Man With No Name
Sunday, 4. January 2009, 06:16:48
Chapter 6
Switched
As the named implied Uncle Rousseau was a ruddy-faced man, not large like the gang’s behemoth soldiers, nattily dressed with a bright, red ascot and always the center of abject attention like now as the words slithered from pursed lips, “Okay, explain how they could just disappear.”
“We saw the kid and a guy come out of an office on the top floor leased to a J. Tuskin,” the man who had lead the chase reported. “They went straight into a vacant office down the hall. He had a key. Just as we arrived the private garage lift from that office was activated. We already had some guys down there. It was empty. There wasn’t anyway to get into that office. The glass entry could withstand a tank and it took seven minutes to get someone with a key.
“By the way," he continued, "that guy at the elevator, the Yuppie Frank ran into causing him to miss catching the kid was the same one that sneaked him out of the place on us.”
“Who is this Tuskin guy?”
“Don’t know. Security says the office is leased by South Pacific Enterprises.”
“Now where have I heard that name before?” Rousseau said with a sarcastic tone. “Aren’t they concerned that the office might be used for illicit activity, what with their paranoia about security?”
“What’s illicit mean?”
Rousseau rolled his eyes and answered curtly, “Illegal.”
“Oh, like us. Yeah, they asked once and were told by the Governor-General’s office to back off.”
“Claude,” Rousseau said, directing his words to a man standing off to one side, “check with that girl you know in the Governor-General’s office. See what’s going on.” Then back to the leader giving the report, “Go on.”
“Seems the office isn’t used much, maybe two or three times a year. Other than a couple desks and chairs there’s nothing else in it. Not even a piece of paper. The whole complex is wired for security. Until the kid appeared on camera I didn’t know what floor he was on. Afterward I got them to roll back the video of the corridor, and got the sound bite from that office. I heard this Tuskin guy talk to the kid. He already knew about the CD and said Interpol was interested. When the kid decided to turn it over they went into a sound proof room. The security guys were kinda upset about that. Anyway, I see some guy leave the office and get on the elevator. Five minutes later the kid and this Tuskin leave. That’s the first we knew what floor he was on.”
“So how did they disappear?” Rousseau asked, his words as menacing as the Titanic’s iceberg.
“The lift was a decoy,” the man whined. “It stopped on the 12th floor before going to the lower level garage. He had us running all over the place. They didn’t take it at all. Went out onto the roof instead.”
“Then what?”
The man nervously shrugged his shoulders. “The only way they could have gotten past us was to transfer to the tower under construction. The only way to do that would be using the crane. I questioned the operator. Said he placed a tool box on that tower earlier in the morning. It would have been large enough to hold two people. About the time we were closing in he got a call to transfer it to the work site on the ground. He couldn’t really see it from his position and was guided in by radio. He picked it up and lowered onto a flatbed truck with some other boxes. Once on the ground they were gone. That’s the only way out we didn’t have covered.”
“Where’s that boat he came in on?” the crime lord snorted.
“Up and left about the same time we were chasing the kid. Only the kid and the captain got off and only the captain got back on board,” another solider reported. “Didn’t drop any cargo and didn’t take on any stuff except food. There wasn’t anything big enough for so much as a baby to hide in.”
“I checked on that Tuskin, fella” another standing to the side reported. “All anyone knows of him, he’s some kind of lawyer.”
“That’s convenient,” someone else snapped sarcastically.
“And the one filing all those court papers blocking me from taking over my late brother’s resort. Well, someone in the Governor-General’s office must know him,” Rousseau snarled as jaw muscles knotted and his complexion reddened.
“And how come Philippe’s alive when Tomas said he was dead?” another questioned.
“Because there was a switch.” Tomas answered as he stepped into the room. “Philippe had help from inside.”
“Inside!” Rousseau yelled.
“Yes. The kid who cleaned the pool. Tracked him down after he quit us. He was a plant to get friendly with your nephew. Apparently he overheard your plans to kill Philippe and use the storm as a cover. He also overheard you talking about the computer disk being in the money pouch. His people saw a golden opportunity. By telling Philippe it was a simple matter to encourage him to run, and to steal the money from your safe to buy passage to Europe. I don’t think Philippe knew about the CD until later.”
“And what about the two men who were supposed to kill him?”
“Apparently Philippe overpowered them and sailed to a rendezvous off the west coast of Lifou.”
“And just how does a boy overpower two of your gorillas, Tomas?”
