How Much?

310.

We are cruising at 41,050 feet just over 500 mph. Goldson, Mustang and Sharkey are sleeping comfortably in the full-tilt, padded, extra-wide seats. The Senator and I are talking over steaming mugs of fresh coffee when I get a com call from Drysdale. Back at the Buccaneer he and The Queen have been flirting with sleep depravation searching the confiscated computer found in Goldson's room. Drysdale also had the police presence to follow up on the status of Anton Bartowski as he entered the local general hospital's ER for surgery. He provides a rapid-fire two-point update as I walk down the aisle towards the head for privacy; "Bartowski was heavily sedated but I think once he is out of surgery he will talk to save his hide," he reports, "and, even more importantly, The Queen is currently unlocking a cloud document from Goldson's personal cache that she thinks might be what we're looking for."

"Outstanding, please let me know the minute she has the goods," I answer, looking at my watch to determine ETA in Orlando, our new destination. "Did Bartowski say anything that I might use to coerce Hartaugh to sing?"

"Negative, sorry."

"Might not be necessary, great job you two, keep at the cloud file."

I cup a handful of ice cold water and splash my face. Instantly I feel a thousand nerve fibers jump to attention, including I sense, a far away echo from those in my arm and leg. I look in the mirror and see a pair of weary eyes stare back at me with concern. I, too, am feeling the familiar sensation of being up way too long without sleep. "Hang in there cowboy, this rodeo is about to get into some serious shit-kickin', just gimme eight solid seconds." Working a end-game strategy I take another round of cold water to the mug and dry off with a 'yippee-ki-yay.'

I return to my seat next to Hartaugh. He is fading fast.

"Do you want to tell me about Bartowski or should we wait until he fires the first shot."

Never in my career have I seen such a deeply terrified look on the face of a politician. This guy has lied more times than the recently removed and humiliated faux president, has made a career of misinformation, hypocrisy and hate speech. He is a profound fraud, a racist of monumental proportions and a known - and proud - supremacist. The depth of my disgust for this man is bottomless. I am actually enjoying this.

"What in Heaven's name are you talking about?" He drawls.

"You saw him on the gurney back at The Buccaneer after he took one of my nines in the gut. As he was bleeding out he spilled the rest to one of our agents."

"About exactly what, sir?"

"About the big scam with Goldson and Sharkey," I say, going for broke.

He is silent for a tell-tale moment as he mulls his rapidly diminishing options.

I hear Drysdale's voice in my earbud, "Smoking gun in hand."

He looks me square in the eye, still considering a way out of the felony mess that ahould end his
career in shame and humiliation - and if I have my say - quite possibly with the remainder of his days in a cell with a guy named Bubba.

"How much do you want?"

Visit From an Old Friend

309.

We even had an acronym for it: RCI. Random Cosmic Input. Its initial reference was to seemingly accidental or unexpected phenomenon, sometimes even minor miracles, manifested as 'assistance' from unknown cosmic allies apparently offering help at the most opportune time or dire situation. My curiosity to their genesis, a selfish hypothesis and the synthesis of time, space and matter led to their repeated validation. In other words, we practiced calling on its help and support much like a lawyer might call on an expert witness. We had - and continue to have - noteworthy success in aligning our needs with that of the greater good - exempli gratia: The laws of the cosmos.

It has become irritatingly apparent that Ms. Hartaugh, the Senator's better half, has spent most of the wait time in the parking area sipping from her favorite adult beverage, vocal volume most always the initial clue. She is airing her laundry list of complaints to the Senator and/or anyone who will lend a sympathetic ear. We have supervised the 'one carry-on and one medium sized suitcase' rule with mixed success. We are almost ready to depart for the airport in the vans when it happens. The Senator gives me 'the look', a hybrid coded message requesting some type of judicial intervention on my part.

I ask our driver about private aircraft couriers servicing St. Croix and Miami. He tells me that his cousin does exactly that and can be ready at a moments notice. I point to the people sitting in the van and ask if it can be done any quicker. "Yes, boss, I'll call him right now."

Five minutes later we have a new bird and a new plan. I address the group once again.

"We have encountered some logistical challenge and have chartered another aircraft for the short trip home. We will be breaking the group into two traveling parties which should provide additional comfort and convenience for the flight. Here are the two groups:

Group A on the Lear: Ms Hartaugh and two aides, Bess and Harlan, Mr Goldson's staff.
Group B on our Gulfstream: Senator Hartaugh, Mr Goldson, Mr. Sharkey, myself and staff.

We will sort all remaining details of our quick departure while in the air. Thank you for your patience."

With uncanny efficiency we align the two groups into the pair of idling vans. As the first van departs the lingering chaos I step away and into the first light of the new day. I witness a sunrise as only the Caribbean can create and know we have had another visit from our old friend.

I call our pilot. "Make sure all internal surveillance equipment is up and running before you tuck the wheels in."

A Noted Exchange

308.

I am running as fast as a man using a cane for one leg can. In a desperate attempt to find some type of flow, even a touch of athletic grace, I can't keep my mind from a nagging question: Why do I not have a script for this, where is my cheat-sheet, is there a precedent hidden deeply somewhere in long forgotten files?

Goldson's bodyguard and I arrive within seconds of each other to find the 'extended family' gathered together making plans. In a casually arranged circle stand Goldson and his assistant, the Senator and his wife, Harlan, the Senator's aide, Sharkey and Bess. The temperature of discussion ranges from luke-warm to red hot. They see us coming and curtail their discussions to hear whatever update is available. Predictably the bodyguard who ID'ed Bartowski walks straight to his boss and presents an ear-to-ear accounting. I watch closely and note Goldson's reaction to the private news. Should he look towards me as he processes the real-time data, I know we will have another dynamic with which to negotiate.

He does not.

I launch into my ad-lib with the vigor borne of acute thespian stage fright. I can hear my inner acting coach strenuously suggesting that I quickly find a relaxed state of focus and, once achieved, give 'em a little hell-bent attitude. Be your best authentic self - and break your other leg.

"If I could have your attention please. Here is the latest info and our revised plan of action in response. First and most importantly, I feel that the danger has passed and you are all safe. We have experienced an attack consisting of a bomb threat, the detonation of an electronic pulse device, an attempted robbery and arson. We have one perpetrator in custody, he is wounded and expected to survive," I pause here to allow the impact to be absorbed, paying particular attention to the Senator's wife. I take a breath and continue, picking up a modicum of momentum somewhere along that path, "It is my decision that this meeting will need to be adjourned in order to ensure your safety. Therefore as soon as we have permission from the fire marshal and forensic team to re-enter the building we will do so in order to pack only absolute necessities and prepare for immediate departure. We will all travel on our GulfStream back to Orlando asap. Your packing will be supervised by one of our agents to ensure efficiency and your safety, Harlan with the Goldson group and Myself with the Senators entourage. I anticipate wheels up in less than one hour. We will arrange for transportation to the airport. Thank you for your cooperation and we will answer any questions once the process has begun."

The response, about as far from a standing ovation as imaginable, sounds like a cacophony of chaos, everyone taking at once, fighting volume with volume, regardless of rank or file.

I walk away from the group under the guise of needing a quiet place to take a cell phone call.

"Sharkey, did we capture anything of value between Goldson and Hartaugh?" I ask via com.

"God I hope so, we were wrapping the deal sans documentation, and I tried to keep the conversation on topic and broker them towards a totally verbal agreement," He says, turning away from the group to answer, "If my wire and one of the Chameleons live to their marketing hype, we should have documentation above and beyond."  

"Alright, I think we have enough. Play it out. Bartowski is the down perp. Try to keep them calm. We'll regroup in Florida, over."

