Kicking the Can (11 page)

“I weigh one hundred twenty-three pounds and dive with twelve. You’re sixteen or seventeen pounds.”

Vogel came out wearing a one-piece suit, wrapped in a cover-up. Drummond was standing next to a nitrox tank, wearing blue board shorts and a cotton long-sleeve shirt, trying to remember how to attach the US Divers regulator to the first stage valve.

“Close—you have the mouthpiece positioned correctly over your right shoulder, but you need to flip the valve one hundred eighty degrees. It’s upside down.”

Drummond flipped the regulator and tightened the valve, careful to seat the O-ring.

“Perfect.”

“What was it like to be the daughter of a self-made billionaire who’s a finance genius?”

“We didn’t grow up on the East Coast with old money. We were comfortable, not rich.

It took a lifetime of work for Dad to achieve the wealth he has. My father brought investing into the homes of ordinary people—his greatest achievement. Even today, you would be surprised how the traditional brokerage houses shun the discount model. He feels vindicated. He didn’t lose his equity in the real estate and mortgage crisis the way Lehman, Merrill, and the rest of them did.”

Drummond removed a pair of black scuba fins from a storage cubby. The blade was split in the middle, and the fin was much longer.

“Call me Aquaman.”

“Don’t knock it. I own the propulsion technology…in red of course.”

“Why didn’t you follow your father into the family business?”

Vogel didn’t reply. She was repositioning the weight clips on her belt away from her hip toward her stomach and lower back. Drummond assumed she didn’t hear the question and was about ready to repeat it when Vogel answered.

“Some prominent families are able to guard their sordid secrets. My parents divorced when I was a freshman in high school. I left with Mom—it was our statement. My father stayed loyal to Jim, despite what he did to me.”

Vogel’s facial expression turned dark—the emotional anguish from whatever happened was still near the surface twenty-some years later.

“Jim was groomed to take over. Dad wasn’t able to let it go—blinded.”

Vogel cranked on the tank valve until fully open and then backed off one quarter turn. She took two breaths from her mouthpiece and gave a thumbs-up.

“Finance is in my DNA. I have the same belly fire…the desire to succeed in business and the same independent spirit.”

“So you’re here to make a name for yourself…prove Dad and brother wrong?”

“Let’s go diving.”

“Outstanding!” Vogel said, wringing water from her hair. “What was our bottom time?”

Drummond picked up his dive computer and looked at the readout.

“Forty-two minutes—max depth of eighty-two feet.”

“I didn’t expect a wall this close to the island, did you? The coral reef was damaged in the areas dredged but pristine otherwise. Did you see the concrete and steel structure below us to the east? It was in about one hundred feet of water?”

“I did, but it was too far away to make out what it was.”

“Do you think it’s their water source for Isle Airy?”

“I’m not sure. I guess it could be.”

The two sat down on bench seats. Vogel reached behind her back and pulled down on the zipper of her exposure suit. She tugged on the open flap behind each shoulder, pulling the wet suit to her upper arms. Vogel bent forward at the waist, causing her ample breasts to conjoin. Her hands continued to work to remove the 3 mm suit. It was evident the water had chilled her body. She pulled a sweatshirt over her chest to cover up. Vogel stood, pushing down on her wet suit, pulling it to her ankles. She stepped on the wet suit with one foot and raised the other leg and then repeated the exercise. Drummond admired the tension on her swimsuit before she wrapped a towel around her waist. He wondered if she knew how intently his eyes were upon her. It even surprised himself.

“I married for love. My father advised me to obtain a prenuptial,” Vogel said. “I didn’t share his opinion. I misjudged my husband. We divorced two years ago. He took my money to support his playboy lifestyle. It’s your turn,” Vogel said, as she turned toward Drummond, watching him undress, her arms crossed.

He pulled at the zipper to remove the top. He decided to keep the exposure suit on and pulled it to his waist, the arms dangling at his sides. She smiled at him without saying a word.

Cala had been kind to set out fresh pears and oranges. Fresh fruit or juice after a dive alleviated the dried throat sensation from compressed air.

“I’m going to gather up my clothes and shower back at the room.”

Drummond sat on the bench. He dropped to his hands and started push-ups…Sexually frustrated? He had counted to thirty-two when he saw Vogel’s beautiful feet standing in front of him: tanned, toe ring, perfect nails and polish. He stopped and rolled to his side, where he lay with one knee up and the other leg extended. He felt blood in his chest and arms from the physical exertion.

“I forgot my bag,” Vogel said, staring down at him.

“Don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the view. Most guys pump up before they meet a woman. Burning off excess testosterone? Nobody keeps an exposure suit on longer than needed. If my ex had been diving with an attractive woman, you can bet he’d be doing her in the shower right now. And if she didn’t work out, he’d be in here masturbating. But not you, you’re doing push-ups. Forbearance is a good quality, Drummond.”

40

C
hris Drummond ruminated on Lowsley’s statements.

Dain was using our run to recon the island…I couldn’t decide if he made me feel more, or less, secure…I wouldn’t mess with him
.

The elevator doors closed and reopened on the third floor. Drummond found Dain’s door wide open, so he poked his head in.

“Hello…Hello.”

No answer. Drummond saw a chess board set up next to a laptop, both on the coffee table in front of the couch. The rest of the place didn’t look lived in. He resisted the urge to look around, determined to give Dain his privacy. He stepped back, turning to exit through the door he just came through. To his surprise, it was blocked—Dain was standing in the doorway with a toothpick in his mouth.

“I didn’t hear you behind me,” Drummond said, a bit frazzled Dain could appear without a sound.

Not in the hallway, and the door to the next suite was a good twenty-five feet away.