“His martial arts skills are better than we realized. At Lifou a switch was made in open water. Another boy about the same build exchanged clothes and took over your yacht. He was to sail it to Port-Vila while Philippe was taken ashore at Tandine to wait out the storm. My guess is that the kid sailing the Catherine was blown off course and ended up on that cursed island.”
“And who masterminded all this?!” Rousseau shouted.
“Red Pine of the Taiwan Triad.”
The boss slammed a fist on the table preparatory to erupting like Krakatao.
“Got a lead, boss,” a diminutive weasel chirped with an effeminate voice as he barged into the meeting. “A bush jockey called. Just back from a charter. Ferried a Jewish kid and his father to Port Mosby to rejoin a tour group from Israel. Thought the kid looked familiar, but didn’t put it together until taking another look at a picture of your nephew soon as he got back. Says the kid was wearing a disguise, but he’s sure it was him.”
“Israel!”
“Yeah. Saw them hook up with the group as it was boarding a plane.”
“Israel! Damn!” Rousseau roared, slamming his opened hand on the table again. “We got anyone there?”
“No,” Tomas responded. “We could ask the Girabelli Family to get someone to the airport and pick Philippe up.”
“It shouldn’t matter,” the weasel continued, producing a computer diskette. “My contact at Interpol tipped me off there was going to be an exchange. Got there just as the agent was leaving the building. Picked his pocket.”
Philippe’s uncle couldn’t withhold astonishment as he took the disk from the soldier.
“You know something, boss,” another said, “I slipped aboard that old boat the kid came in on and nosed around. A pigsty, but there was something in the galley that looked kinda odd. The makin’s of a martini and a metal shaker. Who’d figure some Chinaman be drinkin’ martinis.”
The boss’ glower slowly dissolve as a smile turned the edges of his lips upward. It started as a chuckle akin to a hiccup, escalating into a rolling laugh.
“Well, whoever these guys are, they’re good. Real good. Played us like marionettes and to rub it in left a little message. Don’t you get it? Shaken not stirred? And we bested them, anyway. “Tell Don Girabelli not to worry about the brat. Just send his heart back in a box.” he said waiving the disk and laughing.
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
Marooned on a tiny island Philippe watched the helicopter disappear into the scattered clouds. The transfer from off the business center roof had been nerve-wrecking. A 4x4x6 foot steel box was setting on the back of the tower’s roof. He got in as Tuskin guided a construction crane’s jib over. Apparently the operator couldn’t see from his position. When the cable was lowered Tuskin attached it and using a two-way gave the signal, jumped in and closed the hatch.
Inside was pitch black and hot as the container swayed. Philippe began to feel sick, but the sensation was stymied when Tuskin cracked a glowlight. It’s weird, green glow cast a surprisingly bright light. A few minutes later the container jarred. He then heard voices outside and light scraping noises. Presently the box began moving, bumpy, not swaying.
“We’re on a truck heading to a private airport,” Tangata said, peeling rubbery additions off his face. “There’s a change of clothes in that box for you, too.”
As their box bumped along the barrister’s face changed back into the one Philippe knew, then into a Jewish rabbi complete with a thick, bushy, white beard. Philippe changed into a white shirt, black trousers, and dress shoes. The addition of a curly wig complete with a long lock of hair dangling in front of each ear and a small kippah finished off the transformation.
The change had no sooner been complete than the truck stopped. A tap on the outside signaled Tangata to open the door. Philippe was expecting to be overwhelmed by bright sunlight after adjusting to the near dark, but they were in a warehouse. Leaping out they made their way to a dark sedan parked nearby. The next stop was a charter air service a half mile away.
Less than a half hour later the Hawker Beechcraft King Air turboprop was winging its way north along the Australian coast, stopping at Cairns three hours later just long enough to refuel, empty bladders and grab sodas from over-charging vending machine. From there the flight struck across the Coral Sea landing at Port Mosby, New Guinea seven hours after leaving Brisbane.
After passing customs, which Philippe thought was a awfully fast, a shuttle took the Jewish father and son to the main terminal to be absorbed among a herd of kids his own age. If Philippe was thunderstruck at the ease in which every connection fell into place and how tangata easily transformed himself, what happened next only added to the wonder. Tangata was an American pretty fluent in French. Now he spoke with the tour leader - in Hebrew! The boy began to wonder how many languages his guardian spoke, and considering what had just happened, what were his connections?
Association with the tour group was short-lived, however. As they began the final march to the concourse Tangata pulled Philippe aside and directed him into a restroom.
