Mysterious Islands

Stevens.

FLASHBACK

Dr. Taylor's background - his real story - the story behind the story - is told here. He changed his name to Taylor (from an old family name on his mother's side) deep in the underground of Washington as they created a new identity for him. His actual name is Vince Sorenson. He was with the Company - until a crisis happened. Two years ago...

I drove down the Overseas Highway in the Florida Keys looking for Banyan House, the Safe House we maintained in Rock Key. It is down a narrow road, flanked by banyan trees and, closer to the water, by mangroves. It has one of the few beaches in the Keys, and a pool that has been used to train Navy divers. Byzantine architecture and palm trees give it a surrealistic approach.

It is a passionate day with humidity and furnace-like heat permeating the atmosphere. My thoughts are on my case assignment - I was summoned here on less than a day’s notice - this house where the black ops division of The Company is headquartered. James Ranier sent an encrypted mail to an anonymous account I keep and monitor - the instructions were to report here at 1200 hours.

People die and disappear at Ranier’s orders. They are neutralized - their reputations can be destroyed. I remember one case where the Voodoo drug Burundanga was used like chemical hypnosis on a political candidate. Twenty minutes after ingesting it he was under the influence and like a zombie. He would be under the influence of it for twelve hours, and later not remember a thing. Until he was sent a video - and instructions. The advantage of Burundanga is that even those around the target don’t realize they are under the influence of anything - and the target will do precisely as instructed.

The candidate was neutralized. The other party to the incident was terminated with extreme prejudice. I was the paymaster. On a need-to-know basis, I knew the entire scenario. I paid the team in hashish, which they later converted to currency in Argentina. I knew the team that was involved. I knew the reasons. I knew everything.

Because of what I knew I kept files in three capsules - at three different locations - with instructions that if I didn’t contact my people every six months they were to release those files.

I enter the house after encoding a security number and immediately go into a room where Ranier is sitting. Seeing me, he dims the lights and using an armchair control he begins flashing slides on a wall. In the darkened room the macabre slides begin. The first set of slides is of a South American General, by all appearances. He is middle-aged and heavy-set, probably involved in drug-running in cooperation with us on some level. He is walking down a street when from one hundred and fifty yards in back of him gunfire erupts and his head is blown off. His aides run for cover. The pictures are taken with a telephoto lens and show grisly detail.

The second set of slides is even more threatening - they show the former head of one of the alphabet agencies, in a wilderness area. He is in a kayak. He is alone. A speedboat approaches him, and two men subdue him as one shoots an injection into his neck. He is alarmed - wide-eyed - and slumps over, the apparent victim of a heart attack. I read about this incident in the paper some time ago and it was attributed to a heart attack. There had been no autopsy.

The third set of slides comes on in rapid succession. A motorcade of a foreign country. Moving at a rapid speed down a winding mountain road, the driver, apparently out of control, careens off a narrow embankment and into a river bank and the car is submerged.

The man in the chair operating the controls over the slide presentation looks up at me. In the dimly-lit room, he says, You’re familiar with the first two incidents. They’re history. The third - we simulated it - we’ve been instructed to target the Cassandra One. It will take place in Madrid. You’re to accommodate the team with negotiable instruments. Go to Hamilton, Bermuda and call our traders there. Wait for instructions from Mover.

Mover...I had never met him but he controlled everything. I had heard about him. I heard at meetings he was always in the shadows. So with those few words, and a briefcase handed to me, I was on my way.

The sunshine covered the sky as I walked out of the dark aisle of the Boeing 747 onto the tarmac of Hamilton, Bermuda. A listful feeling that had been with me in the aircraft as I had dozed off and on was replaced by an alert and careful mentality, a watchfulness. A suspicious feeling. That someone was still watching me, as I had felt in the airport in Miami prior to takeoff. The flight to Bermuda had been with an average group of passengers, tourists, young people, some natives and only one strange man - ink had spilled out of his pen onto his shirt and he had dabbed most of it away - but not all of it. He looked foreign, somehow, but I couldn’t place him. And of all of the passengers, he had sat in the aisle opposite me. I had talked briefly with him. His name is Donovan Roberts, a solicitor whose family settled in Bermuda over a hundred and fifty years ago.

On the aircraft he talked of his ancestors, who had come here to escape religious persecution in the Carolinas during the last century. There was a town named after him - Roberts Harbor. He said it was a very small settlement until around the turn of the century. Then it grew and the land became valuable and his family was rich - rich from land, and then his father went into law. He attended the University of the West Indies and became a solicitor, practicing for a while with a firm in Nassau before returning to his native Bermuda. He complained of wealthy clients, but they had made him wealthy - he had a home in Toronto and one in London.

