A Five Year Plan

Chapter Eleven

Kent Bowen parked his Jimmy and walked up a long slope toward the hotel entrance. The Hyatt Regency occupied a prime site in Fort Lauderdale, on the west side of the Seventeenth Street Causeway Bridge. From its revolving Pier Top cocktail bar you could see for miles around and Bowen had good reason to remember the place with special affection. It was in the Pier Top, last St Valentine’s Day, while drinking delicious Margaritas, that he had asked Zola to marry him. On her accepting his proposal they had adjourned to a beach motel on Bayside Drive where they had taken a room for the night to consummate their love. A Scot by descent, and thus, by his own estimation a thrifty, hard-headed man, Bowen had never been the kind to throw money around. But that ranked as one of the most perfect evenings of his life.

He walked in the door of the hotel and made for the elevator, pausing only to buy a copy of Luxury Florida Homes in the gift shop. There was nothing like seeing how the other half lived on Florida’s premier real estate to encourage the dreams he had when he bought his weekly lottery ticket. Not that he would ever throw his wealth around if he did win. Bowen liked to think of himself using his as yet unfound wealth with discretion. Enjoyment with anonymity. Dressed from head to toe in Tilley Endurables, he felt as anonymous as the situation now required, mixing unnoticed with the guests who were staying in the hotel.

Bowen rode the elevator up to the floor below the Pier Top, and walked round the hall to the east-facing suite where the stakeout was located. Standing in front of the door, he glanced one way and then the other before knocking carefully. A few seconds passed and then the door opened on the chain.

Kate Furey almost laughed. Most of all it was the hat that got to her.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said, as if he had been wearing a Santa Claus outfit.

‘Of course it is,’ she said and let him in.

Bowen advanced through the door and glanced around the suite before she ushered him into the bedroom.

‘Hi there.’

At the window, behind an arsenal of high-powered lenses mounted on tripods, two bored-looking men grunted back. A third, wearing headphones and facing a whole sound stage of eavesdropping equipment, remained silent, unaware that someone had come into the room. Kate left all three unidentified. She knew that Bowen wasn’t looking for introductions. More than likely he had driven up from Miami in search of a free lunch.

‘Nice room,’ he remarked. ‘Very nice indeed.’

Kate shrugged as if she herself didn’t much care for it and said, ‘Actually, this is supposed to be a suite.’

‘A suite? Jesus, Kate, how much is that costing?’

‘Same as a room. I got a rate.’

‘How come?’

‘My can’t-happen-soon-enough-ex-husband acted for the hotel in a personal injury suit. I seem to remember it was some dim-witted dork who injured himself in the revolving bar upstairs. It’s really tacky, but a great view. I guess that’s why they go there. The airheads.’ Kate laughed with undisguised contempt. ‘Give them something to talk about when they think they’re being romantic. You want to take a look at it before you go.’

Bowen said stiffly, ‘Thanks, I already did.’

Kate giggled. ‘I guess they think it’s pretty soigné, but I thought it was like being inside a really cheap sports watch.’

‘Hardly that cheap, I’d have thought,’ bristled Bowen.

‘Damn right,’ said one of the men on the cameras. ‘Last night I paid ten bucks for the worst goddamn Margarita I ever tasted.’

Kate looked at Bowen. ‘There’s not much you can see up here when it gets dark,’ she offered by way of an excuse.

‘I guess not.’

Kate said, ‘I could show you some pictures, but right now you can see the live action.’

Bowen clapped his hands together purposefully. ‘Then let’s take a lookee-see what we can I-spy, shall we?’

The big lenses were focused on the opposite side of the Stranahan River and the Portside Yacht Club where some of the biggest and most expensive boats in Fort Lauderdale were moored. The cameraman who reckoned he knew a good Margarita when he tasted one, took Bowen through the cameras like a salesman in a Sharper Image store.

‘This one, the 500-mill, gives you a pretty good view of the whole boat and what’s happening on the mooring.’