“There’s a tee-shirt, shorts and sneakers in your backpack. Trade out including that wig. It really isn’t you,” Tangata chuckled softly.
A few minutes later the two reunited appearing as themselves, the first time since leaving the pirate island. Exiting the restroom Jimmy stuffed the backpacks into a locker, discretely dropping the key as they passed a shoeshine stand. Doubling back toward the main terminal they came to one of many locked access doors. Tangata swiped a credit card through the security reader and entered several numbers on the key pad. An audible click allowed them to open and pass through the door, down a flight of steep steps to a waiting airport security pickup.
“Open this after you’re airborne,” Tangata said, handing the boy a small envelope. Philippe got in to be whisked alone a service road to a waiting dark blue, Bell 429 helicopter. Seconds later he was in the air and over open water again heading east-southeast along the rugged New Guinea coastline. Philippe didn’t especially mind that the security officer in the pickup and now the chopper pilot smiled, but otherwise remained silent. Digesting what was happening needed quiet, thinking time.
Once in the air Philippe opened the envelop to find a map of an island indicating a trail along the beach to the opposite end with an ‘X” just off-shore and a cryptic note, “Make yourself at home.” An hour later Philippe was left alone on the sandy point of the teardrop-shaped island. Once the chopper left he began walking along the sandy shore until coming to a point where the trees grew to the waterline. Passing through the trees in came to the end of the island and lots of ocean. Anchored a football field’s length from shore lay The Adrianne.
Swimming out, Philippe lifted himself onto the rear platform. There didn’t appear to be anyone around - anywhere - leaving him to wonder who brought the boat and where they went. After checking below the sensation of being totally alone was, at first, unsettling. Eventually the strain of anxiety began to lessen.
Going below again, Philippe stripped off wet clothes, tossing them into a laundry bag. Donning his favorite, blue lava-lava he did what any growing teenager would do - raided the galley. On deck he stretched out, ate, tried to make sense of the flawless, whirlwind escape and snoozed.
There wasn’t much to do as the boy waited. He figured Tangata would show up sooner or later, but not sure how long it would take. Sitting at the navigation desk he began playing with the maps and a computerized calculator. If his guardian was sailing from Port Mosby it would take something like 24 hours. If he were to wait for Rango’s boat that might be a whole week. Feeling a little lonely and bored Philippe switched on the computer to play a game. In the lower right corner a tiny envelope icon flashed. Hurriedly, he opened the e-mail program. It was a message from Tangata.
‘Hope you enjoy your holiday. Tying up a few loose ends. See you in four days. Tangata Aiwaiwee.’
Philippe smiled while reflecting on the name. 'Mysterious man.' How appropriate.
With nothing but time on his hands Philippe spent the remainder of the day eating, sleeping, watching a video,and playing a favorite computer game. Finally, he sat on the bow to watch the sun disappear, replaced by a repentant display of stars and meteors in a perfectly clear sky. The following day he swam back to the island for a tour. As it was only 500 meters long by 200 at its widest the tour didn’t take long. The north third was mostly sand, the rest palms struggling to maintain a toehold in the shifting ground. A navigation chart indicated this ink spot lay a half mile from Mailu Island. Only a half mile. Philippe debated making the easy swim to visit there, too, but decided Tangata may not want anyone to know he was about. That left him to put on a snorkel and explore the reef hugging the island.
The morning of the fourth day was spent ashore, jogging the circumference of the island until covering about ten kilometers. That was followed by an hour of hard Kendo katas in soft sand before swimming back to the boat. After grabbing a sandwich Philippe stretched out atop the cabin soaking up the pleasant sunshine, comfortably snoozing until awaken by the deep-throated purr of an approaching engine. Looking through binoculars he was greeted by the vision of Rango’s scrap yard derelict coming in at flank speed. His heart sank. The only one on deck was the pirate.
“Uncle get disk,” the pirate announced looking downtrodden and giving the thumbs down sign as he pulled along side. It was then that Tangata stepped into view, seemingly in good humor.
“Interpol had a leak,” he said, jumping aboard. “The disk you gave Agent Fenster was picked out of his pocket. Leak’s been plugged. Delivered them a copy before leaving Brisbane and joining up with Rango,” Tangata said with the satisfying look of a cat that just ate the canary and shifted the blame on Fido. “The original is with a friend at the American embassy.”
“So that was just a copy I gave the agent?”
“Actually, no. All part of the plan to help you disappear. Hope your uncle likes Scooby-Doo movies.”
