Changing Lanes - 4. Islands in the Sea

Well into yet another Internet search session, Eric plowed through page after page, looking at the various resorts. He then began to search for airfares. To his considerable irritation, he found that there were no direct flights from the United States to the Canary Islands; he would have to change planes in Europe, and that would add a considerable amount of time to the journey, time which he did not have.

A jet charter was a faster option. Most jet charter services, especially when they will be taking a client to several locations, hand the passenger a business card upon boarding in order to give the client an easy way to contact the service for schedule changes or other needs during stopovers. Eric picked up the phone, flipped open his wallet, and dialed the number from the business card of a company Instinct had used many times before. The conversation was fast, and a very dejected Eric hung up the phone two minutes later. The trip, he’d been informed, would be just over six thousand miles, and would require a refueling stop in Bermuda. The estimated travel time was thirteen hours each way. That would be barely enough; he could sleep on the plane, have a full day in Isla De La Palma, and then return home, all within forty-eight hours, or just a little over. That should be enough time to check out a few likely locations for the party, and if time permitted, for the wedding as well. Realizing that he’d need some help, and also seeing the chance to do a favor for a friend, Eric’s next call was to Jim.

Eric got right to the heart of the matter. “Do you and Linda have any honeymoon plans?”

Jim thought about it for a moment before replying, “We were thinking of a ride through Colorado after the wedding, but nothing firm, why?”

Chewing on his lip, hoping that he could trust Jim in spite of Jim’s long friendship with Brandon, Eric first asked, “This is about Brandon and Chase’s stag party and wedding. Promise me you won’t breathe a word of anything I tell you to anyone.”

Weighing his loyalties, Jim took some time to think it over. He knew a little about what Eric was up to, and considered it harmless fun. Hedging a little, he replied, “Okay, if it’s nothing I think is bad, though if I see a problem, I’ll come to you first. Fair enough?”

Eric felt that was a deal he could live with, and nodded in spite of being on the phone. “Jim, how would you and Linda like a honeymoon in the Canary Islands? The outbound trip will be by private jet, and the return by first-class air. I can only get away for two days so I might need someone on the ground there. No one can know I’m planning on going, or where we’re having the party or the wedding.”

Jim’s laughter echoed over the line, and then Eric heard him say, “So, it’s a kidnap party and a hijack wedding? Just make it a good one and I’m in, and that sounds like one kick-ass honeymoon. You’re on and thanks, pal.”

Deciding to see how far his secret deal with Jim could be pushed, Eric asked his next question, “No problem, but I’ve got a favor to ask. Can you teach me to ride a motorcycle? I bought one today and pick it up next week, right before your wedding. Nobody knows about it yet.”

Jim shivered a little as he envisioned Helen’s likely reaction to that bit of news. As a biker, he felt motorcycles were safe enough, but Helen was protective of the four members of Instinct, whom she considered her family. He was sure that she’d hit the roof when she found out, and he didn’t want to be caught in the middle. On the other hand, he was employed by the band, not Helen. “Well, I suppose I can, but you deal with Helen, okay? If she finds out I was hiding it from her, she’ll have my ass in a sling.”

Eric laughed hard; he found the concept of the big biker being afraid of anyone hilarious, though when it came to Helen, he had to admit it was understandable. He himself dreaded telling her, but knew that he had to if his plan to sneak away had any chance of success. He consoled himself with the thought that she’d find out sooner or later anyway. “Okay, Jim, I’ll tell her sometime before your wedding, I promise.”

“So, what did you buy?”

“A Yamaha R6,” Eric replied, wondering what reaction he’d get from a Harley fanatic.

“Jap crap,” came the expected reply, though after a few moment’s mulling, Jim added, “But I guess it’s not a bad choice for you. Mind if I ask why?”

Eric jumped at that opening, as he’d been meaning to bring up the subject. “I was chased by paparazzi again. On a bike, I figure I can lose ‘em a lot easier than in my Jeep. If they try using bikes, I figure it would be easier to introduce them to you and a few friends.”

“That explains the Jap crap, they’re more maneuverable, even I’ll admit that. One thing though, don’t try anything fancy like running from ‘em until you’ve had a lot of practice, otherwise you could kill yourself. Next time you leave the hotel, give me a shout and I’ll whistle you up an escort. If anybody follows you, we’ll deal with ‘em. We’ll give ‘em a few lessons and sooner or later they’ll figure out to play nice, because if they don’t, it will be both painful and expensive,” Jim said, delivering the last part in a low and even voice that Eric recognized as a dire threat to his most hated enemy.

