“All facts aren’t going to become known. I would say no harm could come from you making an introduction. Provide some sat photos. These are small things. You know the strategy. If they are successful in stopping whatever our Russian friend is up to, then we’ll be in a position to win. If they aren’t, then we’ll still win, only via a different route. But we have to manage things so we appear to be disinterested observers.”
Terry nodded. “Of course. Is there any chance we get sucked into this in an official capacity later?”
“None at all. We’re just trying to grease wheels here. Sort of like benevolent guardian angels. We can’t appear to intercede or favor anyone, and we have to be able to claim ignorance no matter what happens.”
Terry switched gears. “What do you make of the death of the governor general?”
“A stroke of good luck. If the Russian is successful in his scheme, he believes he will get the concession for the new field and that the current interests in the region will be rejected. But I’ve already had assurances that the new governor general, a gentleman who’s predisposed to our preferences, will request British and American troops to help the beleaguered nation battle the drug cartels responsible for the heinous violence — that’s in actuality the Russians. That will result in a U.S. military presence in Belize for the first time, and will pave the way for U.S. companies to help the country extract and refine its oil.”
“Grigenko will go nuts. That’s a double cross…”
“Indeed it is. But nobody said life was fair, and it’s not our deal — we never gave Grigenko any go ahead to pull this stunt. Once the governor general has made the request for assistance, you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, and it is a fait accompli. Doesn’t matter what deals the Russian had before with the prospective new administration, the following one will trump it and set in motion a completely different course than the one he’s banking on. A course that’s good for us.”
“And if the pair is successful?”
“Then the governor general will take actions that still ensure our interests prevail. Either way, we win.”
“If that’s the case, then why help the Israelis?”
“The Russian is getting too big for his britches, and if someone can cut him off at the knees, that saves us the trouble down the road. He’s pissed off the wrong people. But the important thing from our perspective is that we don’t really care who wins. Either outcome will result in a positive for us.”
Terry took a swig of his nonfat soy latte and shook his head. “Kind of astounding that coffee is more expensive than gasoline.”
“So is bottled water. Amazing what you can convince people to spend their money on, isn’t it?” Sloan sipped his tea. “Anything else?”
“We didn’t have anything to do with the late governor general’s untimely demise, did we?”
“Of course not,” Sloan said, his face stony, impossible to read. “Is there anything else?”
Terry’s stomach lurched at the response. He was almost sure the man was lying.
“Not really. I just wanted to hear it straight from you.”
“Have no fear, Terry. This is just another skirmish — a relative non-event. Oh, and funds will be transferred to the usual account tomorrow. As always, the group is grateful for your efforts.”
Terry was low-key about his occasional windfalls, but they helped his lifestyle. With a wife, three kids, private schools and a substantial mortgage, he was usually strapped. An extra tax-free hundred grand a year nobody knew anything about enabled him access to the platinum-level escorts that he couldn’t have dreamt of on his pay grade. And the world was being kept safe for capitalism. Everyone got what they needed out of the deal.
Terry stood and, without saying any more, descended the stairs and left the establishment, walking slowly to his car.
Sloan waited five minutes and then departed by the rear entrance, making a stop at the bakery next door to get a chocolate chip bagel for a pre-dinner snack.
Neither man had any guilt about renting his station to shadowy representatives of mega corporations. After all, the same companies paid hundreds of millions every year to lobbyists to push for amendments to legislation that would have cramped their style, or to agitate for this country or that to be invaded or overthrown. All Terry and Sloan were doing was taking a small slice off a loaf that had been their good fortune to be offered. If it wasn’t them, it would just be someone else. You couldn’t fight human nature.
Pragmatism was the philosophy of survival, and Sloan had learned the hard way that any other belief system was misguided foolishness. He’d watched enough of his more ethical peers fall by the wayside during his career. Let someone else save the whales or protest injustice. His stay on the planet was scheduled to be all too brief, and job number one was to get what he could and make himself happy.
In the end, well-intentioned ideologies were developed for those without access to money.
Fortunately, he had access.
End of story.
Jet and David pulled themselves up onto the dock at the St. Raphael resort marina and waved goodbye to the deckhand, who was already gliding away in the tender, returning to the yacht a few kilometers offshore. The water was dead calm near the island, and within a minute, he diminished into a dot moving out to sea.
They shouldered their bags and walked to the main hotel building, where they could get a cab. No customs or immigration officials were in evidence, and whether that was typical or had been arranged, they didn’t know, but they were grateful for it. From this point on, things would get easier — it wouldn’t be necessary to skulk around.
Cyprus was a good choice as a gateway. A member of the European Union, the island nation was a business and banking center, and had a decent number of flights departing any given day. They could blend into the crowd of business or holiday travelers and not raise any eyebrows — key to a safe getaway from the region.
They approached the waiting taxi line, and a bellman blew his whistle, signaling the next in the queue to pull forward. The trunk popped open, and they dropped their bags in, then gave the driver instructions to take them to the airport thirty miles away.
Traffic was sparse along the well-maintained road, passing through modern towns as well as villages that had been there since before the birth of Christ. The driver had the radio on low — listening to music that sounded like someone had tied percussion instruments to a cow then set it running down an alley. Jet took David’s hand and leaned into him as they watched the rugged countryside go by.
Once at the airport, they booked a flight to Madrid that was due to depart in an hour. They carried on their bags and submitted to the cursory and uninspired security precautions before settling themselves into their seats near the front of the plane.
Soon they were airborne, watching the island disappear beneath their wings as they banked west on the long route to Europe, the surface of the Mediterranean shimmering in the sun’s glow.
They dozed en route to Madrid, and David seemed better rested once they landed. After checking the departure schedule, they bought tickets on an Iberia direct flight to Mexico City departing the following day — the first nonstop available.
The eleven-hour flight to Mexico City was uneventful, and customs posed no problem. Within a few hours, they were boarding a flight to Cancun. From there, they would take a bus to the border, a six-hour ordeal, and then fly from Corozal to Belize International Airport, where they would rent a car and drive the hundred miles south to Punta Gorda. With any luck, they would make it by dark.
When they got off the plane in Cancun, the heat and humidity slammed into them, and within minutes, their shirts were soaked through with sweat. As David checked with the information booth on flights to Belize City — on the off chance one was departing that day — Jet chatted with a friendly baggage handler about the weather and the road to Chetumal, on the Belizean border. When David returned, he had a grin on his face.
“We’re in luck. Flight leaves in two hours to Belize City. An hour flight versus seven hours of bus and prop plane hell. I’m going in to book the tickets. There’s an internet cafe inside — can you go online and see about rental cars and hotels?”
“Sure. I’m guessing there aren’t a lot of choices in Punta Gorda. What is it, population sixty-five hundred?”
“If that. But I looked before, and there’s a handful to choose from. Pick something private,” he said over his shoulder before disappearing into the terminal.
She located the computers and booked a Jeep, then searched for hotels. As she had suspected, the options were limited, and she eventually selected one a few blocks north of the cemetery, on the water. Even if they
