Piranha Assignment (16 page)

It wasn't much of a boat. To a woman who had been a guest aboard the finest cabin cruisers and the most luxurious yachts, it barely qualified as transportation. Or so Felicity had told him. Chuck Barton's little outboard runabout was a sixteen footer, pushed along by a seventy-five horsepower motor. The hull slapped along the ocean's surface with a gentle bounce that kicked up a fine salt spray.

On the other hand, it was a glorious day. Large, white winged gulls tracked their progress, shouting navigational advice in their mysterious tongue. The North Atlantic was a deep azure blue, like a polished opal. The sky was once again cloudless, and the salt laden air had massaged her skin to a tingling glow. Felicity O'Brian stood, holding the windshield's rim. Her hair flew behind her like a bright red pennant. Her green eyes shone with delight, and her grin flashed her perfect teeth.

Steering in the seat beside her, Barton admired the proud thrust of her bosom under the pullover that fit her like an extra epidermal layer. Her jeans clung with similar tenacity, but his attention kept wandering to her smile. He thought he had never seen anyone take such delight in so simple a pleasure as a brief boat ride. We all get older, he reflected, but the lucky ones don't really grow up.

“It's ten miles across the bay to El Porvenir,” Barton shouted above the engine noise. “We won't miss noon by
much.”

“No. It's nine minutes of, now.”

Barton checked his wrist. “Not ten of, or five of, but nine. How'd you know that? You don't even wear a watch.”

“I just know. It's a gift. Timing is a valuable talent in my business.”

“Why do I think you don't mean security work when you say ‘my business'?” Barton asked, but it was rhetorical. He had already learned you don't get an answer from this woman just because you ask a question.

At breakfast, Barton had been loud about the previous evening's action. He praised Morgan's fighting ability, and said he hoped they had not caused any trouble with the local populace that would affect Bastidas. Then he turned the conversation, and invited Felicity to lunch. He had mentioned a charming little restaurant across the bay where they used fresh shrimp in ways no one else had ever imagined.

She had looked at Morgan, who assured her there was nothing to do that needed her presence. The others at the table grinned, sensing a budding romance. Felicity acted reluctant but agreed to the date, and Bastidas assured her she was safe in the mercenary's capable hands.

All had gone according to plan. Now they were on their way across the bay, carrying the files of four of Bastidas' men in Felicity's large shoulder bag. They also had samples of Varilla's fingerprints lifted in Morgan's room. Barton had a safe telephone set up in El Porvenir, complete with a facsimile machine. They would fax the prints to Washington and hopefully, someone there could confirm or deny that he was the man whose history matched the dossier.

As they approached land, the sea changed to an
opalescent green, like emeralds beneath a thick layer of diamond. Felicity turned and stared at The Piranha's black form.

“Hide in plain sight,” she said.

“Sure. Nothing really top secret would take place out in the open like this. At least, that's what everybody hopes an enemy will think.”

Felicity chuckled. “Yes, whoever the enemy is these days, I hope they never read The Purloined Letter.”

El Porvenir offered a rudimentary marina. Eight or nine tall sailboats rocked in slips there and Barton slipped their craft in among them with the skill of an expert sailor. Felicity watched the play of his back and shoulder muscles through his knit shirt as he secured their line to the dock, thinking that the pretense of attraction was closing fast on reality.

Several Indian children played on the spare wooden platform serving as a dock. Boys and girls alike wore colorful dress-like garments covered with beautiful, complex patterns. More colorful material covered their legs. Felicity found their faces graced with a consistent beauty. She could only distinguish girls from boys by the length of their straight black hair, and the ornamental shells they wore in it. Their bare feet moved in unpredictable dance patterns as they played hand made pipes, or shook gourds like maracas. When Felicity finally realized they were performing for her, she laughed and clapped her hands with glee.

“Cuna Indians,” Barton said, helping her ashore. “They live on one of the San Bias Islands east of here.”

“They're darling,” Felicity said, hugging his muscular
arm to her chest. A white-haired man sat on a crate behind the children. He was dressed as they were, and carving a small wooden doll with a crude knife. At his feet lay a wooden bowl holding a few coins. When she inclined her head in that direction, Barton took the hint. They wandered over to the man, and Barton dropped a handful of money into the bowl, doubling its contents. The Indian man looked up, nodded and smiled, revealing blackened, broken teeth.

“The children are beautiful,” Felicity said, not at all sure if the man understood English. She tried again in Spanish, and still was not sure he heard. Then the Indian reached forward, offering her the doll he had just completed. Delighted, she accepted his gift as if it were the most precious artifact of antiquity.

Felicity was examining her prize as they walked into town, and Barton's attention was on her beaming face. She turned to say a final thank you, but the Indian man was already walking off, toward the end of the pier where their boat was tied.

Between the sun, the sea, and El Porvenir's charming people, business seemed an unpleasant intrusion on the day. Barton led Felicity to a small wooden house a few minutes' walk from shore. The three room structure was neat despite, or maybe because of, its bare minimum of furniture. A large desk dominated the main room. At one end sat a desk top copier. The other end held a small computer console and a fax machine.

Now Barton was all business, and the change altered Felicity's view of him. He spent only seconds scanning the personnel files she had brought, then copied them onto the special paper needed. Felicity fished a small notepad out of her purse and handed it to him. A middle page held the fingerprints that she had collected on strips of cellophane tape. He copied them too. Then he picked up the telephone
and pushed buttons for a number in Panama City. The response was immediate, as if someone had been waiting for the call.