I use my cell to get clearance from the fire marshal and forensic team to allow the makeshift check-out. They both begrudgingly agree. "We have been cleared for evacuation, please follow these protocols: One: Pack only a single small carry-on bag and one medium sized check-in bag. We will ensure all your remaining garments and everything you brought here will be packed and shipped to you as soon as possible. Two: We have thirty minutes to complete this operation and get to the airport. Please follow the lead of Harlan," I point him out for Goldson's group,"and Senator and company please follow me."

Surprisingly they follow my orders where we begin the process of fleeing the scene of the crime. I lead my group up the auxiliary stairs and down the soggy hallway. We are passed by two paramedics pushing an obviously injured patient in the opposite direction.

The Senator's wife rubbernecks a look, trying to grab some passing identification. She does and is about to cry out in shock as she is grabbed by the arm by the Senator, a powerfully intimidating move designed for emergency use by someone wishing for such information to remain confidential.

I note the exchange and usher them on.

Fine Tune, Focus and Zoom

307.

I must assume that Drysdale and Mustang escaped undetected. If this is the case I must make another assumption, a tactic I abhor yet utilize under extreme conditions. Based on my experience and the facts at hand, an ordinary mindless assumption can tilt the odds, however slightly, in our favor. I need that slight advantage as Goldson's goon points his fat fingers at his phone. Is he calling 911 as I ordered, is he calling his boss for instructions on how to proceed, or is he ratting out Bartowski?

I take advantage of his distraction and pat-down Bartowski. I consider that my time might be better spent doing CPR, but decide against it. I grab his cell phone, wallet and weapon as I hear a commotion in the hallway. I stand from behind the bed to see a fireman, a paramedic and an unidentified person in a pastel blazer that I take to be hotel security all looking for at me for answers. I do my best to provide them with "the official" version of the story, having their attention due to my FBI windbreaker.

"This very well could be the perp who initiated the bomb scare and detonated the EMP. I  caught him in the act of a B&E. He has a 9 mil slug in his side and is about to bleed out, he fired three shots in protecting his actions. Fire is out, let's try to keep him alive."

Instantly the fireman moves down the hall to continue his site evaluation, the paramedic brings his kit to Bartowski and the manager in the pastel blazer inspects the damage that the three shots have done to the room. Goldson's body guard has finished his call and comes towards me motioning to step away from the bloody scene and have a chat.

"Mr. Goldson AND Senator Hartaugh," he whispers in a weak attempt at name dropping, "BOTH want to know if we can keep this, ah, under wraps."

"What part? The pulse bomb, the arson, attempted homicide, the bugler about to die, or is there something else I am missing?"

He is stumped by the choices and defaults to, "All of the above." I take a look around the room and decide that we probably have sufficient evidence, the laptop and cell phone alone are worth a thousand pages of damming testimony, and ask him politely to meet me in the parking lot in ten minutes, showing him the blood on my hands compliments of Bartowski's plasma viscosity, and saying that I need a minute to 'clean up.'

I retrace my steps back to the war room and log Bartowski's phone, wallet and gun in the most informal of ways, tossing them on the bed. Drysdale is on surveillance watch as The Queen is moving through the confiscated laptop at just slightly below the speed of light.

"We're looking for a copy of the contract," I tell her, adding, "Clean getaway?" to Drysdale and Mustang. She gives my the 'made it by this much' sign, thumb and index finger held less than an inch apart, along with a slow nod of head and a 'whew.'

"Are the big three still huddled?" I ask.

"Still together. In conversation. I hope Sharkey's wire holds out, this has got to be good stuff." He says.

"It's going to get better real fast," I predict, stripping my FBI jacket and drying my hands from the quick hose-down.

"Fine tune, focus and zoom in on that group because the good stuff is about to turn to gold."

Shots Fired

 306.

"Chameleon is out in Goldson's room, might be the pulse bomb, or maybe a short from all the water, but we're blind there," reports Drysdale.

"Roger on the blind spot," I respond moving towards the stairs, the elevator unavailable. "Is everyone accounted for in the parking area?"

"Yes, as far as our people are concerned, there is still no telling how many, if any, other guests might be inside, but I would guess very few," The Queen advises.

"Where is Goldson's goon?"

"He is still getting instructions from him, looks fairly detailed and apparently urgent by the physical language of  the conversation, wait, he is leaving the group now and heading to the rear of the building, back door maybe? South. We'll cover as best we can. Is Davis on com? Sharkey do you copy?"

There is no audible response but Sharkey can been seen in the video nodding his head in the affirmative.

"Do you know Goldson's instructions to his body guard?"

They watch as Sharkey again shakes his head, but this time to indicate the negative.

I reach the penthouse floor and find it empty. The emergency sprinkler system is dripping, the carpet soaked, but there is no sign of fire or its smokey accomplice. I hurry to Goldson's suite, stabilize myself on the cane and kick the door just above the cover plate. It splinters open.

Sitting on the giant bed is a man with his back to me working on what I deduce is a laptop computer. Obviously spooked by the crashing sound of the violent forced entry, he quickly stands and spins to face me. He is holding a large caliber handgun, its metallic barrel swinging around in a deadly dance to reveal its four inch silencer. I hit the deck as the sound of a passing lead projectile buzzes my head with a 'pithew' finding the thick stucco wall behind me. I roll on my numb right side reaching for my holstered Glock with my left. Another pair of shots land on each side of me as I desperately try to create a moving target for who I already know by his misses is a substandard marksman.

Downstairs Drysdale's instincts sound an alarm. "Shot's fired upstairs." He is out the door and up the stairs, Mustang trying to keep pace.

I get off a single shot after, by my count, three and a half barrel rolls and the room goes silent. I am crawling towards an entryway chair when I hear Drysdale arrive, shouting the standard entry protocol. He sees me prostrate on the wet carpet and I point to the bed.

I see Mustang at the door, weapon out and up. I signal the info of one shooter and point the direction.

I hear Drysdale announce that the perp is down. With the update five seconds later that he is down but not out, faint heartbeat but still breathing. With annoying static I hear in my com unit that Goldson's guard has entered the hotel wing and is moving towards us from the South.

"You two get outta here now, go that way, I command using my Glock as a directional pointer. Go. Drysdale take the computer. Go."

I get to my knees as they hurry away and walk the ten steps to the far side of the California King. I see the perp laying face down bleeding from the single shot I managed, blood pooling around his right side. I lean with all my might on the cane and roll him onto his back.

Goldson's body guard enters the room, breathing hard from the short sprint and two floors of stairs.

I point to the downed intruder, instructing the guard to call 911 and an ambulance.

"Do you know this guy? Caught him in a B&E, he fired on me. I think he'll live. Can you ID him?" I ask.

The guard is silent, I can see the wheels turning and burning in his head. He puts his handgun in his rear waistband and reaches for his phone. I repeat my question.

"Yeah, his name is Bartowski."

Light My Fire

 305.

The guests of the Buccaneer huddle in small groups in the parking lot. Numbering over a hundred, they appear to have responded to a come as you are party in the affirmative. I stand behind The Queen as she deftly moves the control stick along with the facial recognition application to find our targets. As she maneuvers the device I notice a ping and a red circle occur on a number of individuals as she scans the assembly.

"What does the ping and circle represent?" I inquire, not wanting to break the focus but curious nonetheless.

"I added a function that, once recognition is confirmed, automatically displays anyone with a rap sheet that includes, a felony conviction, a parole violation or inclusion on the FBI most wanted list," she informs me without a hint of ego.

"It looks like a convention of cons down there."

"Yeah, I'm surprised by the ratio as well, but unless you want a full fledged law enforcement circus to open, I suggest we leave them to their business for now and find Goldson and Hartaugh," she suggests turning the stick radically left and zooming in on a small group standing under the light of a halogen lamp post.

