Mike said, “When we figure this out, I guarantee I will bring you in. You proved in Afghanistan that you have the discipline to be patient. Once we know what’s going on and it’s time to take action, we’ll settle this together.”
“That’s sounds okay. But I don’t want to disappoint my vicarious team members in the double-O section. They expect me to fight my own battles.”
Mike chuckled at that response. They finished the second bottle of wine while exchanging more small talk. Pat asked for the check and tucked inside the folder was a piece of paper with Carlie’s cell number. It was a little after ten, and the restaurant closed at eleven and was rapidly emptying. Pat gave his centurion Amex card and asked her if she was free to go out later. Mike looked at him after Carlie departed and shook his head.
“Seriously? She’s half your age.”
“The poor thing is desperate. This is D.C. She says I’m the first guy she’s met in ages who wasn’t either gay or married. Besides, I’m smitten with the new love of my life with the perky breasts.”
“On a scale of one to ten, she’s a twelve. The only way a girl that young with those looks is going out with you is if she’s being paid by the opposition. In the trade, we call this a honey trap.”
In his most matter-of-fact, condescending tone, Pat replied, “I don’t want to lecture you on tradecraft, but I have already taken precautions. I hacked the employee records and verified she’s been employed at this establishment for two years. She has a perfect performance record and absolutely no homework tonight. This a cleared operation, and everything is a go.”
Mike laughed at that. “Tradecraft? Where did you learn that word? I hate to break it to you, but you’re a knuckle dragger—what we in the business call a shooter. Your exploits may moisten the analysts’ panties back at Langley, but when done right, an agent’s job is supposed to be boring. Your skill set is something entirely different from that of an intelligence operative.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be safe. I’ll use protection, I promise.”
“Seriously, Pat, I am not kidding. Don’t be too cavalier about things. Someone serious is trying to kill you. You don’t have the right kind of training to handle every situation. If you think you do, take this test. Look around the room for a moment and see if you can pick out the two members of my personal security detail.”
Pat took a few minutes and carefully inspected every table of the half-empty restaurant.
“It’s the nondescript middle-aged couple closest to the door.” Pat figured that was a good tactical option. Because the position covered the entire dining room, it ensured they saw everyone entering the restaurant, and the couple was nondescript, as a PSD should be.
“Too obvious,” said Mike. “Nobody would take that spot.” He tapped a message into his phone and two people at different tables in the dining room stood up and then sat down.
“Why does someone in your position need a PSD in your own hometown anyway?”
“My staff does event-based threat assessments. Being anywhere near you at this moment is considered very high risk.”
“Jesus, what a buzzkill you are.”
As they stood up to leave, Carlie came over with a big smile, jacket on, carrying her purse. She announced the boss had let her off early. Pat grinned as the three of them walked to the door. Mike shook Pat’s hand and hopped into his government car along with his PSD. Carlie and Pat walked arm in arm out into the crisp fall night.
Chapter 18
Eleuthera, Bahamas
Pat walked onto the second-floor rear deck of the house, holding a small cream-colored towel that was spotted with blood to his chin. The towel was cold because it was wrapped around some ice cubes. Pat sat down on a deck chair and was pleased to notice that the blurriness was gone. He could see the two outbuildings straddling the infinity pool and the line of swaying palms that bordered the beach. Between the trees, he could see the surf and the ocean.
Eleuthera was one of the Out Islands, fifty miles east of Nassau, Bahamas. The island was one hundred and ten miles long and less than one mile wide. The year-round population was eight thousand. Eleuthera is famous for its pink beaches and native vibe. It isn’t commercialized and crowded like Nassau and so many of the other islands of the Caribbean. Pat had finished construction last year on a four-bedroom house on the eastern side of the island facing the Atlantic.
He had a look at the makeshift ice pack and rotated it to an unused spot. It looked like the bleeding had almost stopped. It was hurricane season. Tropical Storm Nicole had passed over the island yesterday, and it was still affecting the surf. Today the swells were over twenty feet. Pat had gone out on his Xanadu Chase nine-foot board this morning with the dawn patrol. This was the first time he’d ever used his big-wave board.
Surfing was addictive. Not only was it an amazing workout, but there was a Zen quality to it that was difficult to explain. Fighting through the surf to get out from the shore, picking the right wave, charging and dropping into a big wave, and riding into the curl was an intoxicating experience. It took tremendous effort, especially if you didn’t do it every day, but it was amazing fun when the conditions were right.
If Pat hadn’t been completely exhausted, partially concussed, and bleeding, he’d probably still be in the water. He could still feel that euphoria even through the stinging pain as he iced the spot where the nose of his board had crashed into his jaw on that last wipeout. Like all adrenaline junkies, being crushed by a breaking wave, nearly drowning while going through the washing machine, and taking a shot to the jaw was not what he’d remember from this morning’s experience. Only the thrill remained.
One of the outbuildings was a four-bedroom guesthouse, and the second building had a chapel and two apartments. One of the apartments and the chapel were the domain of Father Tellez and his sister. Father Tellez had been a friend since they’d met while Pat was a captain assigned to a mechanized infantry battalion in Germany. He was originally from Columbia, and he had served as an Army Chaplain until he’d retired a few years ago. The local Catholic community was very small, especially during the off-season, and the few who attended daily Mass preferred to use the small chapel adjacent to Father Tellez’s place.
