Hidden Agendas

Chapter 1

The sun was setting quickly and the happy hour crowd was winding down, most of them headed elsewhere for their evening meal. A lone man sat at the bar overlooking the deck, the lagoon and the sea beyond the artificial breakwater. The bar stools on either side of him were empty. He wore khaki shorts, a tank top and a pair of worn out running shoes and was sipping Jack Daniels over ice. The tattooed arm band on his left bicep accentuated the sculptured muscles of his arms. As did the muscle shirt. The man was strong and he made no bones over displaying his strength to the world. His face was also broad, accentuated by strong heavy cheekbones and chin. His skin had deep lines carved in it by the sun, salt water and hard living.

Along the coast, most of the boats had entered harbor. Those few that remained on the open water switched on their running lights. A dark haired man with a swarthy, Hispanic complexion strode into the bar and sat beside the first. Neither gave each other much notice. A waitress appeared from behind them and the dark haired man ordered a Corona. The waitress promptly returned with a pair of them, her final tribute to happy hour.

Ten minutes passed. The dark haired man squeezed the lime into his second beer and took a long swallow as he prepared to leave. When he put his hands on the bar to stand up his hand came close to the first man’s elbow. As he pushed himself away from the bar, he wordlessly headed for the door. The first man shifted in his seat to make room as the second one stood. As the swarthy man left the establishment, the man at the bar readjusted his forearms and continued to watch the stragglers come into harbor. No one noticed how his arm covered a note the Hispanic man had left behind.

An hour and another Jack Daniels later, the muscular man was driving home, taking a circuitous route through downtown Miami, watching continuously in his rear view mirror. He snapped open a cell phone and dialed a number with his thumb.

The drop is tomorrow night, seven PM. Here are the coordinates. He read the longitude and latitude. That looks like fifty miles off shore. I hope the weather is good. He waited for confirmation as the recipient of the call read back the coordinates.

You got it, he said and snapped the phone shut.   Simultaneously his jaw clamped down, ever so slightly and the muscles in his face rippled.

At six thirty the following night he was skimming across the open water in a powerful cigarette boat, thirty miles off the Florida coast. This time he was wearing a pair of jeans, a long sleeve jersey and a nylon wind breaker. Underneath his shirt was a bullet proof vest.

He was three miles from his destination when he thought he saw a flash on the horizon. Keeping the throttle forward he studied the chart plotter on his instrument panel. A blip appeared a moment later on the split screen, indicating an object on radar. He checked his watch and backed off the throttle slightly.

On target, he mumbled to himself as he killed his powerful engines. There was the sound of an approaching aircraft, coming in low and fast. Twin props, he noted to himself.

As the aircraft approached it slowed down and banked away. A large dark object was jettisoned from the rear door. It was difficult to see as it fell, but the splash was evident, a few hundred yards away. Without hesitation the man started his engines and motored over to the object that was floating in the water. Working quickly he mounted a portable davit into a bracket and reached over the side of the boat with a boat hook. The bundle was solidly lashed with a ring both top and bottom to receive a cable hook, regardless of how it floated in the water. Less than a minute later, the package was sitting in the cockpit of the boat and the davit had been thrown overboard.

The man reached for a satellite phone and relayed the message that the package was on board.

Two high speed DEA attack helicopters which had been hovering, just above the waves twenty miles away, rose and began pursuit of the twin engine plane.

Open the package. Check the contents, came the orders over the satellite phone.

The muscular man slid a razor sharp fishing knife under the lashings and sliced the rope. The high impact plastic case was bolted shut. It took another two minutes to loosen the bolts and undo the dogs that clamped the waterproof container tight. The entire lining of the case was foam to ensure it would float but the center contained plastic bags packed with a white powder. The man slit open one of the bags and tasted the contents. He spit out the white, chalky goo that stuck to the end of his tongue with utter contempt.     

Grabbing the satellite phone he yelled into it.

Its not cocaine! Repeat NOT cocaine! Abort! Repeat, Abort! He spit over the side of the boat, disgusted by the pasty taste in his mouth.

The man stared in amazement at the plastic case. He ripped out one bag and then another. What was the meaning of this? Everything had been planned so well. He had been undercover for two years! As he pulled out the fourth bag he realized the real purpose of the drop. Carefully nestled beneath the bags of talcum powder, rested a half pound of plastic explosive, connected to a detonator that was digitally ticking away.