“I like the sound of that, a lot,” Eric replied and then ended the call after asking Jim to say hello to Linda for him. His next call was easier; he booked a jet charter for the Canary Islands. He still wasn’t fond of the small jets, a dislike that stemmed from one particularly bad ride that had ended up at Edwards Air Force Base, but when you needed to get somewhere fast, they sure had their good points.

* * *

Jim relaxed in his apartment, looking forward to telling Linda the news about their honeymoon. He knew she’d long dreamed of vacations in faraway places, so he had no doubt that she’d be overjoyed. He’d have to tell her by phone; she was in Telluride, making arrangements for the wedding. That thought reminded Jim of another need, and he started making phone calls to Telluride, setting up keg rentals. The guest list included over a hundred bikers, and that, he knew, would be one thirsty crowd.

* * *

General Bradson was far from being a happy man. The contacts Bill had provided had not been as forthcoming as he’d hoped. All he needed was transportation and a few weapons, plus a few hired men trained in their use. What the General would not say, even to himself due to his long aversion to such things, was that he was putting together and equipping a small squad of mercenaries. Or more precisely, he was trying to. The initial contacts had not gone well. He’d spoken to a few go-betweens, only to be told that his project was just too small to be of interest to men who were more accustomed to supplying the weapons for small wars – quite often to both sides, though the contacts never admitted that aspect.

One contact, for a small fee, had done the only thing he could do to help; putting the General in touch with the representative of a smaller outfit that might well be interested in his business. Calls had been made, resulting in a few cryptic conversations, which at last yielded another phone number. With a steady hand, the General dialed the long sequence of digits. A few clicks sounded on the line as the call was re-routed, and the call was answered with a simple, heavily Russian-accented, “Hello?”

“I need to speak with someone regarding Odysseus,” the General said, putting the emphasis on the final syllable as he’d been told to do. The requirement of a specific pronunciation was a classic means of enhancing security; a code within a code. An echo of his own voice sounded over the line, confirming that the call was being relayed by satellite.

After a silence of several seconds, the reply arrived, via the same voice, but having lost much of its Russian accent. “I will be your contact. I have been told to expect your call. This is an open line so I will say little. I believe we must meet. I have arranged a place on neutral ground. You will be there in forty-eight hours. Bring fifty.” With that, the line went dead, leaving General Bradson to wonder where the meeting would be, and how he would get word.

The General did not have long to ponder. Within the hour, his doorbell rang. Opening the door, he found a harried delivery boy who shoved a bag into the General’s hands and said, “That’ll be sixteen dollars.” Arching an eyebrow, for he’d ordered nothing, the General fished out a twenty, suspecting that the bag contained far more than a meal.

Handing over the cash the General watched with amusement as the delivery boy stuffed the money into a pocket, made no offer to give change, and turned on his heel with a muffled, “Thanks, enjoy your dinner.”

Plopping the bags on his table, General Bradson examined the contents under the light of his bare kitchen bulb. The bags contained three items; a Styrofoam box containing some enchiladas in a nondescript sauce, another box with a serving of Spanish rice and refried beans, a small bag of tortilla chips, and a tub of salsa. Puzzled, the General poked at the food, trying to find some sort of clue. He was about to give up and write the incident off to a misplaced delivery when he thought to look in the bags again. There he found a receipt and a couple of coupons from a local Mexican restaurant, along with a flyer and a coupon for Senior Frog’s Mexican Cantina on Grand Cayman Island.

The discovery was intriguing on many levels. It had to be the message, or so the General hoped. However, there was more than one message contained in the innocuous flyer; the far more sinister one was clear. ‘We know who you are, and where to find you.’ As a display of fieldcraft, the General had to admit that it was impressive. The unnamed man obviously had his own connections. Only five people, aside from the General himself, knew both what the General was thinking of doing and his identity. He’d found it necessary to make some disclosures to the various people he’d contacted, but he’d kept the information as minimal as he thought he could get away with. One of the people who knew at least most of the story, however, had disclosed that information to the contact, giving him the upper hand.

