Authors: Dell Magazine Authors
Seeing Leland frown slightly, Boyle said, “If you're wondering why the French police haven't solved this problem themselves, Dan, it isn't because they haven't tried. Menard here sent an undercover operative from his own force to infiltrate the area where they believe most of the black pearls are being illegally harvested and smuggled out. His man disappeared less than a month later. When he took the case to Interpol, Inspector Caspar asked for help from England. Scotland Yard then also sent an undercover man in—and six weeks later
he
disappeared."
"Now they're bringing it to us?” Dan Leland asked, somewhat incredulously.
"Correct.” Boyle rose and said, “Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind waiting in the outer office, I'd like a word in private with my agent."
Colonel Menard and Inspector Caspar, exchanging unamused glances, retired to the outer office, leaving the two FBI men alone. Before Boyle could speak, Leland was on his feet.
"Sir, if I'm here for the reason I think, I request permission to return to my assignment in Hawaii."
"Permission denied. Look, Dan, I don't like this any more than you do, but it's been dropped on my desk by the director himself. With, I might add, the attorney general's approval."
"Fine. If you're assigning this to me, I'll resign."
"You won't do that."
"I will. I'll go to work for the Secret Service."
"Those babysitters!” Boyle scoffed. “You want to end up driving two little girls to school and back every day?"
"It's better than being number three in the great Tahiti disappearing act. I don't want to be digested by a shark."
"You won't be. Do you think I'd give you this job if I wasn't sure you could do it? This assignment is tailor-made for you. You're perfect for it."
"Oh, really? Kindly tell me how.” Leland sat back down and crossed his arms.
Boyle now rose and paced around the office. “You're young. Smart. Tough. You're a scuba diver, which is a perfect cover for being in Tahiti. You've already got a sun tan that screams island living. Hell, that slug from Scotland Yard was probably white as a scone. Also, you
don't
speak French like Menard's guy, who probably tipped off the locals the first time he ordered wine.” Boyle stopped pacing and sat down next to Leland. “Danny, you're just
different
enough to resolve this case."
Leland sulked. “You know I'm engaged to be married. And she happens to be the daughter of a Hawaiian state senator."
"I know. Abigail Newsome. I've seen her picture. She's very pretty."
"You should see her when she's angry. Frightening. And if I spring this on her—” Leland shivered.
"Look, your wedding's not for three months. You can wrap this up in five or six weeks."
Leland sulked some more. “Does the director know about the two guys who disappeared?"
"Yes. So does the attorney general."
"So if I bring this off, they'll both know how dangerous it was?"
Boyle smiled broadly. “Danny, my boy, your name will be prominent in a report to both of them that may even reach the President's desk. After all, you will have succeeded where both the governments of France and England
and Interpol
failed. It'll be like having a halo over your head."
Leland stopped sulking. A slight smile crept over his lips. The President's desk. A halo.
When Leland got back to Honolulu, Abigail Newsome stared at him in shock.
"Tahiti!
You've got to be kidding!"
Leland shrugged. “Wish I was, honey. But that's the assignment."
"Well, I'm calling Daddy. And he'll call the governor. And the governor will call our United States senator—"
"Abby, you can't do that,” Leland said, as firmly as he thought wise when his fiancée was on the verge of an emotional eruption. “It would ruin me in the bureau."
"So? Transfer to the Secret Service."
"What, and be a babysitter driving two little girls to school every day? Abby, you've always bragged about me being with the FBI when all your girlfriends have married bankers and dentists and other nerds. Plus which, if I went with the Secret Service we'd have to move to Washington. It snows there."
"But Tahiti, for God's sake! We don't even own it! Spain or somebody owns it."
"France."
"Well, why you, then? Why the FBI?” She drilled him with a laser stare. “Dan, is this something dangerous?” she asked suspiciously.
"Not at all,” he assured her. “It's all about pearl smuggling. Practically a white-collar crime.” He took both her hands in his. “Look, Boyle thinks I can wrap this thing up in five or six weeks—"
"My bridal shower is exactly two months from today,” she reminded him, with a classic little-girl pout she had developed over the years. “And I'm sure the men at the club will throw some kind of crude bachelor party for you—"
"I'll be back in plenty of time for all that,” he promised. “Come here—"
He drew her close and tried to kiss her passionately, open-mouthed, tongue and all, but as usual she kept her lips sealed in what she referred to as a “correct” kiss, not the kind practiced by “natives” and other low types. It was a condition of their relationship to which Leland had adjusted. Reluctantly.