Nine … eight … seven …

Options? Throw the case overboard. No … too heavy … not enough time. Dive!

The man dove over the side, determined to get as deep in the water as he could. When the shock wave hit him it expelled every ounce of air from his lungs and merely expedited his descent, into the abyss.

Chapter 2

The meeting at DEA head quarters was subdued.

Was there any sign of him?

Barely a scrap of flotsam. A bit of oil on the water. That’s it!

Christ! Can we dive? Can we do anything?

Not a damn thing! He was out in the Gulf Stream. It’s thousands of feet deep at that point. That explosion didn’t leave a scrap of evidence!

No word on the plane?

Nada. First our pilots were told to abort. Then they zeroed in on the explosion, and patrolled, searching for a survivor, hoping Jeff had baled in time. We ran back the tape. The satellite phone was live the whole time. From the message to abort until the communication went dead was less than thirty seconds. Even if he realized the bomb was there, he couldn’t have gotten away.

My God!

For the next minute not a word was said. No one even moved. Finally the Director spoke again.

That’s it, gentlemen. We’ll just have to regroup and go after those bastards again. We’ll start a strategy meeting at ten AM, tomorrow morning.

With that, he walked out of the meeting, visibly shaken.     

Eight men and one woman sat around the mahogany conference table, as the Director entered. They all began to rise but the Director waved them off with a grunt.

You were all here yesterday. You all know we lost a key agent. Some of you lost a friend. Today we are not going to dwell on that. If there is one thing I am sure of, it's that Jeff wouldn’t want us sitting around mourning. We have a war going on. We have to regroup. And we have to do it quickly. All right. Any ideas?

Everyone at the table sat silently, staring at the blank white, lined pads in front of each of them. No one looked up or tried to speak. Finally the Director spoke again. His voice was softer this time.

Come on group. You know we can’t function like this. Erwin, how about you?

Erwin did not appreciate being put on the spot.

I guess we start again. We have to get someone inside. You know how long it takes.

The group lapsed into silence.

Finally a thin man spoke up at the end of the conference table.

Does anyone remember Michael Farris?

There were a couple of grunts and two or three people looked up at the thin man who had spoken. He failed to return their eye contact and continued to stare at the blank pad in front of him, through thick glasses.

Go ahead, Tom. What’s on your mind?

Tom was the most introverted of the group, an analyst with almost no field experience, and therefore an outsider. He was respected for his analytical ability, though no one at the table had ever considered him a friend or invited him home for a bar-b-que.

Finally someone spoke up to take the pressure off Tom.

Sure, I remember Farris. Normans Cay in the Bahamas. He was on our short list five or eight years ago but we never nabbed him. He was a runner. Didn’t really seem to be part of the system, beyond the delivery. But we suspected him of making a few huge runs. Then he dropped right off the radar. Haven’t heard his name in years.

Tom spoke up.

Exactly. Michael Farris was a smuggler. We never connected him to anything other than transportation, and frankly, we could never prove his connection to that, either. He could slip into American waters as if he was invisible. The only thing we really had on him was the fact that he accumulated a huge amount of money. We assumed it came from cocaine but we had nothing on him.

So what about now? Why bring him up?

OK. Look this idea might sound crazy but here goes. Farris was a top notch smuggler. We are sure of that. Then, about six years ago he stopped attracting any interest. I kept his file open and here is what I found. Six years ago he got married.

That elicited a few groans.

The person he married was Linda Wilson. That’s Ivy League Wilson" with a net worth of Lord knows what! Linda was about as far away from a drug connection as the North Pole is from Antarctica. I think it’s fair to say, whatever Farris’s past, that he retired. Naturally, he fell off our radar, as you put it.

Then, about six months ago, he reappeared. Just briefly and only as a rumor. At the same time, Ricky Ferungali disappeared.

Now there was a mad man, if ever there was one, said someone.

Ferungali was as close to Colombia as anyone in recent history. He was also mob, out of New York.

I thought we figured he’d been taken out by the Colombians? questioned the woman.

We did. We knew he had disappeared but we didn’t know where. And he wasn’t the kind of person to disappear. He wore being a criminal like it was a red coat. Then one day he was gone. We took it for an internal dispute and were all thankful for it. The funny part was that Michael Farris’s name came up briefly as being responsible. We didn’t pursue it because we didn’t care.

