Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) (3 page)

I nodded. I could relate.
 

“He’s posing as a rich collector. We have another man on the ground, Special Agent Dalton.” I hadn’t heard of him. “He’s a buyer. Then there’s a third agent on the case, Special Agent Tom García. We’ve had no contact from him in weeks.” He looked concerned.

“What was his objective?” I asked. They were throwing a lot at me at once, probably to see if I could keep it straight.

Mr. Martin said, “He was working the poaching side, trying to identify the buncher.” He paused. “A buncher is—”

“I know. The middle-man. He buys from the poachers, tends the inventory, then sells to the smuggling kingpin.”

Mr. Martin gave me a respectful nod. He handed me a post card. “His last correspondence.” The image was of a palapa bar on the beach called The Toucan. On the back García had scribbled a message:
Having a great time. Have my sights set on a beautiful butterfly. Paco.

“What’s that mean?”

Mr. Martin shrugged. “Dunno. Butterflies are a big black market species. When you talk to Nash, give him the info. Maybe it makes sense to him.”

I tried to read the postmarked date. “When did you get this?”

“Two weeks ago. Nothing since. It could be he’s too deep to make contact.”

Mr. Strix shifted to the edge of the desk. “It’s a dangerous operation, Poppy. When you work Special Ops, you’re on your own.”

I sat back. I could handle that. In fact, I preferred it. “Is this typical protocol? To bring in another agent right in the middle of an investigation?”

The two men looked at each other, tight-lipped. Mr. Martin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Undercover work isn’t like you’ve read in your textbooks, young lady.”

Young lady?
I could feel my teeth involuntarily clenching together.

Strix drew in a breath. “Poppy, listen. This op is vital. We’ve had very short notice to find someone, the right someone, to send in.” He leaned forward and adjusted his glasses. “I believe that someone is you.”

“So how do I fit in?”

Mr. Strix grinned as if he were about to hand me a winning lottery ticket. “You’re going to choose your own pet monkey.”

I looked to Mr. Martin, then back to him. “I’ve always wanted a monkey?” The Barenaked Ladies tune started playing in my head.
 

Mr. Martin picked up a pencil and tapped it on the folder. The beat didn’t match the rhythm of the tune in my head and it was aggravating. “You’ll be partnered with Special Agent Dalton. His cover is the owner of a chain of pet stores in Texas.” He handed me a business card with the info. “He spends about ten days in Costa Rica once a month. He’s built a rapport with George and recently hinted at wanting to buy class II species. Specifically,” he cocked his head to the side, “he mentioned how his wife wants her own pet monkey.”

He paused, waiting for my reaction. The fluorescent tube above, as if on cue, flickered and hummed. As he had said, Special Ops is an elite group. Those guys were seasoned agents. The legendary Joe Nash was in his late sixties. Thinning hair, arthritis. Dalton must have been about the same.
Probably has dentures.
 

“So I’m the trophy wife,” I said.
The things I do for animals.
I held out my hand for the folder. “How long do I have to study my cover?”

Mr. Martin put out his hands, palms up. “That’s it.”

I looked to Mr. Strix. “What do you mean, that’s it? How do I make contact? Where do I go?”

He reached into a sack that had been tucked beside the desk and produced a wide-brimmed straw hat and a god-awful handbag—gold lamé with a giant buckle studded with sparkling bling. It was large enough to carry a poodle. “Seriously?” I asked.

He examined the handbag, innocently perplexed by my reaction
.
“It’s my wife’s,” he said, as if that made it unquestioningly perfect.

I zipped my lip.
 

Mr. Martin looked at his watch. “Your flight’s in one hour. You connect through Dallas where you’ll switch to first class.” He eyed my duffle. “Make sure you pick up a new carry-on bag that’s appropriate to your cover.”

Mr. Strix took my hand and slipped a diamond the size of Montana onto my finger. I shook my head. “Whoa.”
 

“Yeah, well, you’ll be running with the big spenders. Besides,”—he gave me a wink—“Brittany’s worth it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Brittany?”

Mr. Martin harrumphed again. “This from a girl named Poppy.”

