With his mouth close to my ear, he whispered, “I expected it to be harder than this, Dr. Ford. The way Mr. Harrington talks about you, it’s like you’re some hotshot stud. I can’t wait to get back to headquarters and tell him how easy it was to take you down. Consider this a test… and you failed, dude. He said you’d beat my butt.”
The man had my face smashed so hard against the wall that I couldn’t turn to look, but now I knew who he was. I recognized his voice. It was Parker Jones, the so-called executive assistant of a powerful man by the name of Hal Harrington. In practice, though, he was Harrington’s body-guard and errand boy.
Harrington needs both because he’s a high-level U.S. State Department official and covert intelligence guru. What few know is that he’s also part of an elite deep-cover operations team. To give members legitimate cover while operating in foreign lands, the agency provided its people with legitimate and mobile professions.
Harrington was trained as a computer software programmer, and later founded his own company. He’s now listed among the wealthiest men in the country.
But he’s still with the team. The head of it now.
Other members included five CPAs, a couple of attorneys, an actor, a well-known politician, some journalists, and at least three physicians.
There’s a marine biologist, too. A man who’s traveled the world doing research. Bull sharks, Careharhinus leucas were a specialty.
Me, the much-traveled biologist.
I’d been recruited out of high school. Spent too many revolutions and wars as a covert line officer. Lots of dark nights in jungle hammocks.
Any place in the world leucas is found, I could be found.
But the time came when I felt I’d contributed enough. So I resigned. Moved to Sanibel. End of story.
Or so I thought.
Harrington had spent the last year trying to convince me that I was not allowed to quit. Once a member of the team, always a member.
Sending someone to rough me up, though-I never thought he’d resort to that kind of pressure.
Still on my tiptoes, face smashed flat, I listened to Parker Jones say, “I don’t know what you do for Mr. Harrington, but I’m gonna tell him that, whatever it is, I can do it one hell of a lot better. So why shouldn’t he pay me the extra money? Let you go off and play with your fish.”
Wincing, my breath whistling, I said, “Get your hands off me. Or I will personally close your ugly fucking hole.”
He hooted. “Whoo-eee… now, there’s a nasty word I heard you never use. I heard that’s not your style. Now I can tell Mr. Harrington you’re starting to fall apart upstairs, too, psychologically.”
I said, “I only use it on really nasty little people,” as I stomped back hard, crushing my heel down on the arch of his foot. The sudden pain caused him to recoil, but he managed to keep my arm wedged between my shoulders.
It gave me enough room, though, to turn and somersault my body forward-a tumbling escape called “a Granby”; a wrestling move that a hard-assed old coach named Fries made me practice month after month until I could do it automatically. Jones maintained his grip on my wrist, but he lost his leverage on my arm.
I was already turning when I hit the deck; came up on my feet, still pivoting, and used the heel of my right hand to slam his chin backward. Nailed him so hard that his head snapped back against the laboratory wall.
Stunned, he touched his nose, looked at the blood, and yelled, “Hey, you sonuvabitch, you’re not supposed to hit. This isn’t real; it’s a fuckin’ exercise!”
He had both his big hands up now, palms outward, but I wasn’t done. I grabbed his right arm and pulled him toward me, dropping down on one knee so that he stumbled and fell, folding his body naturally over my left shoulder. A fireman’s carry. My hand still controlling his arm, I stood, lifting the man’s full weight on my shoulder, straining to make it seem effortless. Like picking up a child.
The guy was no child. He had to be six-five, over two-fifty.
“Hey, Ford. Stop it, man. Put me down. Goddamn it-ouch-that hurts!”
As I carried Jones through the breezeway, I made sure to slam his head into the wall a couple of times, accidental-like. Then, avoiding my shark pen, I continued to the railing that edges the outer deck.
“Can you swim, Jones?”
“Hell, yes, I can swi-Hey, I mean, NO. No, I can’t swim. Did you hear me? I… can… not… swim!”
I said, “Then it’s about time you learn,” and dumped him over the railing.
The rail is about twelve feet above the water. Jones filled the interval of his descent with a satisfying shriek. It had a falsetto quality, not unlike the sound of an adolescent girl.
When he’d surfaced, and I was sure that he could make it to shore on his own, I called to him, “When you’re finished with your swim, I’ll be in my lab. That’s if you still want to talk. And Parker? Try not to get my deck all wet, okay?”
To Parker Jones, I said, “Don’t be tricky. You don’t think I know you’re wired? Harrington isn’t going to let some flunky talk to me unless it’s recorded, just in case I get sloppy or pissed off and break one of his golden rules. So go ahead and take the thing off before you get shocked.”
He was wearing expensive slacks and a blue shirt beneath a navy blue blazer with gold buttons. His blond hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. With his hair now loose and wet, clothes dripping, the man looked like some unfortunate yachtsman who’d taken a spill off the dock.
He was using a big paw to wobble his jaw back and forth, testing to see if it was broken. “There was no need to hit me. I was playin’ the game, man. The surprise takedown is part of the security business, keeps us on our toes. A fuckin’ tradition. That’s what Harrington told me, anyway. But maybe you missed that lesson, or it’s just not hip with your tight-assed generation.”
We were back in the breezeway between my house and lab; dogtrots, they were once called, for reasons I’ve forgotten. I’d carried my bag to the lab, placed the jar containing African parasites in a safe place, then gathered a couple of towels.
I lobbed one to him now, saying, “I think my generation must’ve left me off the mailing list.”
“Well, you sure didn’t follow the rules. Pain’s okay, but you don’t break nothin’.”
“Yeah? My rules are simpler. You can say any asshole thing you want, that’s okay. But put your hands on me, or hurt a friend, then someone’s going to the floor. No discussion. Win or lose. It’s one of my personality quirks.”
“‘There you go, man. Playing the hard-ass again. What was I supposed to do when you smacked me? Fight back? Yeah, sure, I pop you a few times, and then Mr. Harrington would probably fire me.”
He was trying to rescue his scuffed dignity by playing an old, old role: I coulda beat you if I’d wanted. But his bullying, smart-assed attitude irked me. So I tossed him another towel, but threw it a few feet over his head. Automatically, Parker thrust both hands up to catch it. As he did, I took a long step, mashed my left foot down on his right foot, then pushed him in the chest.
He couldn’t backpedal, so it didn’t take much of a push. His arms circling for balance, the man fell butt-hard on the deck, and the back of his head slammed the wall again. Instantly, I was kneeling beside him, my nose close to his ear.
“We don’t want Harrington to fire you. So consider this your free pass, mister. Your chance to pop me. Take your best shot. Harrington will never hear about it, not from me. What your doctors tell him afterward, that’s up to them.”
Jones had had enough. He was waving his hands. “No, uh-uh, I’m done. Another shot to the head like that last one, I might go out permanent. I feel like I’m gonna puke.”
I know what it’s like to be humiliated, so I helped him to his feet, and put some warmth in my voice. “Okay, no harm done. Now take off that wire you’re wearing. We’ll talk.”