Topless Agenda

by Lyle Christie

  “What’ll it be, sailor?” he asked.

  “A sparkling mineral water if you’ve got one.”

  He reached down and pulled a Perrier out of the fridge, opened it, and set it in front of me.

  “So, how are things?” he asked.

  “Complicated.”

  “Ah, the life of a man-whore.”

  “Indeed. Speaking of—any word from Estelle?” I asked.

  Kip’s expression grew uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, and I guess you haven’t heard, but she’s extended her vacation indefinitely.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Something to do with her ex-fiancé. Apparently, she broke off their engagement when she came to work aboard the Sozo. Word is they have rekindled, and she might be gone for good.”

  “Jesus! That was fast. I wonder if I should try and visit her when I get back to the Bay Area.”

  “I doubt it would make the fiancé too happy.”

  “Why do you say that? I get along well with everyone.”

  “That’s the problem,” Lux said, appearing beside me at the bar.

  “Hello, Jugs. Where’s Mr. Cranky Pants?”

  “Taking a shit.”

  “Another one?”

  “Yeah, apparently marital trouble upsets his stomach.”

  “So, it’s like emotional diarrhea.”

  “Pretty much, and Imodium won’t help.”

  “But wait, what are you doing here? I thought it was your life’s passion to pester people while they’re on the toilet.”

  “No, it’s only my life’s passion to pester you on the toilet.”

  “Why? Does my shit really smell that much better than his?”

  “No, it’s all about the joy I take in listening to you whine.”

  “I never took you to be a whiner, Tag,” Kip said, over his shoulder, as he busied himself about the bar.

  “I’m not, generally. I just like to have my bathroom time to myself.”

  “As does every man,” Billings said, as he arrived and took a seat at the bar.

  “Thanks, Pete. At least someone understands.”

  Tiffany, the ship’s radiantly beautiful new acting chef, arrived and gave me a nice long hug, and her bountiful breasts, or should I say Christmas hams, were pressing against me and reminding me of the lovely night we had spent together aboard the Vandenberg Jet. I had helped her through a painful breakup, and, now, she was happily dating Captain Billings, who was subsequently a very lucky man.

  “Lunch will be served shortly, so we should all move to the dining table,” she said.

  Crewmen started bringing out plates of salads and grilled sandwiches, which, of course, drew everyone to the table. Corn and Babs sat at opposite ends while the rest of us filled in the middle. I grabbed a sandwich and some salad and dug in, hoping to artificially fill the void left by Letizia’s absence, but only managed a few bites before Billings asked for a recap of all that had happened since we parted company on Martinique. It was quite a tale, and he listened intently as I told him about the crazy gun battle on the ski slopes, the Lake Como boat chase, our exciting train trip, and, last but not least, the ferry ride to Sicily with the fucking Fuchs. When I finished the story, he had a puzzled look on his face.

  “So, why in the hell would the Fuchs Corporation have their two fucking Fuchs trying to keep Babineux from coming in? I don’t see any benefit, financial or otherwise, from hindering the war on terror.”

  “That’s the same question I’ve been asking myself for the last few days, and what bothers me even more is the fact that those assholes apparently have an uncanny ability to track our every move, which, in turn, makes me think they might have a contact in the Agency. If that’s the case then we have no idea who we can trust, and we’re pretty much on our own out here.”

  “Bullshit, we can trust the Agency,” Corn said, confidently.

  “Really? Then how do the fucking Fuchs know about all this?”

  Corn shrugged and dug into another sandwich while Billings turned to Babineux.

  “So, Babs, you really have no idea why those fucking Fuchs are interested in you?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  I had asked Babs that very same question before, but, this time, I had the advantage of being able to watch him as he answered. There was something in his eyes and tone that just didn’t feel right, but there was no point in pushing it at the moment. He wouldn’t tell me shit as long as he was still simmering about the whole Letizia thing. Everyone finished lunch, and people started excusing themselves and disappearing to other parts of the yacht. I decided to go back to my cabin to rest and think, as it had been a pretty wild night, and I could use a little downtime and possibly a nap. I entered my room and lay back on the bed, feeling the subtle movements of the Sozo as it plowed through the unusually calm Mediterranean. I thought about Babs and those two fucking Fuchs and couldn’t help but wonder how they were all connected and what the hell was really going on. Soon, I was free of the day’s problems, my mind lost to the welcoming comfort of sleep.

  I was awakened by an announcement over the yacht’s intercom system that cocktails were about to be served in the main salon, and I sat up in bed and looked at my watch. I had been asleep for over two hours and felt refreshed and excited, as it was indeed well after five o’clock and, therefore, time for a cocktail. I got up and went into the bathroom, peed, and brushed my teeth before heading out to the main salon. I was the first one there and decided to make myself useful by heading behind the bar to make a pitcher of Dark and Stormies. It kind of felt like old times, except Estelle wasn’t here to share in the fun. I must say—I was still in shock that she had been home only a week and had already hooked up with her ex, but then I suppose I wasn’t exactly the picture of innocence and had more than my fair share of female companionship since we parted ways. I took a sip of my drink and let the smooth rum take me back to thoughts of warm Caribbean nights, though my brief reverie was broken about two minutes later when Tiffany and Billings arrived. Now that I had company, I did the polite thing and filled two glasses and handed them each a drink.

