speak with you in person if I didn’t think it would be worth your while? What’s the matter with you? Trust me for once, okay? You’ll want to be in on this.”
He removed an envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it to Jason. “That’s a first-class round-trip ticket to San Diego. We’re meeting for brunch in the Crown Room at the Del at 11:00 a.m. Sunday. I’ll have a car waiting for you outside San Diego International at 10:30. The driver will carry a sign reading BLACK COBRA.”
Jason turned the plane ticket over in his hands, feeling a bit foolish. He couldn’t respond with any clarity, so he didn’t try.
Fagan glanced at his watch — he had done all he could. It was up to Jason now.
“I have a plane to catch,” he said, rising to his feet. “I hope to see you Sunday. If you decide to show, I’ll propose a toast in your honor.”
Jason walked Fagan to the marina gate, and they shook hands goodbye.
---
Jason returned to the yacht and flopped down on a lounge chair overlooking the water. His head was spinning.
What was that all about? he thought, rubbing his temples. Flying all the way up to San Diego for an out-of-the-blue mystery meeting with some old Russian submariner? It was insane.
He took another look at the plane ticket and then slipped it into his pocket and closed his tired eyes.
Sunday
Three days later ...
San Diego
Chapter 18
Jason stepped out of the limousine in front of the Hotel Del Coronado shading his eyes from the Southern California sun.
His flight in from Grand Cayman had been delayed, and he’d been forced to sprint half-way across San Diego International to get to the waiting limo on time. Two years in the Caribbean had taken a bigger toll on his fitness than he had thought, and as he started up the red carpet runner he realized how tired he was.
Commander Fagan had rightly assumed that Jason would show up at the important meeting sorely underdressed, and on the ride over to Coronado, Jason found a designer suit, a silk shirt and tie, a slim leather belt, and a pair of hand-made Italian loafers with socks sealed in a garment bag next to him on the seat. It was clear that Fagan had gone to a lot of trouble, so Jason acquiesced, swapping his T-shirt and jeans for the suit.
---
Fagan had reserved a table overlooking the Pacific Ocean in the Del’s fabulous Crown Room, a cavernous space, with 30-foot-high, hand-carved wooden ceilings, capable of seating over 600 diners.
Jason checked his watch, 10:59 a.m. It was a miracle he had made it there on time. He straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, and entered the famous restaurant from the north side through the set of heavy, wooden double-doors.
---
Jason looked around and spotted Richard Fagan seated at a table with two others at the far end of the room. He padded across the expanse of Victorian-era carpeting and approached the table. The three men stood to greet him.
Fagan handled the introductions. “Captain Vtorak Borisovich Pankov,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Jason Souther.”
“How do you do, sir?” Jason said, shaking hands with a man more than twice his age. His impression of the captain changed in an instant. Pankov was no ordinary old fart.
“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Commander,” Pankov said, giving Jason’s hand a vigorous Russian-style shake.
His accent was strong but his English excellent, and Jason did a double-take at being called Commander again. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer Jason,” he said.
From what Richard Fagan had told him, Pankov had expected Jason to be a little more rough around the edges. “The suit looks good, Jason,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Jason said, a tad embarrassed. He would thank Richard later.
Pankov turned to the fourth man at the table, a man about five years his junior. “This is my friend and loyal confidant, Captain Uri Ruden,” he said. “Himself a distinguished former Soviet submariner.”
Uri was pleased to
He removed an envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it to Jason. “That’s a first-class round-trip ticket to San Diego. We’re meeting for brunch in the Crown Room at the Del at 11:00 a.m. Sunday. I’ll have a car waiting for you outside San Diego International at 10:30. The driver will carry a sign reading BLACK COBRA.”
Jason turned the plane ticket over in his hands, feeling a bit foolish. He couldn’t respond with any clarity, so he didn’t try.
Fagan glanced at his watch — he had done all he could. It was up to Jason now.
“I have a plane to catch,” he said, rising to his feet. “I hope to see you Sunday. If you decide to show, I’ll propose a toast in your honor.”
Jason walked Fagan to the marina gate, and they shook hands goodbye.
---
Jason returned to the yacht and flopped down on a lounge chair overlooking the water. His head was spinning.
What was that all about? he thought, rubbing his temples. Flying all the way up to San Diego for an out-of-the-blue mystery meeting with some old Russian submariner? It was insane.
He took another look at the plane ticket and then slipped it into his pocket and closed his tired eyes.
Sunday
Three days later ...
San Diego
Chapter 18
Jason stepped out of the limousine in front of the Hotel Del Coronado shading his eyes from the Southern California sun.
His flight in from Grand Cayman had been delayed, and he’d been forced to sprint half-way across San Diego International to get to the waiting limo on time. Two years in the Caribbean had taken a bigger toll on his fitness than he had thought, and as he started up the red carpet runner he realized how tired he was.
Commander Fagan had rightly assumed that Jason would show up at the important meeting sorely underdressed, and on the ride over to Coronado, Jason found a designer suit, a silk shirt and tie, a slim leather belt, and a pair of hand-made Italian loafers with socks sealed in a garment bag next to him on the seat. It was clear that Fagan had gone to a lot of trouble, so Jason acquiesced, swapping his T-shirt and jeans for the suit.
---
Fagan had reserved a table overlooking the Pacific Ocean in the Del’s fabulous Crown Room, a cavernous space, with 30-foot-high, hand-carved wooden ceilings, capable of seating over 600 diners.
Jason checked his watch, 10:59 a.m. It was a miracle he had made it there on time. He straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, and entered the famous restaurant from the north side through the set of heavy, wooden double-doors.
---
Jason looked around and spotted Richard Fagan seated at a table with two others at the far end of the room. He padded across the expanse of Victorian-era carpeting and approached the table. The three men stood to greet him.
Fagan handled the introductions. “Captain Vtorak Borisovich Pankov,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Jason Souther.”
“How do you do, sir?” Jason said, shaking hands with a man more than twice his age. His impression of the captain changed in an instant. Pankov was no ordinary old fart.
“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Commander,” Pankov said, giving Jason’s hand a vigorous Russian-style shake.
His accent was strong but his English excellent, and Jason did a double-take at being called Commander again. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer Jason,” he said.
From what Richard Fagan had told him, Pankov had expected Jason to be a little more rough around the edges. “The suit looks good, Jason,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Jason said, a tad embarrassed. He would thank Richard later.
Pankov turned to the fourth man at the table, a man about five years his junior. “This is my friend and loyal confidant, Captain Uri Ruden,” he said. “Himself a distinguished former Soviet submariner.”
Uri was pleased to
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