Bowen swept off his Tilley hat and pressed his eye close to the viewfinder. At 110 feet long the Britannia was hardly the biggest vessel in the harbor. Not with Trump about. And she was dwarfed by the 150-foot triple storey moored alongside. But with her large flying bridge and elegant lines she was a graceful-looking boat. Fun too, if the small speedboat, Wet Bikes, Jetskis, and Hobiecat she had on board were anything to go by. Not to mention the naked female occupant of the Jacuzzi on the bridge.

Bowen grinned and said, ‘I’ll have me some of that. Who’s the little lady with the bubbles?’

Kate sighed wearily and said, ‘So far as we can tell her name is Gay Gilmore.’

‘Gary’s sister, huh?’ sniggered Bowen. The girl in the Jacuzzi rubbed some bubbles over her breasts. ‘Hey, let’s do it, babe.’

‘Actually, she’s from New Zealand. Until a few weeks ago she was working illegally as a table dancer at a joint on Collins. Right now, she seems to be the Britannia captain’s main squeeze.’

The Margarita man said, ‘You can see him on the 800-mill here. Name of Nicky Vallbona. He’s the ugly bastard on the aft deck.’

Reluctantly, Bowen changed cameras and found himself looking at a dark man with a pencil-thin mustache. He said, ‘You’re right, he is an ugly bastard.’

‘He’s clean as far as we’re concerned,’ said Kate.

‘What does a babe like her see in a hog like him?’ mused Bowen.

The second cameraman stirred on his chair to put out his cigarette. He snorted and said, ‘The boat, I shouldn’t wonder. Chick seems to like it as much as she likes him. Comes and goes pretty much as she pleases. Always in that Jacuzzi. I believe she’s quite popular with the folks looking through the telescope up on the Pier Top. She’s becoming a regular tourist attraction.’

Bowen moved back to the first camera to take another look at Gay Gilmore.

‘Me I prefer the boat next to the Britannia,’ said the Margarita man. ‘That one belongs to Sean Connery.’

‘007’s got a boat here in Lauderdale?’ Bowen’s voice betrayed excitement. ‘Any pictures of the big guy himself?’

The two cameramen exchanged a guilty look and then shook their heads simultaneously.

‘No,’ lied one.

Bowen said, ‘You’re right though. It is a nice boat. Sean Connery, eh? Matter of fact my own ancestors were Scottish. From Edinburgh. Just like him.’

‘I guess there are lots of other similarities,’ said Kate.

But Bowen was too interested in Connery’s boat and the naked girl on the Britannia to be aware of Kate’s sarcasm.

Kate said, ‘I checked out your theory, sir. With Palmer Johnson Yachts right here in Fort Lauderdale. They’re one of the biggest makers of boat hulls in Florida. The guy I spoke to, Luis Madrid, said it was possible that you might get a hull made of compressed cocaine that might look like the real thing when covered with a linear polyurethane coating. But that it would hardly perform to the same standard.’

Bowen had moved back to the 800-mill lens to get a closer view of Gay Gilmore’s naked body. She was touching herself all over now, almost as if she knew that people were watching. The thought occurred to him that maybe she was acting as some kind of distraction to keep people watching what was happening in the Jacuzzi and not somewhere else. But swinging the camera lens all around it didn’t seem that there was much else to see. Just Vallbona talking on the cellular.

‘I wonder who Nicky’s talking to on his Nokia,’ he murmured.

‘Right now, it’s his bookmaker,’ said Kate.

Bowen looked up for a moment, surprised.

‘You can really tell that from up here?’

‘Sure. We’ve got a Cellmate System,’ said Kate. ‘We have intercepted one call I think you’ll find is of particular interest.’

She went over to the man wearing the headphones and tapped him gently on the shoulder. The man, bearded and stale looking, as if in need of air and sunlight, lifted the headphones from his appropriately large ears.

‘Colin. This is Kent Bowen, the AS AC in charge of this operation. Could you play him the SYT tape we made?’

‘Sure thing, Kate.’

Colin drew his laptop toward him, pulled down a menu and chose a file from the list of recordings he had made. The Cellmate was connected to the laptop via an SCSI cable and to a digital tape recorder by means of a parallel interface. The Cellmate itself looked like a larger cellular telephone with some additional controls.

‘SYT file coming up,’ said Colin and hit the return on his laptop.