General Bradson shrugged to himself. Under other circumstances, the development would be of dire concern, but in this case he could not spare the time to worry. The risks were great, but to do nothing risked far more. Dumping the suspicious and unappetizing meal in his kitchen trash, the General fired up his computer and booked a flight, regretting that he did not yet have any form of phony ID.

Considering one other problem he’d face, General Bradson abandoned all thoughts of dinner and drove himself to a department store in search of a camera, and more to the point, a camera bag.

The next day flew by in a blur as General Bradson packed a duffle bag with a few clothes. His civilian wardrobe was sparse in the extreme, freeing him of any need to choose what to take; everything he had fit in the small duffle bag with room to spare. He was done within an hour, and turned to the more important task of the camera, hoping that he remembered the impromptu sewing lesson that his late wife had given him so many years before.

* * *

The plan was simple, Eric would drive Jim to the dealership, and Jim would drive the motorcycle back to a large parking lot near the hotel. Eric had been far from happy with the plan, but Jim had insisted; it was his way, or no way at all.

Everything had gone well for about a minute and a half, which was how long it took Eric to pull his Jeep out of the studio garage and onto Wilshire Boulevard. A glance in the rear-view mirror revealed a familiar-looking black sedan. “Fuck... Paparazzi, again,” Eric said with disgust as his foot punched down on the gas.

“Whoa, ease off, don’t try and outrun ‘em. Let ‘em think they’ve got you. Keep driving for a while and I’ll make a call.” Eric overheard Jim’s side of the conversation, which was more than enough to put a massive smile on his face. Jim ended the call and told Eric, “They need about ten minutes to get in place. Keep going down Wilshire for five minutes, then turn around and head back. The parking lot I have picked out for your riding lessons will work just fine for this.”

Ten minutes later, with the sedan following close behind, Eric pulled into the designated parking lot. The black sedan’s driver, recalling Eric’s prior means of escape, checked for other exits as he took the turn into the lot. Finding a few, he maintained his distance as Eric pulled his Jeep in under a lone tree on the outer edge of the lot.

“We’re going to get out and walk towards the stores. Just ignore ‘em, let ‘em follow,” Jim said with an evil grin.

Glancing at the sedan, which had parked fifty feet away, Eric nodded, suppressing a smile of his own as he got out of the Jeep.

As expected, they’d walked less than a dozen yards before two paparazzi climbed out of the sedan, cameras clicking. “Pretend you don’t see ‘em, and just keep going. Do not look back,” Jim said as Eric heard a distant, throaty rumble, growing ever closer.

The roar increased, shifting tone as a dozen Harleys raced across the parking lot, passing in formation between the paparazzi and their subjects. Wishing that he could watch but managing to heed Jim’s counsel, Eric kept going, aiming for the sliding supermarket door a hundred feet ahead.

The snarling Harleys circled their quarry twice, bringing the paparazzi who had been intently following Eric to a halt as the angry, scowling Hells Angels pulled up in a line between the paparazzi and the grocery store, slammed down their kick stands and stalked forward on foot, ready to take care of business. The leader of the group, a mountain of a man by the name of Mike, but known thanks to his temperament as Mad Mike, took the point, advancing on the hapless paparazzi and snarling, “Just where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

The paparazzi who’d been the sedan’s driver, who’d been bluffed by many an outraged celebrity in his career, stood his ground. “This is public property, we can go where we­–”

Mad Mike reached out, grasping the long lens of the paparazzi’s camera. He smiled viciously as he tore it from its mount and threw it down to the asphalt where it shattered with a fine tinkling sound. “Oops, what a shame,” Mad Mike said as he grabbed the camera, ripped it from the paparazzi’s neck, and hurled it down to share in the lens’s destruction, which he aided with the heel of his army boot. With a jab of his index finger, Mad Mike ordered one of his lieutenants to do the same to the other shutterbug’s gear.

The driver glanced down at his wrecked equipment, and falling back on his bluster said, “You won’t get away with this, that’s assault, destruction of private property, and who knows what else. I can put a world of hurt on your employers for this...”

Tutting softly, Mad Mike said in an exaggeratedly reasonable tone of voice, “You seem to be operating under some misapprehensions. The first is that we have any employer for this. We don’t. What went down in Telluride was the best publicity our clubs have had in years, maybe ever, and we feel a special kinship with the Instinct guys for giving us that. We don’t like you scum harassing them. That ends now, no matter what we have to do. What you will do is leave them the hell alone. You’ll get a few photo ops when they feel like it, but you and your fellow scum are on our shit list. You harass ‘em and you’re dog meat. We’ll hunt you down whenever you’re out in public, anywhere, any time, no matter who you’re stalking. Understood?”

