Unleashed, p.3
Unleashed, page 3
“I like that. See ya.”
The tall lanky former Navy man meandered back through the cockpit door, after greeting our cabin steward.
“You need anything, Marco?” he asked.
“I’m good. Just going to work here for a bit, then I might turn back in.”
“You let me know what time you want breakfast, okay?”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
I dug into several emails my new CFO had sent last night. I was pleased that he was able to get me so many detailed reports. I’d asked him to do a forensic analysis of some of our cash flow leaks, large transactions in and out of the company. He’d identified several unusual line items and then gave me more detail.
It appeared someone had been undercutting some of my equipment pricing, selling my own goods to a third party and then keeping the profits. He identified a small team of salespeople who lived down in Virginia doing contract work. I wasn’t sure which one of them was the leader, but I suspected all five of them were involved.
I wrote a memo freezing their purchasing ability, unless they got my permission first, and when I recognized who the customer was, I fired off an email asking them to call me. I suspected that the procurement officer for Homeland Security, who I knew quite well, didn’t know anything about this. It was an easy pickup for these guys. I was going to allow the discounting to continue, but I wanted to keep the funds, not let it wash out. If the guy was not guilty, he’d call me. If he didn’t, well, he just lost his good deal permanently, and our friendship.
We’d had offers already on the office building in Manhattan, which relieved me greatly. My ex had way overspent when we did the building re-design. I had a hard time keeping architects and engineers on the project she was so volatile. That was about the time I began to realize she had been slutting herself around, preparing for her cash infusion via the divorce. So, good riddance to it and everything in it, including the huge interactive display of hot spots in the world, her pet project, in the lobby.
I had a big loan on the building incurred while buying her out, but the equity would be useful, and post-divorce, wasn’t anything I had to share. I instructed my agent to accept the offer they thought was most promising, verify the qualifications of the corporation purchasing it, and then enter into an exchange escrow so I could start looking in Tampa. But I warned her, if anything looked out of the normal in any way, to get in contact with me. I didn’t want to be tied up in a lengthy escrow with someone who couldn’t perform.
My bottom line was improving, but still not where it needed to be. When the job was finished with the Sultan, which wouldn’t be for another six months at least, I’d be in good shape and then some. But Rebecca had done a good job of tying me up everywhere. I couldn’t refinance anything.
Had to sell off two of my planes and entered into a partnership with another shipping company to take some of the heavy carry off my back. Maintaining the ships and crew was not something I had the time to monitor closely and required someone who could step in and do that job. My new partner had been in the Merchant Marine business for nearly thirty years, forced out with a nice cash buy-out of his contract when the owner he worked for retired and sold to a Chinese concern who brought in their own team. He was drooling at the opportunity, especially since he didn’t have to go out and buy anything, just keep it working, floating and manned.
Rebecca had managed to muck up the Trident Towers project to such a degree, she was getting some pushback from the neighborhood now with her re-design. Her approach was attractive, but unnecessary and I felt like she’d be looking to back out of it. She’d made herself a money pit, just trying to keep me from having something I believed in: housing for disabled Navy SEALs, right on the beach. Rhea, my manager at Bone Frog Development Group, gave me all the skinny, all the juicy gossip, including a very public firing of my former CFO, Frank Goodman, she’d stolen away from my company.
He’d lasted all of about three months. That wouldn’t look good on a resume.
Frank’s father had been one of my first early backers and was a smart man who taught me a lot about investing. His son had worked for the IRS for twenty years before I encouraged him to go private with me. Turned out the old man was indeed the smarter of the two, and I was glad he didn’t live to see what a mess his son had made of his career.
I scanned the other company profit and loss statements, and the indexes attached and was generally pleased with what I saw. He made some good suggestions on ways I could trim the fat but not have to endure a total haircut that would block my expansion. One of his first suggestions I even received as a bonus the day he interviewed with me. He advised me to sell the Manhattan building and that was turning out to be the best thing I’d done all year so far.
Well, other than asking Shannon to marry me, of course.
I also sent an email to the Sultan’s social secretary, Harry, his illegitimate son who had been raised in the U.S. with his mother, informing him when we expected to land and requesting several reports on the Africa project I hadn’t received yet from the “boys” as I called them—the Sultan’s sons and his half-brothers.
I got a nice invitation to a grand opening of a new Eastern Bank & Trust building in Boston, with a personal note from my old nemesis, Mr. Rory Cullen himself. Something was clearly up there, but I’d let him stew and get back to him when I was back in the states.
Next, I reviewed three new proposals for security services in areas I had no interest in serving in the Middle East. Although technically, based on the number of U.S. deaths, safer than Africa would be for the next twenty years, I wasn’t as familiar with the arena as I’d been when I was an active SEAL. The intel was so critical. Even when it was accurate, things could go all to hell. And it was difficult if you got into trouble, due to the language, and the fact that you were working for leaders the public hated, and arguably might even be criminals.
