CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I met Logan at the Bridgetender Inn in Bradenton Beach for lunch. The rain had stopped, but it was still overcast. We sat in the bar overlooking the bay, a gray and colorless expanse of still water. The sailboats moored in the lagoon were buttoned up against the weather. I could hear the faint sound of generators humming in the distance, the boats keeping the air-conditioning flowing into the cabins. A large schooner was circling slowly out on the Intracoastal, waiting for the Cortez Bridge opening that was scheduled every twenty minutes.
“I had an interesting jog this morning,” I said.
“Yeah? More of those nude people on Beer Can Island?”
I laughed. “No. I think the police have pretty much convinced them that town ordinances don’t allow nudity.”
“Too bad. Some of the women weren’t bad to look at.”
“You’re a pervert.”
“What’s your point?”
I laughed again. Logan wasn’t nearly as bad as he wanted people to believe. “Somebody tried to kill me on the North Shore boardwalk.”
He put down the soda he’d been sipping. “What?”
“Guy came at me with a knife.”
“You okay?”
“Little cut. J.D. put a bandage on it.”
“What happened?”
I gave him the whole story.
Logan sat back in his chair. “If that guy’s elbow was as messed up as you say, he’s got to have medical attention.”
“Bill Lester’s got alerts out to all the area hospitals. If he shows up, they’ll get him.”
“What do you think the connection is to what you’re doing about Jim Desmond?”
“I don’t know. I guess somebody doesn’t want me knocking around in the investigation.”
“But why you? Why now? The cops have been looking into this thing for almost two months.”
“I don’t know that either, unless maybe my trip to Georgia got some people concerned that we might be closing in.”
“Trip wires?”
“Maybe. I’ve been over my trip and I can’t come up with anything unless it was my visit with the Otto Foundation.”
“That may be it. They have all kinds of ties with the Laotian government.”
“Yes. And the Cambodian and Vietnamese governments as well. The Otto Foundation works in all three countries.”
“When is Jock due in?”
“Late this afternoon. He’s flying into Tampa and will drive down.”
“Maybe he can tell us something about Soupy and his gang.”
“I hope so.”
It started raining again, great sheets of water washing from the sky. I watched the wall of rain coming across the bay until it got to us and blotted out our view. Lightning flashes seared the dark sky, loud bursts of thunder following closely. Our daily thunderstorm had arrived a little earlier in the day than usual. This much rain would overwhelm the drainage system on the southern end of Anna Maria Island, and by the time we headed south for Longboat, great puddles would be standing on the road that ran beside Coquina Beach.
We finished our meal and the waitress came to offer us dessert or another drink. “Gotta wait out the storm,” said Logan.
“We do.”
“Scotch would help.”
“It would.”
“You want a beer?”
“I could handle that.”
And so we idled away the afternoon watching the rain, sipping our drinks, and enjoying each other’s company. At some point J.D. called to say she had the Dulcimer file copied. I told her where we were and that since it was still raining we might be a while. She told me to call if we weren’t capable of driving when the rain stopped. She’d come get us.
At four, Jock called. “I’m about to cross the Cortez Bridge. Are you at home?”
“No. We’re at the Bridgetender. Come on by here.”
“Sounds as if you’ve been there a while.”
“Lunch ran a little long.”
He laughed. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
I saw him as he crossed Bay Drive, dodging the puddles of water that had accumulated on the old asphalt. He was wearing black; a black silk T-shirt, black slacks, socks, and loafers. He was six feet tall with the wiry body of the runner. His skin had the texture of a man who spent much of his time outdoors. The planes of his face were sharp, his head mostly bald except for the fringe of back hair. He walked with purpose, scanning the street and the outside deck of the Bridgetender, placing every piece of furniture and anybody who was wandering by, setting it in his mind in case he had to react, dodge the danger that he always expected. He was alert, as always, a habit born of many years of clandestine operations, of the need to react instantly to any perceived threat, to be just a little quicker than his adversaries in order to stay alive.
He’d parked in one of the parking places that fronted the little beach on the bay side of the road. I hadn’t paid any attention to the nondescript Chevrolet he’d rented at the Tampa airport as it nosed into the space. I didn’t see him get out of the car. To my mind, he was just there, crossing the road like an apparition that appeared without warning.
Jock Algren was many things. He worked for one of our government’s most secretive agencies, so secret that it had no name. Jock reported directly to the agency’s director, who reported only to the president of the United States. He’d spent his adult life, all the days since college, in the service of our country. He was an assassin who killed our enemies when it had to be done. He was a secret agent who infiltrated dangerous cells of individuals bent on destroying America. He was ostensibly an oil company executive, using the cover of that job to move about the world without arousing suspicion. Most of all, he was my best friend since junior high school, more a brother than a friend. Somehow we were Karmically joined at the hip. We were each other’s family.
I rose and embraced my old friend. He turned to Logan, hugged him, and said, “Looks like you guys have been at this a while.”
I looked at my watch. A little after four. “It’s been raining.” I hadn’t really had that much to drink. A couple of beers had carried me through the afternoon. Logan had worked the Dewar’s with determination, getting a little drunker with each drink, enjoying a day with nothing to do but watch the rain and sip his Scotch.
Jock sat and ordered an O’Doul’s, the nonalcoholic beer that he fancied. Other than the occasional glass of wine, he almost never drank alcohol. He once told me that it dulled his senses and a man in his line of work couldn’t afford to lose that finely honed edge that kept him alive.
I was the only person in the world who knew that when he came back from an operation, when he had blood on his hands that no amount of soap could remove, when he was questioning his right to live, he would crawl into a bottle of bourbon and stay there for several days. I was usually with him, his keeper as it were, the chaperone who kept him out of harm’s way while he cleansed his system with the spirits that came from the bottle. And when it was over, when the guilt and self-loathing had worked their way out of the pores of his skin on the backs of the molecules of alcohol, he would spend a few days in frantic exercise, running, working out in the gym, taking long steam baths, healing his body. Then he’d be fine, the latest bout of conscience finished, and we’d go back to our lives, I to the beach and Jock to the vague trenches that served as the front lines in our war against the terrorists who would obliterate our culture.
“Tell me what’s going on,” said Jock. “
Do you remember me telling you about the medic who pulled my ass out of the fire in Vietnam at the risk of his own life?”
“Yes.”
“He came to see me last week.” I spent the next thirty minutes laying out all that had happened since I’d found Chaz Desmond standing at my front door. I ended with the story of my brush with death that morning.
Jock was quiet for a moment, sipping his O’Doul’s. “What can I do to help?”
“I’d like to find out more about this Laotian, Souphanouvong Phomvihana and his operation. Can you get anything through your agency?”
“Sure. If he’s on the radar of any of our intel groups, we’ll have him.”
“What if he’s not?”
“If he’s in the poppy business, we’ll know about him.”
My phone rang. J.D.
“Are you sober?” she asked.
“I am, but I’m not at all sure about Logan. Jock’s here.”
“Bring Logan to your house and put him to bed. I’ll meet you there with the Dulcimer file and we can see if anything turns up. It’ll be good to have Jock’s eyes on it, too.”
I hung up, looked at Logan, said, “Want to go home to bed?”
“Are you shitting me?”
“You look a little under the weather.”
“I always look like this. I’m more sober than about ninety percent of the people on this island. What did J.D. want?”
I told him.
“Then let’s pay up and get this show on the road.” He got up from the table, threw some bills down, and walked toward his car. Steady as a rock.