Randy White - Everglades

A minute later, he closed the phone, putting it away, and said, “That was our Scotch-drinking pal, Eugene McRae. Jerry Singh already contacted him and asked about our little visit. He’s there right now. The Bhagwan, I mean. Mr. McRae said that Singh would be happy to answer any questions we had about Geoff Minster.”

Why did I get the impression that the black-haired man with the dimpled chin and scar beneath his right eye had come into the room for no other reason than to initiate visual contact with us?

In the world of espionage fieldcraft, an individual who is a target for any reason is “made” when the assigned agent contrives a reason to view the target in the flesh. Even a brief, firsthand visual confirmation is more reliable than a photograph.

I had the feeling dimple-chin wanted to be able to recognize us down the road.

Or maybe he did it because he wanted to see if we’d recognize him.

The image of the man in coveralls climbing into the pickup truck, hiding his face behind an open palm, came to mind. The hair was similar. The size was about right.

But why go to such extremes?

He was a lean man, medium height, dressed in expensive slacks and a black, short-sleeved Polo sweater, patent-leather shoes, his hair razor cut, stylish. He carried himself with a kind of easy grace; had the looks and athleticism that most women find attractive. Something else I noticed: He had a pale, quarter-sized scar on his right arm that had probably once been a tattoo.

I found the diminutive size of the tattoo interesting.

We were in the Sawgrass corporate office, which was not far from the main gate, where, this time, security guards waited in golf carts, expecting us. They did a poor job of cloaking their hostility-word that we’d hurt a couple of their brethren had obviously gotten around-but they followed orders. They offered us bottled water, and drove us to meet their leader.

Now we were sitting in an empty conference room, waiting, when the door was opened suddenly. In walked the man with the dimpled chin and scar. He made quick eye contact with each of us, plucked a book off a shelf and left again without a word.

Because I’ve spent many years in dangerous places, dealing with covert foreign-service types, I have a bad case of the overlies. I am overly suspicious. I am overly cautious. And I am overly aware that 99.9 percent of Americans are easy targets for anyone who wants to take advantage of them for any reason. Why? Because we never expect it. Not really.

So when the man closed the door, I stood and made a quick survey of the room, pretending to look at the same bookshelf, then through a window that opened onto a courtyard where a statue of a happy Buddha served as a fountain, pouring water onto a garden of stone.

On the wall, beneath a modernistic Darryl Pottorf painting, was a minicamera lens.

When I dropped the book I’d taken from the case, I knelt to retrieve it. Beneath the conference table, I saw at least one pen-sized microphone. Presumably, there were others.

Trying to communicate with Tomlinson and DeAntoni, using intense eye contact- We’re being recorded -I said, “It’s nice of Bhagwan Shiva to be so cooperative. He must be a decent sort of man.”

Tomlinson picked right up on it. “Oh, for sure, man, for sure. You read so much negative stuff these days about the religious types, it’s kind of refreshing to have the critics proven wrong.”

DeAntoni wasn’t so quick. “Hey… are you two guys out of your gourds? Shiva sounds like a fucking snake-oil salesman to me-and you know how I feel about snakes.”

My warning look stopped him. There were just the three of us now. When I’d asked Billie Egret if she wanted to listen to what Shiva had to say, she’d declined. “After five minutes alone with that man, I feel like I need a shower. We don’t have a shower on Chekika’s Hammock, and I’m not going back to my condo in Coral Gables until Monday afternoon. So thanks, but no thanks.”

Carter McRae wasn’t with us, either, because he had to drive to Naples Community Hospital to visit his wife.

So now the three of us sat, waiting. I had a strong suspicion that the man with the dimpled chin was now waiting, too. Probably in a separate office, eavesdropping, listening to what we had to say.

To Tomlinson, I said, “Tell Frank and me your theory about how earth energy works. Power places-the whole vortex philosophy. I really enjoy your insights.”

Tomlinson’s expression was one of surprise, then delight. “Are you serious? Man, I’d love to.”

I sat back, smiling at DeAntoni’s expression: Oh, God, here we go again…

I checked my watch, wondering how long dimple-chin could bear listening to Tomlinson’s philosophical rambling.

It wasn’t long.

The man who called himself Bhagwan Shiva was a sportsman. An outdoorsman-he told us that. A regular sort. He liked getting outside, hitting the ball around on the tennis court, or playing eighteen. He particularly liked shooting trap-which he was scheduled to do right now.

We were in an elongated golf cart that had a Rolls-Royce grille. Dimple-chin was driving. Smiling, not saying much. He’d yet to introduce himself, deferential in the same way a chauffeur would not presume to introduce himself to people he was being paid to drive.

Shiva was wearing a collarless Nehru shooting jacket, khaki slacks tucked into snake boots, and a purple safa-a turban made from a single, colorful strip of cloth. Several shotguns, in aluminum cases, were stacked at angles on the seat beside him. He might have been a rajah on his way to a tiger hunt on the Punjab.

His tone personable, upbeat, Shiva said, “I’m sure you’ve known priests, other clergymen-political leaders. There’s an example-men who’ve had a strong calling to serve. Underneath it all, though, we’re people. I’m just a man. Just like anyone else. With certain gifts, of course.” He looked at Tomlinson, who was seated beside him, when he added, “We all have our own peculiar gifts, don’t you agree?”

Tomlinson answered, “Oh, for sure, for sure. Some more peculiar than others.”

Which made DeAntoni chuckle.

There was a perceptible tension between Tomlinson and the Bhagwan, which I found interesting. There was an instant animus, like opposite poles meeting. When Shiva introduced himself, Tomlinson pretended as if he did not see the man’s outstretched hand-a subtle refusal that caused Shiva momentary embarrassment.

This was a stubborn, confrontational Tomlinson I’d never seen before.

Now they were trading far more subtle barbs.

“My point,” Shiva continued, “is that I want you gentlemen to feel at ease during our visit. I suspect you’re aware of who I am, what I’ve tried to accomplish for the world as a spiritual leader. It… it intimidates some people. What I’m telling you is, there’s no need to treat me any differently. We’re all on the same level here.”

In the same veiled tone, Tomlinson replied, “Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Singh. You’re on a much different level.”

Which irked the man. Even sitting on the rear bench of the golf cart, I could see the skin of Shiva’s face tighten into a forced smile. “Perhaps you have a point, Mr. Tomlinson. It’s true that I have-and this is just a rough estimate-but I have more than a quarter-million followers around the world.”

Tomlinson replied, “Really? I’m curious. What happens when your followers catch up? Do they still cling to the initial delusion?”

Shiva started to say something, but then reacted with a forced laugh. “Are you trying to insult me, Mr. Tomlinson?”

“No-o-o-o, man, of course not. I wouldn’t try to insult you. I wouldn’t want to risk being misunderstood.”