"Ah ha, looks like we've found 'em," she says.

"Do we have audio to go with this?" I ask.

"Not very good, the hardware requirement is still too big and bulky to add a mic with the capabilities to capture decent audio, but I am working on it in my spare time."

We watch as the four, Goldson, his body guard, looking sheepish and nervous, Hartaugh and Sharkey stand in a circle. I find it noteworthy that they all seem more upset that they share a single cell phone among them than the fact that their room on the floor in the hotel is on fire.

We watch as Goldson preforms a self-frisk maneuver, almost manic in his search for something important, that is lost. He tells his guard something. The guard makes the futile gesture of  'I don't know".

"Get the camera in as close as you can," Mustang suddenly shouts. The Queen gives her a glance and provides the request, the camera resolution lessening as a result, but still of medium to high quality. "Keep it on those two," she says indicating the mob boss and his goon.

"What is so interesting with them?" The Queen asks.

"They are discussing their next move, now that the contract documentation is missing," Mustang reports.

"And you know this exactly how?" The Queen asks.

"Speechreading is the technique of decoding speech information by visually interpreting the movements of lips, the face and tongue when normal sound is unavailable. I am pretty good at it." She states. "Like right now Goldson is asking, ah commanding, his guard to go back into the fire and rescue the laptop in his room."

"Come on baby light my fire," The Queen sings.

"Try to set the night on fire," I add, scanning the hall monitor of the floor above us and seeing nary a flame nor sign of smoke.

I stuff one arm into an official FBI windbreaker and hustle towards the door.

"Let me know if they move."

Catch the Towel

 304.


"We got a call about a bomb threat. I need you all to calmly and quickly follow me to a safe place outside, NOW. Let's go," I plead in my best hair on fire command voice. As I create the artificial emergency I motion to Sharkey to collect the scattered paperwork and notes on the glass tabletop.

Goldson is stubborn and wanting additional information but the Senator is already half-way out the door. He is met by Goldson's body guard, newly inspired by the emergency situation I have sold to him. He bear hugs his boss and threatens that he will 'cold cock his ass' should he provide any further resistance. Both men are escorted out of the room and into the hallway, leaving Sharkey and myself as last remaining 'stragglers'.

"Did you get anything?" I immediately whisper to him.

"Assuming my camera is still working, yes, Goldson laid out the entire operation with Hartaugh an eager and willing co-conspirator. I tried to warn you of the pulse devise but I was with them, so I went to the john and sent a cryptic SOS. Best I could do under the circumstances," he tells me in one breath.

"You did good, get outta here and stay with Goldson and Hartaugh, I instruct, "but give me the paperwork first."

He does as instructed and leaves the room to follow the others. I have a handful of plays all running a Chinese fire-drill through my head. As much as a quarter stick of dynamite would solve one problem, I assess the risk to be too great in creating another, far worse one. Recognizing that my time is dramatically limited I look around the room for possible solutions. And I see it.

The trio had been enjoying expensive and rare Cuban cigars. On the table is a lighter. It is a beautiful cut crystal replica of a dolphin that must weight ten pounds. I move to reel it in instructing Drysdale on the com to use the house phone and call 911 to report a fire at the hotel. From the room I hustle to the nightstand and grab the Gideon's which appears to have been waiting with saintly patience for precisely this moment. I take it outside, tear Numbers and Deuteronomy for tender and start a small fire on the table. I take the dolphin, which seems to be crafted specifically for this purpose, climb aboard a chair, wait for a count of ten for the fire to spread and hold it near the emergency sprinkler valve.

And all the wards, sections and special places in Hell that had previously been silent, break loose. There is a deafening siren, flashing lights and general commotion enough to wake those resting in eternal repose. I drop the dolphin, hop off the chair and scramble towards the door already soaking wet.

As I hurry downstairs towards the war-room I can faintly hear the sounds of another set of sirens in the distance. The singing girl from the beach and her pair of boyfriends pass me in the hallway oblivious to our prior meeting. Chaos does that.

I enter the war-room where Drysdale and Mustang stand watching the computer monitors. The Queen is busy with the joystick following Hartaugh, Goldson, Sharkey and the body guard on one screen and Bess, Harlan, Ms. Hartaugh and her aide on another. I take the collected paperwork from by jacket pocket and hand it to Drysdale, "Let's see if we can pull anything usable from this, pronto please."

The Queen swivels in her chair to address me.

"Fucking outrageous performance boss, absolutely Oscar worthy."

All I can do is shake my head and catch the towel Drysdale has tossed.

Let's Dance

 303.

"Please tell me that Davis was wearing a wire," I add to the contretemps.

"He was, is, but the trouble started as soon as everyone was dismissed after dinner except for the big three; Sharkey, Goldson and Hartaugh. As soon as they settled in outside on the veranda for cigars and brandy, the electrical shit hit the surveillance fan. We lost everything," reports Drysdale as The Queen continues her damage control with a series of furious finger rhythms on the keyboard.

I scan the right-side monitor and see what looks like an x-ray image of three men sitting, smoking and engaged in animated conversation. I can barely see through the static and immediately admit that if this is the best video surveillance we have our mission has failed, completely, miserably and unacceptably.

"Can someone please explain to me what happened?" I implore as calmly as I am able.

"To me," Drysdale begins, "it looked like some type of mini EMP was detonated, although we saw no indication of it on the live feed. It caused a temporarily outage of everything on the entire floor, lasted about ten seconds, but enough to trip all the digital circuits," He looks at The Queen for verification adding, "Is that close?"

"Close enough, and all in the past tense, yes, we, as well as everyone else in the Hotel was impacted, I am trying to rebuild the program and get everything back up and running as…fast...as…I" She says without looking away from her emergency virtual triage response.

"Worse yet," adds Mustang, "we received what I believe is a coded message from Davis, indicating that Goldson admitted they had taken 'necessary precautions' to ensure their conversations would remain completely confidential. He says that the audio on his wire has most likely been compromised, but thinks that 'maybe' the video cam is still operating, he won't know for sure until a download and preview."

"Are they still on the veranda?" I ask.

"They were ten minutes ago, so I assume they are," Drysdale offers.

"We can't lose this folks, this is the whole ballgame, going down as we stumble around in the  dark; deaf, dumb and blind. Do we have another wire handy?" I ask with an obvious tone of urgency.

"Yes, what have you got in mind?" Drysdale asks while scrambling for another mini cam/mic unit in his kit.

"Not sure yet, but I'm gonna crash their little party and we need to capture it with a touch better resolution that that." I say pointing at the now frozen, x-ray screen image.

Drysdale is fixing the unit to my lapel much like a teenager adding a boutonniere as the final touch before the prom. "Alright, you're good to go. Have fun and be home early Junior."

"The boutonniere symbolizes the honesty and integrity of the person wearing it," adds Mustang.

I appreciate their attempt at humor, especially under this nerve-wracking circumstance. I grab my cane, pivot and head for the door to face the unknown big-band music of diabolical chaos.

"Let's dance."

Spy vs Spy

302.

I answer the in-room land-line with a sheepish, "Yes?"

The hotel security night manager informs me that there is some type of electronic interference coming from the general location of the penthouse floor and further, that he has been instructed to update me promptly and directly if any anomalies occur. I soften my tone and thank him for his efforts, asking if there is anything else I should know.

"No sir, outside of that it is business as usual."

Saunders, still sitting on the giant bed and sipping her sparkling water, asks about the call.

"Hotel security checking in with a report from upstairs about electronic interference of some kind, nothing to be concerned about, but we will alert the surveillance team asap, but, where were we?"

"You were considering taking me off the case and sending me home to visit my sickly mother in Lenexa," she says, adding, "but please don't."

"Give me two good reasons," I play along trying to lighten the situational payload.