Kate said, ‘The first voice you’ll hear, the guy with the Spanish accent, is the shipping agent, Juan Sedeno. Nicky Vallbona is the second voice.’

Bowen nodded and pulled up a chair and listened as the tape began to play:

‘Stranahan Yacht Transport.’

‘I’d like to book my vessel aboard your ship for the March voyage to Palma, Mallorca. From Port Everglades.’

‘All right sir. Your own name, the name of your vessel, and the name of her owner?’

‘I’m Nicky Vallbona and I’m the captain of the Britannia. She’s owned by Azimuth Marine Associates in the British Virgin Islands.’

‘Virgin Islands... Can you tell me please, what are the dimensions of your own boat?’

‘Length is thirty-four meters, beam is 7.3, and the draft 1.8.’

‘One point eight... Any bow pulpit?’

‘No.’

‘Swimming platform?’

‘Yes, it’s three feet long.’

‘Three feet. What about tender storage?’

‘On-board.’

‘Hmmm. March, you say...’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, we can accommodate you, Captain Vallbona. The cost will be approximately 93,500 American dollars. That figure includes stevedoring on both sides of the Atlantic, diver’s assistance, all lashing and securing, keel blocks and chine supports, passage for two crew members, and all insurances.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Do you have our booking form, Captain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you please complete it and fax it back to us as soon as possible?’

‘No problem. I’ll do it right away.’

‘Thank you for calling. Goodbye, Captain.’

‘Goodbye.’

The conversation ended and the tape turned itself off automatically.

‘Wanna hear it again?’ asked Colin.

Bowen said, ‘Hell no. Speaks for itself, doesn’t it? Obviously the boat isn’t seaworthy on account of how the hull’s probably made of pure cocaine. So they’re doing what I always suspected they would do. Getting someone else to ferry it across the Atlantic for them. Perfect cover too. When you think about it. Rocky Envigado’s boat rubbing fenders with what passes for high society in these parts.’

Listening to Bowen claim her theory — or at least half of it anyway — as his own, Kate felt her jaw muscles tighten. She wanted to remind him, to tell him that he was so full of shit he made her sick. Only he kept talking, on and on, like some asshole politician on TV. In a perfect world she could have reached for the remote and hit the mute button. Or maybe just forced the remote into his big stupid mouth and battered it down his throat with the heel of her shoe. But all she did instead was turn her back on him in an attempt to hide her anger.

‘The only question is what we do about it,’ continued Bowen. ‘Whether we choose to pass the matter on to the Spanish police or mount some kind of undercover operation of our own.’ He paused and glanced around. ‘What do you think, Kate?’

Kate cleared her throat and tried to struggle out of the sea of resentment in which she had suddenly found herself. But when she answered him it still came out bitter and sarcastic.

‘Me? What do I think?’ A hollow laugh tumbled out of her mouth. ‘What? I tell you, so you can tell me later? Is that the kind of what-do-I-think you mean, sir?’

Bowen frowned and said, ‘Something bothering you, Kate?’

Even when she was being offensive he didn’t pick up on it. Kate shook her head, pitying him as she would have pitied a dog left in a car on a hot day.

Only Bowen managed to misinterpret that too. He said, ‘Good. Because, you know, March is just around the corner. There’s no time to lose here.’

Kate wondered exactly how Kent Bowen had got to be an ASAC in the first place and considering the possibility that there existed within the Bureau some kind of affirmative action policy on behalf of dumb deputy sheriffs from Kansas. Quietly, she said, ‘I’ve got some ideas.’

‘Well, I want to hear them.’

She led him through to the sitting room next door, waved him toward a big horseshoe-shaped sofa and went over to the mini-bar.

‘Want something to drink?’

‘Just a Diet Coke.’

Kate came back with two regulars on ice and put them down on a table that was a sheet of round glass atop a Corinthian capital. It wasn’t just the Pier Top that looked tacky; it was the furniture as well. But this was true of nearly everywhere in Florida. You just had to look in the copy of Luxury Florida Homes Kent Bowen had with him to know that.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ she said. She picked up a pack of Doral and lit one without waiting for an answer.

‘Go right ahead,’ said Bowen and winced in response to her first inhalation.

