Crooked River(47)
Quarles exhaled in relief. “Yes.” Pendergast had just cleared him to leave China at the first sign of actual danger, no matter how small.
“Good. Recall that our contacts here are interested only in wild silk. Not the usual mulberry.”
The conversation continued in this innocuous and misleading vein for another thirty seconds before they said goodbye. Looking around one more time, Quarles plucked the SIM card from the phone, placed it in an ashtray, and melted it with a match, then flicked the blob over the edge of the railing. He stood up and made a single circuit of the deck, breathing the way he’d been conditioned, letting his heart rate and respiration return to normal. Heading toward the glass door leading back into the hotel, he took the burner phone in both hands, snapped it in two, and threw the sections into different trash cans. He opened the door, then glanced over his shoulder. The earlier breezes had now fallen away: already, the stench of refineries and dye factories, the greasy soot from the tanneries to the west, were once again filling the air.
He slipped inside, letting the door close behind him. It was going to be a dirty night.
27
COLDMOON GOT BEHIND the wheel of the Range Rover, with Pendergast sitting coolly in the passenger seat. He was again wearing that white linen suit with the Panama hat, an outfit no FBI agent in the entire history of the United States of America had ever put on before.
They made their way through the Blind Pass Bridge checkpoint and to the mainland, retracing the route Coldmoon had taken the day before. Fifteen minutes later, Coldmoon turned into the parking lot of the Fort Myers Police Department. The lot was packed with task force vehicles.
“Tell me more about this Commander Baugh,” said Coldmoon. Pendergast had brought him up to speed on the task force the previous evening, but he’d been careful to refrain from opining or editorializing.
“You will meet him in a moment and can judge for yourself.”
Coldmoon caught a note of disdain in his voice. “He’s an asshole, then?”
“Such a disagreeable expression,” said Pendergast. “I should think that you, with your wide-ranging intellect, might find another word.”
“How about suckwad? Dripdick? Shitbag?”
“You’re a veritable cornucopia of colorful expressions.”
“That’s just English. You should hear my Lakota.”
“Perhaps another time. Have you ever considered pursuing such a rare talent on the doctoral level?”
They entered the building into a wash of air conditioning and soon found themselves at the closed door of the commander’s office. Pendergast rapped.
The door was opened by a lackey in full dress uniform. “Please come in.”
He stepped aside to reveal the commander, sitting behind a large desk, also in dress uniform, looking crisp and fit, with a face of granite. “Oh, Pendergast, it’s you. So good of you to make an appearance.”
“My partner, Special Agent Armstrong Coldmoon,” said Pendergast.
Coldmoon stepped forward but the commander didn’t rise to shake his hand. Instead, he said, “Partner? Glad you finally brought in help.”
Coldmoon immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He glanced at Pendergast and was surprised to see the mild expression on his face.
“And this,” said Baugh, “is my chief of staff, Lieutenant Darby.”
He was a chinless wonder, thin, nervous, and slope-shouldered, with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed as he nodded a greeting.
With this, Baugh indicated for them to sit. Darby took a seat to one side of the commander’s desk. He removed a steno notebook and, pen in hand, prepared to take notes.
“I expected a report from you already. Two of the six ships in question are currently in territorial waters, right here in the gulf, and I would advise you to get warrants and swoop down on them before they sail back out.”
“The warrants have been pulled,” said Pendergast, “and Agent Coldmoon and I will be executing them shortly.”
“Good. Now, there’s another issue I want to talk to you about. What’s this I hear about you hiring some oceanographer without my knowledge?”
At this, Pendergast went very still. “Where did you hear this?” he asked.
“Never mind where I heard it. Is it true?”
“Commander Baugh, are you aware of the concept of compartmentalization?”
“For Christ’s sake, this isn’t some CIA operation! I’m in charge of this task force. I can’t have the FBI going rogue on me here.”
Pendergast’s silvery eyes remained for a long time on the commander. “If you’re displeased with the idea of my withholding information, you’ll have to take that up with Assistant Director in Charge Pickett.”
“Are you telling me to my face you’re withholding information? This is unacceptable. I order you to share your work with the task force.”
Coldmoon felt his own anger, which had been growing, finally overflow. He half rose. “You don’t get to order the FBI to do a damn thing!”
He felt Pendergast’s hand on his forearm. “Agent Coldmoon?” he said placidly.
Coldmoon sat down, fuming.
“Thank you for controlling your partner,” said the commander, giving Coldmoon a nasty stare.