Pure Barry

 289.

This has to be flawless. With a less than zero margin for error Julie, Harlan and I lay the detailed groundwork for the quasi sting operation. I say quasi because in actuality it is more a trap than a sting and the law, especially the one that will ultimately decide whether or not our work meets the requirements of a slam-dunk case, will surely be tested by the best legal counsel money can buy. The Mcguffin in all this dramatic intrigue is the unseen, but powerful, emotion known as greed. We must be convincing in the establishment of both criminal intent and the conspiracy to defraud the very economic backbone of our precious totalitarian capitalistic model. My hope is that even the Supreme's would find little sympathy for a millionaire CEO selling a billion dollar scam to a sitting US Senator.

This is the prize. Personally, I don't really care about Goldson, he simply manipulates the system to its maximum legal tolerance in a town who's very - and well deserve - nickname is Sin City. Gambling, sex, cheap food and drink, burlesque and sports betting are all fair-game in this shining neon light of desert excess. He will be rewarded for his 'assistance' by a more than fair plea bargain. It is The Senator that I want hung at high noon. The prize in sight, we set the trap. The bait, pure and simple is greed. It is the correct answer to the question: Why would a rich and successful businessman, seated at the head of a profitable and eternally sustainable table of cash flow plot with a sitting Unites States Senator on a Wall St. heist?

I will quote the Scottish financial journalist BC Forbes, he of the titular money magazine founded in 1917 and still relevant today: "The man who has won millions at the cost of his conscience is a failure."

Armed with the tartan gumption of BC's braw message, we begin the operational groundwork of Mongoose TOM. Everything up to this point has been back-story, jumping through the fire hoops of logistics and terrorist distraction to reach what we all hope will be a successful, if not spectacular final act.

"Let's partner Drysdale and The Queen and get them to St Croix to start the surveillance installation, as soon as possible. We'll have to play a card and get a room as close as we can to the penthouse for remote operations. Did Davis get the Buccaneer's security contact info?" I command, speculate and inquire.

"Roger on the personnel, agreed and not as yet," Julie fires back.

"Who is on the security escort teem with Hartaugh?" Harlan asks.

"Everybody else. You, me, Mustang." I answer.

Julie looks a touch forlorn at being the one left behind to run operations, arguably the most important job of all. I sense that she misses the endorphin flow of field work, especially on this gig as it carries the dual purpose of being both a gigantic win for justice and an appropriate response to the heroic memory of TOM. It is, after all, his legacy that we conspire to eat the hand that feeds us.

"Don't look so sad," I offer, "we need you here, you're the best at it. No one even close."

"It's OK, I'm half Scot."

"Aye lassie, you are pure barry."