Hidden Agendas. Paul Boardman
wrath and the impotent blare of his worn-out horn. In his imagination he installed a horn button on his knee. When he thought the driver would honk, he pressed his kneecap. Nothing. Then, out of the blue, for no apparent reason at all, the driver would blast someone. Whatever the determining factors were to invoke an angry response completely eluded Phil’s logical mind.
At twenty minutes past seven the driver deposited Phil and Farris on the steps of the Hotel Grande, in Bogotá. He promised to meet with them at nine the next morning and he would drive them anywhere they wished.
A porter carried the two, small travel bags to the front desk.
“Buenas noches, Senors. Your wives have already checked in. They are in the dining room. Eeff you like I can send your bags to your rooms and you may join the Senoras.”
Phil and Farris looked at each other, both surprised and angry, their eyes demanding if the other knew of this plan.
Phil recovered quickly. “We weren’t expecting them until tomorrow.”
“Si Senor. Thees ees a pleasant surprise, no?”
“Very pleasant. Which way is the dining room?”
The desk clerk clapped his hands, officiously. “Escort these gentlemen to the dining room.”
Judy and Linda had already finished dinner and were drinking coffee. They stood to exchange hugs and kisses.
“So exactly why are you here?” said Farris, smiling politely at his wife.
Judy fanned her face in her familiar gesture and started talking before Linda could open her mouth. “What an adventure! First we picked up the plane in Miami. They treated us like royalty, paid for our hotel, took us out to lunch, provided a car …. The works! Then we took a brief flight to check it out. Linda signed the papers and bang, we’re island hopping all the way to Jamaica. We spent a night in Montego Bay, fueled up and presto, here we are. Great hunh!”
Phil had already given up trying to discourage the girls from participating. Michael had not.
“Why exactly was it you didn’t want to fly up here?” Phil asked of Farris. Farris glared at him maliciously.
“Let’s sit down, have a drink, you boys can eat and we’ll swap stories about what happened in the last week. Two waiters appeared and held the ladies chairs as they sat down.
The next morning at breakfast, it was decided that Phil and Michael would go to their meeting and send the driver back to chauffeur the women around for the day. The meeting was in a large office tower only a few blocks away from the hotel.
They were in the tower’s lobby no longer than ten seconds when a husky male voice, emanating from an even huskier looking Colombian said, “Please follow me Mr. Farris and Mr. Harrison.”
The emissary used a key to lock the elevator and the machine sped to the penthouse office suite. There was a receptionist stationed opposite the elevator but there was little sign of office work going on. Although there were a few offices in view, a large portion of the floor seemed to be more like a living room than office space. At least ten men lounged around, playing pool or cards, reading magazines or talking idly as Phil and Farris were escorted in.
“Please leave any weapons you have on the table and it will be necessary for me to frisk you. I hope you understand, Senors?”
Both Phil and Michael wore tropical weight suits with open neck shirts. They each withdrew their handguns and stood patiently while the guard frisked them with a metal detector. “Senor Fernandez is waiting for you. This way, please.”
Eduardo Fernandez stood up from behind an oversized, modern, smoked glass and marble desk. There were an number of files on the desk, some on the right, one open in the center and another pile on the left. Fernandez closed the open file, placed it on the pile on the right. He turned the files so that the names on the tabs would be hidden. If his men were lounging and playing pool, Fernandez was working but he was not about to reveal what he was working on.
“I wonder what’s in those files?” thought Phil. He surmised if drug lords received written production reports on their fields or profit and loss statements from their distributors. “Not too likely!” he thought. “So what’s in there?”
If Fernandez was pleased to see his old associate, it was not evident from either his expressionless face or his semi-limp, perfunctory handshake.
“Please sit down,” said Fernandez, offering a leather couch and matching chair.
When everyone was seated Fernandez wasted no time in coming to the point. “Please explain what it is you wish to purchase and why you are reversing our previous agreement to refrain from doing any future business together.”
“Our previous agreement still holds. This is a one time proposal that will not be repeated. My partner and I,” Farris waved at Phil, “wish to purchase five million dollars worth of cocaine and one million dollars worth of emeralds. These products will be delivered to the States but other than that, their destination needs be of no concern to you.”
Phil felt a rolling sensation in his stomach. “For Christ’s sake, Farris,” he thought. “Tom Barrens authorized us to buy five hundred thousand dollars worth of cocaine, not five million. And nothing was said about emeralds!”
“Certainly I can do that, but the second question is “why?”
Farris grinned sheepishly. “As you know, Eduardo, when I married I made a concession to my wife to get out of the trade. You probably know that my wife likes to fly. Until now she has satisfied herself with a Cessna, which of course is no problem. Recently, however, she has been talking about a small Lear jet. This is an extravagance I could not permit … unless she were to make a small concession to me.”
Uncharacteristically, Eduardo Fernandez laughed. “Michael Farris! I would not have believed it! I wonder whether I should laugh or cry!”
Farris put such a silly expression on his face that Phil had to contain his own laughter.
“Naturally, such an endeavor would require serious planning and participation and that is where my friend comes in.” He waved at Phil and Fernandez looked him over, long and hard. Phil remained pokerfaced, meeting Fernandez’ gaze head-on.
“This will take about two weeks. Go back to Guadeloupe and someone will contact you. He will ask for a Banana Daiquiri.”
The meeting was over. Eduardo Fernandez returned to his desk. There were no handshakes or goodbyes. On the way out the guard returned the weapons to the men and escorted them to the lobby exit. A light green Chevy Impala waited at the curb.
“This man will drive you back to the hotel.”
As they walked into the hotel lobby Farris said quietly. “Meet me in the pool in ten minutes. The rooms will have bugs.”
Despite the fact that nothing untoward had happened, Phil Harrison was running on more adrenalin than he could ever remember. He had entered into a new game with higher stakes than he had ever dreamt of … and he was experiencing a few, not so minor misgivings.
“Whoever came up with the idea of installing swim-up bars in hotels should get the Nobel Peace Prize. God, look at that! That beats anything I’ve ever seen on a reality TV show.”
Phil was already on his third rum punch and apparently beginning to loosen up. He hooked a forearm around Michael’s neck without taking his eyes off a yellow bikini that was traveling poolside. Farris, who had also noticed the voluptuous mammaries, was expecting an appraisal report but got something a bit different.
“What the fuck were you thinking? Five million, plus a million in emeralds and all to pay for a Lear Jet? We had a half-million dollar limit!
Farris continued to stare at the gorgeous creature who pretended not to notice that every pair of