"One: I am fine and ready to go, and two, my Mother, rest her soul, died when I as in High School," she tells me with a disposition crafted of gold.

"Alright, we are so close, if we can make it through the next two days I am very confident we'll have enough damming media, as evidence, to accomplish the objective."

"What is your gut feeling about Goldson? If you think he is on to you, what is his game?" I ask.

"I think he has a jones for the game, the juice, he want's to play the part of a mafia boss and outsmart us at our own game. I think he is playing us as much as we are playing him, literally spy vs spy," she explains calmly.

"Do you feel confident, and does Davis, that he has sufficient motivation to pitch - and sell - the deal to Hartaugh?"

"Yes, thats the payoff, the win, he needs Hartaugh for the political cover and continuity of cash flow. Davis has been vigilant in drilling that point. They're already in bed together, so now it's the greed game, how much, how big and for how long? Think of it like oil, a commodity. They are intrigued by the software creating both supply and demand, however artificially," she answers, "But does that answer your question?"

"Not sure. It seems like we're dancing on the edge of the razor. This isn't the cops and robbers chasing each other around in fast cars like the old days. We need to stay awake and let them dig their own graves, which is my hope they do with all haste," I speculate, pacing the tiled floor, "We can't push the envelope any more than we already have. Let's be patient and let them play it out."

"Right," Saunders immediately replies.

"But the deal is this: Should you find yourself in a situation where your shoulder starts yelling instead of simply whispering, I am pulling you out. Clear?"

"Clear as cut crystal boss."

"Do not return to the party. Go get some sleep. I think we'll see Goldson's play here sooner rather than later."

She stands, undecided as to which character to play; Bess would hug but Saunders would salute, she extends a fist at chest level and says, "Thanks."

"Thank YOU."

Saved by the Bell

301.

Bess and I go directly to my room. On the elevator we exchange quick and coded sign language to share the possibility that we might be both the hunters and the hunted - Do not reveal true identity, there are eyes everywhere. Once inside my suite, it having twice been swept for bugs, I turn on the TV just in case and find a local station covering a soccer match from Puerto Rico with an appropriate level of background crowd noise. Bess turns to Saunders, takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the California King.

"I think we've been made," she emotionally reveals upon exhale.

I can see that she is nervous, stressed and conflicted, all wrapped in the cosplay's dangerous disguise. I go to the mini-bar and grab a sparkling water, pour it to a small tumbler, wrap a napkin around its base and slowly walk it to her.  

I take a seat beside her, sensing her concern. She is a heart-beat from physically shaking. This, I consider, is one of the most courageous, experienced and dependable agents I have ever encountered. The accumulated trauma from this assignment, after spending almost as long as I have in therapy and rehab from our gun shot wounds, appears to be taking a tremendous toll on her.

"You OK?" I ask sincerely while looking directly into her dark eyes for a second, non-verbal opinion.

"Yeah, just a little on edge, this double-cover assignment is a grind," she says sipping from the tumbler.

"We're almost home," I try to console, "but if you think you need to come out, just say the word and we'll make it happen."
 
There is a pause in our exchange as she considers the current situation, its prelude and the direction her future may hold as a result of the decision she is about to make. She knows that quitting is not an option. She weighs the paradox of duty versus the catastrophic possibility of pushing limits well past critical mass. Nobody wants to toss the towel, especially with the game on the line. This is what makes us special. We, simply put, do not give up. I allow her the time to process the enormity of the circumstance, knowing that she will make the right decision. And, importantly, that I will respect whichever way she needs to go.

"I'll be OK. I think Goldson knows who we are," she repeats as if I missed it the first time.

"What makes you think so? We haven't seen anything to indicate it."

"Little things, perhaps innuendo, a feeling I get when he talks with Davis, call it a hunch, but it feels like he gloats when looking at me knowing he was responsible for having a pair of nine mils put in my back. When it happens my shoulder actually starts to ache, like sympathetic harmony, you know? Fucking scary."

"Alright I'm pulling you out, we'll invent a story about you being needed at home to visit your hospitalized mother or something."

"No, absolutely not, I'm fine, I just needed a break."

I try to see past the bravery in her eyes and take the temperature of her soul. She knows the game and reiterates her commitment to the assignment in superlatives. I pause to consider.

The house phone rings.

I look at her and she at me. We almost sing it as a duet.

"Saved by the bell."

After You

 300.

Upon delivery of her line Bess keeps her eyes on me. As I keep mine on the Senator's wife and as she keeps hers on her husband sitting at the head of the table. "If ever there was room full of people trying their best to keep a group secret, this is that," I think before moving towards the Senator to whisper that it is indeed Bartowski who has escaped, adding that there is no cause for concern, and that this is simply a professional update on intel relevant to the homeland security committee that he chairs. 'Wanted you to be first to know." He nods and thanks me for the update, asking again if I would like to join the celebration. I consider how some men deal with power as a tool and others like a toy. I decline his offer with as much manufactured gratitude as I can summon, wish the group good-night and move towards the door.

Bess ad-libs, "It IS Bartowski isn't it?"

I stop and pivot on my cane to address her, "I'm afraid that is confidential, ma'am, but please rest assured that you are in no danger, we are simply taking appropriate precautions for your safety and security. You have a United States Senator as your host and we plan on keeping he and his guests far from any possible danger."

"Well THAT is comforting, but I will tell you from personal experience that the guy who escaped custody is a scoundrel and capable of mayhem the likes of which should cause a great deal of concern. So thank you very much for your assistance," she attests.

"If you have information that might assist us in the re-apprehension of a known terrorist I need to talk to you about it in a private setting," I answer beginning to sense her play.

"If it is who I think it is, yes I have information that might be helpful," she offers with the perfect combination of intrigue and patriotism.

I pause to consider her play and its potential impact of the others in attendance, and decide to trust her inside knowledge of this casual cabal, "When is a good time to discuss this?" I ask, "the sooner the better - and most convenient."

"How about right now?"

I make the 'maybe yes and maybe no' face, shrug my shoulders and say, "I hate to pull you away from this," I scan the table, "VIP setting, but sure, if you can give me twenty minutes I think it would useful, and important."

She pushes back from the table grabs her Gucci handbag and bends to kiss Sharkey on the cheek he has offered. "This is good," I grade and watch.

Bidding the group a formal and gracious adieu she makes the grand gesture of "After you" and we are off.

Prelude to Success

 299.

You can be the world's greatest strategic planner and fail on a regular basis. Like the baseball player flirting with .400, that average still represents a failure rate of 60%.  In my confliction I weigh these realities with the hypothetical, and in so doing, fail on another level, that of being present in the moment. Instead of walking on a pristine moonlit beach at midnight, I feel light years away in another galaxy, wondering why I ever agreed to the mission in the first place. It has long been my response to situations as these to default to the number one rule of my practice: Bring it home. Stay here. Keep it present. The lessons of the past and the possibilities of the future all convene in the present. And remember that failure is a prelude to success. Adding agreement to this simple profundity, a slender silver fish jumps from the water, does a perfect summersault in mid air and returns home with nary a splash, earning a ten from this impartial witness and judge.

I walk, freshly motivated by the singing girl and jumping fish, back to the war room. Harlan, Drysdale and The Queen are watching with silent focus as Sharkey holds post-supper court.  

"Did you have any luck installing the biometric functionality of the Chameleon's?" I ask the Queen.

She swivels in her seat, smiles and presents an enthusiastic "yes." She spins the hundred and eighty remaining degrees that ends with her facing the laptop. She deftly presses a series of prompts to triumphantly display a new screen for our approval. On the screen I see the clean graphic lines of data indicating the subjects biography, notable police records, confirming facial IDs and fingerprint analytics as well as physical composition, all in real time. It is fascinating to watch all this taking place, and I compliment her on the effort.

