“Most guys are wimps. They’re afraid of tall, attractive women.” It occurred to me that I had never been with a girl only an inch shorter than I was. Certain mental images presented themselves, all intriguing.
“And you’re not? Afraid, that is.”
We held eye contact. “Let me check. Nope. Not afraid.”
“I guess you’re not afraid of much, Marcus Garnet. You look like a man who has…well, never mind. But I’m with you on not being afraid. At least that’s one advantage to being a tall girl: I’m bigger than most of the jerks who would try something with me, so they don’t. Not often, anyway.”
“That must come in handy at Vendettas.”
“That’s for sure. The management likes that I can deal with rowdy drunks until the bouncers get there.”
“And you still have time to play volleyball for the University of Miami?”
“Practice doesn’t start until August. The summer is when I make money hustling Eurotrash suckers at beach volleyball.”
I grinned, picturing her in a bikini leaping high to spike balls down at skinny Italian men. “What do you do with all your spare time? I mean, when you’re not working at Vendettas, working the conventions and playing beach volleyball?”
“And that’s during summer vacation.”
“You’re a very busy girl.”
“Yes, I am. But I can handle it.”
“So, what’s your major, Brooke?” It came out sounding as trite as what’s your sign?
“Marine biology. Environmental science is where the jobs are.”
“Government jobs.”
“What other kinds are there?”
I stayed in character as an adjunct prof at a state school. “If you find out, let me know.”
The table was only a yard wide and we were both leaning against it, so our noses were maybe a foot apart.
“So, Marcus from Oregon, how did you get so tan? I thought it rained all the time out there.”
“Actually, only my face and arms are tan. I windsurf every chance I get, but in a wetsuit. The rest of me is as pale as a frog’s belly.”
She tilted her head back and laughed. “Something tells me that you’re lying, Marcus Garnet. But I don’t care. That’s what these conventions are for: telling the most lies to the most people in the shortest time.” I noticed she had placed her hand over her Bluetooth phone on the table. To block its reception? Was this something she normally did, or was this conversation a reason for extra precaution?
“I swear, only my face and arms are tan.”
“That’s how I was in the wintertime. I practically lived outside. We had snow machines; we went hunting and ice-fishing and all of that. When I lose my tan I have to get it back very slowly, or I turn into a human freckle. I buy sunscreen by the gallon.”
“I’ll bet you do.” I smiled back at her, imagining a bucket of creamy lotion dripping down her tanned body while she was dressed for beach volleyball in a few grams of clingy spandex.
11
Her smile evaporated. She cut her eyes and shook her head a bit, and I gave her a questioning look in return. She gestured behind me and muttered, “Here comes Mr. Personality.”
I had been keeping an eye on the GORP meeting room by watching its reflection in the display case behind Brooke, but I’d missed Prechter’s exit. I glanced their way as Prechter and Sanchez walked past a jet-engine-size water turbine toward the shared aisle. Instead of turning right or left and leaving the area, they continued angling across the aisle directly toward us. So much for keeping my adversary at the far end of my visual range.
But Prechter ignored me, directing all of his attention to my new friend across the KSI table. He smiled at her and said, “Brooke, are you sure you don’t want to reconsider? Just come over for the weekend and we’ll have you back by Monday.” His accent was an odd English-American hybrid, jocular and a little awkward. New York married London, and this was the result? Who ruled the marriage?
I stood next to Prechter’s left shoulder, not walking away as he had obviously expected. I looked down at the brochures on the table and tried not to call attention to myself. I was inside his comfort zone, close enough to smell his cologne, but since he had invaded our conversational space I held my ground. Prechter didn’t show any discomfort at having me so close. I was evidently like invisible statuary to him. I was some academic lackey from nowhere, hence I was nobody. Beneath his need for any further consideration.
