Aground on St. Thomas (7 page)

Charlotte Amalie

The Man in Charge

AGENT FRIDAY STATIONED
himself in a hallway outside the meeting chambers, safely shielded from the senators detained inside. He’d had enough heckling for one day—and his head still hurt where the gavel had nicked him.

His team had combed the Legislature Building from top to bottom. Senators Bobo and Sanchez were nowhere to be found. The entry logs indicated that both senators had passed through the security scanners that morning, but the pair must have sneaked out during his team’s initial sweep.

Operation Coconut had officially dropped the ball.

Bobo, he thought wryly as he lifted his cap to massage his left temple. What kind of a name is Bobo?

The woman from the St. Thomas branch of the attorney general’s office stepped into the hallway and handed him a walkie-talkie.

“Hey, Friday,” she said with a toss of her head. “You’d better take this.”

Despite the AGENT STEIN tag pinned to his shirt, it had taken the locals less than thirty minutes to pick up on his agency nickname. Even the testy security guard from the front entrance was now calling him by the moniker.

With a sigh, he took the receiver.

“This is Friday.”

The call was from the advance team tasked with arresting the Governor and his cabinet. One of the agents under Hightower’s command had dropped back to send a discreet warning.

As Friday listened to the report, the lines on his face deepened into ruts.

“What do you mean you just got to Government House? I can see it on the hill above us. How did it take you thirty minutes to hike a couple hundred yards?”

The response caused his expression to sour further.

“The mission is to secure the Governor. He can’t arrest everyone he comes across who’s carrying a weapon.”

Friday’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling.

“Yes, of course I hear the gunshots. They’re not shooting at you, though, are they?”

He crammed his cap back down onto his head. Operation Coconut was falling apart, and he would no doubt be held responsible for the mess.

“Tell Hightower I’m on my way.”

Charlotte Amalie

The Gorilla

SPECIAL AGENT IN
Charge Reginald Hightower, aka “the Gorilla,” charged toward the Government House front steps, accompanied by the rest of his advance team. The agent who had dropped back to radio Friday sprinted to catch up to the rest of the group.

“We’re here for the Governor,” Hightower announced boldly as he powered into the lobby.

He was a beefy, overmuscled man who spent an inordinate amount of time lifting weights in the gym. His bulky shoulders hunched forward, as if pulled down by the weight of his biceps. With his closely shorn head and top-heavy physique, it wasn’t hard to see the animal resemblance. But his code name was inspired by more than his similarities to the simian shape; many thought of it as a reference to his quick, often irrational temper.

In addition to sporadic fits of rage, Hightower was also prone to distraction—as demonstrated by the numerous diversions that had taken place during the short trek up from the shoreline. The team had stopped several times to investigate potential “subversives.” Half their number was still stuck in Emancipation Park, interviewing the increasingly hostile citizens Hightower had ordered to be detained for questioning.

Hightower’s unlikely advancement through the FBI to special agent in charge was a mystery to the rank and file. Within the last six months, he had been plucked out of relative obscurity and elevated to a senior leadership position. A less qualified candidate had never been so rapidly promoted. Rumors of backroom payoffs and high-placed political pressure circulated with every accolade and award.

The choice of Hightower to head Operation Coconut was a puzzle—and a concern—to the agents under his command that day in Charlotte Amalie.

“Sir,” one had suggested on their final approach to Government House through the public gardens that covered the hillside below. “Perhaps some of us should go around back to cover the rear of the building.”

Hightower had replied with a withering glare. He pointed up at the suited man who had just appeared on the second-floor balcony outside the Governor’s office.

“Don’t bother,” he said dismissively. “We’ve got eyes on the asset. Look at him. This guy’s not running anywhere—except maybe to the ice cream store.”

He laughed at his own joke.

The rest of the team exchanged worried glances as they followed their leader into the lobby.

•

AFTER A HEATED
exchange with the woman standing by the security scanners, Hightower wasted no time thumping up the carpeted stairs to the second floor.

