Kate snapped her mouth shut, and narrowed her eyes. The hideous man had conned her into thinking he was going to kiss her! That was so typical of him, so sneaky, so horrible. She looked around for something to throw at him. Finding nothing she kicked a shopping bag.
“I hate when you mess up my hair!” she yelled after him, but he’d already disappeared into the elevator.
On her way to Encino Grande later that day, she called her father and invited him to the Fantasy Springs Resort Casino for breakfast the next morning.
“Sure,” he said. “I could play some blackjack and break in my AARP discount card at the outlet stores in Cabazon.”
Kate had an easy time seeing her father at the blackjack table. Seeing him using an AARP discount card at the Cabazon outlets was a struggle. She disconnected from him, and minutes later she rolled into the compound at Encino Grande. Boyd was floating on a raft in the pool, and Chet was returning to the house after serving Burnside his dinner tray in his cell. Tom had already gone back home to be with his family for the night but would be returning early in the morning to relieve Chet.
Boyd abandoned his raft and joined Kate and Chet in the kitchen. Kate made herself a bologna sandwich, and Chet tore open a bag of chips.
“It looks like Nick, Willie, and I are going to be gone for at least two weeks,” Kate said.
Chet stopped eating for a beat. “That’s longer than I expected. You really think we can pull off this charade for that long?”
“I did 212 performances of Love Letters on the dinner theater circuit with a different woefully untalented local actress every night. I can handle two weeks of this,” Boyd said. “Of course it took a lot of alcohol to get me through Love Letters.”
“I’m arranging for a senior operative to stop by from time to time,” Kate said. “His name is Jake and he’s a pro. Do as he says. And if anything goes wrong, and he’s not around, call him at this number.”
She passed Boyd a piece of paper with Jake’s cell phone number on it.
“What happens in two weeks?” Chet asked.
“If it’s not practical for Griffin to get picked up at sea, we might have to bring him back here for act three,” Kate said.
“I wish I could be there for act two,” Boyd said. “It’s poor storytelling to have the central character off the stage for so long.”
“I thought Derek Griffin was the star of this show,” Chet said.
“I’m the character that ties together all of the plotlines,” Boyd said. “I’m like Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs, only without all of Anthony Hopkins’s outrageous overacting. Remember how the movie dragged when his character wasn’t around?”
“Not for me. I loved Jodie Foster,” Chet said. “There was something really sexy about her as that FBI agent.”
“Clarice Starling,” Kate said.
“Yeah. Even though she was all buttoned up and tightly wound, there’s something hot about a take-charge woman with a gun and a badge.”
Kate perked up at that. She had a gun and a badge and she was take-charge.
The faux stack-stone décor of the Fantasy Springs Resort Casino was the same as the lobby of the Ventura retirement home that Kate had visited with the MPAA investigator weeks ago. There was also a similarity in the clientele. When Kate stepped out of the elevator at 10 A.M., there were already dozens of seniors ramming money into the slots, one hand poised on the big red button, ready to hit it as soon as the cherries stopped spinning.
She picked up the passport envelope Nick had left her at the desk and went to the coffee shop. Her dad was in a booth with a stack of hotcakes, two eggs, four strips of bacon, rye bread toast, and a cup of coffee in front of him. He smiled when he saw her.
“You look great,” he said.
She sat down across from him. “I do?”
“Like you’re about to leap out of a plane over Greece.”
“There’s a look for that?”
“It’s called happiness, Kate. You are in your element.”
“That’s funny, because I sure don’t feel like it.” Kate waved over a waitress and ordered the same breakfast as her father’s. “Thank you for coming all this way on such short notice.”
“Are you kidding? They’re having a seniors slot tournament this afternoon and Engelbert Humperdinck is playing here tonight. I’ve always admired that man.”
“Why?”
“It takes balls and an iron will to stick with a name like that and become a success.”
“That’s not his real name,” Kate said. “It’s Tommy Dorsey or something like that.”
“There was a big-band leader named Tommy Dorsey.”