Ten days later, after another trip back to Washington for a complete briefing and change of identity, Leland disembarked an Air Micronesia jet at Faa'a Airport on the outskirts of Papeete, Tahiti's administrative capital. He was now William Garson, an island-hopping transient carrying a U.S. passport that had been chemically aged to eliminate its newness, the pages of which had been stamped and predated to show that over the past sixteen months he had loafed around a considerable part of the northern and southern Pacific Ocean, visiting, among other islands, Toga, Tinian, Saipan, Kiribati, Tuvalu, Tonga, Pago Pago, and even remote Pitcairn, which is only accessible by boat.
Alighting into the oppressive humidity of the airport's tarmac, he made his way into the terminal along an avenue of native women sitting on cushions behind spreads of colorful Polynesian cloths on which they offered for sale an extraordinary selection of island souvenirs: trinkets, seashells, and miscellaneous items of bamboo, bark, and fronds. All of the women were robustly figured and dressed in muumuus of bright flowered patterns. They were, Leland observed, like the women of Hawaii, without exception of faultless complexion, with black shiny hair, full lips, and perfect white teeth.
Ignoring their wares, Leland went into the baggage-claim area, waited until his duffel bag was unloaded, and slung it over one shoulder to line up for Customs and Immigration inspection, which he found to be cursory. Once through those formalities, he hired a taxi, paid in advance and without complaint the twenty-two dollar fare into Papeete, and told the driver, “I have to stop at the freight terminal to pick up another piece of baggage."
"Sure, sir, no problem,” he was told. The driver made a U-turn and drove around to the rear of the passenger terminal to a freight dock. Leland got out, presented a claim check to a steward, and was given his dive bag, which already had on it a white tag marked: passed—customs—french polynesia.
"On a dive vacation, sir?” the driver asked, recognizing the type of bag as Leland put it in the backseat with his duffel and got up front with the driver.
"Not exactly a vacation,” he said. “Looking for dive work."
"Not much scuba-diving work around here,” the driver said. “Mos'ly here is lagoon diving. Hold-your-breath diving. Dey go down twenty-fi’ feet with a net, pick up all the oysters de’ tide bring in overnight. Shell ‘em right on the pier, hope to find de’ pearl."
"Lot of pearl business here?"
"Sure. Tourist business. Dey like Tahitian pearls. Come on cruise ship for one day, buy enough pearls to keep lagoon divers busy for a week.” He threw Leland a quick glance. “You like buy pearls, I take you to good shop. Honest shop."
Leland shook his head. “I need a job. Money's short. Take me to a good cheap hotel. Clean. And tell me where I can find a poolroom. If I can't find a job, maybe I can pick up a little pocket money shooting pool."
"Oh, sure, sure. You get both in same place. Tiki Hotel. Cheap, clean. Got bar with pool table in it. Lots of sailors shoot pool there, play for money."
The Tiki Hotel was on Waterfront Road near the town's main dock and the ferry quay to Tahiti's many sister islands. Its outdoor sign boasted thirty rooms and air conditioning. The room to which Leland was assigned had cheap wicker furnishings and an old pink tile bathroom, but as the taxi driver had promised, it was spotlessly clean. First opening his dive pack to check that his air cylinders were undamaged, then unpacking his duffel and putting his worn island clothes neatly away, Leland left the room and went down to the bar. He saw outside that a typical heavy downpour of rain had materialized and was sweeping down the nearby docks. Leland knew from experience in Hawaii that such occurrences came and went within a matter of minutes, and that no one paid much attention to them.
The bar, off the lobby, was only moderately busy, and he was able to find a small, round, unoccupied table in a back corner that suited him perfectly as a location from which to observe the room's activities and adjust himself to the Papeete environment. Almost as soon as he sat down, he was approached by a young native woman wearing a short tropical muumuu under a plastic waitress apron.
"What would you like, sir?” she asked.
"What kind of beer do you have?"