The second apartment was used by Maria and Jonah, the Filipino couple who maintained the property and double as household staff. Both were devout Catholics who attended daily Mass with Father Tellez and a handful of others. Both were wonderful people. Pat had met them in Abu Dhabi and offered them jobs as caretakers. They were already working on the visa process to bring over relatives. Before long, Pat imagined, the Filipino population in Governor’s Harbour would grow a lot. If that happened, the island, especially the Catholic community, would be the better for it.
Pat placed the damp towel on the glass top of the wicker table next to him and picked up his cell. Yesterday, while on the private charter from Dulles to Governor’s Harbour, he’d had an idea. He called Mike.
“Mike, I had an epiphany,” Pat said.
“I’m not sure if that’s the right word to describe whatever happened between you and the waitress.”
“No, it’s about what you said. I’m not cut out for cloak and dagger. I’m a fighter. Hiding and waiting on an NSA supercomputer and Ivy League analysts at Langley is not playing to my strengths.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’m going to spend a couple of days taking care of business in the Bahamas, and then I’m going back to Abu Dhabi, and I’m going to find the people who have me under surveillance, and I’m going to figure out who’s supplying that info to my attackers.”
“How do you plan on doing that? Intel agencies are not usually very cooperative about such things.”
“I have some cachet with the UAE local government and military. I believe they’ll help me if I ask.”
“We’re highly confident the info on your movements supplied to your attackers came from the Emirati’s. You have enough wasta to get them to do a mole
hunt, but even if they find the person, don’t expect they’ll give you any information, that’s not how things work in our business.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m pretty sure I can get access to the mole if they find him.”
“If there’s a mole, and suppose you get access, then what?”
“Then I’ll follow the mole’s contacts up the chain until I find whoever killed my guys.”
“Don’t get your hopes up too high, but it’s worth a try. If you need any help opening doors, just let me know.”
“So that’s a green light, then?”
“Yes, it is. Do it.”
Pat ended the call, got up from his chair and went back into the house. This was only the second time he had visited the house. He had chosen the Bahamas to establish Trident Corporation, because his lawyer had told him it would offer him liability and tax protection. In order to gain approval from the government to establish Trident, he’d needed to meet a minimum investment level in Bahamas. The package he’d received from the Bahamas included citizenship and resident visas for his staff. The money he’d spent on the house, plus what he spent on the office, had met the threshold he’d needed to get the package he’d wanted. Now that Pat had a footprint on the island, he was starting to really like it. Eventually, he planned on retiring there.
Pat’s home office covered the entire second floor. It was about the only space in the house he used. It had a sliding glass door leading to the upper deck. The office had two picture windows. One that faced the Atlantic and another that faced the Caribbean side of the island. His desk faced the Caribbean side. The view overlooked Banks Road, which was the only route to the house. A bit farther out was Edwin’s Turtle Lake Marine Preserve, and in the far distance, the Grand Bahama Reef. In Eleuthera, the sun rose over the Atlantic and set over the Caribbean. The room was paneled with light wood and had a rich blue carpet and contemporary wooden furniture matching the paneling. It was more of an office suite than a single office because it had a work area, a large sitting area with a leather couch, love seat, and recliner, a bathroom and even a small bedroom.
After two hours working in the office, Pat headed out. As he walked out the door, he donned a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers and climbed into his blue Tahoe. First stop was the Trident office, which was a converted house off Queen Street, the main drag in downtown Governor’s Harbour. When Pat had moved the Trident headquarters from Cary, North Carolina to the Bahamas, Jessica had agreed to relocate and run things. Jessica and two local Bahamian women managed the Trident financial and administrative operations from the office on Queen Street.
The building had originally been a two-story residence built in the late nineteenth century. It was a grand home built by a wealthy trader, constructed in the style of the West Indies, with exterior stone walls covered with conch-pink stucco. White wooden storm shutters surrounded the windows, and four white pillars stretched from the ground to the roof in the front. Jessica and Pat had completely renovated and modernized the house when he’d bought it.
Governor’s Harbour had a ferry to Nassau and a small airport that made travel very convenient. A flight to Fort Lauderdale was only 250 miles. Another benefit of the office location was that it was only a two-minute walk to the First Caribbean Bank.
The FCB had a history dating back to the days of pirates. Today it was a modern bank affiliated with CIBC and Barclays, with offices throughout the Caribbean. It handled all the banking for Trident.
Pat gave Jessica a big hug when he walked into her second-floor office. Jessica took him around to meet the two clerks who’d been hired in his absence. The four sat downstairs in a common area that was set up very much like a living room. Pat used the time to get to know the local women. They were very nice, and the chemistry between the three ladies appeared to be very good.
After the meeting. Jessica and Pat left the building and strolled up Buccaneer Hill to the Buccaneer Club for lunch. They sat outside in the shade surrounded by a garden of bougainvillea, hibiscus, and coconut palms. The small fenced in seating area even had a rooster running around loose.