"Can we focus or zoom in on one of the subjects to isolate biometric capture?" I ask.

"Sure, who would you like to use as guinea pig?"

"Let's start with Hartaugh, can you give me his current heart rate?"

She moves the trackpad arrow to the center of Hartaugh's chest, zooms in and taps the display key. Instantly we see way more data than necessary; resting HR, metabolic, max, mean and current. "He should see a cardiologist soon because he has all the symptoms of cardiovascular disease as shown here by three data points: peripheral pulse, capillary refill and P wave amplitude."

I almost laugh at the silence her introduction to the program brings to the room.

"Alright here is what I want you to do please: Keep the focus on Ms Hartaugh's HR data for the next ten minutes. I'm going upstairs to inform the Senator of the intel on Bartowski."

Drysdale brakes the silence, "What intel?"

"He has escaped custody, an organized intercept, and is Ms Hartaugh's cousin."

More silence as the info, and its implications, are absorbed.

"Keep the zoom on the Senator's better half. And watch for spikes."

I leave the room and hit the stairs, announcing my plan to Sharkey and Bess on their coms en route.

Goldson's bodyguard greets me at the door of the dinning room. "Everything cool?" I ask.

"All good," he says and presents no defense as I move to open and enter. I knock politely and push the solid core teak door inward. The gathering is in a jovial state and greet me with the warm hubris born of rich food and excess drink. I am offered to join them by Hartaugh.

"Thank you but I must decline, there has been some movement on our domestic terrorism watch that we need to monitor." I open the play.

"What kind of movement?" Sharkey delivers his line.

"It's confidential sir…."

"We're all friends here, you can tell us, what's the big deal?" Goldson surprisingly blurts.

"A person of interest has escaped custody in Florida and is at large, we're just taking all necessary precautions."

"Is it Anton Bartowski?" Bess asks on cue in the first words she has spoken since the main course.

I quickly change the subject, hoping the damage has been done and bid them all a good-night.

And I Hear Her Voice

 298.

Confident that the team has the surveillance operation under complete control, I decide to take a walk to accomplish a trio of objectives. One is to get some fresh air. Two is to stretch out my aching right leg. And three is to stay at least half a step ahead of whatever mischievousness is coming our way.

The bay is beautifully lit by a half-moon, che bella luna, sending fluttering shimmers of pale luminance across the nervous water. There is a history here I can almost taste. There has been struggle, strife, revolution and bloodshed. There has also been the undeniable reality that it is hard to remain evil for long with such a heavenly backdrop. The natives celebrate this delicious dichotomy by way of dance, feasting and drink. Together they combine for an intoxicating experience much too hard for most to resist. As I walk the shoreline I can hear festivities from the downtown celebration. It strikes me as ironic that my mind-clearing stroll is designed to allow this innocent debauchery to continue without interruption by corporate scoundrels and corrupt political hacks. But there will always be pirates I sadly admit.The warm night sends a message to my cerebral processing center that flesh alone is a sufficient insulation layer for these times in paradise and the hairs on my bare arms relax in response. It is a wonderful moment, one I wish could be extended for the duration of my choosing. I consider the length of eternity and wonder at what point along its linear trajectory one might become complacent with its secular omnipotence. Or the paradox implied by it.

I am interrupted in my walking state of consciousness flow by an overly joyful, and possibly intoxicated, young woman in an an ankle-length white satin gown. She is wearing a long sting of pearls and carrying her shoes in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. She is dancing and singing. I recognize the song as Kokomo by the (later day) Beach Boys. Two costumed gentlemen in all white walk behind her singing woefully out of tune harmony. As they pass the girl does a small circle dance around me and sings "Everybody knows a little place called Kokomo." She notices my walking cane and frowns. "Ooh, so sorry. But you can still be happy here."

I watch with envy as they sing and dance their way down the beach, away from me and finally around the jetty and out of sight.

Why would Hartaugh want Bartowsky back on the street? Is he coming for me? Is this retaliation? Is my cover blown? What filial obligation do Mr and Ms Hartaugh have with him? Has he recovered sufficiently to do immediate damage? Is there someone else involved?

I ponder, consider, sort and abstractly theorize. And I hear her voice.

"You can still be happy here."

About Her Cousin

 297.

I knock the code and enter. On the pair of monitors Drysdale, The Queen and Harlan all watch as the dinner moves, soup long gone, to the nutty desert course.

"Anything exciting?" I ask.

"The Senator is on his fourth rum drink and seems to be pushing towards an early evening, with a cigar and cognac prior," answers Drysdale.

"This thing is so blatantly chauvinistic I can hardly watch, even the old bag makes the occasional casual sexist remark. Inbreds. Disgusting," adds The Queen. Like a conductor asking for more brass I look next to Harlan wordlessly asking him the same question. "I will say this; so far Goldson has shown every indication that his subtle innuendo has been lifted directly from the official mafia playbook. If you listen closely there is a code of sorts intended for privileged ears only. By design, once he launches into a business segment, the women automatically tune out and the Senator tunes in. It is fascinating to watch in this environment."

"By 'this environment' do you mean theirs or ours?"

"Both."

On my com I again hear Julie ask for a private conversation and end the surveillance update with an encouraging word to the team, adding that I'll return shortly.

I take the stairs one flight up to my room, conveniently three doors down from the Senator's and find one of the burners we have brought for occasions such as this. I get the idea that Julie has some new intel meant for my ears only. Her tone of voice in answering removes all doubt.

"What part of immediately did you not copy? She fires like a semi-auto burst.

"Ah, sorry, I was in a meeting, my bad," I dodge.

Satisfied and softening, she continues, "This might be nothing, but it could also be huge, and I wanted to get the news to you asap," she continues, "remember your buddy Anton Bartowski?"

"Of course, he is heading to prison immediately upon release from the hospital."

"Maybe that will happen in the future but for now he is back on the street," she says, trusting that as messenger she won't be shot.

"What?"

"There's more. From the intel I could gather I appears as if there was a staged intercept as he was being transferred, a very clean and professional hit. The hospital staff was overwhelmed while security was elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?"

"Yeah, and again, from the bits and pieces I am still putting together, it appears as if they, the hostiles, had inside information on the patient movement. Intel that could only have come from one place," she says.

I run the tapes in a real-time exercise of dot connection, a dead end blocking each one, and finally present the obvious.

"Either we have a mole, someone at the hospital is on the payroll, or…."

"…or Hartaugh gave the OK," Julie finishes.

I am stunned. The thought, as plausible as tomorrow's sunrise, had never occurred to me. But now it makes perfect sense.

"Anything else?" I ask, still fuming about my oversight.

"Yes. If you get a chance you might ask the Senator's wife about her cousin."

Local Rum and a Walking Stick

 296.

The two groups converge at a long dinning table of deep red Honduras mahogany. Matching high-back chairs surround an elegant centerpiece in a room specifically designed for private opulence. On one side Goldson, his counsel, Bess, looking every bit the part of a savvy and experienced international entrepreneur, and Sharkey are to be seated. Opposite them The Senator, his wife, and aide try to relax as the ice slowly breaks. Goldson, still standing to allow the others to be seated, smoothly segues from a casual conversation with one of the wait staff into an informal introduction.

"We would like to thank the esteemed Senator from South Carolina for taking the time out of his busy schedule to come down to our secret island paradise for a some well deserved R&R. Around a few days of recreation and relaxation we'll try to find a few minutes to discuss one or two matters that have special importance to us all, quite possibly to the extent that they might be called game changers…" He begins.

Drysdale monitoring their every move and monosyllable from one floor below, mutters a "you can say that again," to which The Queen to his right, their four eyes watching all forty-eight camera feeds, adds a "right."