And with the age of electronic warfare and surveillance with drones, it was hard, unless you had a big backer, like Uncle Sam, to affect any safety measures. Missiles could go stealth and farther. Drones could pack lethal doses of firepower enough to blow up an apartment building or shoot an airplane out of the sky. Electronics were tricky when without a dedicated satellite net. It was an easy way for bad guys to come raid your bank account just by making a telephone call home. It was scary stuff, and not what I had been trained in.
Africa, as dangerous as it was, still required all the old school knowledge we used to use when we were first in the Middle East. It was all about luck, and nothing to do with sophistication. Whomever had the biggest surgical strike team and the best intel, with the possibility of escalating troop numbers for backup, won. I was going to try to do that without the huge backup numbers. And I relied on locals to give me the intel, which I’d learned how to read and who to trust.
I asked my assistant to send my standard rejection letter to each, and to indicate that I’d be able to entertain future work in the next eighteen to twenty-four months.
I also emailed Senator Campbell, letting him know when I’d be arriving, and reminding him of his generous offer for Naval support, should I need it, from Diego Garcia. I was traveling with a letter on his letterhead indicating I was a top-level friend of Uncle Sam, and that no reasonable ask for assistance should be refused. It wasn’t on Naval letterhead, from the Commander at DG, which would have made it official, but as Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, he had even more clout, in a strange twist of fate. Besides, his wife, Beth, was the First Lady’s younger sister.
I closed my laptop and stared out at the clouds in the bright blue sky. We were flying above the dark green lands of the continent of Africa now, nearly halfway to the Indian Ocean. I felt pretty good about all the planning, albeit last-minute, for this trip.
But I knew, it never really worked out that way. Something always went wrong and went to hell.
And I was trained for the unexpected. That was how I survived.
Chapter 4
Marco woke me up and if he hadn’t, I probably would have slept all day. The drum of the engines seemed to lull me to sleep with their white noise.
I eyed the tub and frowned.
“Maybe on the way back,” he said, prying me out of the bed. “The shower is nice. I’ll even join you, if you want. But breakfast will be ready in a half hour. Brunch, really.”
“So first you tease me with a little shower fun, and then you tell me we only have a half hour? That’s so unfair, Marco.”
“So sorry, sweetheart,” he said, grinning. He lifted my nightie up over my head and spanked my bottom, so I’d head to the shower.
We made the most of our few minutes’ escapade with the lemon shower gel. I loved letting him shampoo my hair, his hands were so strong, and he turned it into a great back and shoulder massage that turned my bones to rubber.
The bathroom even had an expensive hair dryer and a full complement of my cosmetics and creams. “You did this?” I asked as I showed him the contents of the vanity drawer.
“Guilty as charged. All I did was take a cell photo of it at your place and gave it to my assistant. Check out the closet.”
He’d stocked the tiny space with several beautiful dresses, hanging in padded bags so I could wear them without a wrinkle. I had slacks and tops, and a ratty pair of jeans I knew I’d love.
“Even shoes?” I said looking down at my favorite brand of running shoes, walking shoes and a pair of flats for evening wear. “You are incredible.”
“I had a lot of help, Shannon. All I did was document it. I can’t claim anything special here. Let’s just say I hire and pay well.”
“I can see that.” But I silently worried if we could afford it.
I wore a casual pair of slacks and the pumps, along with one of my favorite embroidered tops from my suitcase. It was slightly wrinkled, but for breakfast and arriving for the first time in an island nation, I thought I was good to go.
Connor brought us a delicious crab and cheese omelet, coffee, and orange juice that looked fresh squeezed. Marco was examining my shirt.
“I’m going to have Connor iron that for you,” he said.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s not too bad.”
“But you are expected to look and dress like the soon-to-be wife of a billionaire.”
“But—”
“It’s all impression. And nobody knows out here I don’t have the billion any longer. We’re working on it, right?”
I nodded.
“The point is, we never know who will meet us at the airport, sweetheart. They still have a royal family, although it is run as a republic and the monarchy has no power, just tradition.”
“So they are independent, is that right?”
“Yes, a republic, but they did just re-join the British Commonwealth, and have lots of ties to Great Britain. They have a duly elected president. Since any of them or their representatives could meet us, we have to be prepared. It’s a great honor to be greeted by any member of the royal family, who are also closely aligned with our employer, the Sultan of Bonin.”
Our attendant brought me a towel to wear while he took my shirt to the bedroom and ironed it. Marco kissed the side of my cheek.
“Thank you. There’s a lot to learn, but you’re a fast study.”
“So where do I get to wear the shabby jeans? Those are actually my favorite of all the clothes you brought for me,” I asked him.
“I’d say long walks on the beach at night.” He winked at me. “I’m sure we’ll manage to use them.”
Several hours later, we landed in the middle of a turquoise paradise surrounded by the Indian Ocean. I could see the string of islands going both north and south. But surrounding every single one of them were concentric rings of turquoise, bordering white sandy beaches.
Connor helped me select some of the clothing I’d bring, including all the dresses in padded plastic carriers. I hefted my computer over my shoulder and grabbed my carry-on items while he organized our heavier luggage.
