White Cargo by Stuart Woods Page B

of a pair of wing chairs.
    “Take a pew,” he said, walking to the other chair.
    Cat sat down and glanced around the room. It didn’t look occupied. “Thanks for seeing me,” he said.
    “Any friend of the senator’s,” the man said.
    Cat relaxed a little. “Let me tell you about my problem,” he said.
    Jim held up a hand. “I’m acquainted with your problem,” he said. “I read the newspapers. Just let me do the talking for a while.”
    Cat nodded.
    Jim opened a briefcase, the smaller of two beside his chair, and took out a file folder. “Let’s see,” he said, flipping through pages. “Born Atlanta, Northside High, decentfullback—not good enough for college, though; Georgia Tech, Class of ’53, missed Korea with a student deferment—smart move, let me tell you. Naval ROTC, took your commission in the Marines. Why?”
    “I was young and stupid,” Cat said, honestly.
    Jim laughed. “Didn’t you like it at Quantico?”
    “Can’t say that I did,” Cat said.
    “I was there a few years ahead of you,” Jim said. “I guess I didn’t like it much, either.” He looked at the file again. “Still, you did okay. They had a nice word or two for you on your efficiency reports.”
    “I kept my mouth shut and did as I was told.”
    “That’s not what it says here,” Jim said, consulting the file. “Says here, ‘Extensive use of personal initiative, tends to improvise.’ That’s Marine-ese for maverick, or sometimes just pain in the ass.”
    Cat shrugged. “Guess I wasn’t cut out for the military.”
    “Is that why you turned down the Agency?” Jim asked. “You thought it would be too much like the military?”
    “The Agency?”
    “The Central Intelligence Agency. You’ve heard of that,” Jim said dryly.
    Cat’s eyebrows went up. “Jesus, is that who that guy was? I thought he wanted me to reenlist! He kept going on about service to my country. I told him to get stuffed.”
    Jim laughed. “Recruiters in those days were a little too subtle, I guess.”
    “Is that what you are? CIA?”
    Jim ignored the question and returned to the file. “Let’s see; out of Tech you worked for IBM, then Texas Instruments, then went off on your own with your financial whiz brother-in-law. Not cut out for the corporate life, either?”
    “I guess you could say I made extensive use of personal initiative, tended to improvise. Big business didn’t like it any better than the Marines did.”
    Jim nodded. “Then you got rich. Invented that printer, Ben took the company public. You paid all your debts, built a new house, built a boat. Net worth of a little over sixteen million, mostly in your remaining shares in the company, some real estate, money market, stocks. You’ve got a smart brother-in-law.”
    “You’re pretty well informed,” Cat said, squirming a little. “Do you know where my daughter is?”
    Jim shook his head. “Sorry. You seem to think she’s alive somewhere in Colombia, though.”
    “Yes.”
    “And you’re determined to go down there and look for her.”
    “Yes.”
    “Colombia can be a very dangerous place,” Jim said. “Is there anything I can say to talk you out of it?”
    “Not unless you can tell me another way to get my daughter back.”
    Jim shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t,” he said, “and if she were my daughter, I’d go after her, too.” He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “Listen,” he said, “why the hell not go down there? You’re just as smart as the State Department guys and the Colombian police, who’ve done all the looking so far. Hell, smarter—you’re rich! Your problem is, you’re a little short of resources. But you can buy resources.”
    “Such as?”
    “You’re going to need some help down there, somebody who knows the territory. You don’t speak any Spanish, do you?”
    “No. None.”
    Jim opened the larger of his two cases and took out a hefty camera. He got up and removed a picture from the wall. “Stand over here,” he