Dain stepped forward, wearing camouflage fatigues and a tight-fitting black T-shirt, his hand outstretched. His forearms were massive—veins popping out—and his paw
clamped down on Drummond’s hand. He was built like an action figure—ripped—with two distinguishing facial features: an extruded lower lip and a nose that listed to the left.

Drummond wondered how many times it had been broken…and if Dain had set it himself.

“Sit down,” Dain said, handing Drummond bottled water. He took a long pull from his oversize plastic jug, closed the lid, and tossed it on the couch.

“It’s important to stay hydrated. In direct exposure your body requires thirty-two ounces of water an hour in this climate.”

Drummond twisted off the plastic cap and took a drink. He saw the chess pieces on the board were set up identical to the computer screen. Dain read his mind.

“I’m old school: I prefer to set up a chess board and move the pieces, even when I’m playing cyber games. I gain a competitive advantage when I can see the board in 3-D. Chess keeps my mind sharp. It’s the best exercise I’ve found for engagement strategy. I play against opponents from all over the world, online.”

“You play?”

“Not in several years. My daughter, Sarah, was part of the chess club, but the tournaments were too demanding physically. She couldn’t camp out for eight hours in a gymnasium on a Saturday, so she gave it up.

“Hedgehog, knight fork, queen’s gambit, Boden’s Mate—I remember the terminology. Your dossier says you have a master’s degree in cultural studies—speak and write Arabic, Farsi, Hindi, and English. Why did you become a linguist?”

“Proficiency in foreign languages opened the door to my real love. I always knew I’d be a soldier; inherited the bug to serve from my father. He was army. It’s more of a vocation than a profession. I was a Green Beret and then CIA, Special Activities Division, SAD. I was part of a paramilitary operation that preceded the Iraq invasion. Best times were when I was serving—but it’s a life for a young person.”

Dain was engaged in the conversation with Drummond, but he looked like his thoughts were a million miles away. It was hard to imagine age forty being old.

“Civilian life has been difficult. I’m too young to be retired and too old be deployed. Now, I consult to Fortune 500 companies trying to establish beachheads in other countries. I advise them on cultural sensitivity issues. The pay’s good, but it’s boring as hell.”

Drummond took another drink of water. He felt like squeezing his plastic bottle in a show of strength, but after he took another look at Dain’s physique, he abandoned the stupid idea.

“They gave me a dossier on all of the team members. You’re quoted as a self-proclaimed patriot—country trumps everything.”

Dain studied him a moment. Drummond, looking square at his face, saw his disjointed nose was more pronounced than his initial observation. He hoped a sports injury, but the realization he may have suffered the disfigurement because of his profession was an uncomfortable thought.

“Congressional hearings…I testified. The Bush administration was pressuring CIA analysts to reach certain
conclusions to support their policy decisions with regard to Iraq. I spoke out about the risks and benefits of privatizing CIA intelligence and field operations…balancing the tension between war profiteering and the freedom to do what’s necessary without congressional oversight.”

Dain moved the cursor with his mouse, shut down the computer, and closed his laptop.

“Most of the men I served with went to private military and intelligence companies. I turned down a private job for three times the pay. I still have close CIA friends. If you go through hell and survive, the bonds endure forever.

“Where do you stand on patriotism?” Dain asked.

“What do you…?” Drummond stopped midsentence. Out of his peripheral vision he saw Dain leaning forward, ever so slightly, to view something on the beach. He stood motionless—a human statue.

Drummond walked to the window.

“What are you looking at?”

“I thought I saw movement.”

“Why are you here, Drummond?”

“I was asked by the president to serve…and I made a promise.”

“What about the money?”

“What about the money?”

“I don’t have life experiences serving in the armed services or defending our country from aggression—that’s foreign too me. I see the world in economic and financial terms. It pains me to see the gross mismanagement of our country’s finances. It will be our downfall if we don’t get it under control. That’s where the rubber
meets the road—why I wrote my thesis. The president explained the contest is a way to usurp what he described as
unacceptable political options
.”

“You’re not naive enough to believe, are you? Do you think Donald placed teams in classified locations because it’s easier to protect us or because it’s easier to dispose of us? I’m not sure if you vetted the contract you signed, but we agreed to a hold harmless clause regardless of what happens, including death and dismemberment. I feel vulnerable on an island—three hundred sixty degrees unsecured. They can come at us from all directions.”

“Who is
they
?” Drummond asked.

“That’s for us to figure out.”

41

S
haring the meal was symbolic, an assemblage of the best dishes from each of their homelands. Individually, the portions were not enough for a meal. Together, a feast. Drummond gave a thumbs-up to Baturina. Her body language confirmed she too thought the meal was a success. The team appeared relaxed, engaged, and enthusiastic. Seeing them concertedly, Drummond was left with the impression of brains, beauty, and youth. Their manifest destiny
—
to right the financial course of America—a new era of accountability. Drummond wondered how much thought was given to physical appearance when members were selected.

“Can somebody direct me to the nearest restroom?” Vogel asked. “I’ve had three glasses of Kvass and all three wash rooms on this floor have ‘out-of-order’ signs taped to locked doors.”

Gupta burst out in laughter.

“So you’re the jokester…thirty days leaves plenty of time for payback!”

When Vogel returned, Drummond stood, and the room quieted.

“Work starts tomorrow, daily sessions: seven a.m. to eleven a.m. and two p.m. to six p.m.—the schedule allows
downtime in the afternoon. I’ve drafted specific assignments. You’re on your own for breakfast and lunch—but we’ll eat dinner together at six thirty to recap the day’s progress and adjust assignments, as necessary.”

Drummond glanced at the written outline in front of him. It was important to keep his message on task and make a favorable first impression.