark eyes. We both turned and looked out the window to see the other vessel come motoring out of the darkness and up alongside the Gordita. It was about seventy feet long and appeared to be a fishing boat—in looks, anyway. In practical use, it was more of a cargo ship that specialized in transporting people and unusual items. We went out on the deck, and the crew members from the other vessel threw lines across, and Farid and I used them to tie the two boats together. With everything secure, I went to the rail and met with the other boat’s captain, a man named Aleksander. He was a dashing figure and kind of looked like an olive skinned version of Errol Flynn with his good looks, athletic frame, and unruly dark hair that hung just past his ears. His country of origin was officially Greece, but he operated all over the Mediterranean, where he did special jobs for everyone from smugglers and criminals to people like me. We’d crossed paths on several jobs over the years, and I considered him to be trustworthy in spite of his somewhat dubious profession.
“I was surprised to get your call on such short notice, Finn,” he said, in his Greek accented English.
“I was even more surprised you were in the area.”
“Well, the fishing is better up here near the Bosphorus.”
“So you were up here fishing?” I asked skeptically.
“Yes, but for what you wouldn’t believe,” he said, with a mischievous smile.
“That’s OK, I’m guessing it’s better that I don’t know.”
“Thus, the beauty of our friendship. So, is the passenger ready?”
“As ready as can be expected,” I said.
“This is my old friend Aleksander.”
Farid stepped closer and offered his hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m…”
“Farts McGee,” I said, interrupting Farid to make sure he didn’t give out his name.
“Nice to meet you as well, Farts. I assume you have the money?” he asked Farid.
“No, I do,” I said, pulling out an envelope and handing it over.
Aleksander didn’t bother to count it and, instead, just slid it into the pocket of his jacket.
“Pleasure doing business, Finn. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get my vessel ready to sail.”
Aleksander left us alone, and I led Farid back into the main salon and pulled out another envelope that I had prepared just for him. All covert operations had emergency money, and I was using all of mine on Farid.
“Here’s a care package. It contains $50,000 and all the information on the person you’ll meet up with in Greece. It should be enough to get you anywhere you want to go.”
Farid stared blankly as he tried to understand what was happening. He had already given up his life as he knew it, and now it was all changing yet again.
“I have to get going. If I’m late to meet the sub they might get suspicious,” I said, leading him out to the rail.
He hugged me, then stepped across to the deck of the other boat and stood there, looking back at me the way a loyal dog would watch its owner as he or she left home.
“Will I ever see you again?” he asked.
“Unlikely, and if you do—it means something went very wrong and you should run like hell.”
I felt like shit, and obviously Farid could see the misery on my face. I didn’t like the way this assignment had ended up, and I was having major doubts about my job and, in turn, my life.
“Be well, my friend, and perhaps you should get out of this line of work, settle down, and have a proper life,” Farid said.
“I’ll definitely think about it, and I hope you find your blond, big breasted soulmate.”
I untied the lines, and the vessel backed off and slowly turned around while Farid moved to the stern and waved. I waved back and said a final silent goodbye to my friend as he motored away, hopefully to a better life. An hour and a half later, I scuttled the Gordita and moved onto a small grey Zodiac raft where I watched, a little sadly, as the once proud vessel slipped beneath the dark waters of the Aegean. I made my rendezvous with the Submarine Ohio, and, within twenty-four hours of landing on American soil, I followed my new friend’s advice and resigned from the CIA and decided to settle down to a quiet life as a private investigator in my beloved Northern California. Life was for the living, and it was about time I started living for myself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
First Class Idiot
PRESENT DAY.
IT SEEMED AS though a lifetime had passed since I had last seen Farid, and I was still lost in thought, my mind a world away, when Asma appeared.
“Would you like anything more to drink,” she asked.
I was still in the hydrating stage, so I asked for another mineral water, and she opened a bottle and refilled my glass before moving on to the other passengers. I took a sip and looked around at my accoutrements. This wasn’t exactly the Vandenberg jet, but it was a lot nicer than any other commercial flight I had ever experienced. I put down my water and went back to reading Farid’s dossier, which was unbelievably detailed—the only fact left out thus far being whether or not his penis hung to the left or the right. My old friend had certainly moved up in the world and had a new name and a new title. He was now the esteemed Dr. Suleiman Zuhair, the head of the nuclear energy program of the United Arab Emirates, a progressive union of states that inhabited the southeastern corner of the Arabian Peninsula. Formed on December 2nd, 1971, the UAE, was a federation of seven Emirates composed of descendants of the influential Bani Yas tribes of southern Arabia. Dubai, the second largest state, specifically made its foray into the international scene starting in the early 1800s when its ruler, Sheikh Maktoum, transformed the formerly sleepy port town of merchants, traders, and pearl divers into a safe haven for international trade and a place of peace and security. Today, it joined its neighboring state Abu Dhabi as one of the two most influential provinces of the Emirates.