My eyebrows stretched upward so far my eyeballs hurt. In a soothing voice, which from anyone else would seem condescending, Mr. Strix said, “Dalton had to pick something. He didn’t know at the time we’d be sending someone in.”

I tried to smile, wondering if the next trick he’d pull from the bag was a voucher for a boob job.

“Dalton will be at the airport in San José to pick you up. He’ll be wearing tan slacks and a light blue polo shirt. Make sure you wear this hat.” He plopped it on my head.
 

I flipped through the folder again. “Where’s a picture of Special Agent Dalton?”

The two men looked at each other, blank faced.

This was starting to feel like some kind of back room, cold war, clandestine mission. Flick the lighter twice, knock once. It was going to be fun. I wanted to rattle off a
I’m your Natasha
in my best Russian accent. Instead, I said, “It’s all right.”

Mr. Martin leaned forward on the desk. “Listen, I know this situation isn’t ideal. But Jim assures me you’re up for it.” He set his jaw. “You need to understand the serious nature of the op you’re walking into. One mistake could mean your life or the life of a fellow agent. Got it?”

I took off the hat. (It was going to be a full-on job to get my mop to fit in that thing.) “I got it.”

“I mean it, Agent McVie.” He paused for a beat. Then huffed and shook his head. He glared at Mr. Strix. “I hope I don’t regret this.” He turned his glare on me. “Rule number one of undercover work: always keep your cover. The thing is, undercover work is like improv. Don’t take anything personally. You’ve gotta roll with it. You two are newlyweds, so smooch it up. You never know who might be watching.”

“I understand, sir.” I had the urge to ask if I should pick up some Viagra on the way, but I was already pushing my luck and Mr. Martin didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor.

“Rule number two: tell as few lies as possible. Makes it easier to keep things straight. If you liked Barbies when you were seven, then Brittany liked Barbies when she was seven. The key is to be yourself, to act natural. Got it?”

I nodded. “Barbies. Got it.”

“Three: if something doesn’t feel right, don’t proceed. Walk away. Be patient. You don’t want to push a relationship. Better to take another day than to blow it. And four: if you suspect you’ve been made, get the hell out of there. Notify your SAC right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you get the chance to meet George, be cautious. He’s likely going to test you. He’ll scrutinize everything you say and do.”

“George. Test me. Got it.”

He stared for a long moment as though it were his last chance to change his mind.
 

“Is that all, sir?”

He heaved a sigh. “Good luck.”

Mr. Strix rose to his feet. “I’ll walk you out.”

I slung the rich-bitch bag over my shoulder and gave Mr. Stan Martin a nod.

After two right turns and three to the left, Mr. Strix handed me a cell phone. “A Michigan number is programmed under Mom. It will transfer to me. Call if you need anything.”

“Michigan?” I asked, but as the word came out of my mouth I realized. “No Texas accent. I grew up in Michigan. Got it.” I stopped and turned to him. “Thanks,” I said.

He smiled.
 

“Has there been any news on my dad’s case?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Nothing.”

I walked a few more feet, turned and—nope. I was going to let it go.

He lifted his glasses to rub his eyes and sighed. “What is it?”

“Nothing, sir.” I turned to continue on.
 

He gently grabbed my arm. “It’s Special Ops. That’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for recommending me, sir.”

“I was glad to do it. You’ll make me proud. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

We continued on, another left turn. I stopped again. “The wife? Really? I was
specifically requested
because they need a woman? That’s it?”

“Listen to me.” He took me by the shoulders like my dad used to do to make me face him. “It’s an opportunity. Take it.” He gave me a hopeful smile. “When you get there, listen to your SAC, follow protocol, and I’m confident, in no time, they’ll see your potential.” He gave me another hug. “Trust me, Poppy.”

I gave him a smile of thanks and winked. “You can call me Brittany.”

Juan Santamaría International Airport in San José, Costa Rica is the second busiest airport in Central America. This was an advantage. Even someone I knew, like my own husband, might be easily overlooked in the bustling crowd.
 

At Customs and Immigration, I presented my new passport. Under my mug was the name Brittany Katherine Fuller. It even had my actual birthday, April 3, 1990. Someone was really thinking when they tucked in an immunization card with an emergency contact: my husband of three months, John Randolf Fuller.
 