Still holding her cigarette she pushed her dark hair clear of her face and marshalled her thoughts. She said, ‘OK, this is my idea.’

Bowen nodded and said, ‘You made your point, Agent Furey.’

‘I did?’

‘It slipped my mind that you were the one who predicted Rocky would use the yacht transport. I apologize.’

Kate shrugged. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘It’s not important. What’s important is that we nail the perps. Here, and in Europe, right?’

Bowen looked doubtful. He said, ‘Can’t say I give much of a shit what happens in Europe. But please don’t tell any of those liaison officer friends of yours I said so. It would be bad for diplomatic relations.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of telling any of them anything I wasn’t supposed to,’ she said, aware of how earnest she sounded, but wondering if Bowen still harbored any suspicions about a relationship with the Dutchman. She took another life-threatening drag on her Doral and added, ‘Nevertheless, the Assistant Director has recently gone on record to say that he believes helping the Europeans win their war on drugs may be one way of helping us to win ours.’

This was news to Bowen. ‘He did, huh?’

‘It was in the FBI Foreign Intelligence Coverage folder last month.’

Bowen smiled, dismissively. ‘Oh, that.’

‘And in response, there was a Miami SAC memo. Presley Willard wrote to the Director just a couple of weeks ago, assuring him that Miami General Investigations would do everything it could to support this initiative.’

Bowen, who had no knowledge of this memo, closed his eyes briefly and said, ‘I remember that.’ He swallowed some of his Coke and began to crunch on a piece of ice as if it were peanut brittle. It was her turn to wince now.

‘I take your point, Kate.’

‘Then as I see it, we need to keep the narcotics under surveillance for the duration of the voyage. It’s no good just waving goodbye to the yacht transport when they exit Port Everglades.’ Kate pointed out the window. ‘That boat should never leave our sight. Which means we have to book a boat of our own aboard the same transport. Crewed by two FBI agents, in radio contact with a US Navy submarine and, when we cross the Atlantic, the British and the French navies too. While we’re aboard the transport it will give us a chance to get a closer look at Rocky’s boat, which, so far, we’ve been unable to do. Moreover, we can keep a close eye on things just in case they try to unload the dope while they’re still at sea. Maybe even transfer it to another boat on the same transport, just to put us off the scent.’

Bowen, who hadn’t thought of that, swallowed the icy shards and pulled a face.

‘This idea of yours. It sounds expensive. Number one, where are you going to get a suitable boat? And number two, who’s going to pay the costs of transportation? You heard how much it costs. Ninety thousand dollars. I can’t see the SAC authorizing that level of expenditure.’

Kate smiled and said, ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve found a boat. Or rather Sam Brockman’s found me one. Seems like the Coast Guard boarded an abandoned boat off Key West the other day and found it full of dope. Eventually, of course, it will go into government auction, but right now it’s moored in Miami and available for a covert operation. The Coast Guard were planning something themselves, only it fell through and now they’re offering it to us. It’s ideal for our purposes, sir. Eighty-four feet long, twenty-two knot cruising, and all state-of-the-art facilities. I’m talking about a really luxurious yacht, here. As for the money, well I’ve an idea where we can get that too.’

Bowen said, ‘You’re going to suggest that latest tranche of Gulf Stream money, aren’t you?’

Operation Gulf Stream had been another undercover Miami Bureau op in the early 1990s, mounted against one of the biggest money-laundering machines in Florida. A Miami gold and jewelry business run by one of the larger Colombian cartels had laundered millions of dollars through the Bank of Credit and Commerce International, shut down by the Bank of England in 1991. Weeks before BCCI’s collapse, the jewelry business had withdrawn large sums of cash and placed them in safety deposit boxes throughout the state. Even now, several years afterward, boxes full of cash were being discovered by Bowen’s own department — the latest, just a few days ago in a Liberty City bank, containing 200,000 British pounds sterling.

Kate shrugged and said, ‘Why not? It’s not as if it’s even been entered in the report yet.’

‘It’ll have to be accounted for.’

Kate said, ‘Sure. Eventually.’

‘What’s a British pound worth these days?’