Switched
As the named implied Uncle Rousseau was a ruddy-faced man, not large like the gang’s behemoth soldiers, nattily dressed with a bright, red ascot and always the center of abject attention like now as the words slithered from pursed lips, “Okay, explain how they could just disappear.”
“We saw the kid and a guy come out of an office on the top floor leased to a J. Tuskin,” the man who had lead the chase reported. “They went straight into a vacant office down the hall. He had a key. Just as we arrived the private garage lift from that office was activated. We already had some guys down there. It was empty. There wasn’t anyway to get into that office. The glass entry could withstand a tank and it took seven minutes to get someone with a key.
“By the way," he continued, "that guy at the elevator, the Yuppie Frank ran into causing him to miss catching the kid was the same one that sneaked him out of the place on us.”
“Who is this Tuskin guy?”
“Don’t know. Security says the office is leased by South Pacific Enterprises.”
“Now where have I heard that name before?” Rousseau said with a sarcastic tone. “Aren’t they concerned that the office might be used for illicit activity, what with their paranoia about security?”
“What’s illicit mean?”
Rousseau rolled his eyes and answered curtly, “Illegal.”
“Oh, like us. Yeah, they asked once and were told by the Governor-General’s office to back off.”
“Claude,” Rousseau said, directing his words to a man standing off to one side, “check with that girl you know in the Governor-General’s office. See what’s going on.” Then back to the leader giving the report, “Go on.”
“Seems the office isn’t used much, maybe two or three times a year. Other than a couple desks and chairs there’s nothing else in it. Not even a piece of paper. The whole complex is wired for security. Until the kid appeared on camera I didn’t know what floor he was on. Afterward I got them to roll back the video of the corridor, and got the sound bite from that office. I heard this Tuskin guy talk to the kid. He already knew about the CD and said Interpol was interested. When the kid decided to turn it over they went into a sound proof room. The security guys were kinda upset about that. Anyway, I see some guy leave the office and get on the elevator. Five minutes later the kid and this Tuskin leave. That’s the first we knew what floor he was on.”
“So how did they disappear?” Rousseau asked, his words as menacing as the Titanic’s iceberg.
“The lift was a decoy,” the man whined. “It stopped on the 12th floor before going to the lower level garage. He had us running all over the place. They didn’t take it at all. Went out onto the roof instead.”
“Then what?”
The man nervously shrugged his shoulders. “The only way they could have gotten past us was to transfer to the tower under construction. The only way to do that would be using the crane. I questioned the operator. Said he placed a tool box on that tower earlier in the morning. It would have been large enough to hold two people. About the time we were closing in he got a call to transfer it to the work site on the ground. He couldn’t really see it from his position and was guided in by radio. He picked it up and lowered onto a flatbed truck with some other boxes. Once on the ground they were gone. That’s the only way out we didn’t have covered.”
“Where’s that boat he came in on?” the crime lord snorted.
“Up and left about the same time we were chasing the kid. Only the kid and the captain got off and only the captain got back on board,” another solider reported. “Didn’t drop any cargo and didn’t take on any stuff except food. There wasn’t anything big enough for so much as a baby to hide in.”
“I checked on that Tuskin, fella” another standing to the side reported. “All anyone knows of him, he’s some kind of lawyer.”
“That’s convenient,” someone else snapped sarcastically.
“And the one filing all those court papers blocking me from taking over my late brother’s resort. Well, someone in the Governor-General’s office must know him,” Rousseau snarled as jaw muscles knotted and his complexion reddened.
“And how come Philippe’s alive when Tomas said he was dead?” another questioned.
“Because there was a switch.” Tomas answered as he stepped into the room. “Philippe had help from inside.”
“Inside!” Rousseau yelled.
“Yes. The kid who cleaned the pool. Tracked him down after he quit us. He was a plant to get friendly with your nephew. Apparently he overheard your plans to kill Philippe and use the storm as a cover. He also overheard you talking about the computer disk being in the money pouch. His people saw a golden opportunity. By telling Philippe it was a simple matter to encourage him to run, and to steal the money from your safe to buy passage to Europe. I don’t think Philippe knew about the CD until later.”
“And what about the two men who were supposed to kill him?”
“Apparently Philippe overpowered them and sailed to a rendezvous off the west coast of Lifou.”
“And just how does a boy overpower two of your gorillas, Tomas?”