This is going to be a piece of cake, he thought as he reached the top step and turned down the hallway toward the Governor’s office.

The other agents closed in around him, positioning themselves against the outer wall and the inner side railing, moving in tandem to clear the area of potential threats.

Hightower waved them off.

The place was silent and still. No loyal bodyguards lurked in the corridor to protect the head of state. No vigilantes had camped out to challenge the agents’ authority.

“I got this,” he growled softly.

Motioning for the other agents to trail him at a distance, Hightower strutted toward the executive suite’s marked entrance.

The door had been left slightly ajar. Hightower stopped outside the threshold, listened briefly, and then eased his shoulders through the opening, gun at the ready.

It was a long room, ornately decorated. Paintings in gilded frames hung from the textured walls. Plush red throw rugs stretched across a dark wooden floor. The Governor’s wide mahogany desk occupied one corner, while a liquor cabinet and a display table for a marble backgammon set filled in another. A wall of windows framed the far end next to an open door that led out onto the balcony.

Hightower’s gaze skimmed over the décor, checking for any third parties that might give him trouble. Seeing none, he shifted his focus to the man he’d seen from the public gardens below Government House. The target still stood on the balcony, looking out over Charlotte Amalie.

Unless the Governor was blind, he would have seen the feds swarming the Legislature Building on the shoreline as well as the activity of the black-clad agents in Emancipation Park. Hightower’s arrival wouldn’t be a surprise. The Governor had apparently decided to capitulate without a fight.

The Gorilla’s chiseled face eased into a sly grin. This would be the biggest arrest of his career, résumé-building material that could catapult him into the agency’s upper echelons.

He glanced over his shoulder at the agents hovering in the hallway and mouthed a stern
Stay back
. He wasn’t going to share this glory with anyone else.

Hightower pressed forward into the office, his footsteps muffled on the evenly spaced floor rugs as he crossed to the balcony. The audio of the anticipated accolades played in his head.

We are here today to award the department’s highest commendation to SAIC Reginald Hightower, for deftly taking down the corrupt leader of a rogue state . . .

Oh, heck, he thought, don’t let facts get in the way. Let’s just call him an oppressive dictator.

Ready to get down to business, Hightower hit the pause button on his internal commentary and crept to the edge of the balcony.

The Governor’s build was slightly less bulky than Hightower had expected, based on the photos in the briefing file he had flipped through on the trip down to the island. His shoulders didn’t quite fill out the tailored lines of his suit. Perhaps the strain of the past few weeks had taken a toll on the big man’s appetite—or his wife had cut off his ice cream supply.

Hightower could barely suppress mental chuckle.

Regardless, nothing was going to prevent the successful completion of this mission.

As he stepped onto the balcony, the clatter of plastic on wood sounded from inside the office.

Hightower flinched, resisting the urge to look back to see which agent had knocked the picture frame over on the Governor’s desk.

The suited man slowly turned from the balcony railing.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

Hightower leapt forward with his handcuffs.

“Governor, you have the right to remain silent.”

The suit looked even more ill-fitting when viewed from the front, but the man inside the clothes was perfectly at ease. He held out his hands to the agent.

“Yes, of course.”

Hightower snapped the cuffs around the man’s wrists. “Anything you say can and may be used against you . . .”

“Oh dear.”

The mocking tone riled the Gorilla’s temper, taunting his inner beast. Already irritated by the subordinate’s picture frame fumble, his face turned red with rage.

Swallowing a curt retort, Hightower continued the mandatory listing of the arrestee’s Constitutional rights. “You have the right to an attorney . . .”

“Sounds like we better call him.”

A strained cough interrupted before Hightower could spit out a response.

“Sir.”

An agent stood by the desk, holding a picture of the territory’s head of state standing next to his wife, the First Lady.

The agent frowned at the image and then compared the photographed face to that of the man in the handcuffs.

“You got the wrong guy.”

“What?”

Meekly, the agent cleared his throat. “That’s not the Governor.”