  “What shall we toast to?” Billings asked.

  “Caribbean nights.”

  “Excellent choice,” Tiffany said.

  We clinked glasses and enjoyed our cocktails until the others arrived, at which point, a distinct silence overtook the room. It was good to be on familiar ground, but it would have been a lot better if we had a few less soap operas taking place at the moment. After about fifteen minutes and two rounds of drinks, dinner was served, and everyone took a seat at the main dining table. Tonight’s menu consisted of spaghetti bolognese with salad and garlic bread, and thank God it came when it did because any more drinks on an empty stomach and everyone would have ended up pretty boozed—which was probably not the best combination with all the hurt feelings and anger swirling around the room. We dug into dinner, and it was, as expected, delicious and, after our plates were empty, Billings raised his glass for another toast.

  “Here’s to a successful mission and a quick and safe return to the States.”

  “Here, here!” I responded.

  No sooner had we all clinked glasses that the first mate came in looking concerned. He spoke quietly to Billings, who then told Babs he had a radio call and could take it on the bar phone. Babs, looking a little confused, walked over and picked up the phone, and, as he listened, his expression grew dark and pained, and he brought his free hand up to his head and rubbed his temples as though he were suffering from a severe headache. He stayed that way, listening for another minute before finally hanging up the phone and walking around and collapsing onto one of the bar stools.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “They have my sister.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Creamed Corn

  BABS, HANDS SHAKING, reached across the bar and poured himself a glass of rum while the rest of us sat quietly, unsure what to say. He took a sip and tried
to steady his nerves, and it was the first time I had ever seen him break from his cool composure. Instead of being the wily arms dealer and third world president, he was a man who was worried about his little sister.

  “Who has her?” I asked.

  “The fucking terrorists, obviously,” he said, angrily.

  Corn, Lux, and I stood up and joined him at the bar.

  “What do they want?” I asked.

  Babs looked up at me.

  “They want to trade her for me.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Corn said.

  “No, we have to do it. I won’t let her get hurt. This is my fault, and I’ll deal with the consequences.”

  “We can’t let them have you. You’re too valuable,” Corn said.

  “Fuck the CIA, I won’t tell them shit until my sister is safe.”

  “I’m sorry, but there are too many lives at stake. We can’t risk losing you, but I promise that I will do everything in my power to get her back.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen how efficiently your Agency works, so that’s not going to happen.”

  The four of us sat at the bar, and no one said a word for a moment until I broke the silence.

  “I’m with Babs on this one. Fuck the CIA. We don’t even know if we can trust them at the moment. I say we get her back ourselves—right now.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?" Corn asked, in an irritated tone.

  “We find her the same way we find all the other fucking terrorists. With their cell phones. All we have to do is trace the first call or the next one—the one where they set up the hostage exchange. I would think that the Deputy Director of the CIA can trace a fucking cell phone.”

  “It’s really nice that you care so much about some woman you just fucked, but, right now, there are bigger problems than your libido,” Corn said, getting in my face.

  I considered myself to be a bit of an existentialist and thought about life in terms of how it related to my immediate personal situation. At the moment, a person I cared about was in immediate danger, and, while it might be short-sighted in the grander scheme of global politics, in my mind it took priority over Babs blabbing to the CIA. Corn, on the other hand, was a big picture guy, and, right now, he was worried about the security of his country and the free world—totally understandable. This, however, did nothing to keep the next few words from leaving my mouth.

  “So, would it be different if it were Lux instead of Letizia? I did fuck both of them.”

  Corn was already drunk and angry, and my comment was the straw that apparently broke the chubby camel’s back. He looked as though he was going to take a swing at me, and, truth be told, I was fine with it, because it meant that I could hit him back. Regardless of how short or meaningless my trysts might have looked, they were never just casual sex in my mind, so I, therefore, took great offense at his comment.

  The chubby fucker did as I expected and hauled back his hand to throw a classic angry guy roundhouse punch, but I fired off a much quicker straight one that landed square on his jaw and sent him down faster than a three dollar hooker at a rodeo. Lux was also fast and managed to race in and catch his head just before it hit the floor. Jesus, the fucker really had gotten out of shape. The Corn I knew never would have been dropped by one punch, and, now seeing him on the floor, passed out cold like an oversized baby, instantly filled me with remorse. Lux started trying to revive him, but he wasn’t responding. Goddammit.

  “A little help would be nice, Finn,” Lux said.

  Smelling salts would be helpful, but, as I didn’t have any at the moment, I went behind the bar to find some household cleaning products that would allow me to make my own improvised version. Smelling salts were made up of ammonium bicarbonate and perfume, and luckily I found some ammonia and mixed it with some fragrant hand soap and poured it on a towel. The next step would be to hold it under his nose so that the chemicals could irritate the mucous membranes in his sinuses and lungs and trigger the inhalation reflex. This would improve respiratory flow rates and deliver more oxygen to the brain and hopefully rouse Mr. Chubbins back to consciousness. I grabbed the towel and knelt down at Corn’s side only to receive a disapproving glare from Lux.