"Warm and cold."
"No, I mean what brands of beer do you serve."
"Australian Crown Lager, Japanese rice beer, Fiji Bitter, and Hinano."
"What's Hinano?"
"Tahitian beer, brewed here on the island. It's dark brown, heavier than the other beers."
"I'll try the local beer. Cold, please."
"Yessir."
Leland watched as she walked away across the room. Her short muumuuonly reached to mid thigh, revealing exquisitely shaped, perfectly matched legs. Leland thought briefly of Abigail back in Honolulu, who was just knock-kneed enough to notice when she wore tennis shorts.
Looking around the room, Leland noticed his taxi driver at a table, conversing in what appeared to be a confidential manner with two other men, both white, and both of whom glanced over at Leland as they spoke. That was quick, he thought. Word was already getting around: a new scuba diver in town looking for work.
The waitress brought his beer. “Six dollars, please."
As Leland was pulling money out of his pocket to pay, he noticed a nametag pinned to her muumuutop which read: domi. “That's a pretty name: Domi. Is it Tahitian?"
"No. It's short for Dominique."
"Then you're French?"
"One-quarter French, yes. Dominique was my French grandmother's name. Six dollars, please."
Leland gave her a U.S. ten. “Keep the change, Domi."
"Thank you, sir."
When she walked away, Leland again admired her perfect legs.
After a couple of sips of beer, Leland took his mug and walked to an anteroom off the bar proper in which he had observed a pool table when he first came in. There was a game in progress between a native man in a flowered shirt and a white man wearing a battered merchant seaman's cap. The game was being watched by a dozen mixed-race men who occupied a double-rowed wooden spectator bench. There was also a padded folding chair nearby, and since it was unoccupied Leland went over and sat down on it. The two men paused in their game and several spectators looked at him curiously, then a burly native came over and said, “You can't sit there."
"Why not?” Leland asked.
"That's Mr. Tamu's chair. Nobody sits there but Mr. Tamu."
Leland studied the native for a moment. He was about five-ten and must have weighed two-sixty, with upper arms the size of Leland's thighs. He was not smiling.
"Sorry,” Leland said. “I didn't know.” He rose and stepped away to take a seat on the spectator bench. The room resumed its activity.
The two men Leland had seen in conversation with his taxi driver entered the pool-table area and sauntered over, drinks in hand, to stand near where Leland sat. “I think I'll put my name down for a game,” one of them said, in a distinctly British accent, just loud enough for Leland to hear. “Care to join me?"
"No, you go ahead,” his companion replied, in French-accented English.
The man with the British accent stepped over to a small blackboard on the wall and with a stub of white chalk scrawled: Brit. Turning back, he bobbed his chin at Leland. “You play pool?"
"Sometimes,” Leland said. It was a modest lie; he had been the billiard-club champion at Purdue for five semesters.
"Care for a game?” Brit asked. Leland shrugged.
"Okay.” He came over and signed the board: Bill.
The two men at the table immediately terminated their game, hung up their cue sticks, and a young Polynesian boy quickly racked the fifteen balls for a new game.
As Leland put down his beer and looked over a collection of cue sticks on the wall, he noticed a tall, white-haired Polynesian man enter and sit down in the cushioned chair Leland had vacated. Mr. Tamu, he presumed.
"We usually have a wager to make the game interesting,” Brit said. “Twenty U.S. all right with you?"
"Sure."
They each put a twenty in one of the corner pockets, lagged down the table for the break, and Leland won. On the break he made the 2 and 6 balls, then ran the 1, 3, and 4. Brit shot and made the 5, then sank the 12 off the 7 and barely missed making the 7 itself. The score was 17-16, Brit's favor. Leland sank the 7 and 8, as well as the 9, but scratched on the 9. Brit made the 9 and 10. Score 36-31 for Brit. Sixty-one was needed to win. Leland made the 11 but missed the 13, for a score of 42. Brit made the 13 but missed the 14, upping his score to 49. Leland made the 14, raising his score to 56, then he sank the 15 game ball to win 71-49.
As Leland was taking the two twenties out of the corner pocket, the other man, with the French accent, came over and said, “Are you good or just lucky?"
"Just lucky,” Leland said.