A blast of warm wind hit me as soon as the cabin was opened, and we descended the gangway. Marco thanked the pilots first and then followed behind. On the tarmac, a bevy of crew scurried around in orange jumpsuits, tending to the large bins in the storage hold, as well as securing the shutdown. I’d never heard their language and even the lorries put-putted their tiny two-cycle motors, honking and hustling.
Marco grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me aside toward a waiting black SUV with black tinted windows the crew was beginning to load up from the back. I checked behind me and Connor was not more than three feet behind.
“No entourage?” I asked Marco.
“Apparently not. Boy did they miss the boat. Now everyone here will be talking about that American movie star they missed.”
“What gave me away?” I continued the ruse, raising my voice a bit to reach over the sound of the plane’s engines.
“Why, your two handsome escorts and those big sunglasses, of course!”
Checking his physique from behind, he did kind of look like any woman’s wet dream of a security detail, with his huge shoulders, slim waist and hips, thick neck and enormous corded forearms that held the bags as easily as carrying a piece of cardboard.
We bid farewell to Connor. I gave him a hug, not sure if that was appropriate, and he blushed. Marco handed him an envelope.
“Thanks, man. See you in seven days, or before. I’ll stay in touch with Ron and he’ll let you know, okay?”
“You got it, Mr. G. Have fun you two.” He gave me a wholesome wink and made my heart skip a beat.
Marco turned, headed for the vehicle in long strides and I barely could keep up with him.
“Why don’t you think they’d guess you as the VIP guest?” I asked, after we jumped into the blissfully cool second seat of the SUV. I noted that the doors were nearly six inches thick, even the windows.
“Because I’m the old guy. It’s never the old guy, sweetheart.” His eyes danced in the darkness of the car’s interior, continuing the tease. He checked me out from my head to my shoes and winked again, adding an appreciative nod.
If his age and the gap between us bothered him at all, he didn’t show it. He leaned forward and directed the driver in an Indian dialect. The driver was nodding, pointing to a piece of paper he held in his right hand.
“You know Arabic?” I asked him.
“Some, but that was Maldivian.”
All I could do is stare at him. He finally turned his head and feigned surprise. He was so messing with me and I was falling for every single one of his little jokes.
“What?” he asked. “I know a little bit of a lot of languages. Helps to know if they’re talking about you, or they’re impressed with something.”
“How many do you know?”
He rolled his shoulder. “I think about a dozen, give or take. You lose it if you don’t speak it every day. I’m rusty on a bunch of them.”
“You’re kidding!”
He leaned over, grabbed me by the waist and pulled me into him. “Oh, I’d kid about a lot of things, but never about languages, or sex, sweetheart.” His raspy whisper made my toes curl. I was so ready for his kiss, I was breathless.
“You okay?” he asked when we parted.
“It’s the heat.”
His eyes twinkled. “It is. It is that all right.”
As we traveled, I watched the luxurious foliage, with large hotels behind ornately carved gates as we passed down the gulf road to where we’d be staying tonight and meeting the rest of the team. Marco pointed out one enormous conch-colored Victorian hotel with a pair of guards in crisp white uniforms standing outside an enormous gate.
“The royal family stays here when they come. Several of the kids spent their honeymoons here.”
“Really?”
“There’s another one around the other side that is actually built on an island itself. Very private.”
“These are all privately owned?”
“Oh sure. The government is poor compared to its citizens. Some of the palaces and temples date all the way back to the eleven hundreds. We’ll try to tour a couple of them, where you can wear your shabby jeans, if you like.”
“And if it’s hot, can I go without a bra?”
He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You better not. I’d be upset if you did.”
Finally, we drove up a small hill, paved in inlay designs that were exquisite. A large gate automatically opened for us when we approached the outer grounds. Beyond the green foliage, I saw an enormous three-story building that was brand new, with balconies, verandas and colorful canvas awnings everywhere. We drove through an avenue of flags from several dozen countries flying in the breeze. The driver pulled up to a spacious granite lobby area and opened the door for me first.
“Mum,” he said in his Indian dialect.
Marco slid out next to me, slipped his arm around my waist and tipped the driver, who bowed and said something back.
“Wait until you see this, Shannon,” Marco said, pulling me up the rose-colored granite steps into a grand foyer lit by an enormous stained-glass ceiling depicting a jungle theme with flowers, birds and turquoise water lapping on a white sand beach. It was the largest stained-glass window or ceiling detail I’d ever seen.
“We’re staying here?”
“Not quite here. We have a cluster of bungalows, built out into the bay on a jetty. Ours has its own swimming pool. But I have a special surprise for you.
I was actually somewhat exhausted from just hauling my computer and carry-on case. It was a relief when a young man in a red uniform took them from me and placed them on a cart. He offered to take Marco’s, but he declined.
He picked up two key cards and retrieved some messages while the rest of the luggage arrived. I didn’t see the large trunks.
Taking my hand, we crossed the lobby area, lined with jewelry shops and very high-end clothiers. At last, we came to an outdoor covered walkway that appeared to stretch out into the calm Indian Ocean for a mile or more. Branching off in several places were clusters of mini houses, some with pools, and some without. Marco unlocked it with his key card, and then held it open for the baggage cart and the handler.