‘About a dollar fifty.’ Kate pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. ‘$100,000 worth of that versus the European street value of a 1,000 keys of coke? I’d say that was money well spent.’

‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re the best person to handle this little operation?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Well for one thing, you’ve never worked undercover before.’

‘I was a pretty good actress in high school.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

Kate said, ‘Undercover’s just about being a good liar. How difficult can that be? Men do it all the time.’

‘And for another, you’re a woman.’

‘Is that an objection, or merely an informed guess, sir?’

‘Now don’t go bristling like a hairbrush, Kate. It’s just my impression that it’s mostly men who crew and captain these motor yachts.’

Kate took a long drag of her cigarette with eyes narrowed against the smoke and the sexual prejudice. Since when did the captain of a boat have to be a man? Women had sailed solo around the world. There had been female pirates. These days there were even a couple of female admirals in the US Navy. Kent Bowen, on the other hand, didn’t look like he could have captained a chair around his own desk.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said acidly. ‘It so happens that one of the other vessels booked onto the SYT transport this March is captained and crewed entirely by women.’

Bowen grinned. ‘What are they, Amazons, or something?’

‘Boat’s owned by Jade Films.’

‘Jade Films? The porno people?’

Kate made a performance out of looking surprised. She said, ‘You’ve heard of them?’

Bowen shook his head casually. ‘There was something in Newsweek about them, I think. To do with the guys who work in the sex industry.’

‘I read that article,’ she said. ‘It was a good piece. But I don’t think I remember anything about Jade Films in there.’

‘Oh come on, Kate,’ said Bowen, uncomfortably. ‘I’m not that kind of guy.’

She thought, none of them were. Not until you got a look at the cable company account, and then it was just a bit of harmless fun.

Bowen said, ‘What takes them across the Atlantic, anyway?’

‘The Cannes Film Festival.’

‘Cannes?’

‘It’s in Spain,’ she said, knowing full well that Cannes was actually in the South of France.

‘I know where it is. Cannes. That’s kind of like the Oscars, isn’t it?’

‘Only classier.’

Bowen sniggered. ‘With Jade Films in attendance? I hardly think so.’

‘In attendance, but not in competition for the Palme d’Or. Cannes is a marketplace for just about anyone who’s involved in the movie industry. And that includes people like Jade Films. Anyway, the point I’m making here is that this is a 160-foot twin screw diesel yacht captained and crewed entirely by women.’

‘Twin screw, huh?’ smirked Bowen.

Kate smiled patiently, waiting for the ribald punch line she felt certain was coming.

He said, ‘Would they be identical twins, or just sisters?’

Kate kept on smiling as Bowen laughed his Beavis and Butthead laugh, trying her damnedest to look amused. Crushing out her cigarette like she was pinching him hard, Kate let her eyes drift sideways as if they were slipping off Bowen’s oleaginous personality. But only he could OK putting her plan in front of Presley Willard, the Miami Bureau’s Special Agent in Charge. Be nice, she told herself. Don’t piss him off. Maybe he is an asshole but you don’t have to stick the toe of your shoe in there. Be accommodating. This is the dork who could green-light a free trip across to Europe. To some real adventure.

‘How’d you find out about that anyway?’ he asked. ‘Jade Films going on the transport.’

‘Same way we found out about Rocky’s boat. We’ve been intercepting all SYT’s calls. I thought we ought to know about some of the other people who are going. Look, sir, you yourself said we have to move fast. March is just around the corner and there’s only so much space left aboard the transport. If we leave this too long it will be nothing other than a great idea that might or might not have worked out for us.’

Bowen stood up and went over to the sitting-room window. To the south of the bridge was Port Everglades, the deepest port in Florida. Formerly known as Mabel Lakes it had been a shallow marsh in the wide section of the Florida East Coast Canal until President Calvin Coolidge threw a switch that was supposed to detonate an explosion to open the inlet. Except that the long-distance switch from Washington didn’t work and someone had to set off the explosion locally. Another great idea that didn’t work. Ordinarily Bowen was suspicious of good ideas. But he had to admit, Kate’s idea about getting their own boat aboard the SYT transport was a good one.