Are you saying Farris is taking over Ferungali’s turf?

Not at all. Farris had no mob connection and after that blip he went off the radar again.

So what is this all about? asked the Director.

It’s just an idea I had. It’s a bit of a wild idea so cut me a bit of slack until I finish. Suppose that Farris did retire, perhaps because of pressure from Wilson.

His wife? parroted someone.

Tom seemed to be put off by being interrupted so often and paused for a second.

Right. If Farris did have something to do with the removal of Ricky Ferungali, and didn’t take over Ferungali’s turf, it might indicate that Farris has turned. He might even be an ally.

There was a huge guffaw from one of the members and Tom’s face reddened severely. The Director, however, was intrigued.

Cut that out. And let Tom finish, he ordered curtly.

The guffaw stopped abruptly and a second face at the table reddened.

I know it’s a stretch, but look … it took two years to get Jeff inside Fernandez’ organization. Suppose we do try someone new. It would take that long again, and probably with the same results, said the analyst.

Hold on, said one of the members defensively.

Everybody hold on. I don’t want to hear a sneeze until Tom has finished, snapped the Director.

If Farris has turned, it may not have been a total about face. If we could persuade him to work on our side, we could get someone inside faster and with more credibility than by starting from scratch.

Tom simply stopped talking and stared at the pad on the table.

There was a long period of silence before someone spoke.

Jesus, Tom. How did you come up with this? From a comic book?

Tom reddened, again.

It’s a stretch all right, but it might work, someone mumbled.

What, we just walk up to Michael Farris and offer him a job? Yah, right!

The Director took control immediately ending the banter.

"I’d like to thank all of you for your ideas, he said dryly. Tom’s seems to have the most merit. Let’s find out everything we can about Michael Farris. Priority One! We’ll meet again on Thursday and I’ll expect a full report! Meeting adjourned."

Without another word he rose and left the room. Tom rushed to leave, immediately after him and turned the opposite direction as soon as he set foot in the hallway.

The remaining eight people began talking amongst themselves. Four were dead against the idea. The other four were skeptical but non-committal.

Tom hurried toward the refuge of his office. He detoured only long enough to buy a health bar from the vending machine. Once behind his closed office door, let out a sigh and stood there, catching his breath. Finally he sat down at his computer. He checked his e-mails and decided nothing was important. Then, after assuring himself that his mini-blinds were closed, he put his feet up on his desk and ripped open the wrapper on the health bar. He reached into a desk drawer and extracted a bottle of water. For the next fifteen minutes he did nothing more than crunching periodically on the bar or sipping on his water.

Rejuvenated and composed, he viciously attacked his keyboard, sorting out every scrap of information he could find on Michael Farris and his wife. Near the end of the day, he logged onto a Customs site, using an address and password he had traded with an employee from that department. Both would probably be fired if word of the trade escaped but hackers had their own code of ethics. He doubted that his indiscretion would ever surface.

Damn, he thought as he studied the screen. "Michael Farris, his wife and two other people registered with US Customs two weeks previously. They had arrived by boat. There was the name of the boat … Iron Pyrate … Fools Gold … but spelt incorrectly. Somehow Tom didn’t think the spelling was a mistake. Address, a local marina in Fort Lauderdale.

I wonder if you are still there? he thought to himself. He pounded a few more keys. There was the list of passengers and crew. "What’s this? Farris is listed as crew. The boat is Bahamian registry. The Captain is listed as Phil Harrison. He picked up a phone and dialed.

The Bahamian government cooperated, in varying degrees, with the DEA. After Tom identified himself, a senior Bahamian official informed him that Iron Pyrate was registered in four names. Phil Harrison, Judy Simpson, Michael Farris and Linda Farris. In fact, the official knew the boat. Black hull with gold trim and a lot of teak. One of the prettiest boats he had ever seen. It was listed as being eighty feet. Just as Tom was about to hang up the official said two masts.

It’s a sailboat? demanded Tom.

It’s a ketch.

Tom didn’t know what that meant but he scribbled the word on a notepad. He thanked the Bahamian official and hung up.

Then Tom did a strange thing which was completely out of character, for him. He grabbed a sports jacket from the coat tree and left the office, nearly an hour before his usual time.