Both men had their eyes fixed on Brooke, so I took the opportunity to study them. The senator stood on the other side of Prechter; he was the shortest of the four of us, and the only one without a symposium badge. In his fifties and at least a decade older than Prechter, Sanchez might have played a fictional senator on television. I could judge their heights in profile. Prechter was about five-ten, no midget but shorter than Brooke by a good three inches. He had glossy black hair combed high and then swept back, long enough to touch his collar in the back. Both men were wearing tailored silk suits in different shades of medium blue; by comparison I was dressed for casual Friday in a navy jacket and khaki slacks.
Prechter’s eyes were close set and he had a narrow pursed mouth that reminded me of a ferret, but otherwise he looked passable. His profile was not as good as his front, so he made the most of it and kept his gaze on his quarry. I heard him say, “Come on, it’s just a weekend in the Bahamas.”
She glared back at him. “Not this girl, not this weekend.”
I feigned indifference to their discussion, examining another brochure.
Prechter told her, “If you’d like to check it out, the new TPS research vessel is tied up just a few minutes from here. Actually, it’s behind my house today. And it’s not just some converted fishing trawler, it was custom built for TPS. It’s state of the art.”
Prechter had the nonchalant manner of a card player dropping aces on the table. I’m so rich that I have a boat big enough to take the open ocean, and a waterfront property where I can keep it. I own companies. I’m best buds with U.S. senators. Why, any girl with enough sense to come out of the rain should be throwing herself at the chance to seize the brass ring of fortune my mere presence represents! Here it is, foolish girl; why don’t you grab it?
Brooke continued her part of their staredown, looming above Prechter and emphasizing her height. I thought I detected that she had grown an extra inch or two during the standoff, and I guessed that she was up on her toes as she leaned against the table. “It’s a very generous offer, Richard.” The instant familiarity offered by the name badges worked both ways. “But I need this job. There’s a depression on, and money doesn’t grow on trees. Not even in Miami Beach.”
Prechter snapped his fingers and said, “I can get you a better job in five minutes, with one phone call. A lot better than working conventions.” Prechter’s silk-sleeved left arm was raised for the finger snap. I noticed he was wearing the gold Rolex watch I had last seen in George Town on Great Exuma one week earlier. Another demonstration of his most powerful sexual attractant, I thought. Not unlike a red-assed baboon’s display. Here was a new species of superman—the golden-wristed jackass. Sleep with me equals live rich was an unspoken male-female equation that translated well in all places and among all cultures. The golden wrist made another expensive flourish as Prechter said, “Even Senator Sanchez is coming. Right, Pete?”
The senator looked about furtively. There were no cell phones or other obvious video cameras in view, but any button could conceal a lens, and there was a stranger, me, within hearing range. Quietly he said, “Brooke, you really should see the TPS research vessel. It’s quite something. And I’m sure there’s always room for one more.”
Prechter nodded agreeably. “Plenty of room, Brooke. It has four private guest staterooms.”
Unpersuaded, she folded her arms across her chest. “It does sound terrific, Richard, but I have to work the whole weekend. They paid for two days of in-service, and I signed a contract. If I don’t finish, I ge
t zip.”
“I think most environmental science undergrads at UM would jump at the chance.”
“I’m sure they would. But I can’t. Not this weekend.”
“Come on, what’s the harm? What can go wrong with Senator Sanchez with us? And as far as your lost wages, that’s a pittance compared to what you’ll make working for one of my companies. Or I can get you an admin position right at the university, until you graduate. This is your golden opportunity, Brooke. Don’t be penny-wise and pound-foolish. I can open doors for you that you can’t even imagine.”
She slowly shook her head, but I could detect a lessening of her resolve. I decided to intervene, to try to prevent her from giving in. “Brooke, didn’t you tell me you got seasick?”
Richard Prechter shot me a withering glare, clearly indicating that if my presence had been unwanted, my input was completely intolerable. We locked eyes for several seconds. His were the same startling green that I remembered from the Peace and Plenty cocktail hour in George Town just a week earlier. They showed no flicker of recognition, merely unblinking hostility. As far as I knew, Prechter had never heard me speak before I said those words.