Hightower spun around, stomped to the desk, and snatched the photo from the agent’s hands.

His expression cycled through disbelief, realization, and then back to rage.

Cursing, he threw the frame onto the floor, cracking the glass fronting.

The Betrayal

GRUMBLING INTO THE
two-way radio, Agent Friday huffed up the road to Government House. He was accompanied by a handful of agents that he had snagged on his way out of the Legislature Building.

The group had nearly completed the short hike to Government Hill, skirting Fort Christian, Emancipation Park, and a large post office en route.

While climbing a flight of public steps north of the post office, they received word that the Governor had given the slip to the team responsible for his arrest.

Alarmed, Friday had increased his pace to a brisk trot.

He rushed through the Government House front entrance just as a fuming Hightower shoved the handcuffed doppelgänger out of the Governor’s office and down the hallway toward the stairs.

Friday joined the sea of upturned faces watching from the first floor. He clenched his teeth, hoping the Gorilla wasn’t about to throw the man over the hallway railing.

He tried to catch Hightower’s attention, but his hand-waving was ineffective. His polite verbal attempts were drowned out by the senior agent’s belligerent rant.

“No one plays me for the fool and gets away with it. I’ll book you on impersonating.”

The doppelgänger merely smirked. He knew Hightower was bluffing.

“I believe I asked for my attorney.”

“Oh, I’ll get you your attorney. He’ll have to use dental records to identify you . . .”

“Agent Hightower,
sir
,” Friday called out, straining his voice to be heard. “I thought we might be of assistance.”

Hightower jerked the doppelgänger to the side so that he could see down to the lower level.

“Friday,” he replied without the least bit of embarrassment. “Good of you to join us.”

•

FRIDAY SENT A
subteam to scour the rest of the building for the real governor while one of the other agents took custody of the doppelgänger and carefully marched him down the stairs.

Hightower directed his ire to the employees who had been gathered in the lobby. With Friday’s assistance, he corralled the onlookers into a center seating area for questioning.

It was a crowded assembly. Workers from a variety of positions were represented, from senior policy advisors to administrative clerks and cleaning staff.

Hightower was confident he would be able to elicit the Governor’s location from one of the employees.

Agent Friday wasn’t so sure. Despite the wide range of socioeconomic backgrounds, there was a stony similarity in the expressions on these West Indian faces. Whatever fractures of loyalty that might have existed within the group had been sealed over by Hightower’s rough display on the second-floor hallway.

Friday stepped back and observed, but remained ready to jump in if needed. He’d been saddled with the awkward job of preventing his boss from making any further errors in judgment.

Operation Coconut, he thought bitterly. This is the last time I take an assignment named after a hairy piece of fruit.

The Gorilla moved clunkily from one suspect to the next, passing over the suited bureaucrats for the administrative staff and cleaning crew. The latter employees he deemed more likely to rat out their boss.

After unsuccessful interrogations of a janitor, a copy boy, and a secretary, Hightower focused on a cleaning maid seated in the middle of the group. The large unhappy-looking woman wore a cotton dress with a high frilly collar. A hairnet covered her tangled hair.

She sighed uncomfortably as Hightower bent over her chair, flexing his beefcake muscles for intimidating effect.

The maid fiddled with her cheap drugstore eyeglasses, nervously pushing the plastic frames into the soft cartilage of her nose.

“I think
you
know where the Governor ran off to. Don’t you?”

Like the rest of the employees, she at first refused to speak or even look at him. She crossed and recrossed her unshaved legs, shuffling the flimsy rubber sandals that were squeezed onto her chunky feet. But after a few minutes of Hightower’s steely-eyed stare and badgering questions, she pursed her lips and silently rotated her head. Her eyes looked pointedly northwest, in the direction of the public stairs that led up Government Hill.

It was a wordless communication, but an effective betrayal, nonetheless.

“Friday!” Hightower hollered, thrusting his arm to point at the building’s rear exit. “Get moving!”