Tom’s attention was drawn deeper than the text message he was reading and drawn to a high level of concern for his friend and partner now on the run. He discreetly returned his pda to his right front pocket and continued his stride politely in tow of a quite obvious pair of Quantico hope-to-be-graduates straight of central casting. The aptly dressed couple emanated the confidence they had been trained to portray. Their outfits matched exactly with the profile of a young husband and wife with a passion for sailboats Tom was sure that one or both had likely been a US Olympian or hopeful competitor in a small class boat category like an Albacore or one of the J-class based on the questions they tried to hide their inquiries behind.
“Mr. and Mrs. Greenman,” Tom began saying to try to close the interrogation he had been enduring, “The STARGIRL is a beautiful boat. I don’t know about the owner’s intent, but they have only recently arrived.” Continuing to lie, “They were quite anxious to get to the hotel when they arrived. I believe they may soon be newlyweds. Are you staying here tonight?” Tom turned the discussion back on the two.
“Yes, tonight and maybe tomorrow,” replied the phony wife – plainly the dominate “partner” in the relationship they tried to mask with little knowledge of Tom’s background and knowledge situations just like these.
“Well, I will be happy to pass along your contact information through the front desk for the owners. If they have any interest, they will call you directly. Frankly, brokering yacht sales is not something I can do as an employee of the resort. Of course, I also cannot provide you with any further personal information about the owners, nor any of the other bridal party members.” Tom dropped the last baited lie in as if he slipped up. He wondered, were they smart enough to know what just happened, or were the pure greenhorns with shit for brains.
“Thank you,” the husband character replied hesitantly, then finished with “when’s the wedding?”
Shit for brains.
“Saturday.” Tom replied with astonishment that was deliberately focused toward the wife figure.
Grabbing her “husband’s” arm, she turned the two of them back towards the hotel with an obvious authority and an attitude.
That was easy, Tom thought to himself. He actually enjoyed the fact that he knew he had unleashed a world of dumbass and heat on the jack-ass, father-of-the-groom for Saturday’s wedding whom had also arrived by sailboat with an accompanying armada of asshole friends. Tom hoped them well, because they were about to be swarmed with attention over the next few hours. Hopefully they could keep the attention for enough time to get Finne clear from the area.
Tom returned towards the outer docks, leaving the hurrying couple headed in the other direction – towards shore and the hotel. He stepped on and into one of the mid-sized monstrous yachts tied parallel to the bulkhead along the A dock. He quickly dialed his home fax machine from the satellite phone he knew to be on board.
“Ring. Ring”
Finne was quickly awoken from a creeping sleep with which he had obviously lost his battles over the past hour. Instinctively, he turned toward the clock on the wall he had marked upon arrival. It was exactly 15 minutes after the hour. Two rings.
“Ring.” Exactly one minute after the first two.
Finne found the receiver on the desk side fax machine and picked it up knowing with full confidence who was calling. It was their code. He was expecting the call.
“Hello.” Finne answered with a deepened voice – just in case.
“I was just sent a Hawkeye by txt while answering someone’s questions about a boat here in the marina. I sent them on a bit of a tour that should keep their attention for another 12 -18 hours if they are as green as I think they are.” Tom began. “You need to head away from here without drawing any attention. Purdy’s boat is not an option, I am sure some freak contractor would chase that down with a bird just for the youtube video he could get from the film.”
Finne understood the severity of Tom’s frank summary of the situation. He knew a “Hawkeye” to be an acknowledgement from friendly forces that you were on their cameras at that moment. A txt was a common was to share the professional courtesy to fellow brothers in arms within the IC. Tom was given a heads up that eyes were on and he confirmed at least a pair of agents asking about the boat.
“Take the pickup truck from the guesthouse garage. The keys are under the driver’s side floor mat. If you follow the shoreline south, you will not draw much attention. You need to put another 50 miles between here and you right now!” Tom exclaimed.
“I get it, they have birds in the area. I can handle a quite drive. Sorry to have brought this nearby. We’ll scat clean and fast.” Finne replied with a tone of confidence meant to settle his friend’s never-before-been-shaken nerves.
“Finne, the Hawkeye came from a HQ-1 operator – referring to the Predator Drone model of aircraft. He doesn’t fly sissy stare surveillance. He’s got missiles. He doesn’t fuck around.” Tom finished then hung up the satellite phone receiver. He dislodged the phone’s battery - ensuring it was shut down, then exited the yacht with just as much invisibility as with which he had boarded.
Finne hung up the line and began inventorying his possessions and formulating his plan to escape. He turned toward the longer couch and confirmed Sarah was still safe and within his custody. Finne was not used to dozing off in a mission environment and that angered him. He was focused now. He knew how to play this out.