Mad Mike’s civil tone was one the paparazzi found terrifying. His matter-o-fact style conveyed clearly that he meant every word. Ignoring the desperate silent pleas in his partner’s eyes, the driver gave it one more try, “There’s more than just us, and at the moment I’m thinking of calling the cops.”

Moving with a speed that belied his bulk, Mad Mike’s massive hand seized the paparazzi’s neck. Squeezing a little, he said, “You don’t seem to understand. There are hundreds of us. You raise any trouble, and some of our friends will take care of you. Now, you are going to do two things. First, you’re going to get in your car and drive away. Second, you’re going to put the word out to your fellow scum; Instinct is off limits, or you deal with us.”

Feeling the pressure on this throat increase, the paparazzi felt real fear for the first time. Mad Mike bent his arm at the elbow and then snapped it straight, shoving the paparazzi away, sending the scruffy man stumbling backwards and causing him to fall to the asphalt.

Climbing up off the hot pavement, the paparazzi said in a strained voice while massaging his bruised throat, “What’s in it for us if we agree?”

Mad Mike stooped to retrieve the memory cards from the two wrecked cameras before replying with a sinister smile, “That’s easy; you get to keep breathing.”

Before the driver could open his mouth again, his partner, showing far more common sense, grabbed him and pulled him towards their car.

Mad Mike watched them drive away, and then raised his right hand, extended an index finger skywards, and swirled it around twice, the signal to mount up. The bikers hit the road, and Mad Mike wished that the paparazzi had kept up with the obnoxious act. Maybe next time, he hoped.

Ten minutes later, Jim led Eric from the store. Eric glanced around to find no sign of bikers or paparazzi, and walked towards his Jeep wearing a delighted and relieved smile. Eric spotted the wreckage of the cameras, but kept quiet, except for a snicker, until they were in the Jeep and on their way out of the parking lot. “What did your crew do?” Eric asked, glancing back with unadulterated glee at the wrecked cameras.

With a casual shrug, the big biker replied, “They just had a discussion, is all. Purely of their own accord, of course. They also sent a bit of a message; lay off, or you’ve got some enemies you don’t want to have. I have a feeling we’ll need to set a few examples, but we’ll get the job done.”

“Thanks Jim. I’m just so sick of them stalking me every fucking second, everywhere I go. If it was anyone else, they’d be arrested for stalking, which is what they’re doing. I know Brandon, Chase, and Jon feel the same. It’s like living under siege; they never let up.”

“We’ll make ‘em behave – guaranteed. The siege is about to be lifted. You’ll be able to have your riding lesson here and no one will bother you.” Jim became silent for a moment, as his smile faded to a frown as the realization dawned. “Oh, man, I fucked up. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that...”

Eric glanced at Jim with a concerned expression. “What? What’s wrong?”

Exaggerating his concern, though not by much, Jim replied with a sigh, “Those guys are hanging out nearby, just in case the shutterbugs don’t take the hint. That means they’re going to see me drive your Japanese bike here. Man, they ain’t never going to let me live this down.”

Eric’s gales of laughter at the big biker’s discomfort earned him a friendly punch in the arm as they headed for the motorcycle dealership.

* * *

It was like stepping into a wall; the humidity hit General Bradson the moment he stepped off the plane and descended the metal airstairs to the concrete at Grand Cayman’s Owen Roberts International Airport.

Walking towards the terminal past the low stone wall which demarked the flight line boundary, the General looked askance at the few scraggly palms, hoping that he wasn’t on some wild goose chase, or worse.

Customs was easy enough; a quick glance in his camera bag and duffle and he was on his way, breathing a silent sigh of relief. During the flight, he’d familiarized himself with the camera’s manual, even going so far as to install the batteries and attach the 300mm lens, just in case the customs official asked him about it. That had not been necessary, though the general had grown interested in the expensive Canon camera to the point of planning to use it to take some pictures, someday.

On the sidewalk outside of the airport terminal, the General strolled towards the taxi rank, intending to take a cab to his hotel. Amid the usual bustle of tour guides, one large man shouldered his way though, making a beeline for General Bradson. The man smiled and asked, with a strong Russian accent, “Would you care for a tour, sir? A quick drive to some of the sights before you go to your hotel and take in the sun?”