Farid was currently working directly under Sheikh Hamza, who was the current Minister of Energy, and more importantly, the third son of the constitutional monarch of Dubai. Hamza was, therefore, in the royal bloodline, but he was still a few places too low in the family to ever become the constitutional monarch. If Farid really had discovered cold fusion, then he would be Hamza’s most likely avenue of gaining the political and financial importance he needed to bypass his brothers and ascend to the throne. Money meant power, even in royal families.
So, Farid’s prestigious job title was going to make getting to the fucker pretty fucking difficult, but there were even worse potential obstacles impeding my chances of success on this mission. The UAE was a nation built on the money from its oil reserves, but the price of oil was at an all time low, and, coupled with a number of major countries vowing to move away from oil, the powers that be had been steadily pushing the country towards a new economy based on tourism and international business, and, if all went well, cold fusion. Cold fusion would be today what oil had been back in the nineteen fifties, and it would put them back on the map and guarantee the prosperity of their country for generations to come. Hamza, in turn, would become the most important man in the country, let alone the world, and Farid would be his veritable golden goose—something he would devote a lot of resources to protect.
To that end, Hamza was lucky that the UAE had hired Academi, the American security company formerly known as Blackwater, as an extra measure of protection against terrorism and the possibility of flare-ups of unrest that were taking place all across the Middle East. Academi was also the same company the US had used in Iraq, and all of its employees were highly trained former special
operations soldiers who were very good at their job. Unfortunately, these same people were also part of the security contingent that guarded Farid twenty-four hours a day.
I scrolled down to the next page and read more details about Farid’s daily life. His job came with a lot of perks, and he was living large with plenty of money, a Bentley Turbo, and a beautiful home in Dubai. He was still unmarried but, true to form, was usually only seen in the company of blondes while frequenting the local bars, restaurants, and nightclubs. He was living like a prince, but in a gilded cage, and he would therefore be nearly impossible to contact. I had to get past all the security, somehow convince him to leave his exorbitant lifestyle, and then get him the hell out of the country, which meant I had a daunting, if not impossible, task ahead.
I closed the file and rubbed my temples. What did I do to deserve this? I had lived a nice, quiet, low-key existence always helping those in need and staying well below the radar of my former life. Shit—maybe it was time for a drink. I looked at my watch and saw that it was three thirty p.m., Pacific Standard Time, but that would be changing rapidly as we flew into the sun. I did some quick calculations and realized that it was well after midnight in Europe. Fuck it. I hit the page button on the armrest of my chair and soon the lovely Asma appeared.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m thinking about having a drink, but I don’t want to get too hammered.”
“How about a glass of red wine?”
“Fan-fucking-tastic idea!”
“Would you like to see the wine list?”
“I’m not a snob. Anything red that you recommend will be fine.”
She returned a moment later and placed the glass of wine on my tray table, and I thanked her and took a sip. Not bad—not bad at all. I closed my laptop, leaned back in my chair, and relaxed and thought about the morning. Holy shit. I had been in my first plane crash, which was pretty ironic, considering I had spent a large part of my adult life in planes in combat zones and never had a single problem. That was definitely one to take off my bucket list. I downed the last of the wine in one gulp then reclined my seat, closed my eyes, and felt the strain of the day’s events slip from my awareness as I drifted off to enjoy a well-deserved nap.
Two hours later I awoke to the smell of food, but it wasn’t the terrible smell I usually associated with airline cuisine. Instead, it smelled like a proper restaurant, and I looked around to see my fellow passengers dining on everything from steak and lobster to pasta carbonara. Asma, seeing that I was awake brought me a menu.
“How’s the steak?” I asked.
“Delicious. It’s grass-fed filet mignon.”
Sweet. Grass-fed meat contained CLA, or conjugated linoleic acid to someone with an MD or PhD, and diets high in these wondrous fatty acids had been shown in studies to reduce the potential for cancers such as skin, liver, colon, and breast by eighty percent. Even better, those fats were more easily turned into lean muscle mass rather than center body chub, so, ultimately, it meant steak without guilt, and it didn’t get any better than that.
“I’ll take it.”
“For your side?”
“Baked potato and asparagus if you have it. I don’t mind fragrant pee.”
“And to drink?”
“Another glass of that wine, please.”
Asma headed off to the kitchen, so I decided to stand up and stretch my legs while I waited for dinner. I took a quick walk around the first class cabin and saw that it was at full capacity, and every luxury seat was filled with a well-dressed, important looking person. In the last row behind me, I passed a man dressed in a suit and keffiyeh, the latter being the typical Arab headdress. We made eye contact, and I nodded and said hello, but he responded with only a contemptuous glare. I nicknamed him Mr. Friendly and moved on to the other side of the plane, where I came upon a strikingly beautiful woman. She had long silky blond hair, the cheekbones of a nordic goddess, and some of the lightest blue eyes I had ever seen. She also had quite a figure beneath her white button up shirt and short, dark grey business skirt. But, beyond all that, she had that healthy glow that came from an active lifestyle, and it transcended her more obvious physical features to make her downright vivacious.
