Black Widow df-15

by Randy Wayne White

  Ms. Holderness-my ranking supervisor, I realized-regained her composure by returning to task. “Well, let’s hope it’s not contagious. Details are very important. So are contractual obligations-isn’t that right, Dr. Ford?”

  She placed her briefcase on the desk and opened it. “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”

  Two hours later, I watched from the deck as Holderness and the men filed down the boardwalk, into the mangroves toward the road. When they were gone, I returned to the lab, carrying the folder containing my job-performance evaluation. I hurried for a reason. There was a lot to do.

  I needed sleep, needed to work out, but I also had less than seven days to get to Saint Arc, track down the blackmailer, and persuade him that it was unwise to target Shay and friends. I had to book a flight, get my gear ready, and telephone old contacts. I’d told Tomlinson the truth: I wasn’t sure if I could still count on past resources to help.

  Time to find out.

  As I entered the lab, I folded my performance evaluation, then spun it Frisbee-like toward the trash basket, playing a Walter Mitty game- Make this, I’ll have nothing but good luck.

  The thing caromed off the rim onto the floor. I retrieved the papers, then slammed them it into the basket-a flash of anger that was out of character. But I’d just gutted my way through a morning of bureaucratic bullshit. Venting was okay.

  Personnel Attitude and Task Efficiency Evaluation. PATEE. A ridiculous acronym. But I’d asked for it. I’d signed their damn contract. Now I felt like a hawk who was being pecked to death by hens.

  Ford… you fool, you silly fool. Why the hell weren’t you satisfied with what you had?

  It is a question that all risk takers ask themselves sooner or later. Dumbasses, however, ask the same question, so the association was not uplifting.

  Me, the dumbass.

  The agency’s PATEE packet contained standardized questions: Does subject respond positively to criticism? Is subject team-oriented? Does subject maintain a safe, efficient work space?

  As expected, I had not received high marks. But there was no way in hell I was going to review the thing as the gang from D.C. had advised me to do.

  Why bother? I read to learn, not to be instructed. Furthermore, it was written in a foreign language. The language was Biz-Speak, a form of oral semaphore. Instead of signal flags, it substitutes phrases that register on the brain as symbols, not words.

  Biz-Speak is useful in a culture that seeks standardization because it spares members the need to think as individuals. Biz-Speak also minimizes the risk of offending fellow members individually-imperative in a corporate world where political correctness has become a tool. Companies are easier to manage when “group” or “department” is the smallest unit of measure, not a person.

  I’d just finished a two-hour immersion course. Holderness had used Biz-Speak to relay her dissatisfaction without once looking me in the eye, or saying a single true thing.

  My “core competencies” were “below the curve,” which suggested I might benefit from a personal “repurposing,” or perhaps an “offline skills transfer.” But that would require increased “face time” and “boots-on-the-ground” attention from Ms. Holderness herself.

  When she told me that, I smiled. Yes, the woman had fallen for Tomlinson’s carefree hippie act. She was creating a reason to return to Sanibel.

  Her underlings wrote notes. I did, too. They approved of my conscientiousness and let me know it-but only because they didn’t see what I was writing.

  Bottom line… on the radar… try it on… at the end of day

  … empowerment, multitasking, warm-and-fuzzies, synergistic… ping (to explore), the Ten-KPerspective (overview), deep-dive (verb-to explore a problem in depth).

  Despite my poor evaluation, Holderness backpedaled when I suggested we terminate our contract.

  “Don’t be overly sensitive, Dr. Ford. Your actual work product is superb.”

  I replied, “Well then, that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?” moving to the door to show them out.

  End of meeting.

  From my office desk, I called and got an update on Corey Varigono. Her condition had been changed from critical condition to serious but stable. She was going to make it.

  Shay sounded better, too, although we didn’t talk long. Tomlinson had paid her a visit. Now Ransom was with her-stopped on her way to town. My cousin has an earthy stability, and a no-bullshit approach to life. It was good they were together, and I was tempted to ask Ransom to let Tomlinson ravage Seattle on his own for a few days. But Shay was going to be okay, and Ransom would be back in time for the rehearsal dinner Friday night.