“Now you know why he changed it to Humperdinck.”
“Well, it still takes guts. He could have changed it to Bobby Darin.”
“There already was a singer named Bobby Darin.”
“Yeah, but his real name was Walden Cassotto. See my point?”
“Not really,” Kate said.
“How’s the op going?” Jake asked.
She told him everything, and the telling took them through breakfast and two more cups of coffee. When she was done, he stared at her over the rim of his coffee mug.
“You left a makeup artist, a playhouse builder, and an actor in charge of holding a prisoner?”
“That’s why I called you. They could use some backup.”
“I’ll stick around until you return, and I’ll bring in another man. You remember my buddy José Rodarte? We did a lot of missions together. He’s a big, mean Mexican.”
“No, he’s not. He’s absolutely lovable. That’s why he played Santa Claus for the kids on the base every Christmas. Come to think of it, didn’t he just have a hip replacement?”
“That’s what makes him so mean. He told me it feels like they gave the hip serrated edges, heated it up until it was white hot, and then shoved it into place through his ass.”
“That’s too vivid,” Kate said, glad that she’d already eaten before she had that image in her head.
“José lives in Palm Springs now with his wife, who plays mahjong with her friends every day in their house. It’s worse than being in a Turkish prison. He’ll appreciate the excuse to get out of there.”
“If this goes wrong, Dad, you’ll both be accomplices in the commission of a federal crime.”
He waved off her concern. He did that a lot lately.
“José and I both took an oath to serve God and country and I think this qualifies, even if some judge might disagree,” he said. “When are you heading to Bali?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she said.
“I was there when we propped up Suharto in ’66 and again thirty-two years later when we brought him down. Spent some time in East Timor, too. More bullets in the air than mosquitos.”
“That was a while ago. Indonesia has calmed down since then. It’s a tourist destination now, a big honeymoon spot.”
“It may look like a tropical paradise with its white sand beaches, swaying palm trees, azure waters, and colorful fishies, but it’s a mirage. It’s like putting a flower bed on a minefield.”
“I can think of worse places to be. You haven’t seen Thermal yet and smelled the Salton Sea.”
“You’re going into a country made up of hundreds of different cultures speaking hundreds of different languages spread out over thousands of islands that are consistently ravaged by malaria, dengue fever, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, tsunamis, foreign invasion, ethnic warfare, rampant corruption, and extreme poverty. And that’s just in the last hundred years and on a good day. Don’t be fooled by all the pink Aussies on the beach sipping cocktails served by beautiful Indonesian women with big smiles. It’s a dangerous place. So I’ll have a little care package waiting for you at Benoa Harbor when you get there.”
She smiled at her father. “A basket of fruit, bottled water, suntan lotion, and insect repellent?”
“Something like that,” he said. “Who should I send the fruit to?”
Kate opened the envelope she’d picked up at the desk and pulled out her passport. “This is so not funny,” she said.
Jake raised his eyebrows. “Bad passport photo?”
“Nick Fox has an annoying sense of humor. Send the fruit to Eunice Huffnagle.”
Jake gave a bark of laughter. “That’s a hideous name.”
“It’s the least of my problems.”
Kate gave him directions to Encino Grande and went looking for Willie. She found her still at poolside reading Chapman Piloting & Seamanship.
“I see you’re cramming,” Kate said.
“Compared to flying an airplane, piloting a yacht is like riding a skateboard. When are we leaving?”
“We’re checking out of here today, spending the night in the Sheraton at LAX, and flying out tomorrow morning.”
“Great, what will I be flying?”
“An economy-class passenger seat,” Kate said.
While Kate and Willie were packing up and checking out of Fantasy Springs, Nick Fox was sipping champagne high above the Pacific Ocean, sitting up on his full-size bed in his first-class compartment on a Singapore Airlines Airbus A380. His cubicle was private and wood-paneled, with a 23-inch flat-screen television, wireless Internet connectivity for his MacBook, a personal refrigerator, and a separate dining table, where his snack of lobster salad, caviar, fresh bread, and an assortment of fruit and cheese was laid out for his dining pleasure on a set of fine china.