Goldson introduces the seated members of each party, all sipping the house special cocktail of local rum loaded with fruit, including special meritorious attention to Sharkey, "He being the conduit between the old and the new." To this lavishness Sharkey simply raises his goblet, smiles and nods towards his host with an appreciative, yet mysterious, grin. In a gracious act of chivalry he also raises a silent toast to his partner Bess, sitting demurely to his immediate left. All of this to critical acclaim by the team of special agents watching on screen, in real time and with bad intention, one floor below. 

"Remember, outside of Davis and Saunders, the rest of us are to stay in the shadows, our cover is our cover, we are here for the security of the Senator, not to video-bomb or steal a scene. I can't emphasize enough the importance of 'selling' our mission to the Senator and Goldson. Let's be patient, but alert and aware," I reiterate.

To this end we have established a viewing protocol, already known as Rule One: No more than three people at a time in the surveillance war-room.

I ask Mustang to join me in a walk-about of the hotel, along with the resort's Head of Security. We go upstairs to invite Goldson's body guard as a formality but he rejects the offer in order to keep his sentry assignment outside the only door to the dining area.

We are walking outside between the Hotel and one of its many outdoor recreation facilities, this one a splash-lit spa/pool/jacuzzi/lounge area when I hear Julie on my com earbud.

"Mongoose One, call me immediately on a secure line."

I apologize, ask Mustang to carry on, and as quickly as one good leg and a walking stick will allow, hustle back to the war-room.

Showtime

 295.

The Cessna touches down on the tiny landing strip the locals call a 'port'. It is 1320. Goldson, his lead counsel, one personal body guard, Davis, as Sharkey, and Saunders, as Bess, deplane and hop immediately into the waiting long black limo. A Sprinter cargo van emblazoned with the Buccaneer logo and contact info, waits for their luggage. A clever marketing arrangement allows the van to beat the limo to the swanky luxury destination resort and have the bags in their respective suites before the stretch arrives. It is Saunders' first trip to the island so Goldson takes advantage of her local innocence to prove his multi-dimentionality. His rambling tour guide narrative seems to center around three major themes: Sugar, Alexander Hamilton and the Hess Oil Company. Bess is very much interested in the island's history but not so much in the guide's personal bias and verbosity.

Goldson and his troupe check in and all go their separate ways to their suites. Per law and custom passports are held at the front desk. On cue a platoon of uniformed bellmen show up to inquire about the needs of their guests, each waiting long enough to have palms greased.

One floor below them Drysdale and The Queen sit at their improvised war room work station, headphones on, testing the functionality of their surveillance handiwork. Before Goldson's bodyguard even unpacks his faux-leather dop kit, he has 'swept' his boss' suite with a 'bug buster', a small device used to detect unauthorized eavesdropping equipment. The Queen snorts as Drysdale exhales his held breath watching the device scan directly over a Chameleon without the slightest sign of abnormality. "Wow," is all that's said.

Our flight, in the 'company' Gulfstream has six passengers aboard: The Senator, his wife and a young female aide, whom she despises, myself, Harlan and Mustang. The latter trio all acting as security specialists for the senatorial entourage. The flight from DC encountered a bit of minor turbulence, half from gusty side-winds and half from the senator's unbearably boring spouse. At one point Mustang was caught holding back a laugh as she read the tiresome look of duty in my eyes.

We make it to the Hotel in a similar cushy manner, the guise of luxury afforded to United States Senators, almost twenty minutes ahead of schedule, a feat noted by the Senator who is used to being late, a standard operating procedure of all governmental operations. We all head to our rooms wondering what has become of our luggage when the inevitable knock on the door answers the question.

Downstairs Drysdale and The Queen open the communication lines and preform the requisite com check. Watching and listening to the camera feeds, one by one, Davis, Saunders, Harlan, Mustang, and myself announce unit connectivity. Drysdale has an open line with Julie back at HQ in DC bringing the total to eight on what we used to call the party line.

Back in 'their' room Davis is adjusting his disguise seemingly satisfied with the re-emergence of his swash-buckling alter ego, the dashing and daring international river-boat gambler, Sharkey. He knows he is being watched. His hard-wired room phone rings. Immediately The Queen responds: "Shit."

"What?" Drysdale asks immediately.

"We didn't tap the land lines."

"Nobody uses them anymore….we should be OK, not to worry."

In his lavish bathroom, a makeshift backstage, Davis has been in makeup. He answers the phone with a cheery "Bon jour." A unintelligible voice says, "thirty minutes in the lobby, island casual."

Sharkey, looking in the general direction of where HE would have planted a bug, smiles and delivers his best Fosse/Scheider croon: "Showtime."

Old Hickory on Patience

 294.

The key is patience.

"Old Hickory said we can take 'em by surprise,
I we didn't fire our muskets till we looked 'em in the eye."

Amid the controversy of authorship, most side with Jimmy Driftwood, the ethos of the famous ballad, The Battle of New Orleans, remains stirring. Adding to the legend of the tune, Johnny Horton's went highest on the charts, but the Dirt Band's historical tribute from the Will the Circle Be Unbroken masterwork has always resonated deeply, it is the emotion captured by both its author and those who paid homage via their cover that will forever remind me of bravery by snare drum, lying banner and bagpipes. Gets me every time.

"We held our fire till we see'd their faces well,
then we opened up our squirrel guns and gave 'em hell."

Patience. Hold your fire. When the time is right we'll join the fight. It is the chain of command that wields the ultimate hammer in the critical decision of when to strike. That chain runs simultaneously in both directions, linking up as well as down. The high command decides the strategy, the what, and leaves the tactical, the how, to those of lesser rank, but closer to the action. I have always found it interesting that often times major field decisions are made by soldiers with the least amount of training or field experience.

So we wait. And we watch. And we listen.

Every room on the penthouse floor of the Buccaneer is wired (wirelessly) as well as the conference room, restaurant and lobby. Drysdale reports that every one of the forty-eight mini Chameleon surveillance cameras are in use. He further states that since the software has a maximum capacity of thirty-six, The Queen stepped up and added an extenuation plugin to allow the inclusion of the additional units, and that tests have all provided pristine audio and video. And lastly, he reports that she has also been successful in adding biometric sensing data to the feed, in a limited number of units. Meaning that not only is motion and aural dynamic range captured, but ambient temperatures, facial recognition and fingerprint capture all available within a few seconds of recording.

"She is currently testing a heart-rate application that might, according to her theory, let us know whether someone is lying as determined by spikes in their metabolic heart rate, in real time," He enthusiastically adds.

"Outstanding work Drysdale, it looks like Goldson and Company will be arriving tomorrow around 1300 your time. We have a scheduled ETA of 1715. Are we good with the hotel security and management?" I ask.

"Absolutely, they get the political implications, and this won't be their first rodeo. Seems this is a regular hangout of a large percentage of US policy makers - and their sponsors, girlfriends and lobbyists. Plus Goldson is a regular."

"No surprise there," I mutter, "we'll have you on com, but I want to make sure we stay patient. No big bang. Let them come, stay, play and leave thinking all is well. We need to be extras in this shoot, not the stars. Excepting Davis and Saunders, of course."

"Yes, sir. Understood.

"See you tomorrow. Get some sleep."

We end our communication and I make my way to the kitchen to grab a last cup of coffee and maybe a brioche. However, from my favorite verse there is no escape, and so I sing:

"We fired our cannon till the barrel melted down,
so we grabbed an alligator and fought another round,
we filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind
and when we set the powder off
the gator lost his mind."

In the kitchen I cannot tell if Mina is more appalled by the lyrical grotesqueness of the song or by my atonal cover of it.

Red Meat in the Cage

293.