The emphasis on the final word confirmed General Bradson’s hunch, and he nodded his agreement. The man turned, leading the General to a nondescript white compact car; a rental, and hardly suitable for a tour guide, though of course the man was anything but.

General Bradson studied his newfound host: a man in superb physical condition, and whom the General thought altogether incongruously young to be in need of the hearing aid that bedecked his left ear. The General guessed that the aid was some sort of bug detector and in that, he was half-right. The man’s hearing had been damaged in an explosion some months before, and he’d made a virtue of necessity by building a bug detector that transmitted on a frequency picked to make his hearing aid buzz.

As soon as they were underway, the General observed, “You have some fine sources of information.”

Nodding, the contact kept his eyes on the road as he replied, “It is not an easy occupation. We must be cautious, and do our homework, as you Americans are fond of saying. When we learned of your identity, we were instantly suspicious. We were however able to confirm your son’s situation. So tell me, what do you need?”

“Two five-man teams, trained in covert infiltration and special operations tactics, including HALO,” The general said, referring to High Altitude Low Opening paratroop assault. “They must be veterans. Standard load-out for eleven men; assault rifles, grenades, night vision gear, demolition explosives, and thirty light anti-personnel mines. I’ll also need a C-130 with JATO packs for the insertion and the exfiltration. We’re still working up the operational details, but that’s what I need to get started.” JATO stands for Jet Assisted Take Off, and is an acronym used to describe detachable solid rocket boosters that are mounted to the sides of an aircraft to provide an extra boost during takeoff. This was most often used to allow an aircraft to take off with a heavier load than the runway length would normally allow. The General chose to let his contact assume that’s what he intended to use them for.

The contact paused to consider, and for the sake of appearances raised the obvious objection. “That would be insufficient to attack a well-guarded facility.”

General Bradson angled his head, replying with a thin smile, “Yes, were the battlespace not prepared in advance, it would be. Leave that detail to me.”

“We can provide what you need, within reason, and for the right price. We can assemble your team within two weeks. We require the fifty thousand dollars I asked for.” The contact, grinding the little rental car’s gears slightly, turned right into the parking lot of an oceanfront park, making the General all too well aware that he was alone and unarmed, in the company of a man who was likely neither.

The arrangements and discussions had been a little too glib and easy for the General’s liking. He’d heard promises but no specifics, and above all no guarantees. With that in mind, he asked, “So far, I’ve met one man, and had one phone call. How do I know you won’t disappear once you have the money?”

Pulling the car into the shade of a grove of palm trees, the contact nodded; it was an expected question. “In this business, a bad reputation can be fatal, literally. However, three of the men we have in mind for your team are here on the island. We are here to meet with them. Now, regarding trust... Those three men are armed. I also am certain that you brought the money with you, and you did not expect to be met at the airport. Therefore, you have the cash on you now. Were we planning to simply take your money, I would have had them arrive at the car when I parked and relieve you of it. Instead, they are waiting at a picnic table for you to interview them. If you are not satisfied, you will leave here unharmed, with your money.” The contact, who had been facing forward, turned to stare into the General’s eyes. “This is the best demonstration of our good faith that I can offer.”

The unnamed man’s words made an odd kind of sense to General Bradson, but the deciding point was that he had little choice. He was more than willing to risk the fifty thousand dollars, given the stakes.

The two men got out of the car, and the General slung his camera bag over his shoulder as his contact led the way down a sandy trail, through the palm groves, to the beach.

General Bradson felt especially overdressed in his crumpled, out-of-date business suit as his wingtips sank into the sand. He kept his attention focused on his contact, as the man turned left at the beach, glanced back to look for any sign of a tail, and then casually, as if out for a stroll, turned around to walk the other way. Ahead, General Bradson saw a cluster of picnic tables, each with its own permanent barbecue grill by its side. Three tables were occupied, two by families, and a third by two young men and a young woman.

The contact walked by the picnic tables, as if he intended to pass by, and then at the point of closest approach looked up and casually waved at the young woman, who returned his gesture and greeted him as an arriving friend, inviting him and the General to join them.

