Well… maybe the team flying in from D.C. would be late-the weather had been terrible up there, stormy and cold even though it was June.
No, they were early.
I was placing the letter inside a Ziploc bag when I heard a decisive ding-ding-ding. Then a woman’s voice called, “Dr. Marion Ford? Do we have the right place?”
I went out to the deck, pulling the wooden door closed behind me. I would usher them straight to the lab, and spare myself explaining why someone had tried to torch my house. Two men and a woman stood near the brass ship’s bell, looking up from the lower platform. Efficient, professional, humorless. Exactly what I’d expected.
My new employer was one of the best-known U.S. intelligence agencies. The organization recruited heavily from the Ivy Leagues. These three had the look. They’d put in their time, had moved up the corporate ladder, and they were dressed for business. Briefcases and suits. I was wearing khaki shorts and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to my forearms.
I was buttoning one of the sleeves as I called, “Welcome to Sanibel. Ready to de-ice?” I smiled, trying to set the tone for what awaited them.
Pointless to try. I had no idea…
As I held the screen door open, the woman, whose name was Margaret Holderness, stepped into the lab, then stopped, forcing the two men behind her to stop.
“My God,” I heard her say, “is that a cadaver?”
What?
I slipped past them and took a look. Tomlinson was lying on the steel dissecting table, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest, wearing nothing but one of his idiotic sarongs. Black silk with red-and-yellow surfboards. No underwear, as usual-obvious.
I told the woman, “It’s not a cadaver, but he’d make a good one,” attempting the same nervous smile, which she didn’t notice because it was impossible to look anywhere but at the dissecting table.
I crossed the room, calling, “Tomlinson? Hey! Time to wake up,” which was overly generous. The man was passed out, not asleep judging from the empty rum bottle at his elbow. Nicaraguan rum, Flor de Cana.
As I removed the bottle, I said, “At least he has good taste. If you ever get a chance, try this rum. Really excellent,” playing it cool like this sort of thing happened all the time here in the subtropics, so why not relax, enjoy it?
“Tomlinson… Tomlinson.” He stirred when I shook him, then sat up, wide-eyed as if he didn’t know where he was-which he didn’t. It took a few seconds.
“Doc?” His eyes found the Flor de Cana bottle as he focused. “Ummm
… looks like I caught the red-eye to Rummyville, huh? Demon sugar cane. Yep-” He smacked his lips; made a face. “-Awwg. Molasses mouth. What time is it?”
“Time for you to be going.”
“Huh?”
“Time to be going now.”
“Okay. Okay!” He swung his feet to the floor, yawning, rubbing his face. “I would’ve bunked in your house, but the place smells like fucking kerosene, man. Whew. So if you don’t want me sleeping in the lab, maybe consider hiring a cleaning lady, because there are other places I can-” He stopped, aware I had visitors. His eyes studied the three people wearing suits before he said to me, “Are you buying insurance? Or getting sued?”
I said, “These are clients. I’m showing them around the lab. We’re going to discuss new projects-if you don’t mind.”
I could tell he hadn’t heard about Shay or Corey, because he slipped seamlessly into his Harmless Hippie persona. He nodded to my supervisors, adding a friendly salute. “You folks are in for a treat. Don’t let this guy’s nerdy side fool you. Get a few drinks in him, he actually has a sense of humor-”
I dug my fingers into his elbow to shut him up. “Too bad you can’t stick around-” I glanced at his sarong, then looked away fast. “- but you’re in a hurry to get to your boat. Right?”
Confused, Tomlinson studied the sarong until he understood. “Geezus,” he whispered. “Piss hard-on. Always happens when you need it least.”
I looked at the ceiling… looked at my shoes… looked at the window as he took a moment to regroup.
Finally, Tomlinson said, “Yes… well! I’m damn lucky you folks showed up when you did. Just in the nick of time, apparently, so thanks from both of us. Excuse me while I step outside and write my name on the Saltwater Hall of Fame…” He winced. “Or I could hit the head at a public facility. Yes… that might be the prudent thing to do under the circumstances.”
I used the elbow to give Tomlinson a push toward the door. Feet slapping, he walked barefooted across the room, smiling at Holderness, no rush, apologizing but not really embarrassed, saying, “Sorry… sorry. But, hey-what are ya gonna do?”
The woman waited until he was gone to ask, “Does that person work for you?”
Her tone said she disapproved, but her expression suggested she was interested.
“No, he’s a colleague-a social scientist. Hard to believe, I know. Harvard doctorate, and he’s published some brilliant stuff. But he’s. .. eccentric.” I didn’t bother with the nervous smile.
One of the men tried to help out. “I was stationed in Malaysia, then at the embassy in Singapore, so I’ve seen it myself. After a year or two in the tropics, even the best-educated professionals change. The Brits have a term for it-gone Borneo? Something like that. Life slows down; details don’t matter so much.”
Ms. Holderness-my ranking supervisor, I realized-regained her composure by returning to task. “Well, let’s hope it’s not contagious. Details are very important. So are contractual obligations-isn’t that right, Dr. Ford?”
She placed her briefcase on the desk and opened it. “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”
Two hours later, I watched from the deck as Holderness and the men filed down the boardwalk, into the mangroves toward the road. When they were gone, I returned to the lab, carrying the folder containing my job-performance evaluation. I hurried for a reason. There was a lot to do.
I needed sleep, needed to work out, but I also had less than seven days to get to Saint Arc, track down the blackmailer, and persuade him that it was unwise to target Shay and friends. I had to book a flight, get my gear ready, and telephone old contacts. I’d told Tomlinson the truth: I wasn’t sure if I could still count on past resources to help.
Time to find out.
As I entered the lab, I folded my performance evaluation, then spun it Frisbee-like toward the trash basket, playing a Walter Mitty game- Make this, I’ll have nothing but good luck.
The thing caromed off the rim onto the floor. I retrieved the papers, then slammed them it into the basket-a flash of anger that was out of character. But I’d just gutted my way through a morning of bureaucratic bullshit. Venting was okay.
Personnel Attitude and Task Efficiency Evaluation. PATEE. A ridiculous acronym. But I’d asked for it. I’d signed their damn contract. Now I felt like a hawk who was being pecked to death by hens.
Ford… you fool, you silly fool. Why the hell weren’t you satisfied with what you had?
It is a question that all risk takers ask themselves sooner or later. Dumbasses, however, ask the same question, so the association was not uplifting.
Me, the dumbass.
The agency’s PATEE packet contained standardized questions: Does subject respond positively to criticism? Is subject team-oriented? Does subject maintain a safe, efficient work space?
As expected, I had not received high marks. But there was no way in hell I was going to review the thing as the gang from D.C. had advised me to do.
Why bother? I read to learn, not to be instructed. Furthermore, it was written in a foreign language. The language was Biz-Speak, a form of oral semaphore. Instead of signal flags, it substitutes phrases that register on the brain as symbols, not words.
Biz-Speak is useful in a culture that seeks standardization because it spares members the need to think as individuals. Biz-Speak also minimizes the risk of offending fellow members individually-imperative in a corporate world where political correctness has become a tool. Companies are easier to manage when “group” or “department” is the smallest unit of measure, not a person.