He sipped his champagne and thought about the FBI. This plane trip, the entire covert op, were being paid for by a secret FBI slush fund filled with money taken from crooks. Nick wondered how long the agency had been skimming from confiscated cash. What else were they doing with it? And more to the point, how much money had they stolen? And where was it stashed? The money certainly wasn’t on any accounting ledgers that the Justice Department or Congress could see, and if it went missing the feds couldn’t really go after anyone for stealing what they shouldn’t have had in the first place. The FBI was running a huge con. He thought it was very cool. And he thought it would be even cooler if he could scam them out of the money.
Kate and Willie left Indio around noon for the two-hour-plus drive to the Sheraton at LAX, where Kate had booked two rooms for the night on a “fly package.” They rolled into the Sheraton, dumped their suitcases in their rooms, and hustled across the street to Denny’s.
Kate had a grilled cheese with bacon, fries, and a chocolate shake, and Willie put away a Macho Nacho Burger with a banana split chaser, for a combined calorie count that was reaching five figures.
“So what’s the deal with you and Foxy?” Willie wanted to know, scraping up the last of her ice cream.
“There’s no deal. We work together.”
“If it was me there’d be a deal. The guy is hot. He could talk a girl out of her panties before she even knew what was happening. And have you noticed how his eyes sparkle when he smiles? How does he do that?”
The sparkling eyes were good, Kate thought, but they were chump change compared to the way his eyes had gotten dark when he looked at her in the bandage dress.
A couple hours later, Kate was in her hotel room, trying to push thoughts of Nick Fox and his dark eyes out of her head, when he called.
“Just checking in,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“It would be going a lot better if you’d grow up. ‘Huffnagle’? Are you kidding me? Was it really necessary to put ‘Huffnagle’ on my passport?”
“I’m a sentimental kind of guy. Eunice Huffnagle will always have a special place in my heart.”
“Where are you?”
“Singapore. The Raffles hotel, to be exact, on my veranda, having a red prawn Niçoise salad with Mediterranean sardines.”
“What are you doing in Singapore?”
“Establishing our covers, and making the arrangements for your arrival in Bali. The truth is, I’m enjoying my layover. I couldn’t come all of this way without spending at least one night at Raffles.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s colonial elegance from another, more adventurous time. The hotel was built in 1887 as a bastion of British elegance and nobility in an exotic land. From my veranda I can almost see Somerset Maugham, the writer and spy, sitting in a rattan chair under a frangipani tree in the Palm Court garden, writing one of his stories in longhand. Or I can go to the hotel bar for a Singapore sling and sit under the vintage wicker-blade ceiling fans that were churning the humid air on that day in 1902 when the last surviving wild tiger, perhaps lonely and looking for a cocktail, strolled inside and was shot dead. You’d love it here.”
“Maybe someday,” Kate said, not completely convinced she’d love Raffles what with the poor last tiger getting shot when all he wanted was a cocktail.
“When do you arrive in Bali?” he asked her.
“Willie and I will leave L.A. in the morning on a Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong. We’ll switch planes for the second leg of the trip, arriving in Bali at midday.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Sam, your loyal butler and chef, will be there to greet you. Make sure you look the part.”
That had Kate smiling. She knew he’d eventually assume the persona of the Cheers womanizing bartender Sam Malone.
“I’d better look the part after what we spent on clothes,” Kate said.
“What are you wearing now?”
It was a playful, provocative question and she was tempted to tell him “Nothing at all,” but big brave Special Agent O’Hare chickened out. “A bathrobe and pink fluffy slippers,” she said.
“Victoria’s Secret?”
“Costco.”
“And your gun?”
“Loaded.”
“Leave everything but the slippers at home,” he said.
“I can wear pink fluffy slippers and still be a honey trap?”
“Sure,” he said. “If that’s all you’re wearing.”