  After I hung up, I turned my attention to the cell phone and derringer I’d taken from Vance Varigono. For the first time, I took a close look.

  The derringer wasn’t a lighter. It was a stainless steel over-and-under that opened like a double-barreled shotgun. He’d loaded the thing with. 38 caliber hollow-points-man-stoppers engineered for maximum damage. The quasi soldier-of-fortune types buy them at gun shows.

  Damn.

  Varigono could have killed me if he’d pulled the trigger. A small entry hole but a grapefruit-sized exit wound. It made my stomach knot to replay the encounter, but I did it, taking note of mistakes that I didn’t want to repeat. I’d underestimated him, then played it way too close. The steroid freak had a big mouth but shaky hands. Surprising the gun hadn’t discharged accidentally. Hollow-points are indifferent. They would have displaced the same amount of flesh.

  I removed the cartridges, pushed the gun aside, and opened his phone.

  Vance had been in a talkative mood between the hours of 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. I checked the recent calls menu and saw that he’d dialed eight different numbers, including Michael and Elliot, whose names were logged on speed dial. There was also a number I knew well. Mine. He’d tried several times-probably confirming I wasn’t home.

  The calls were local except for an international number with the prefix 4-1-0. I checked the computer: Switzerland.

  The time log indicated that Vance had gotten nothing but voice recorders until he tried Beryl’s fiance. Someone had answered, presumably Elliot, but the conversation was brief, only three minutes.

  It explained how Elliot knew what he knew. Michael Jonquil, too. But three minutes wasn’t enough time for Vance to go into detail about what he’d found on his wife’s computer.

  Would he tell them the rest? Of course. I’d scared him, but Vance was a type, and his type recovered fast. If the cops found him, though, it might be a couple of days before Vance had free time to spend with his fraternity brothers. Detectives would question him about Corey’s bruises and her overdose. How would he explain where he was between the hours of 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.? He couldn’t use me as an alibi, so he would lie. Good cops always know. Could be that Vance was sitting in jail right now, nursing his dislocated elbow.

  I toggled back a few days into the call log and found the four-digit code he used to retrieve voice mail. I called and used it.

  All messages erased.

  From my office-supply cabinet, I selected a fresh spiral notebook, reporter-sized. I can tally the number of trips I’ve taken by the number of similar notebooks stacked in my file drawers, or hidden away. Each trip gets its own, no matter how sparse the notes.

  I retuned to the desk and wrote Medusa on the cover. Medusa is the free-swimming, predatory phase of animals in the phylum cnidarians. Medusa-the rare jellyfish found off Saint Arc. Research would be my excuse for returning to the island.

  I sat for a few minutes making notes about yesterday’s trip to Saint Arc. After leaving the Bank of Aruba, I had followed the blackmailer’s bagman to a bar called the Green Turtle, then to a parking lot where he got into a Fiat. I had noted the license-plate number on a business card. I found the card, copied the number into the notebook, then flipped to a back page where I copied numbers from Vance’s phone.

  When I was done, I thought for a moment, then slipped
the phone into my pocket, power on. It might be interesting to monitor the man’s calls.

  Vance had come way too close to killing me not to pay attention.

  9

  Gear for my trip to Saint Arc was on the bed: two semiautomatic pistols, ammunition, a dive knife, Rocket fins, two masks, a compact spear gun, black watch cap, military face paint, handheld VHF radio with built-in GPS, two false passports, a satellite phone, Triad flashlight, infrared Golight, an envelope containing $10,000 in euros …

  I had the hidden floor locker open. The collection grew as I moved between the bedroom, the lab, and my boat.

  My boat… that’s what I needed. Saint Arc was only a few miles from Saint Lucia. I wanted to book a room on Saint Lucia and use a boat to slip on and off Saint Arc. It would be cleaner that way. But I didn’t want to rent some tourist junker from an island marina. You can’t check a twenty-one-foot Maverick at the luggage counter, and I was going to have a tough-enough time getting firearms on a commercial airliner, then past the Saint Arc customs officers. They weren’t well-trained, they weren’t methodical, but they weren’t idiots, either.