“Oh yeah,” she quickly agreed, and Prechter returned his attention to her. “I get sick as a dog out on the ocean. I can’t step foot on a boat without throwing up. It’s really embarrassing. Don’t take me on a boat ride unless you want to see what I ate for breakfast.” She overplayed her role, playfully mocking the older men, and then she looked back at me, her eyes saying thanks.
Prechter turned back to me and gave my name badge a careful look. His jaw was working and I could almost hear his teeth grinding. He tapped the table with manicured fingertips, looked away from me and said to Brooke, “Well, the senator and I have a few more meetings and then it’ll be time for my presentation. I’m sorry this weekend won’t work out for you, Brooke, but the offer is on the table. We have projects on both coasts and all over the Caribbean, and we’re always looking for bright young people to join our team. I could arrange an internship, or even a paid position.”
“With just one phone call,” Brooke added with more than a hint of sarcasm.
Before they left, Sanchez threw his own offer on the table. He leaned forward and said, “You know, Brooke, I’m thinking that you might be snapped up by a lucky senator or a congressman before Richard gets a chance to hire you. A congressional internship can be the first step along the road to a terrific career with the federal government. Then the sky’s the limit.” He laid his senatorial business card on the table, grinning like a fox with a jaw full of chicken feathers.
Out of words, both men simply leered at her for a few moments, until she held a hand in front of her mouth and made an overt demonstration of yawning. Prechter’s eyes narrowed to slits, and his jaw muscles worked again. He turned away and steered the senator down the aisle and out of sight in the crowds.
“What a guy,” I said when they were gone.
“What a couple of creeps,” she added. “You want his card? I sure don’t.”
“I’ll keep it for a souvenir.”
“Take this too. He pushed this on me earlier.” She reached under the table and retrieved an envelope and handed it to me. “It’s an invitation to a big party. Go to it. Ruin his night. Get in his face and give him some shit.”
Brooke must have sensed the menace and hostility radiating between Prechter and me. I opened the envelope casually, concealing my Christmas-morning-first-shot-at-the-tree feeling. The inside of the cream envelope was lined with gold foil. I slid out an engraved card announcing a private party sponsored by an amalgam of corporations I’d never heard of, except for Tidal Power Solutions. I assumed the listed corporations were the other members of the Global Ocean Research Partnership.
Number 37 North Sunset Isle. Eight p.m. cocktails. Live music. Dinner. Dancing. Twilight to starlight. The Sunset Isles were less than two miles north of Hibiscus Isle, on the Miami Beach side of Biscayne Bay. Jackpot.
Brooke touched the card with a fingertip. “According to Richard Prechter, that’s Tony Marcello’s house. The singer.”
“I know him. His music, I mean.” Marcello was a Colombian pop star with a number of crossover hits in English. He was married to an American film star more renowned for her looks than for her acting, whose name I couldn’t recall. I nonchalantly slipped the envelope and the card into my right jacket pocket, belying my elation. The invitation meant another clear shot at Richard Prechter. At a private house party, at night. By the water, and close to Topaz. Close to Cori. I’d broken the rack and had landed several balls in pockets. But I still had a serious subject to mention, and this helped keep the glee off my face. “Listen, Brooke, you better watch out for that Prechter guy. He doesn’t seem right in the head.”
“What makes you say that? I meet rich creeps like that every night at Vendettas.”
“Just a hunch.” I considered telling her more, but didn’t. I was in Miami Beach on a mission, and opsec, operational security, outweighed any other considerations.
She said, “I told you I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can. But keep an eye out anyway, okay?”
“I will. I always do.”
“And I definitely wouldn’t take him up on his boat ride.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, seemingly bemused by my show of concern. “There’s not a chance in the world of that.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around, Brooke. I’ll probably be back this way again today.” I extended my hand across the table and she took it with a firm, cool grasp while maintaining steady eye contact.