“His martial arts skills are better than we realized. At Lifou a switch was made in open water. Another boy about the same build exchanged clothes and took over your yacht. He was to sail it to Port-Vila while Philippe was taken ashore at Tandine to wait out the storm. My guess is that the kid sailing the Catherine was blown off course and ended up on that cursed island.”
“And who masterminded all this?!” Rousseau shouted.
“Red Pine of the Taiwan Triad.”
The boss slammed a fist on the table preparatory to erupting like Krakatao.
“Got a lead, boss,” a diminutive weasel chirped with an effeminate voice as he barged into the meeting. “A bush jockey called. Just back from a charter. Ferried a Jewish kid and his father to Port Mosby to rejoin a tour group from Israel. Thought the kid looked familiar, but didn’t put it together until taking another look at a picture of your nephew soon as he got back. Says the kid was wearing a disguise, but he’s sure it was him.”
“Israel!”
“Yeah. Saw them hook up with the group as it was boarding a plane.”
“Israel! Damn!” Rousseau roared, slamming his opened hand on the table again. “We got anyone there?”
“No,” Tomas responded. “We could ask the Girabelli Family to get someone to the airport and pick Philippe up.”
“It shouldn’t matter,” the weasel continued, producing a computer diskette. “My contact at Interpol tipped me off there was going to be an exchange. Got there just as the agent was leaving the building. Picked his pocket.”
Philippe’s uncle couldn’t withhold astonishment as he took the disk from the soldier.
“You know something, boss,” another said, “I slipped aboard that old boat the kid came in on and nosed around. A pigsty, but there was something in the galley that looked kinda odd. The makin’s of a martini and a metal shaker. Who’d figure some Chinaman be drinkin’ martinis.”
The boss’ glower slowly dissolve as a smile turned the edges of his lips upward. It started as a chuckle akin to a hiccup, escalating into a rolling laugh.
“Well, whoever these guys are, they’re good. Real good. Played us like marionettes and to rub it in left a little message. Don’t you get it? Shaken not stirred? And we bested them, anyway. “Tell Don Girabelli not to worry about the brat. Just send his heart back in a box.” he said waiving the disk and laughing.
⧫ ⧫ ⧫
Marooned on a tiny island Philippe watched the helicopter disappear into the scattered clouds. The transfer from off the business center roof had been nerve-wrecking. A 4x4x6 foot steel box was setting on the back of the tower’s roof. He got in as Tuskin guided a construction crane’s jib over. Apparently the operator couldn’t see from his position. When the cable was lowered Tuskin attached it and using a two-way gave the signal, jumped in and closed the hatch.
Inside was pitch black and hot as the container swayed. Philippe began to feel sick, but the sensation was stymied when Tuskin cracked a glowlight. It’s weird, green glow cast a surprisingly bright light. A few minutes later the container jarred. He then heard voices outside and light scraping noises. Presently the box began moving, bumpy, not swaying.
“We’re on a truck heading to a private airport,” Tangata said, peeling rubbery additions off his face. “There’s a change of clothes in that box for you, too.”
As their box bumped along the barrister’s face changed back into the one Philippe knew, then into a Jewish rabbi complete with a thick, bushy, white beard. Philippe changed into a white shirt, black trousers, and dress shoes. The addition of a curly wig complete with a long lock of hair dangling in front of each ear and a small kippah finished off the transformation.
The change had no sooner been complete than the truck stopped. A tap on the outside signaled Tangata to open the door. Philippe was expecting to be overwhelmed by bright sunlight after adjusting to the near dark, but they were in a warehouse. Leaping out they made their way to a dark sedan parked nearby. The next stop was a charter air service a half mile away.
Less than a half hour later the Hawker Beechcraft King Air turboprop was winging its way north along the Australian coast, stopping at Cairns three hours later just long enough to refuel, empty bladders and grab sodas from over-charging vending machine. From there the flight struck across the Coral Sea landing at Port Mosby, New Guinea seven hours after leaving Brisbane.
After passing customs, which Philippe thought was a awfully fast, a shuttle took the Jewish father and son to the main terminal to be absorbed among a herd of kids his own age. If Philippe was thunderstruck at the ease in which every connection fell into place and how tangata easily transformed himself, what happened next only added to the wonder. Tangata was an American pretty fluent in French. Now he spoke with the tour leader - in Hebrew! The boy began to wonder how many languages his guardian spoke, and considering what had just happened, what were his connections?
Association with the tour group was short-lived, however. As they began the final march to the concourse Tangata pulled Philippe aside and directed him into a restroom.