Chapter 3

Tom drove through the Miami traffic toward Fort Lauderdale in his six year old Toyota. He made no attempt to fight the traffic. Eventually he found himself in a parking lot, overlooking a harbor filled with big, expensive boats. It didn’t take long to find his target. The Bahamian official had been correct. The boat’s hull was shiny black with gold striping below the gunwales and at the waterline. The hardware was polished brass and a magnificent maidenhead rested below the bowsprit with her golden hair flowing back on either side of the hull. The cabin and deck were all teak with gold trim.

So that’s what smuggling buys, thought Tom with a hint of jealousy. He really didn’t know if he liked boats but he could easily imagine a lifestyle that would allow someone a boat like that. I wouldn’t mind trying it out … maybe I would like it.

He could see two men on board. They were lowering a Zodiac inflatable into the water from the davits at the stern of the vessel. Tom bent over and extracted a camera worth more than his car, from under the passenger seat. He sat there, zooming in with a powerful telephoto lens snapping a series of pictures of the two men as they motored quietly around the harbor. They soon disappeared under a huge deck, part of a seaside bar and restaurant. Tom studied the building, concentrating on the massive covered deck that extended far out, over the water.

He reached under the seat and replaced his camera in its well worn canvas camera bag. He could distinguish two men sitting down under the veranda roof. He thought they might be the same men but they were too far away to be sure.

He started his car and began his drive home.

Tom worked exclusively on his report the next day, editing it, adding file photos and finally inserting his surveillance photos. The following morning, at the appointed time he entered the conference room and sat down, while mumbling hellos to the other attendees. The Director entered last.

OK. What do you all have? he asked.

A couple of people tabled file photos and a few scraps of data. Tom remained silent.

Tom, you have anything to add?

Yes sir, he answered quietly.

Well let’s see it, demanded the Director.

Tom reached into his briefcase and extracted nine copies of his report which he passed around nervously. The Director picked up his copy and began to read it. Everyone else did the same but with less attention to the content and more attention on their boss. Simply put, Tom had done his homework and they had not.

Comments? said the Director, looking up.

He was met with silence.

All right. This is good work. Go ahead and contact Farris. See if you can find out more about this Phil Harrison. He rose to leave. Tom, you’re in charge. You’ll answer to Dick Whitehorn. He’ll be back in town tomorrow.

Sir, I really think someone with more experience in the field should take over for Tom.

Tom squirmed uncomfortably. He was low man on the totem pole and now the Director was shoving him forward, ahead of more senior people. This, he hadn’t planned on. He opened his mouth to agree.

Well I don’t! snapped the Director.

Tom, have you thought of a name for this operation?

No, sir. I thought it was just a report, not an operation.

Well you have five seconds to come up with a name. What will it be?

Tom’s face turned scarlet and his mind momentarily shut down. Just before the five seconds were up he spouted out Iron Pyrate.

Can’t use that …. It’s the name of the boat.

What about Fools Gold?" said one of the committee members. That drew a couple of snickers and a brutal stare from the Director.

Call it Plan B", mumbled Tom.

Plan Bee, said the director. A bumble bee. Yellow and black like the boat. Good name for a sting! He abruptly left the room.

Tom began to say that wasn’t at all what he had been thinking but decided it was better to keep his mouth shut. Involuntarily, his mouth opened again in an attempt to apologize to the other members, but after quick thinking, he prudently closed it.

With his face still crimson, Tom rose from the conference table and left the room almost running. As the door swung shut he could hear the swearing of some very disgruntled agents.

Chapter 4

Phil Harrison and Michael Farris sat on comfortable deck chairs sharing a footstool on the stern of their eighty-foot steel ketch. They were laughing about how Phil had gored himself with his fishing rod while a powerful marlin launched himself into the air, before Phil had a chance of being strapped into a fighting chair.

I was sure you were going to drop that rod, mocked Farris, who was at least five years older than Phil, four inches shorter, but nevertheless a handsome man with Mediterranean good looks.

So was I, responded Phil with an easy, confident smile and a relaxed demeanor. That fish was pulling like a pair of Clydesdales and then suddenly the line went slack. The rod got me right in the center of my six pack.

I wanted to feel sorry for you, but I was laughing too hard! Besides, I figure the marlin really wanted my bait and that he took yours by mistake. By the way, your six pack is looking more like a keg every day.