“I hope so,” she said, giving my hand a momentarily harder squeeze before releasing it.
I nodded, and then I turned and walked off. Richard Prechter was scheduled to speak in half an hour, so there was no use in hounding after him at this point. It was time to regroup and plan my next moves.
The accident of meeting Brooke Tierstadt and then rubbing shoulders with Richard Prechter was a surprise on one level, but not on another. You have to get danger-close to your target to make things happen. Some German cat named Heisenberg had mentioned it a while back; I remembered his principle from Physics 101.
12
I pretended to watch a documentary about raising shrimp in what looked like aboveground swimming pools. The big flat-screen TV was set up on the other side of a standard long exhibit table. I was marking time before heading over to the Dazzle Room and my next planned intersection with Richard Prechter. A middle-aged gentleman in a gray suit paused at the far end of the table, picked up a brochure, and then proceeded to edge over toward me. He smiled warmly as though he knew me, but I couldn’t place him at all. He was about five-foot-eight, with a gray receding hairline and horn-rimmed glasses. When we were nearly shoulder to shoulder facing the screen, he said, “Mr. Garnet…do you have a minute?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s about our mutual friend, Dan.”
“Dan…who?” I stammered in a moment of bewilderment.
“I believe that would be Dan Kilmer.”
His conference badge identified him as Frank Bloomfield, from something called Southern Maritime Associates. At least it didn’t say GORP or TPS. Equally welcome was the fact that he didn’t flip open a leather credential wallet showing a gold shield opposite an ID card from the IRS, the FBI or the Miami-Dade Police. But credentials or their lack didn’t matter. What mattered was hearing my own name. There didn’t seem to be much percentage in pretending confusion and trying the “you must be mistaking me for somebody else” routine. I’d just look like more of an ass in the end if I played our encounter as a case of mistaken identity.
“I’m listening.” I tried to speak normally, wondering how many facial and body language clues I had already given away during my brief period of mental derailment. So much for my anonymity in South Florida. A day after leaving the Bahamas, and despite all my precautions, I was back on Big Brother’s radar. I looked around
us for watchers who might be backing him up, but I couldn’t spot anyone who seemed to be paying us any attention at all. Not that a trained watcher would.
He asked, “Can we sit for a minute?” It wasn’t really a request. Bloomfield certainly wasn’t an imposing man, not physically, but his steady gaze and sardonic smile said that he had me dead-bang.
“All right.” I turned quickly and walked toward the wall of glass facing the ocean, and he followed close at my side. Glancing around, I detected no sudden rush to follow us, either from behind or on parallel aisles. There was a row of backless padded benches along the window wall for weary attendees who would rather gaze at the beach and the ocean than at renewable energy products. It’s possible to carefully observe ninety degrees of the compass, so I chose an unoccupied bench near the back corner of the hall. I gestured to him and we both sat down with our backs to the windows, angled toward each other with our knees a yard apart. I set my leather valise on the padded bench behind me, and he grounded his own briefcase.
“Okay, Mr. Bloomfield, you have my attention.”
He put his hand out, and after a moment I reluctantly shook it. A medium-firm grip and steady eye contact, but nothing memorable. He said, “I work for the United States government.”
“That’s not what your badge says.”
“I believe you understand how these things work.”
“What things?”
“If you don’t insult my intelligence, I’ll promise to do the same. Okay? Let’s just say the agency I work for has an interest in Dan Kilmer.”
“And which agency would that be?”
“One that’s more concerned with what happens outside the country than inside it.”
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask to see some official identification?”
“No, I don’t suppose it would.”
One obvious possibility was that Frank Bloomfield was from the CIA, the DIA, or some other even more highly classified intelligence agency. Or two, he was acting on his own while posing as a member of such an agency, for his own reasons. Or three, he was false-flagging while actually working for a foreign intelligence service or some other hostile entity. Occam’s razor was behind Door Number One.
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