I only talked to him for a short while. My mind was on the case at hand - I was a courier today...handling fifty million in negotiable securities. It was to be delivered tonight to a firm - First Bermuda Limited. I had worked in the international departments of the largest investment banking firm in the world when I had been hired - retained, by the Company. The Company is not what a lot of people think it’s about - it is about intelligence gathering, and disinformation dissemination - but it has a black element. That black element some investigative reporters have termed ‘black ops’ - but they don’t know the extent of it. A little, maybe. But if you follow the money - you’ll always find out what makes any organization run. The money - that’s what I was carrying - fifty million in securities - bearer - in my briefcase. Technically more than ten thousand carried offshore requires a Currency Transaction Report. But there’s not a single method of detection - unless I open my mouth - that can determine if negotiable securities are being moved.

I enter the long hallway with windows on both sides and proceed to customs. A line is developing - not a long line. A motherly type is ahead of me. Ahead of her are two children, and then a Bermudian. I overheard her on the jet - she was in training in Atlanta for an insurance operation she works for here in Hamilton. Middle-aged, nothing unusual about her. Dark hair but some grey showing. Her intelligence was obvious - she had just spent two weeks prior to the Atlanta training in Jersey - not the state but the country. The Channel Islands. Off the coast of England. Headquarters to some of the richest companies on earth. Her job reminded me of mine - travel, interesting people. But she didn’t have the constant concerns I did. I was concerned about everything. Almost everything. I knew a lot - in fact I knew too much.

This group of funds was on its way to a securities firm which was a front for our operations. It traded securities...produced good returns but primarily just invested in government securities. U.S. government securities - a safe return. Under the guise of a foreign corporation – Touchstar Holdings. The Company had been formed in Nevis, about eight hundred miles southwest of Miami. It had been formed by a Registered Agent and the bearer shares assigned to the handler here in Hamilton. Two signatures were required on each check, though. John Maplethorpe and Jason Meadows. Both recruited at an early age by the Company. Both very reputable. They don’t even pad their expense accounts. Meticulous. They’re expecting me shortly. All that I have to do is get through customs. The customs lady is waving me through.

Your passport, sir. Do you have anything to declare?

No, Ma’am. Nothing...here for about two weeks.

Staying at a hotel?

Yes, for the Financial Seminar - Global Trading and Investments...

I see you’ve been to the Bahamas a great deal.

My favorite islands...next to Bermuda. Only it’s closer and I can get there - well, easier.

Welcome to Bermuda, Mr. Sorenson.

Thank you. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my stay.

I walked through. My briefcase was not even looked at. If it had been it wouldn’t have mattered. It had secret compartments.

I continued to walk down the long corridors of the airport…until I was in the baggage area. I still felt uncomfortable.

My baggage came through on the first round - a young man offered me a cart. I paid him five dollars, for which he was quite grateful.

Will you be needing a taxi, sir?

Yes, I’m staying at the Balfour Hotel.

I’ll get one for you.

We walked outside and again into the bright sunlight...almost blinding today. Perhaps it’s my eyes - several hours in a dark airplane, watching a movie. The movie was a comedy - I needed a light show and it was perfect for me.

But now my thoughts were back on the current situation. I got into the taxi and we pulled out - into the left lanes - of a virtual reality ride into downtown Hamilton. I saw beautiful great houses - manicured and cared for by native gardeners. Pink and white...one larger than another. None under two million. The higher end mansions were worth seven times that much. Mostly part-time residences. Europeans, South Americans, Canadians...the owners were diverse. We drive by a palace I know is owned by a Sheik. It looks like a mosque.

Soon we come to the Balfour Hotel. It reminds me of the Breakers in Palm Beach. Large and ornate, the halls are covered with expensive paintings and antiques. The women are dressed fashionably, the men elegant and casual. I see a woman I think I know...but I’m not entirely sure from where.

Vince, do you remember me?

No - but yes -- you’re Cassandra...

Graves...Cassandra Graves.

I met you in Palm Beach a year ago at a ball. I remembered her.

New Year’s Eve. What are you doing in Bermuda?

Personal and business. Mostly personal, I answered.

I’m here with my aunt. We needed to get away from the states for a while.

Yeah, I know what that’s like.

Over here it’s different, she replied.

It’s a different feeling than any other place, isn’t it? I looked at her - she looked like she wanted to talk, so I continued, What about dinner tonight?

That would be wonderful…here?

At eight o’clock.

I’ll see you, she said quietly as she turned, smiling and moving away in the crowd.

At least I can’t stand the thought of having to deal with Company people tonight. Get the business over with and have a good excuse not to get too involved. The seminar should take most of my time, anyway.

I walked into the lobby and registered. The man behind the archaic desk was polished and polite. I had a seventh-floor room, overlooking the harbor and most of Hamilton. My room looked down at the Olympic Pool, and had a guest bar with everything imaginable. I had a Scotch and Soda and went outside. It was time to call in.