Come on, loser, joked Phil. I’ll buy you a beer with the fifty bucks I won off you. Maybe I can give you a few pointers on Marlin fishing.

The two men lowered their inflatable off the stern, stepping into it from the swim platform. With Michael at the wheel and Phil casting off, they puttered across the bay to a ramshackle restaurant, built mostly on piers, overlooking the Atlantic. Beneath the deck were slips for a dozen boats on floating docks. In the center was an aluminum staircase wide enough for one person only. With handrails on either side, every part of the staircase was movable allowing it to fold up as the tide ebbed and flowed and the floating base rose and sank. It was apparent that the head of the stairwell, where it entered the bar, was a poor imitation of a submarine’s conning tower.

Well look what the tide washed in! said an attractive, well endowed thirty-five year old waitress, also the owner of the restaurant. She was decked out in short shorts, a checkered blouse tied around her mid-riff and a battered cowboy hat and boots." Without asking she poured two draft beer and plunked them down on a table.

Any luck today?

Farris reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a Polaroid of Phil standing beside his catch. This is for your Wall of Shame".

The waitress attached the picture to her photo wall above which a large tacky sign read, Shame I Wasn’t Working Today.

Phil reached down beside his seat. We brought you a snack. He handed the waitress a ten pound bag of marlin steaks for which he received a giant kiss on his cheek.

I’ll fry these up for munchies and pass them around later. You fishermen may as well enjoy your bragging rights.

Half an hour later a tall, thin, gangly looking man wearing thick glasses entered the bar from the parking lot. He looked around and headed straight for the table where Phil and Michael Farris sat.

Hello, Mr. Harrison, Mr. Farris. My name is Tom Barrens. Mind if I sit down?

The waitress returned. Tom seemed almost surprised to see her but quickly ordered a Budweiser. Although he appeared uncomfortable, he nevertheless, pulled out a chair and sat down. Neither Phil nor Michael spoke a word. Tom cleared his throat and said nothing as a beer was placed in front of him. The waitress left and Tom shifted in his seat.

I’m here on business.

Too bad, said Phil, dryly. We’re both retired.

I’m aware of that. In fact, I know a good deal about both of you.

Funny we don’t know you, then, said Phil.

You wouldn’t. Tom appeared to regroup. His voice became very calm and he spoke very quietly. I’m here with a proposition for you. I need someone to smuggle something for me.

You have the wrong table, Mr. Barrens. It’s best you leave right now, said Farris quietly.

No, I have the right table. Please just hear me out.

Phil and Michael looked at each other. Phil winked. The two men rose and went to either side of Barrens chair. Working smoothly, as if they had practiced the maneuver many times before, each man placed a hand on a chair leg and another on the back rail. Lifting the chair off the ground and tilting it backwards they carried Tom Barrens, chair and all, to the edge of the deck. Tom suddenly realized what was happening and leaned over, close to Phil’s ear whispering, I’m with the DEA. But it was too late. The two men were already dumping him over the railing. Gravity and physics took over and Tom Barrens plummeted awkwardly, face first, into the water twelve feet below.

Phil and Michael grinned at each other over the empty chair they still held.

What did he say? asked Farris.

He said he was DEA.

Tom had plenty of time to fill his lungs with air. The water felt cool and refreshing and he had had the foresight to grab his glasses as he fell. He made no attempt to swim to the surface immediately, taking time to run through his options.

We just dumped a DEA agent over the rail? asked Farris.

That’s what he said, answered Phil.

Suddenly Tom surfaced. Oddly, he was smiling broadly.

Same time tomorrow, then, he called.

Phil nodded. Someone threw a ring buoy to Tom Barrens but he chose to ignore it and began swimming to shore.

The owner of the bar rushed to the railing.

Just what the Hell was that all about! she spat accusingly. You want me to lose my license. I don’t care if you are regulars. One more stunt like that and you are both barred. Is that guy OK?

Phil pointed at the shoreline where Tom was climbing a ladder to the boardwalk.

The waitress cupped her hands around her mouth and called to him, Beer’s on the house!

Tom waved over his shoulder and walked, dripping, toward the parking lot. He appeared completely unembarrassed by the entire experience. It was as if he was used to being humiliated.

He said he was coming back tomorrow, volunteered Farris.

To Hell he is! said the waitress.

Said he was. We didn’t invite him, said Phil.