  “Did you have to hit him that hard?” she asked.

  “He swung first.”

  “I know, but you didn’t have to hit him.”

  “Probably true, but I kind of wanted to.”

  “Did it make you feel better?”

  “No, I feel like an asshole.

  “Good, maybe that means you’re growing up.”

  “Do you mind. I’d like to focus on my patient.”

  I put the towel under his nose, and a few seconds later his eyes popped open, and he looked around groggily. He shook his head back and forth and blinked a few times, then Lux helped him sit up, and he immediately turned his angry gaze to me.

  “You hit me!” he said.

  “You swung first.”

  “So what, I didn’t hit you.”

  “Only because you’re slow.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Are you two idiots done fighting, because I would like to know what the hell we are going to do about my sister,” Babs said.

  Corn looked at Lux, then me, and finally Babs.

  “Fine, we’ll get your sister back.”

  “I guess a punch is the best way to reason with a corn-fed farm boy,” I said.

  “A nicer guy would have tried food.”

  Our infighting done for the moment, we formed up at the table and began discussing our plan. The terrorists would be calling in an hour to tell us when and where we were going to meet for the exchange, so, in the meantime, Corn would contact Langley and see if they could trace the origin of the previous call. If all went well, we would find out where the tangos were holding Letizia and mount a rescue operation long before any meeting took place. Hostage exchanges were notoriously dicey and difficult to control, so we needed to have the Cobra Kai spirit—strike first, strike hard, and show absolutely no mercy. We owed it to Letizia to get her out of harm’s way, as she was an innocent, and it wasn’t her fault that her brother was a slimy arms dealer.

  Fifteen minutes later, Corn’s phone rang, and he had some good news. The wizards at Langley had called in a favor from the NSA and discovered that the call had originated from Carthage, Tunisia, or more specifically, a large estate on the shore of what remained of Carthage’s ancient military harbor. The terrorists had used a landline and routed it through a marine operator who then connected it to the Sozo. It was a big mistake on their part, but they probably figured it would be untraceable since they were routing it to a VHF radio on a yacht. Little did they know, that in the age of information and increased NSA monitoring, how easily they had just given up their location. Now that we had a place, we needed a plan.

  Billings called the bridge and told the first mate to set a course for the Tunisian city of Carthage while, in the meantime, we would use the satellite feed to do some visual reconnaissance of our target location. Lux hit a switch and the three flatscreen monitors on the wall changed from displaying classical works of art to the dancing Vandenberg V screensaver. She hit another button and the center screen switched to a wide angle overhead view of the Mediterranean basin, and seeing it from this perspective, made it perfectly clear why the terrorists had chosen Tunisia as their meeting location. It was the closest Arabic country to Sicily, and it was also kind of a neutral territory with close ties to both Europe and the Middle East. It would therefore be a perfect place to conduct an exchange, or, in our case, a rescue operation.

  Lux continued to work at the computer controls and soon zeroed in on the city of Carthage. Oddly, it made me think back to my Soft Taco Island adventure, and, more specifically, how I had wondered how the Sozo managed to have access to a live satellite feed. Now that I knew the CIA contracted it out for special operations, it all made perfect sense. A few more clicks and Lux had us all looking directly at the walled off estate w
here they were holding Letizia. It resided just across the road from the harbor and looked like a nice place with lots of greenery surrounding a large main house, pool, and a smaller dwelling, probably a guest or pool house. Lux zoomed in farther, and we could make out a man standing guard beside the smaller structure, so it stood to reason that was where they were holding Letizia.

  “I’m assuming you would like to make a water incursion via the harbor,” Billings said.

  “Yeah, I think it’s the best way to the estate, and I’d also like to know how high its walls are in case we have to climb over them to breach the perimeter. Does anyone know if they have Google street view in Tunisia yet?” I asked.

  “No idea, though I doubt it,” Corn said.

  Lux brought up google maps on one of the other monitors and checked.

  “Nope. Best we have is a few pictures, but I’ll click on them and see if any have the estate in the background,” Lux said.

  She went through and clicked on each and every one, but none had a view of the estate.

  “Oh well, I guess we’ll deal with that potential problem when we get there,” I said.

  A crewman appeared and told us we had another radio call, and I realized that it had already been an hour. Babs walked over and took hold of the phone, looking solemn but listening carefully and writing down some notes on a notepad.

  “We’ll be there,” he said, before hanging up the phone.

  He turned and looked to us.

  “I guess your CIA does get a few things right on occasion. They want to meet at midnight tonight just off the coast of the Carthage harbor. I have the GPS coordinates right here.”

  “Shit. That means I have to go rescue Letizia before they transfer her to a boat.”

  “What’s all this I stuff? You’re not the only one here,” Babs said.

  “I think it’s safer if I go alone. I can take one of the Jet Skis, and be in and out in no time. We need the rest of you here to guard the Sozo. Don’t forget what happened on Soft Taco Island.”