“There’s a tee-shirt, shorts and sneakers in your backpack. Trade out including that wig. It really isn’t you,” Tangata chuckled softly.
A few minutes later the two reunited appearing as themselves, the first time since leaving the pirate island. Exiting the restroom Jimmy stuffed the backpacks into a locker, discretely dropping the key as they passed a shoeshine stand. Doubling back toward the main terminal they came to one of many locked access doors. Tangata swiped a credit card through the security reader and entered several numbers on the key pad. An audible click allowed them to open and pass through the door, down a flight of steep steps to a waiting airport security pickup.
“Open this after you’re airborne,” Tangata said, handing the boy a small envelope. Philippe got in to be whisked alone a service road to a waiting dark blue, Bell 429 helicopter. Seconds later he was in the air and over open water again heading east-southeast along the rugged New Guinea coastline. Philippe didn’t especially mind that the security officer in the pickup and now the chopper pilot smiled, but otherwise remained silent. Digesting what was happening needed quiet, thinking time.
Once in the air Philippe opened the envelop to find a map of an island indicating a trail along the beach to the opposite end with an ‘X” just off-shore and a cryptic note, “Make yourself at home.” An hour later Philippe was left alone on the sandy point of the teardrop-shaped island. Once the chopper left he began walking along the sandy shore until coming to a point where the trees grew to the waterline. Passing through the trees in came to the end of the island and lots of ocean. Anchored a football field’s length from shore lay The Adrianne.
Swimming out, Philippe lifted himself onto the rear platform. There didn’t appear to be anyone around - anywhere - leaving him to wonder who brought the boat and where they went. After checking below the sensation of being totally alone was, at first, unsettling. Eventually the strain of anxiety began to lessen.
Going below again, Philippe stripped off wet clothes, tossing them into a laundry bag. Donning his favorite, blue lava-lava he did what any growing teenager would do - raided the galley. On deck he stretched out, ate, tried to make sense of the flawless, whirlwind escape and snoozed.
There wasn’t much to do as the boy waited. He figured Tangata would show up sooner or later, but not sure how long it would take. Sitting at the navigation desk he began playing with the maps and a computerized calculator. If his guardian was sailing from Port Mosby it would take something like 24 hours. If he were to wait for Rango’s boat that might be a whole week. Feeling a little lonely and bored Philippe switched on the computer to play a game. In the lower right corner a tiny envelope icon flashed. Hurriedly, he opened the e-mail program. It was a message from Tangata.
‘Hope you enjoy your holiday. Tying up a few loose ends. See you in four days. Tangata Aiwaiwee.’
Philippe smiled while reflecting on the name. 'Mysterious man.' How appropriate.
With nothing but time on his hands Philippe spent the remainder of the day eating, sleeping, watching a video,and playing a favorite computer game. Finally, he sat on the bow to watch the sun disappear, replaced by a repentant display of stars and meteors in a perfectly clear sky. The following day he swam back to the island for a tour. As it was only 500 meters long by 200 at its widest the tour didn’t take long. The north third was mostly sand, the rest palms struggling to maintain a toehold in the shifting ground. A navigation chart indicated this ink spot lay a half mile from Mailu Island. Only a half mile. Philippe debated making the easy swim to visit there, too, but decided Tangata may not want anyone to know he was about. That left him to put on a snorkel and explore the reef hugging the island.
The morning of the fourth day was spent ashore, jogging the circumference of the island until covering about ten kilometers. That was followed by an hour of hard Kendo katas in soft sand before swimming back to the boat. After grabbing a sandwich Philippe stretched out atop the cabin soaking up the pleasant sunshine, comfortably snoozing until awaken by the deep-throated purr of an approaching engine. Looking through binoculars he was greeted by the vision of Rango’s scrap yard derelict coming in at flank speed. His heart sank. The only one on deck was the pirate.
“Uncle get disk,” the pirate announced looking downtrodden and giving the thumbs down sign as he pulled along side. It was then that Tangata stepped into view, seemingly in good humor.
“Interpol had a leak,” he said, jumping aboard. “The disk you gave Agent Fenster was picked out of his pocket. Leak’s been plugged. Delivered them a copy before leaving Brisbane and joining up with Rango,” Tangata said with the satisfying look of a cat that just ate the canary and shifted the blame on Fido. “The original is with a friend at the American embassy.”
“So that was just a copy I gave the agent?”
“Actually, no. All part of the plan to help you disappear. Hope your uncle likes Scooby-Doo movies.”
WIDGETIZE