I ran through some memorization routines.
Hi, I’m Brittany, John’s wife. So nice to meet you, George. This is my husband, John. John, John. I need to go to the John with John. John the baptist. John Lennon. Johnny. Johnny be good. Johnny Depp. Oooooh yeah. Johnny Depp. I could be married to Johnny Depp.

I couldn’t think of any thing else to prepare. During my flight from Detroit, I had rummaged through the handbag and found a pack of gum, a tin of aspirin, two emery boards, several maxi pads, a bottle of hand lotion (half used), a mini-pack of tissues, a pair of cheesy, goggle lens sunglasses, and a change purse that looked like it was handmade by someone’s grandma. Everything a girl could need and all courtesy, no doubt, of Mrs. Strix. I’d have to remember to send her a thank-you note. Without the typical items, I was at risk of someone realizing that stunning fashion accessory was a prop. There was no time to shop for a poodle.

The most important item I’d found in the bag was a wallet with cash and a credit card in Brittany’s name. It worked at the luggage store in the Dallas/Fort Worth International terminal where I found a shiny white leather carry-on bag. (I’d never buy leather, but I figured Brittany would love its rich, supple feel.)
 

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service could pull some strings pretty quickly, it seemed. I hoped they were as good at wardrobe assignments, because that’s all I had to go on. Tan slacks and a blue polo shirt. I was about to find out.
 

I flipped the straw hat onto my head, pulled it down, hoping it would stay, and moved with the crowd toward the ground transportation area, scanning for my new hubby. It felt like a freak blind date, only I couldn’t fake a migraine and slink out the back door. I kept telling myself, no matter what, I was going to smack him with a big kiss, right in front of everyone. No one was going to accuse me of blowing an op.

As I approached the exit, I knew I was in Central America. The cool of the air conditioning mixed with waves of humid, tropical air and exhaust fumes wafting in from the street where cars honked and engines ran, all maneuvering for the best spot.
 

I caught sight of someone waving. He wore tan slacks and a blue polo, but it couldn’t be him. This man was young, tall and lean—one of those guys who crawls under razor wire and bounds over ten foot walls for exercise. I quickly scanned the luggage claim area for a balding man in the same get up. No one. I turned back. The guy was walking toward me, waving. I faked like I hadn’t seen him the first time. “Hi Honey!” I called.
 

He walked toward me, his arms outstretched. I dropped my bag and lunged into his embrace. He lifted me up and spun me around. Wow, he was strong. I tilted my head back and he kissed me, long and hard. “I missed you,” he crooned as he set me down.
 

Man, was he ripped, pecs firm as a ham hock. I lingered a moment with my hands on his chest, looking into his deep, brown eyes. He was my husband after all. I gave him my best Texas sweetheart smile. “I’ve missed you, too, darling.”
Like, my whole life.

Dalton gave me another peck on the lips, then, his eyes warning me to be careful, he nodded toward a man who hovered a few paces back. “George sent his driver. Wasn’t that nice?”

I pulled away from his embrace and flashed my best Brittany smile at the man.
 

“He’s invited us to dinner,” Dalton added.

“Fantastic, I’m starving.” I reached for my carry-on bag but Dalton grabbed it before I could.
 

“Let me get that,” he said.
 

Maybe this marriage could work out after all.

The drive from the airport was breathtaking in more ways than one. Costa Rica’s countryside is lush with the dazzling greens of the rainforest and, as we got further west, occasional vistas overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It made me itch to go exploring. This tropical paradise has the highest density of biodiversity in the world. Nearly 500,000 species live here, hundreds of which exist nowhere else on Earth. With tropical rain forests, deciduous forests, Atlantic and Pacific coastline, cloud forests, and the coastal mangrove forests, the possibilities were endless for a nature lover like me.
 

The driving on the other hand was a free-for-all. Typical Latin America. Stop signs, yellow lines, no passing zones—all trivial suggestions only tourists take seriously, meaningless to the average tico, as the locals call themselves.

Dalton and I sat with his arm around me, snuggled up together, saying very little other than an ooh or ah at some vista and banal chitchat about the comfort of my flight and such.