It was a little after two o’clock, and Pat hadn’t eaten. When the large Bahamian waitress came over, he ordered the conch soup and grilled grouper. Jessica ordered the curried crawfish and shrimp fried rice. Jessica was an evangelical Baptist and didn’t drink, and they both ordered iced teas. They spent some time catching up on family news. Jessica’s husband’s latest business enterprise was captaining a fishing boat during the tourist season. Pat knew better than to ask how the fishing business was doing.
The replacement C-130J, replacement cargo, replacement crew, and settlement to the pilots’ families had been an unexpected cash outlay that had Jessica a little concerned.
“You need to take it easy with the checkbook for a while,” Jessica said.
“I will. Do we have enough coming in to cover things?”
“Yes, just barely, so no new expenses,” Jessica scolded Pat.
“I’ll be on my best behavior. I promise.”
Jessica smiled at him. “I know you will.”
“How did you get that bump on your chin?”
“Surfing. My board hit me.”
“You just look for ways to get into trouble, don’t you?”
“Falling off a surfboard isn’t real trouble. It’s a distraction to get the real trouble off my mind for a while.”
“Are you saying you’re in trouble?”
“A little bit. Nothing I can’t handle, but if you have difficulty getting ahold of me over the next little while, it’ll be because I’m trying to solve a problem.”
“The same problem that killed Joe Ferguson and Joe Fitzpatrick?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“You be careful.”
“Of course. I’m always careful, you know that.” Jessica touched the bruise on Pat’s chin.
“You’re not always careful. Call me anytime if you need anything.”
When he got back to the house, Pat found Father Tellez in the kitchen with Maria. The father gave Pat a hug, and they went outside and sat on the second-floor deck. Sitting across the glass table, Pat gave the padre an appraisal. At sixty-one years of age, the Colombian priest looked at least ten years younger. His face had barely a wrinkle. His hair was medium-length, black, and curly. He had brown eyes, a thick nose, wide expressive mouth and a square jawline. A former member of the Colombian national football team, Father Tellez had grown soft over the years, and he now sported a small belly. He had a warm face and a gentle manner of speaking. One of the mannerisms Pat found endearing is his habit of ending most sentences with the word really. When they met in the kitchen, for example, he said with a thick Spanish accent, “Pat, it is so good to see you…really.”
Maria brought out coffee and the macaroons the father loved. Pat had always thought the time he spent with the father should be billed as the meeting between the sinner and the saint. Father Tellez knew just about everything there was to know about Pat. Pat didn’t keep secrets from the padre; he saw little point in it. There were some things he had heard about him and some that he had seen firsthand that made Pat think he had a connection with the Almighty like no one else on earth.
“How long are you going to stay?” Father asked.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Back to Abu Dhabi?”
“Yeah, back to the desert.”
“There’s a storm coming.”
“It’s hurricane season. But don’t worry, this place was built to withstand anything.”
“That’s not what I meant. When you return to the Middle East, you’re heading into a storm.”
“How can you know that?” Pat asked.
“I can see it on your face. I’ve known you a long time. Seen you many times with that look. That’s what I see. You’re heading into a fight and you shouldn’t be. You did your service. Whatever is going on in the Middle East is not your fight.”
“Honestly, I have no idea if it�
�s my fight or not. I just know someone is after me, and they’re killing innocent people around me. I don’t see where I have much choice.”
Eventually the conversation shifted to family and the foundation. Once Pat had started to build excess cash, he’d created a charity and made Father Tellez the head of it. His job was to figure out where to donate. It was the perfect role for him, although there always seemed to be more worthy causes than cash.
After the father left, Pat told Maria she should go as well. Maria asked if he wanted something for dinner, but he declined. Later, after the sun set, Pat walked over to Tippy’s Restaurant. Tippy’s was the quintessential Caribbean beach bar and restaurant. Even on a Sunday night during hurricane season, the place drew a crowd. It had an open-air design with a series of partially enclosed wooden thatched-roof gazebos located on top of the pink sands of the most beautiful beach on the planet. Off-season, there was no band, but the crowd was always lively.
Pat sat at the bar and ordered a Sands beer. Because it was so close to his house, he ate at Tippy’s a lot when he was in town. A well-publicized review in the New York Times had many people driving from the far corners of the island to visit the place. The food might be overrated slightly, and the prices were silly. But the view was spectacular, the bar staff was outstanding, and if Pat felt like having a few beers, all he had to do was walk seven hundred yards down the beach to get back to his house.
The bar was open on all four sides, and Pat had a full view of the ocean. There was no moon yet, and it was too dark to see much except the bioluminescence of the surf as it crashed onto the shoreline. Diane the waitress came over and delivered Pat’s beer, pouring the Sandy’s lager bottle into a glass. Diane was dressed in cutoff jeans and a yellow Tippy’s T-shirt. She was a smiley long-haired brunette with a tall athletic body and green eyes. From where he was sitting, Pat couldn’t read the menu, which was posted on a chalkboard on the other side of the bar at an angle, so he asked Diane for a recommendation. She suggested the lobster and shrimp pasta, and he nodded in agreement.
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