The wolves are hungry. We have reached the infamous point of no return. That complex and illusive point on the time-line where going back, a reverse pivot, paints a picture of failure. Full-on, all-in or half-baked the time is now. TOM was fond of saying that courage seeks out moments like these. It is what we do and why we train. We boldly go. We move into the danger zone expecting a fight. One either embodies the spirit of a warrior, or stays home.

Julie, Harlan, Mustang and I review the strategy one last time before departure. We feel that the plan, Mongoose TOM, is solid and tactfully sound. The major pieces, Davis and Saunders, as Sharkey and Bess, will be with the Goldson entourage while the four of us will travel with Senator Hartaugh as security. Having embeds on both sides is a miracle in itself - minor or otherwise - and we have a pair of sleeved aces ready for play, but the margin for error might be as slim as the playing cards themselves, maybe thinner.

It is under these demanding circumstances that we rely on training and experience. As the song warns us, 'You've got to know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.' I feel especially 'concerned' about two of our cast: Davis, whose flamboyant, extroverted, snake-oil salesman cover, Sharkey, is the key to closing the deal. He is the liaison, the conduit, the epoxy binding the two together, but it is fire we try to bind with ice. He must be flawless in the furnace blast heat of the deal, and my second concern, to a lessor degree, interestingly, is The Queen herself. In her exuberant, youthful, intellectual brilliance she is prone to knee-jerk situational reactions, having neither the depth of training nor the abundance of experience in field ops. In each of their cases I consider the importance of providing them with maximal amounts of emotional support and leadership through guidance. I silently wish that TOM was around to offer the same to me.

"I have a past, but I don't live there," I say to myself, "Put all those toys, all the loss, pain and suffering - along with the myriad trophies, medals and awards - in a bankers box, seal it with glass-tape, grab a fat sharpie and mark it PAST. Bless that box. And then walk out of its grasp and into the reality of the current situation. Maybe one day you will find the strength to add a sub-heading disclaimer to the bold full-caps identifier, something like; 'An ego's collection of artifacts, flotsam and jetsam, props and interesting things found along the way that have all assisted to varying degrees, in the making of me.'

Julie sees that I am walking in that direction and offers her usual encouragement. "I feel good about our preparation. All the parts are in place. We have the cover of security that will allow us the overt use of communications, we have assets on the flip side, the location is wired from basement to ceiling and the wolves are hungry."

Harlan nods thoughtfully in agreement. I walk the line. There is no going back.

"Let's toss the red meat into their cage."

The Best of Them

 292.

I can play dumb with the best of them.

It has been my experience that the surest approach to gaining privileged information is to allow space. Quiet space. Humans, as a rule, dislike, distaste and disdain silence. It is awkward. Sitting opposite someone, the more power they wield the more likely they are to share examples of it, can be like listening to a yogi talk about the meaning of life. In the circumstance I currently find myself, seated six distanced feet across an barren desk from Senator Hartaugh, my tongue is almost bleeding from the sustained bite. A cartoon might show me offering sufficient rope for the occasion, in my mind a hanging, but in his, a haranguing. I try to keep the idea of the set-up and eventual take-down out of my mind to keep any semblance of a Cheshire cat-like grin from my face as I beg him to continue through my muteness.

"Because the trip is campaign specific and has the potential to deviate from standard operating procedure [he gives me a cock-headed, eyebrow raised nod and wink] we will not be bringing any tax-payer funded security along, meaning I am putting you and your team, of whatever number you determine appropriate, in total charge of it," he confides, linguistically moving closer to the gallows with every word.

I nod in solemn approval and wordlessly ask him to continue.

"The fact that I will me meeting with a powerful donor of, shall we say, non-traditional business arenas, although we have been on the same wavelength for many years, represents a PR challenge that we would prefer not to publicly engage in."

I again return the nod of understanding. Slowly this time as if playing the tapes back to ensure all innuendo and nuance is properly understood.

"Your security brief raised a number of red flags in regard [he uses this word as if it were pronounced closer to beauregard, french for handsome] to our new partner, Mr Goldson. I am going to press the issue of his association with far-right leaning groups and organizations," He secures the rope, "all for the best interests of our cause, the party and our patriot constituency."

It takes all my verve and will-power to keep from putting my cane upside his head, but I let him sinch the hangman's noose even tighter.

"Your directive is uncommonly simple, keep any media capturing devices, and by that I mean, cameras, recorders, media and uninvited parties outside a perimeter that we will establish. That and ensure our physical safety at all times. Do you think you can provide that service sir?" He asks.

I answer, "With pleasure sir," like the best of them.

Stealthy Geckos

 291.

"Infared and visible lights, very precise radio frequencies with noise a canceling audio spectrum all assist the reflection rates used in stealth technologies. It is the same principles, altered to suit our purposes by brilliant German scientists, that is used by the military to avoid radar detection," Drysdale schools The Queen, forgetting that she had once jacked a squadron of F-14s and disabled the surrounding military and civilian radar systems.

"There has to be a way of 'sensing' the bugs presence by the increase to the specific mass of any wall or ceiling?" She asks as Devil's advocate.

"That is the beauty of the lens screen as it has the capability to deflect any sensing devise by blending into its environment as a form lazer camouflage. Most likely why they call the technology Chamaleon Tech." Drysdale continues, oblivious to being playfully trolled by The Queen.

"Very cool, I'll never see another Gecko on the wall without thinking that it might be recording my every move in high-def."

"Are you up on Musk's Neuralink technologies?" He pushes the thread as they prep for installation in another set of rooms.

"Ultra-high bandwidth brain machine that interfaces to connect humans to computers?" She deadpans.

"Right, they have already tested it with monkeys, non-lethal testing mind you, and have documentation of them playing computer games by simply thinking about the best moves. One of them, I understand won a significant amount of cash at Call of Duty: Warzone, no easy task. So think what we could do with a team of trained Geckos, all transmitting audio and video feeds."

"We could rule the world."

"We SHOULD rule the world, then we wouldn't be doing this kind of grunt work." Drysdale let's slip in a moment of weakness.

"Without your loyal service, tactical skill and dedication to the mission, if this WAS a perfect world, what would you be doing?"

"One: This world will NEVER be prefect, and I don't say never often, but there will always be the need for someone to look after the safety and security, the basic freedoms, of those that cannot. And two: I took an oath, one I pledged to uphold, to protect our democracy and its Constitution against all enemies. I will always be in that pursuit. No matter what."

"You do your job well Drysdale. We need more guys like you."

Drysdale shoots her the skeptic's look to ensure that he isn't about to be the punch line of an inside joke.

"I'm serious, you guys, this entire team is solid gold. I owe you my life remember?"

"I remember clearly. We are lucky to have you on board. Thanks for your service. Hand me that bug, but be careful."

"Of what?"

"It might bite."

Another Revolution

 290.

"We are smack dab in the epicenter of another technological revolution," The Queen reminds Drysdale as they set about to wire the entire penthouse floor of the five-star Buccaneer Hotel. Drysdale, normally quiet, professional and stoic, has taken to their initial partnering assignment as if it represented a promotion. She is, after all, a brilliant thinker, master technician and very personable assistant. He finds the combination of her possessing BOTH perfect pitch and a photographic memory to be incredibly valuable assets for this type of high-risk police work.

"It would be difficult to argue against it," He replies as they assemble to tools of the trade and equipment necessary to fill the requirement of 'as close to total coverage' as possible.