“This trip to Hong Kong is a first for me,” Willie said to Kate as they left the Sheraton. “My Big Adventure never took me out of the country before. I never had money to fly legally. What do people do on a big airplane trip?”
“It’s simple,” Kate told her. “All you have to do is sit in your chair, look out the window, watch a movie, read a magazine, listen to some music, eat some food, or sleep through the whole trip.”
Kate, on the other hand, was used to long international flights, mostly buckled into a hard bench seat mounted along the windowless interior bulkhead of a Lockheed C-130 military transport plane. An armrest would have been a frill. She’d also flown plenty of times, all across the country, in economy class on commercial airliners and sometimes in stripped-down government jets. This was the first time she was going to fly in a featherweight cashmere tank top, skinny pants, and leather flip-flops, and carry a genuine designer handbag. And it was the first time she was going to fly first-class with the promise of a cocktail and hot, salted nuts being offered before takeoff. She thought this was pretty darn exciting because nobody had ever offered her hot nuts before. At least none that came in a dish.
Hours later, after flying halfway around the world, Willie clomped through the Hong Kong airport in her five-inch wedges. She had her arm looped through Kate’s, and she was gesturing with her free hand.
“This is just like being on The Amazing Race,” Willie said. “I could practically hear the theme song playing. I feel like I should be running through the terminal.”
“Not necessary,” Kate said. “Our next gate isn’t that far away. We have plenty of time.”
“Yeah, but it would be fun to run. They run through terminals on The Amazing Race all the time.”
“That’s because they’re late.”
“No, it’s because it’s television, and it’s fun. What do you do for fun, anyway? I never see you having any fun. You didn’t lie out at the pool or go bowling or anything.”
“I was working.”
“Honey, from what I can see
you’re always working. I understand what it’s like to love your job because nothing gets me off like driving a big-ass Caterpillar excavator. I drove a C15 once and I gotta tell you my panties were wet. But a girl needs to have some variety to her fun. What do you do for fun besides shoot blanks at people?”
Kate searched her memory bank for fun. “Sometimes I drink beer with my dad,” Kate said.
Willie nodded. “That’s a start. I had fun on the plane from L.A. I watched movies, and played videogames, and I sat next to a guy who knew how to fly a Boeing 777-300. What did you do in first class?”
“I had hot nuts.”
“No shit.”
“Yep. Hot, salty nuts,” Kate said. “Just like it said on the airline website.”
“Damn, there’s not much better than hot, salty nuts.”
“They were fun,” Kate said, not sure they were talking about the same kind of hot nuts.
“Freakin’ A,” Willie said. “And now look at us. We’re in China. I read that two islands had to be completely flattened to build the airport. The main terminal alone is three quarters of a mile of vaulted glass and has virtually all the same stores that are on Rodeo Drive. And they have a Popeyes Chicken here!”
The five-hour connecting flight to Denpasar cut southwest over the Strait of Malacca and the Java Sea, flying over countless islands and coral reefs. The plane began its descent over Bali, and an archipelago of puffy clouds blunted some of the sunlight and cast blotches of shadow over Ngurah Rai International Airport. Much like my life, Kate thought. Her life had turned exotic, filled with new experiences, shadowed by a cloudy future. Truth is, her new assignment was scary. She’d always felt safe under the protective blanket of the FBI, and now she was operating without the blanket. And she was partnered with a man who was exciting and smart, but who she didn’t completely trust.
Kate deplaned with the other first-class passengers, visited the visa counter, and bought her 238,500 rupiah tourist visa, which was $25 American. She got her forged passport stamped at the immigration desk and made her way to baggage claim. She knew she was actually in Bali, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Balinese architectural elements in the airport were fake. The terminal reminded her of an old International House of Pancakes in Northridge that someone had tried to transform into a Chinese restaurant by carving a five-clawed dragon into the front door and adding curvy points to every corner of the roof. That still didn’t stop people from coming in and asking for a stack of buttermilk pancakes.