  Weapons and a decent boat…

  I have operated in parts of the world where I had neither, but it was rare. I could usually rely on my contacts to provide equipment. I needed their help now. So why was I putting off making the calls?

  From the fireproof box, I took a weathered address book. Blue cover; alphabet tabs broken off. Most entries in pencil-pencil because it can be erased, but also because ink bleeds if soaked in a jungle storm.

  As I leafed through the pages, I found my attention wandering to the videocassette, which I’d placed on the bed while packing. I had already checked it for serial numbers and identifying marks-nothing to distinguish it from millions of other Panasonic DVD tapes. But now, when I looked at it, Beryl Woodward came into my head. Her face, the auburn hair, her aloofness and heat. Her voice, too.

  Especially after seeing some of the clips from that tape-my God. I would’ve watched. I’d pretended like I hadn’t, but I would’ve watched from beginning to end.

  I could hear her saying it, words clipped by wealth and the careful genetics of her caste. The inflection when she said, I would’ve watched. The stage innocence of her inflection on my God.

  It wasn’t a tease. The subject had changed her breathing. But why tell me? Was she granting permission? Or was she suggesting something …?

  Buzz.

  I jumped, startled. My pocket was vibrating. It took a long, weird second to remember I was carrying Vance’s phone. I took it and checked caller ID without answering.

  The brain converts thought waves into electrical energy, Tomlinson often tells me. Like-minded people communicate without saying a word. On the same wavelength is the cliche that proves how common it is.

  At times, I secretly believe him. Like now. The name “Beryl” was flashing on the tiny screen.

  Vance had Beryl Woodward logged in his phone book. But why was she calling him? At breakfast, she’d told me how much she distrusted the guy.

  I waited for the vibration to stop, feeling ridiculous because I was so tempted to answer. I didn’t.

  Instead, I gave it an ungentlemanly-like minute, then punched in the four-digit code to find out if Beryl had left a message.

  She didn’t.

  I had a list of my old contacts in front of me while I used the office phone. The satellite phone was on the desk, too, but it didn’t work. Deactivated, said a computer-generated voice.

  Fitting. I’d been deactivated, too.

  The list included deep-cover spooks, and State Department suits of the clandestine variety. They can be found in embassies worldwideFifth Floor men, they are sometimes called, because it’s the traditional office space. When career staffers use the phrase “He’s a Fifth Floor guy,” they sometimes give it a chiding, insider’s twist because it’s a way of voicing disapproval without risking transfer.

  The names included men I’d known and trusted for years.

  I dialed Donald Piao Cheng, now one of the top execs in U.S. Customs. Donald couldn’t disguise his surprise, or his discomfort, when he recognized my voice. He said he couldn’t talk, but would call me back. Instinct told me he wouldn’t.

  It took several tries, but I finally located Harry Bernstein, a Texan who spoke Spanish with a drawl so Southern he sounded like one of the Beverly Hillbillies in a badly dubbed movie. We weren’t friends, but we’d worked together in Central America. I wondered if Harry’s Spanish had improved.

  I didn’t find out. Harry refused to take my call.

  I tried a couple more names before skipping to the end of the list. There were two men I felt sure would help… or at least explain why they couldn’t.

  General Juan Rivera was an old adversary who’d become a friend. He played baseball, wore a Castro beard, and maintained homes (and wives) at several jungle camps in Central America. The man had power and he could pull a lot of strings, as he’d proven to me more than once.

  Living in the jungle, though, makes communication unreliable, so I didn’t expect Rivera to answer his phone. He didn’t. I left a message telling him it was urgent, and that I would also send an e-mail.

  Next on the list was Bernie Yager, an elite member of the U.S. intelligence community whose specialty was electronic warfare. He lived in desert, not jungle-Scottsdale, Arizona.

  Bernie would answer if he was at home. He would be eager to help.

  I was half right.