She was also very likely more than just a pretty face, considering the stack of legal papers off to the side of her seat, which hinted that she was a high powered attorney and, therefore, likely way out of my league. I had met many women like her back at Stanford, and, even then, they were already looking for more upwardly mobile partners, and us lowly psych majors didn’t stand a chance against the many business and computer science nerds trolling the dating scene. I turned my gaze to her plate and noticed that she, like me, had ordered the filet mignon, and she appeared to be enjoying it.
“How’s the steak?” I asked.
“Excellent.”
“And it’s from grass-fed cows. I assume you know about the health benefits of grass-fed animal products?”
“I do. They have a better ratio of omega 3 to omega 6 fatty acids, and they’re high in the cancer fighting compound conjugated linoleic acid, or, for short, CLA.”
“Holy shit! I’m impressed. You certainly know your meat.”
“I take my health very seriously, so nothing gets past my lips that isn’t grass-fed.”
“Then, I suppose I should tell you that nothing gets past my lips—that isn’t grass.”
She stared at me questioningly, one eyebrow raised as she scrutinized me.
“Wow,” she finally said.
“What? Was that more creepy than funny?” I asked.
Clearly, I was still feeling a little punchy having survived that crash landing this morning.
“Considering you just hinted, in a roundabout way, that I should be comfortable with you putting your dick in my mouth—I’d say the answer is yes.”
“Shit—sorry, obviously I hadn’t thought that one through before I said it to a complete stranger.”
“Which technically makes you a creepy shitbag.”
“I think it’s technically more a case of a guy trying to be a funny shitbag, but, as he was feeling a little off having survived his first plane crash this morning, inadvertently came across as a creepy shitbag.”
“Which makes you a shitbag nonetheless.”
“Well then, I can see my work here is done. Enjoy your steak. This shitbag is going back to his seat to have a good cry.”
“You do that, shitbag—and enjoy your grass.”
Note to self—the rest of the world doesn’t always have the same sense of humor, or, perhaps I’m just not always very funny. I retreated back to my seat and found another glass of wine waiting and ready to be the vehicle to dull the pain of my recent encounter. I took a sip and swished the lovely liquid around in my mouth and enjoyed the subtle flavors titillating my taste buds. I swallowed and started the entire process anew, and, by the time I had finished my wine, dinner arrived, and it looked and smelled delicious. I cut a small piece of steak, took my first bite, and nearly came in my pants. The meat was delicate, seasoned to perfection, and practically melted like butter in my mouth. In order to prolong the pleasure, I killed off the asparagus first, then took my time, eating small amounts of the potato in combination with the steak until every last morsel was gone from my plate. Properly sated, I leaned back in my seat and felt that my excellent dinner was pushing on my bladder, and it was time for a well-deserved horse piss.
I got up and started migrating aft towards one of the six bathrooms of the first class compartment. As typical on every flight I’d ever experienced, the bathrooms were having their after dinner rush, and the majority of first class was currently in line. I reached the front of the line, and a lavatory opened up, and I stepped in to find a spacious room adorned with faux wood finish, a granite sink, scented soaps, and even a glass enclosed shower. Fuck me a river! Was this how the other half lived? It was a lot fancier than any public restroom I had ever seen and was easily as opulent as the ones on the Va
ndenberg jet. I had always wondered what lay beyond that curtain at the end of coach, but now I knew firsthand that the amenities of first class included amazing wine, amazing food, and even more amazing bathrooms. Part of me almost wished I had to dump, but the thought of people waiting on the other side of the door would have robbed me of any actual pleasure. I lifted the seat with my foot and felt sweet relief as urine poured from my flesh faucet and filled the clean white commode with brilliant yellow liquid. I had almost forgotten about the asparagus when the dank, almost flatulent smell hit my nose, though I was fairly confident that it would be nothing more than a trifle for the ventilation system.
I kicked the seat back down, flushed, then washed my hands and opened the door, only to find my beautiful fellow steak eater standing in front of me. Fuck, she was even more spectacular now that I had a more complete view of her statuesque figure. Thank God I hadn’t dumped.
“Hello, steak eater, you’ll be happy to know that there’s no poo in there, just asparagus pee—I promise,” I said.
“And you’re telling me this because?”
“Um, because I…”
Before I could answer she pushed past me and closed the door abruptly in my face. I guess there was no winning with this woman. I headed back to my seat, vowing to avoid the other side of the plane if at all possible. As I arrived back at my seat, I had a look around at my spacious surroundings. According to my ticket, it was a suite, though the fact that the walls didn’t go all the way to the ceiling made it more of a cubicle in my mind, but, either way, it had more amenities than a person could ever ask for on an airplane. There was the obligatory large flat screen television with access to movies, television, and video games, and beneath it was a table for my laptop or other electronic devices. Beside that was a power plug, a shelf, and my own personal storage area. Best of all, the entire affair apparently converted into a cozy bedroom which was, for me, the only way I could get any real sleep on an airplane. All in all, it wasn’t too bad for a guy used to squeezing into the economy class on Southwest.
Gordita Conspiracy Page 16
