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.
This was messed up. Coldmoon wasn’t going to tolerate one more disrespectful comment from this jumped-up jackass in uniform. He was about to say more when he caught Pendergast’s warning glance.
“Commander Baugh,” Pendergast said, “I will gladly share my conclusions with you when we have drawn them. For the time being, I will continue working in confidence.”
“I promise you, Pendergast, this lack of cooperation will have consequences.”
Pendergast rose, his voice still mild. “Thank you, Commander. Now, as you just pointed out, we have warrants to serve—and so we’ll take our leave.”
As they departed the air-conditioned haven into the sweltering parking lot, Coldmoon turned to Pendergast and exploded in anger. “That bastard! Where does he get off talking to us that way! And you let him!”
“Agent Coldmoon, there’s a word to describe our response, and that word is strategic. It isn’t strategic at the present time for us to do battle with the commander. Recall that you’re still new to this task force—and its shortcomings.”
Coldmoon felt some of his anger at the commander shifting over toward Pendergast and his lack of fight. “You can’t let him talk to us like that. We’re FBI, for Chrissakes.”
“His day of reckoning will come. But first, it’s crucial we get the drift results from Dr. Gladstone—and we must do all we can to keep her name out of the investigation. I can’t imagine how Baugh learned of her involvement.”
“Why? Is she in any kind of danger?”
“We are all in danger.”
“What from?”
“I don’t know—and that’s what makes it so very dangerous.”
28
SMITHBACK SAT IN the driver’s seat of his Subaru, parked beneath a broken streetlight, half a block from the LeeTran bus stop. There was nobody on the street, and the kiosk was empty.
He glanced at his watch: quarter past ten. Christ, the guy was fifteen minutes late already. But it was the only lead he had, and he would sit here half the night if he had to. Faint sounds came to his ears: an argument in Spanish; boat traffic on the river; and a car horn braying “La cucaracha,” Doppler-shifting as it passed by.
He wondered, for the thousandth time, who it was that had called him. It was a gruff voice with a Spanish accent. Smithback had lived in south Florida long enough to know there were dozens of variations on a Spanish accent, but he’d never learned to tell them apart. The voice had said to meet at this bus stop at ten in the evening—in a southwestern neighborhood of Fort Myers not far from where he’d had the unpleasant encounter with the guys in the street. He wouldn’t say anything beyond that, except to tell Smithback he had information.
Information. That could mean anything. Smithback’s beat was Miami; his byline wouldn’t be known around here. And the call had come over his cell phone, which almost certainly meant it was from one of the cards he’d given out. But he hadn’t passed out more than a dozen; most people he’d encountered in the barrio had simply refused to take them.
Just then, he saw movement on the next block. Instinctively, he crouched in his seat, watching. The shadowy figure crossed the street, coming closer, and quite abruptly Smithback recognized him. It was that old landscaper, the one he’d seen mowing the lawn who had spoken no English. What the hell was going on? Was it coincidence?
As he watched, the lean man kept coming, walking intently, looking straight ahead, until he reached the kiosk. Then he stopped, glanced around once, and took a seat: arms folded, body rigid.
Rising from behind the steering wheel, Smithback regarded him carefully. Everything about the man’s body language told the reporter this wasn’t a person waiting for a bus. The old man, like just about everyone else he’d encountered in that neighborhood, had been unwilling to talk, at least in public. And he knew the reason: fear. In recent years, waves of gangs had swept over these streets like plagues, hollowing them out and transforming the neighborhood into a nightmarish shadow of what it had once been, with the drug dealing, shootings, abandoned buildings, and graffiti-covered walls.