Out in the harbor, Bowen could see as many kinds of boat as there were varieties of fish. Military ships, Coast Guard and police boats, island freighters from the Caribbean, tugs and tankers, cruise ships full of holidaymakers wondering if they were going to get mugged in Miami, sailboats, schooners, barges and motor yachts. Everything but a guy floating in a barrel.

The scent of perfume made him turn around. Kate was standing a foot or so behind his shoulder and handing him a pair of binoculars. He lifted them to his eyes and let her describe the port facilities.

‘Going anticlockwise, you’ve got passenger and cargo terminals. That’s where our SYT ship departs from. Then the US Customs building. Gasoline storage tanks. This is the biggest gas station in the south. Did you know that?’

Kate was letting him know that she knew the port. It was her way of reminding him that she knew boats and that she was ideally qualified for the operation she had outlined. ‘Those four red and white chimneys? You can see them for miles out to sea. Yachtsmen use them as navigation aids. They belong to the Florida Power and Light Company. Coming left of there you’ve got Port Administration, the World Trade Center, and more cargo terminals. Coming further back round to us again, and that’s the Naval Surface Warfare Center.’

Bowen was thinking: she smells as good as she looks. It might be fun to go undercover with Kate. Best-looking girl in the Miami Bureau. The two of them aboard a luxury yacht together? He might even get lucky with her. Hadn’t he always suspected that she had a soft spot for him? That was why she gave him such a hard time. Because she was trying to disguise the fact that, in reality, she was powerfully attracted to him. Why else would anyone speak to their boss the way she spoke to him? And it wouldn’t be like they’d actually have to do very much on the boat. As she herself had said, it was just a question of keeping a close eye on Rocky’s boat and maintaining radio contact with a navy submarine. There was even a sub in port. What could go wrong?

Kate said, ‘I’m not exactly sure what the sub is called, but the aircraft carrier is the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Oh yes, and up on the point there? That’s a restaurant owned by Burt Reynolds.’

‘Burt Reynolds? Really?’

Kate grimaced as Bowen eagerly tried to get a better focus on the mission-style building that housed the restaurant. He was such a putz, such a tourist that it might have been only yesterday he’d left Kansas.

‘Burt Reynolds,’ he repeated dumbly.

‘Actually,’ she admitted, ‘I’m not sure if it’s still owned by him. Not since he filed for bankruptcy anyway.’

‘You know, back in the seventies, he was just about my favorite movie actor.’

Kate’s grimace became even more pronounced. Jesus, that clinched it. She was with the one guy in the whole world who enjoyed Smokey and the Bandit.

Bowen said, ‘You know, I think I can probably persuade Presley that this is a good idea.’ He handed back the binoculars.

‘Great.’

‘You said two crew?’

‘Just two.’

‘Any undercover mission is not without its dangers,’ he said pompously. ‘But it’s just possible that we might also have some fun along the way.’

Kate swallowed. ‘We?’

Bowen glanced at his cheap sports watch.

‘Why don’t we go to Burt’s place and discuss it over lunch?’ he said.

‘Burt’s place?’ She wondered if Bowen hadn’t heard what she had said about the bankruptcy.

‘It’s still open, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. OK. If you really want to,’ said Kate, wondering if there was some kind of opposite for the saying ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’

In Bowen’s Jimmy, driving toward ‘A’ dock and the restaurant, she managed to buoy herself up with the thought that she might be able to deflect him — put him off the whole idea of coming along. Perhaps she could paint a picture of a transatlantic crossing that was a wave or two higher than Gericault’s great masterpiece The Raft of the Medusa. A few well-chosen images over lunch that might scare the landlubbing shit out of him. By the time they reached Burt & Jack’s, Kate was on an even keel again and paid little or no attention to a news report on the radio about an air traffic controllers’ strike. Even if she had listened more carefully she would have had no reason to think the strike would last more than a couple of days; nor to suppose that it would have implications for the March voyage of SYT’s semi-submersible vessel, the Grand Duke. There was only one thing on her mind now and it was that she somehow had to put Kent Bowen off a transatlantic voyage without jeopardizing his backing for the whole operation. Entering the restaurant she got ready to tell her boss a story that would make the storm in The Caine Mutiny look like another Pleasant Valley Sunday.