“Buenos Dias. I'm just checking up on that order. When will it be ready to ship?” He nodded, and Felicity assumed it was in recognition of some childish contact code to establish his identity and that of the person at the other end. He threw a switch under the phone, engaging what she recognized as a primitive scrambler. Why couldn't the CIA step into the 21st century?

After the words, “Report C.A.B.,” Barton repeated his suspicions and those he had heard from Morgan and Felicity in terse, trim statements. Felicity's eyebrows raised when he voiced concerns about Franciscus, the navigator. Barton was about to end his call but, as if it were an afterthought, he looked up at Felicity.

“Anything to add before I break contact?”

“Actually, I think you covered it pretty well,” she said. After Barton hung up she asked, “This is not a very modern area. How did you manage to lay in phone lines and power lines without raising suspicions?”

“Wasn't easy,” he said while he put the prints and other pertinent papers through the fax machine. “Actually, there's not much in the way of wires, it's all fiber to a hidden dish that hits a secure satellite. Still, you never know if somebody might catch on, but after four years, I'm pretty sure this setup's secure.”

The sun had slid over the line of its apex by the time Barton secured his office and led Felicity out. It burned her eyes, making her regret not bringing a hat or sunglasses. She hoped the short walk to the town center would not last long enough to raise a sunburn.

They strolled the narrow street, smiling, enjoying the perfumed air. Felicity noticed Barton nodding a greeting to
several local passersby. From their reactions, they knew him as a neighbor. She wondered if any of them knew his real job here. They may have, and not cared at all. These people lived on a different level. National secrets just were not very important when survival was your primary goal in life.

Barton guided them to a restaurant within sight of the sea. The small, quaint building was in need of a coat of paint, and bore a chilling resemblance to the tavern they visited the previous night. She hesitated just a moment before spicy smells seeping out lured her in. At least this place had windows.

The owner was a small, walnut colored man in a white apron. He greeted Barton with a slap on the back, and looked Felicity over with an appraising eye before showing them to a small table facing the big side window. The place was almost deserted, the lunch crowd having already left. While Felicity traced the flight patterns of lazy gulls, Barton ordered for them.

A moment later, two glasses and a bottle of tequila arrived. Barton poured an accurate shot for each of them. In tandem, they licked the backs of their hands. In turn, they sprinkled salt on their dampened skin. The two lifted their little glasses and stared over their rims at each other. Felicity winked at her date. Then, they snatched up their lemon slices, bit down, sucked out the juice, licked the salt off their hands, threw back their heads and downed their drinks.

“So you do know how,” Barton said, watching Felicity shudder and suck in air through pouting lips. “I guess you weren't upper crust all your life.”

“Before I was a California girl, I learned to travel in a variety of circles.”

“Well, if you'll pardon the cliché, what's a nice girl like
you, etcetera, etcetera.” Barton tried to keep it light, but Felicity detected more than a little professional interest in the question.

“I'm supposed to trust my secrets to you?” she asked. “Well then, you're going to have to trust me with some of yours. Like, just what's going on here?”

Barton shrugged and poured two more drinks. “Hey, we're on the same team, right? If I tell you what we know, or suspect, will you tell me about yourself?”

“On one condition. Get some water over here. I've no intention of getting drunk with an animal like you around.”

Two more drinks went down before their salads arrived. Felicity's was not at all what she had expected, but a very pleasant surprise. A wedged tomato sat on a lettuce lined plate covered with fat, fresh shrimp, which had been chilled in a vinaigrette with pea pods, green onions and capers. Barton gave the pepper mill a couple of turns over her plate.

“This is fabulous,” Felicity said through her first forkful, “but hardly Panamanian fare.”

“I tried to tell you. They do amazing things here with shrimp. This happens to be one that I showed him. Wait until lunch comes.”

“You gave him this recipe?” Felicity asked with raised eyebrows. “I guess you haven't been an uncouth bore all your life. How'd you end up with the Company?”

“Actually, it started when I left the U.S. for Israel. I joined the army to defend my real homeland.”

“You're Jewish?” Felicity thought at first he was joking.

“Doesn't it show? My parents changed their names from Bartman. Anyway, I ended up in intelligence, tracking down terrorists. When I found that too restrictive I went free-lance. Eventually, I formed this loose association with the American intelligence community.”

“And what does the community think of this Piranha super sub?”

“No, no.” Barton wagged a finger at her. “Your turn now. How'd you get in the security business?”

Felicity was considering her answer when lunch arrived. The little man gently placed a two handled server between them. A huge mound of rice dominated the table. Floating in the rice she saw chicken pieces, those same huge shrimp, clams in their shells and artichoke hearts.

“Paella,” she said, moving her own small plate in front of herself. It smelled of saffron and garlic and oregano and all the best things south of the border.

“Answer my question, but make it long,” Felicity said. “I am going to eat until I burst.”

“I can only tell you the atmosphere isn't great,” Barton said, filling his own plate. “Even after all these years, there's still a bunch of Noriega wannabees out there, you know.”

“Yes, and one of them could take control I suppose, but all I've read gives me the impression that the government is pretty stable. The canal is bringing in lots of money, and poverty is the real cause of revolutions. It's also what lets drug money take hold. Hard to worry, under the circumstances.”

“Well, not everybody is so confident, which is part of the reason you're here,” Barton said, prying a clam open. “No place in Central America has much of a history of being stable. And that sub out there isn't exactly in government control right now. If it fell into the hands of one of those dictators in training, or some drug cartel leader, a lot of our boys could die. Bastidas' boys appear fanatically loyal to him, but Naval intelligence thinks some of them might actually be tied to some small time local General. They're afraid once The Piranha's operational, the
next Pineapple Head might end up with it. That's who you're protecting against.”