The waitress was vehement. If anyone so much as spills a beer tomorrow, I’ll call the cops. She began to mellow. Now you boys finish your drinks and leave. If anyone asks, I’ll say it had something to do with the Marlin … a bet or something. Now get out of here as fast as you can, before folks start asking you questions and things get rowdy." Spinning on the heel of her cowboy boots she left.

Phil and Farris guzzled their beer, left a fifty dollar bill on the table and climbed down the narrow staircase.

When they arrived back on their boat, they were greeted by two women who had obviously just arrived and were having a glass of something cool after a day of shopping. There were a few bags with designer names printed on them resting against the cabin wall.

The older of the two women spoke first. She was a classical, beautiful woman. She had a full figure, wore a good deal of expensive jewelry, and was casually but immaculately dressed in a light summer, designer, dress. It was difficult to pinpoint her age because she was so attractive. You had to be up pretty close to guess that she was over thirty-five. The younger woman, her hair a bit messy, was dressed in cotton slacks and a colorful print blouse. Her appearance was much more casual. No make-up, medium length brown hair and dark eyes highlighted her high cheek bones. But it was when she smiled that hearts melted. She had a full fledged smile, a grin that showed lots of teeth.

Who won? You, or the fish? asked Linda, the older of the two women.

Didn’t catch a thing, said Michael as he put his arm around her and they looked out over the water together.

Behind them Judy pointed at Phil and pantomimed a question mark. Phil mouthed Marlin and raised his hand to chest height. Judy clapped silently to show her congratulations.

Good for the fish! Who would want to be tortured like that? said Linda.

Any luck shopping? asked Michael.

None at all. Everything looked like last year’s leftovers.

Behind them, Judy pointed at the bags and slid her hands along her sides, from her breasts to her knee. One foot came off the deck and she made a judo chop at her ankle. Then she drew a deep V with her finger from her shoulder to slightly below her breasts and back to the other shoulder.

Phil nodded, grinning and pointed at Judy.

Judy mouthed A blouse and received a thumbs up from Phil. They both looked at Michael and Linda, linked arm in arm against the rail, staring out at the water. Phil took the opportunity to give Judy a warm, wet kiss.

Judy pulled away after a few seconds. Cocktails, anyone?

Michael and Linda turned away from the water, toward the younger couple.

Absolutely! said Farris. Without hesitation he moved into the salon. A few moments later, he returned, riding a bicycle style ice cream cart that had been skillfully converted to a wet bar, complete with ice and a full supply of liquor. The cart had wooden spoke wheels with bicycle tires and sported a nickelodeon that played when the motorcycle style hand grips were cranked. Farris rolled onto the stern deck with the nickelodeon tinkling its cheery melody.

Do you ever tire of that tune? asked Phil.

Never! responded Farris. "I associate it with alcohol and I never tire of alcohol."

Everyone placed their drink orders while Michael mixed them. He always decorated drinks with a bit of fruit, an olive, or a tiny umbrella.

When everyone was served Michael proposed his favorite toast. To Alcohol.

As everyone took their seats around the boat, Linda, who could read her husband’s moods almost clairvoyantly, asked, So what happened?

Michael looked at Phil, giving him an almost imperceptible nod.

Someone approached us to see if we could do a little smuggling for him, answered Phil.

Then what? What did you say? questioned Judy, who was immediately intrigued and never reluctant to show her curiosity.

It happened over at the bar. We picked up his chair and tossed him over the rail.

You what?

Just picked him up and dumped him overboard. Nothing to it, really.

Judy gasped and started to laugh. Linda was grinning, too.

Just picked him up …. And dumped him over the railing? repeated Judy addressing her question to Phil.

Yup. Problem was, he was DEA. And he made a date with us for tomorrow just before he hit the water, added Phil.

DEA? said Linda, shock emanating in her voice.

You threw a DEA agent off the veranda at the bar? said Judy, almost giggling. You’re lying … you are making this up … aren’t you?

No. It was just the way Phil told it, said Farris.

Funny thing was, he didn’t look much like a DEA agent. He was skinny, kind of nervous. A bit of a nerd. He looked like he’d be more comfortable carrying a laptop than a gun, commented Phil.

He wasn’t carrying a gun, said Michael, quietly.

What about under his arm? asked Judy.

No.

OK. His ankle. Bet you couldn’t see that?