Their suite looks more like the back-room of a hardware store than a luxury beach hotel room. The Queen's reference was in regard to the impossibly small bug, a low-res 1080x720 black and white video camera coupled with a tiny microphone capable of hearing the sea-breeze ruffle satin curtains from across the room. Wireless and measuring less than a quarter of an inch, the device slips into a hole bored by a cordless screwdriver specially outfitted with a diamond bit to hold the bug secure in any wall surface, from stucco to gypsum. Adding to the surveillance package is the screwdrivers attachments: An x-ray to scan the wall, woodwork or ceiling membrane to ensure that any electric wiring, mechanical conduit or plumbing is avoided, and a micro computer to match the surface material and color to provide a lens cover to match. "Best part might be its encasing material, complete stealth, cannot be detected by contemporary scanners." That the handheld tool is capable of all this is something they both find both fascinating and empowering.

"You haven't seen anything yet," Drysdale teases, "wait until we open the software."

"Can't wait."

Finished with the first of the two rooms; they have been granted access by hotel security under an arrangement secured by Goldson and our HQ, they move to test the coverage and operation of their work. Drysdale opens his laptop, enters his UN and PW and spins the screen a quarter turn to allow The Queen to view.

"Your user name is your initials and year of birth and password is somebody named SandyK32," she boldly announces, having hacked both in less than ten seconds.

"How did you do that?" Drysdale asks, eyes wide open.

"Number of keystrokes mainly, each key has its own sound, and they change with amount of use, the more dominant keys, centered around the middle of the board, create a deeper vibration than their less used counterparts. I got pretty good at it in my former enterprise." She explains.

"Incredible."

"You want to see incredible then let's open the software because I can almost guarantee you that we can add biometrics to the package, based on what hardware we have been using." She boasts more fact than brag.

"Amazing."

"Technology, testing and training." She says, reaching to press the enter key with her right index finger.

"It's a revolution."

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."

Right Watson?

288.

For any fan of Sir Arthur Ignatious Conan Doyle, the overuse of the expletive 'elementary' can range from mild to excessive. I use it in this case to underscore the obvious. We need to know the location of the meeting in order to prep our surveillance gear and thusly ensure quality recordings of both audio and video. Without it our entire operation, spanning as of today, two-hundred and eighty-eight days, six months of which I spent in a trauma induced coma, is nothing more than just another stake-out with marginal results. What the Brits might call nil-nil, a tie, no win and no loss, as bland as tea without honey. And completely unsatisfactory.

Having made the formal invite and now awaiting official response, Golsdon has his staff arrange the logistical details of the big meet. Davis, as Sharkey, uses his recent internal status upgrade to coerce a young and enthusiastic staffer into the details, he is, after all, part of the traveling envoy and has a set of standards with which he must adhere, if for no other reason than for the optics. "Sunglasses are always cool in winter," he says.

Once affirmed, he calls me with the details.

"The Buccaneer on Beauregard Bay. Looks like we have the entire penthouse floor. Should come as no surprise that the corporation has a 15% stake in the enterprise, with plans to expand into a full-fledge casino by the end of the year. The VI gaming commission is playing hardball with the license it seems, extortion by any other name."

"Alright, I will play dumb with Hartaugh and see if he agrees to the location and security. As soon as we have two-way conformation I'll send Drysdale down to get started. We don't want to miss this, so there will be cameras everywhere. Do we know who runs hotel security?" I ask.

"Not yet, but it is my understanding that we will be traveling with staff agents, about four, one has already been assigned to Saunders, ah Bess, and I. Decent guy, stoic but friendly, likes to fish. I'll see if I can get that from him."

"I am meeting with Hartaugh later today to hash specifics, let's exchange notes around 1800 your time."

"Roger on the 18, out."

I prep for another indoor cycling session, what has become the mainstay of my therapeutic convalescence. The intersection of endorphin flow and a relaxed focus seems to offer creative opportunities I greatly appreciate and anticipate. The rare chance to combine an active spirit with physical activity and a open mind is to my circumstance what a new case must have been to Doyle's Holmes and Watson.

Even before the work begins following a good warmup, a Holmes classic comes running down the cobbles towards me; "When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Am I right Watson?

Rain on Their Parade

 287.

"Should it surprise anyone that there was a struggle for power upon reading of the advance directive?" Davis asks. "Evidently the lawyers involved with the writing of the estate's Trust Fund Limited Partnership felt more comfortable in favoring the business side rather than the philanthropic, and assigned control to the CEO rather than the ex-wife. She, however is the beneficiary of the property, most assets and control of the several non-profits."

Julie scribbles notes as I lead the internal deposition.

"Sounds like Goldson put his guys, especially his lawyers, in the positions where they could influence the outcome and assume power, or am I missing something?" I question.

"As long as the widow feels she is being treated fairly, especially in regard to her community service equity, the waters are calm. She has retained the services of a third-party law firm to oversee the post-mortem dispensation of control, but mostly, from what I can gather, only as it relates to the business and not the family's estate or assets." Davis reports.

"Sounds like a potential nightmare, how the heck does one separate the family from the head of household's financial achievements?"

"That is the issue everyone is tap dancing around, up to and including Goldson. He has made it very clear that he intends to, shall we say, shoot first and ask questions later?"

"Dictatorship 101. Is the bug your guy planted still operating?"

"No, one of the janitors accidentally noticed it while doing a deep clean. Fortunately he didn't know what it was and tossed it out like a lost blazer button. No harm but we lost our ears. Happened about a week ago, sorry I should have notified you on that."

"Not a problem, we were a little concerned about Goldson's motivation and willingness to continue the dark relationship with Hartaugh, but that concern seems to have been lessened by their latest press release."

"I do know that Goldson spent a decent amount of time with his staff in the preparation of said document. There was, how do they say on the news, some fiery bipartisan debate?"

"This guy is street savvy. He may not be the sharpest knife in the kitchen, but he does control it. He has something up his sleeve, but, as long as we can steer him in the right direction I think he will do us a big favor. What is the latest on his meeting in St. Croix?"

"By all appearances he is looking forward to it. I know that he has arranged for security and blocked a solid week around the meet day. He asked us if we would like to travel with his executive party, an invite I couldn't pass on."

"Outstanding, we hope to be there as well, assuming Hartaugh accepts and asks for our help, which he should," I say. "Do we know when Goldson is going to formally invite the Senator to the meeting?"

"Sometime this evening."

"Excellent, so we should know by this time tomorrow," I summarize. "Great job my friend, see you soon."

"83 and sunny in the Caribbean today."

"Right, let's rain on their parade."

"Copy that boss."

USVI

286. "Why would he announce that?" I incredulously ask. "Maybe he thinks it is helping his chances of success, after all he is, first and foremost, a gambler," Julie replies with equal amounts of speculation and fact. "For a company their size one would think a capable PR department would be an essential element, but this… just don't get it. Let's pass it along to Davis and Saunders and have them question their motives, if any besides the obvious, are behind it, oh and is that bug still up in Goldson's office?" "Spotty, it was for short-time use, cheap, Radio Shack junior detective grade, but I'll ask when we share the intel," Julie responds. I shake my head to clear the distractive irritant and renew my efforts in drafting the security brief for the Senator. In a diagetic moment of inspiration my creative imagination suddenly turns from the binary realm of objective government speak, to something a little more colorful; suggestive shades of private sector gray. If I can script the essence of the intel into one of the several bullet points beneath the executive summary a watchful and experienced staff editor might catch the subtle innuendo intended and strike a yellow highlighter over the inclusion to alert the final pair of eyes, the ones referred to when restricting to 'your eyes only', to its Easter Egg potential. I take a first try at it: "It has recently been confirmed that Mr. Goldson and his philanthropic partner, the wife of his predecessor and notable contributor to Republican causes, have announced the startup of a political action committee designed to augment the control and security of on-line gambling and stock market manipulation by social media gaming consortiums. The principals are scheduled to meet in St. Croix, USVI, sometime soon." I visualize an intern striking a translucent sharpie through "wife of predecessor", "Republican causes", "on-line gambling", "stock market manipulation", and "sometime soon." Not to mention the Unites States Virgin Islands.