They would want to meet me not at their office, I knew, but at a cut-out address. Nothing had been arranged so as to keep the meeting place secret until only moments before. I was to call in, and then I’d know precisely where...and when.

Sorenson here...

Hold on, please.

For an interminable time I held and I heard some strange satellite noises on the other end of the line. Then I was disconnected. I called back, and there was a busy signal. So I decided I had done enough - perhaps something had happened and I would be notified a different way...

The bright sunlight was turning golden as the sun began to set over pillows of clouds on the horizon. The clouds would make a spectacular sunset. I thought surely I was fortunate...perhaps the most fortunate of men - but perhaps the most cautious of them. I had seen what the intelligence community could do to an individual. And those who survived were the most cautious of men. I trusted my intuition and even then I wasn’t sure sometimes.

Time passed as I watched the sunset. The phone did not ring. As the sun set the entire end of the sky turned pink and gold and silver...

In a deep reverie I thought about the source of the money I had brought with me. It was from an assassinations fund...targeted for use by our men in the field. Only we needed to trade it and earn funds from it to pay at least salaries to justify our presence. Trading blood money.

The phone rang loudly and my senses became alert suddenly. I expected it would be returning my call, but it was Cassandra. She sounded quite lovely and peaceful.

Darling, it’s time and I’m famished - what are you still doing in your room?

I looked at my watch. It was quarter past eight. Time had slipped by. Two hours had passed. I’ll be right down, just give me five minutes.

I’m expecting you in three. Hurry up. She sounded flirtatious. My aunt couldn’t make it.

I’ll be down in two and half. I started thinking as I placed the phone down - why hadn’t I heard back? Why didn’t the office at least contact me to give me instructions of some kind? Why didn’t they slip a message into my room? Why?"

I placed a sport jacket on and attended to my briefcase. I placed it carefully under the bed, and then I took care to double lock the door as I left. I placed a Do Not Disturb sign at the door, as if someone was there. It was always best to make it look as if someone was there.

In the elevator I pressed lobby and proceeded down. On the first level we stopped briefly and a well-dressed man, and his companion, stepped on. They looked like royalty, dressed in Armani and Gucci. She was much younger than he. They smiled but didn’t speak. We proceeded to the lobby where I saw Cassandra seated at a table. I walked up behind her.

Do I know you?

Darling, you know a lot of people. We’ve yet to get to know one another.

And so began a relationship which would carry me through the most startling phase of one’s life which was imaginable...

A CHANCE MEETING

Some say romance finds you when you are least looking for it. Ahead of us loomed an elaborate room with chandeliers from another era, and black-jacketed waiters were before us as we entered the dining room of the hotel. The hotel had been founded by an Englishman at the turn of the century, and the decor reflected his European tastes. Fine linen and crystal abounded on the tables. Flowers, freshly cut, were the centerpiece of each table. A romantic atmosphere added to the electric nature of the evening. Cassandra looked at me rather coyly and asked, Would you prefer wine, champagne, or something else?

Something else, I answered. I noticed her strong perfume, the dark eyes and the long hair covering her petite figure.

So began an evening of quiet discourse as we listened to piano music in the background and watched the endless parade of the wealthy patrons of the hotel. It reminded me of a comment I had heard on my last trip here - at a jewelry store - the man had asked a customer if his wife, girlfriend, mistress or whatever relationship might exist would like to look at a certain bauble.

It was time to order and we tried filet mignon for two. A magnum of wine from the wine cellar, Chateau Haut Brion, complemented the mood of the evening. I was being lured into a dream, I thought, but I liked it and I hoped it would continue. It was a far cry from my daytime life and I enjoyed it - it was an escape.

And what about your family? she asked.

Oh, they’re in Arizona , and points west. They’ve all migrated from their original cities, to wherever.

"How about your immediate family?"

This was an interesting question as there was none, and the fact that she was inquisitive on this point had me thinking that perhaps there was more than an immediate interest in the point at hand. My immediate family - you’re looking at.

In Palm Beach you never mentioned your line of work...

Well, I’m here for an International Conference on Securities Management. I represent principals - primarily out of London, who investment bank deals of various sorts. . . and I act as both a principal and an intermediary in some of the deals . . .

She looked at me quizzically for a moment... and then said, Anyone with a job description that complex, who’s out of the country on business constantly, must be with one of the government intelligence agencies - which one are you with?

Taken aback, I smiled and said, Well, from what I’ve heard, if that was true...they’re all pretty much in the same business - so it doesn’t really matter - if it were true, right?

She responded, I read a lot, and I’m not your average - you know what I mean...

Precisely... I answered back.

Cassandra had led a privileged life and one which involved the study of relationships and people. She strategized instantly in her mind, almost with computer-like precision. She had spent her early years in Massachusetts and the winters in Palm Beach. Her parents had inherited a tremendous tract of land bordering on the edge of a city, Scoville, which caused the value of the land as the city developed to