No ankle holster. Nothing in the small of his back, either.

No gun, nothing?

I think we ruined his cell phone, said Michael.

That brought a weak laugh from everyone.

So what do we do? asked Linda.

Farris looked at Phil, waiting for his decision.

Phil responded. We either slip out of harbor after dark … or we meet him again tomorrow.

Who needs the DEA? Let’s head back to the Bahamas. We’re not under arrest, said Judy.

Perhaps we should find out what this is all about, said Linda in a very businesslike fashion.

Sorry Babe, said Phil, his eyes resting on Judy’s face. I’m voting with Linda.

I’m curious as well. Three to one, said Farris.

No problem. Tomorrow we meet the DEA. The next day we meet the FBI. Then the next day, we meet the CIA. Fine by me. Sounds like fun. On Saturday we can all get together and eat Alphabet soup. Judy brought her feet up on the bench seat and hugged her knees. She was clearly troubled.

Do you think we should all be there, tomorrow? asked Linda.

Not me! answered Judy. No way Jose! I’m going to be in the parking lot with the car running when the guy arrives. I’ll get a photo if you want, get his plate numbers and run them through to find out if this guy is legit.

Good thought, said Phil. How will you do that?

You know me, hun. I can make my computer dance.

Chapter 5

The telephone on the desk in Bernie Wheeler’s lavish office rang softly. He was proud of the space he occupied on the fiftieth floor of the magnificent tower complex in downtown Phoenix. Bernie folded shut the appraisal he had been studying when the phone rang and touched the button to connect him to his receptionist. He listened while the receptionist announced his visitor, the architect for a cinema complex on the outskirts of the city.

Send him in.

Moments later the architect appeared at the door. Bernie Wheeler rose professionally and walked around his mahogany and marble desk to meet the man in the center of the room. They shook hands and sat down on a soft leather couch behind an oversized coffee table. The architect, casually dressed in designer clothes, rolled out a set of plans including a selection of artist’s concepts for the project.

Impressive, said Bernie as he spread the artist’s concepts around the table. Very nice indeed!

"This is just a rough draft of our proposal. Phase One is the cinema itself. That will be the drawing card. We’ll have fifteen to twenty theaters. This sketch shows the main entrance to the building. This other one shows a separate, luxurious entrance to a banquet hall, specifically designed for premiere viewings. This hall will be connected to one of the theaters through a private tunnel. The entrance will be designed to allow celebrities to drive up to the door, step out under a fabulous portico and walk through a loving crowd of spectators and paparazzi. Once inside the banquet hall they can enjoy cocktails and hors d’oeuvres prior to entering the theater through the tunnel thus never having to mix with the usual movie crowd. The cost of this extravagance, by that I mean the opulence, of that part of the building will be offset by the free publicity for the project each time a gala premiere occurs and movie stars drive up under the portico.

This phase will use only twenty-five percent of the land. Surrounding the theater will be a dozen restaurants. That’s Phase Two. Some of the tenants will require their own, insignia architecture. Naturally we’ll scrutinize that carefully and incorporate it into a total design concept."

Have you talked to marketing to see what the level of interest is for the restaurant tenants.

We already have six tenants ready to sign.

Well then, let’s do it! stated Bernie enthusiastically. You know my rules. Bring it in on budget.

We understand your rules extremely well, said the architect.

Good. Here’s a little incentive to keep the numbers down, Bernie stated as he reached for a briefcase beside the coffee table. Here is one hundred thousand in cash. That should soften up your invoices a bit.

The architect accepted the case, rolled up his plans and left, smiling happily.

Bernie Wheeler was also smiling. He loved the development business. Properly handled it was truly a goldmine. All you had to do was bring projects in on budget. Do that, and the next deal was guaranteed before it was even proposed.

Bernie was the Wizard! The Guru. He understood how business worked! He had risen to the top by making sure his books always balanced. That was the key to his success. In addition, his paper trail was immaculate. All it took was ten percent in cash and he could make any reasonable development plan work.

As he let his mind drift, Bernie mused over his charmed life. He looked around him, admiring all of the fine things that his money was able to buy. Then looking out the window, across the manicured sprawl of Phoenix, toward the Arizona Desert, he relived the excitement of how it all began, back in Florida.

He remembered sitting in his tiny, cramped office, in the night club style bar he had just acquired. It was twenty years ago, his first evening in his