The General’s practiced eye surveyed the two young men first. Tan and toned, wearing only gaudy boardshorts and sipping beers, the two sported close-cropped hair and bulked up physiques that spoke of long hours in training. General Bradson saw one of the two men glance at the young woman, an unspoken question in his eyes. The General knew that look, and so he turned to the young lady, looking at her closely, to find that her trim figure belied her age; her face put her at a little past thirty. With a smile, General Bradson took a seat across the picnic table and stated as a fact, “I hope you won’t think me sexist, but I’m surprised to find a woman in charge in your line of work.”

Ice-cold eyes bored into the General’s as she said, “I got where I am by guts and skill. You can call me Felicia, Fel for short. I’ve been given an outline of your situation and I’ll be in ground command of the rescue. I’ve got these two boneheads here,” she gestured across the table at the two young men, “Horst and Wilhelm. They’ve been with me for two years. I’ll need at least a week, preferably two, to work with the rest of the team and whip ‘em into shape and drill ‘em up. I’ll say this up front; if I think the risk is too high, I’ll shit-can the mission, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

She was a professional, that much was plainly apparent. The General was pleased so far. Deciding to get the issue out of the way, he said, “Fel, that sounds good to me except for one thing; you won’t be the commander, I will. I’m going in with you.”

Fel didn’t hesitate; she shook her head and barked, “No fucking way. You’ve got to be what, fifty? I’m the oldest member of the team and you’ve got nearly two decades on me. You’ve also gone soft. You’d be a liability, nothing but deadweight. Besides, you’re Air Force; what the hell do you think you know about being a groundpounder?”

His temper silently flared at the unaccustomed challenge, though circumstance and need forced the General to reply in a reasonable tone, “That’s my flesh and blood they’ve got, so I’m going in.”

Knowing that she’d been given the opening she was looking for, Fel replied, “That’s the whole point, sir. You’d be a liability and that would lessen our chances. For your son’s sake as well as our own, I don’t want you along.”

Seething, wounded all the more by the knowledge that she might very well be right, General Bradson said in a strained voice, “Fine. I see your point, such as it is. Here’s what I’ll do; I’ll show up for your training with your other recruits. If I don’t cut it, I’ll stay off the ground. I just want to get Brian back before it’s too late.”

Softening a little, Fel gave the General an understanding smile. “I can appreciate your motives, sir. Truly, I can. That sounds fair, but when the time comes to say whether you go in with us, my word is final.”

Turning to face his contact, General Bradson asked, “Where will we be training, and how soon?”

“That is confidential for now. I will tell you that we have a place in mind, near Africa. If you accept, we will send word within a week and you can join us there. I will meet you somewhere nearby and take you to the camp. Do we have a deal, General?”

Impressed by what he’d seen so far, and feeling that he had little choice, General Bradson placed his camera bag on the table. Hesitating for a moment, he removed his camera – which caused Fel to give it a concerned look; anyone attempting to take a picture of her or her men would be in for a very rude surprise – and hung it around his neck. He then slid the empty bag over to his contact. “It’s a padded bag. I removed the padding in the center divider and replaced it with hundred-dollar bills.”

The contact’s mouth twisted up in a wry smile. “Very well.... We have a deal.” He then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small black box. “This is an encryption device, for your phone. I will call you and ask for Mary, and you will, if all is clear, tell me that I have a wrong number. Five minutes later, you will have this device in place and I will call again. We will be seeing you soon, General.”

With that, the four got up to leave, and the contact turned back to say, “Can I offer you a ride somewhere? The main city here, George Town, is about four miles away. I would suggest relaxing for a couple of days if you can spare the time; you will need it.”

General Bradson had booked a return ticket, with a stay of forty-eight hours on the Island. His first instinct was to return home at once, but he had to admit, the man had a point. There was also the obvious aspect that a same-day turnaround in the Cayman Islands had the potential to attract unwanted attention from the United States Customs Service. He had already sent up one red flag by withdrawing fifty thousand in cash – there had been no time for multiple transactions to keep it under the mandatory bank reporting threshold – and so General Bradson decided to take the man’s advice. “I’m booked at the Marriott on Seven Mile Beach. I appreciate the offer and I’ll take you up on it...” The General let his voice trail off, by way of a question.

The contact smiled as General Bradson stood up, and as they walked towards the rental car he said, “General, we tend to use first names only in this business, and often even those are not real. I’d prefer not to lie to you, so I’ll refrain from giving you any name at all, for now.”