  "Marion, oh, Marion,” Yager said in a tone that was scolding but also sad. “Why did you wait to contact me? You need advice, you don’t call. Such a big decision, you don’t call. So name one person who is better qualified than Bernie. You can’t. Now you call.”

  I asked, “Does that mean we can’t talk?”

  “For you? A friend I would stick an arm into fire up to here for. Of course we can talk. But we can’t talk. Understand what I’m saying? You, of all people, understand how the rules work in our world.”

  “I don’t remember any rules. It’s one of the reasons I left.”

  Yager’s voice changed. “Don’t lecture me about rules, Marion. When barbarians crash the gate, they bring the rules with them. Adapt or die. Apologize and die. Same thing. So maybe I’m not so happy to talk all of a sudden. The Marion Ford I know wouldn’t say such a thing.”

  In fifteen years, the man had never spoken to me that way.

  I said, “Sorry, Bernie. I was off-base.”

  There was a long silence before he replied. “There you go again. Apologizing. So say a few words because Bernie’s starting to wonder who I’m really talking to.”

  I smiled. It wasn’t an insult. I pictured the tough little man in the office of his adobe complex, scrambler phone on speaker now. The phone was linked to a computer system that he’d assembled lovingly. He was probably studying the monitor, comparing vocal prints, old and fresh, all seismic renderings of my voice.

  Not unexpected. Bernie is legendary in the small, secret community of Electronic Warfare Information Operations. It was Bernie who invaded and compromised computer communications between Managua and Havana. It was Bernie who consistently intercepted communications between the Taliban and terrorist cells worldwide.

  The man works obsessively. He’d lost his parents in a Nazi concentration camp and considered Islamists the Nazis of a new century. No wonder he’d bristled at my crack about rules. No wonder he was now confirming I was who I claimed to be.

  I helped him out, saying, “It’s me, Bernie. Promise. I was a friend of your sister, remember? Eve was a good and decent lady, but sometimes things don’t turn out the way we plan.”

  Yager came on the phone again, sounding friendlier but still wary. “The world is a crazy place, Marion. These are dangerous times.”

  “All times are dangerous times. Especially for women like Eve. Trust the wrong man; make one bad choice at the wrong time, the wrong place. The same thing’s happening to some female friend
s of mine, Bernie. I’m trying to help them.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No, but it could ruin their lives. They could end up just as dead.”

  I heard the man sigh. “Okay, okay. Tell me about it. But it’s not the same, you know. Maybe I can help. But I can’t really help. Understand?”

  I said, “No. This time, I don’t understand.” With the man’s electronic surveillance capabilities, locating an extortionist on a small island would not have been difficult.

  “Don’t make this harder than it is, Marion! You quit. You’re not one of us anymore. That makes you poison; part of the outside world. I’ll listen to your problem. As a friend, I’ll suggest this, discourage that. But I can’t help. So go ahead and tell me before I have a coronary-that’s how upset this is making me!”

  So I told him, but only alluded to the information I needed from Saint Arc.

  When I’d finished, he asked a question or two before saying, “What I think you should do is contact a man I’m not going to mention. You know the name. Talk to him, make things right again. Then you talk to me.”

  He meant Hal Harrington. In my old job, Harrington was as close as I came to having a supervisor. He was a U.S. State Department intelligence consultant, and much, much more. Harrington was confidant and adviser to the military elite as well as senators and, sometimes, presidents. Hal had been a friend, he’d been an adversary. Now, I wasn’t sure where we stood.

  I replied, “Bernie, I’m going to tell you something I can barely admit to myself. I did call him. More than three weeks ago.”

  “You said your friends went on their vacation less than two weeks ago.”

  “That’s right.” I sat through a long silence before I added, “I called the man before my friends needed help. I called twice and left messages.”

  “Why? Just to chat? What are you telling me here?”

  “No. Because… it’s not the way I thought it would be. The outside world, you nailed it. That’s the way it feels-outside of things. Not that I’m willing to go back and do what I was doing. A modified version, that’s what I wanted to discuss with the man. But maybe it’s too late.”