The Consequences of Finding Daniel Morgan

by Peter J Robinson

  Copyright © 2019 Peter J Robinson

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  ISBN 978 1838597 696

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Susan

  Contents

  Introduction

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Introduction

  Like Phil Royle in the following pages, I too had a work colleague killed by a tiger, though, unlike Daniel Morgan, Dave was birdwatching in India. Nevertheless, Royle and Charlie Lacey, together with Daniel Morgan, Doug Whitland and all others featured in the following pages, are entirely figments of my imagination; no individual living or dead influenced the creation of my characters. Similarly, all commercial organisations and government departments are fictitious, though I admit to drawing substantially upon my sixteen years’ experience heading up the Criminal Investigations Section of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.

  I set out writing a story around a single individual, professionally involved in combating international wildlife crime. What emerged, however, was something at least as much to do with human relationships, with all the complexities they involve. Certainly, few working partnerships could be more difficult, or more volatile, than that involving Royle and his unexpected, and initially unwelcome, partner Charlie Lacey.

  It may also be noted that events portrayed in my story have no fixed position in time (though Royle’s use of satellite tracking technology suggests the story is recent). In no small part this is because the main storyline, wildlife smuggling, is itself timeless; the problem has been around since before any of us were born and seems likely to continue long after we are gone. However, whilst we will be replaced by even more humans, numerous birds and other animals that we and our families currently know and enjoy will not survive to anywhere near the end of the 21st century. Most authorities now rate the international illegal wildlife trade as second only to the drugs trade in global importance.

  Scarily, the African elephant currently occurs in thirty-seven African states, yet the forecast for its total wild-extinction is set at around the year 2050, primarily due to the continued (mainly Asian) demand for ivory. Similarly, the Asian tiger population declined from 40,000 to 2,000 animals in just one hundred years, in no small part due to the oriental medicine trade, though the tiger’s occasional addiction to eating local people does little for its image! Of more relevance to the following story, however, is the fact that around one-third of the world’s 390 parrot species are officially classified as threatened with extinction.

  Part of what follows occurs in Mexico and Australia. In the first of these countries, recent figures suggest that 80,000 parrots are annually trapped, as part of this illegal trade in the world’s wildlife, from amongst that country’s twenty-two species, six of which are officially endangered. And whilst everyone knows where Australia is, comparatively few of us have been there, though all who have will have been surprised to find fifty-plus parrot species living throughout one of the most beautiful and still least populated countries on Earth – one species of which is already extinct.

  Some countries perhaps claim to have no illegal wildlife-trade problem, but such a suggestion flies in the face of reality. Personally, I doubt there is a country anywhere that can justify such a statement. Added to which, we live in a rapidly changing world, where uncontrolled technological advancement assists us all, including those involved in criminal activities. Ranked highly amongst the latter are people seeking to exploit the world’s wildlife for their own personal gain, some of whom you are about to meet. And in true crime-thriller tradition, people get shot or otherwise die in unpleasant circumstances, plus you never really know who you can trust.

  One

  It did not take a bush-hardened big-game hunter to see that some large and seriously dangerous creature had killed and partially eaten whoever this was, lying there under the burning Florida sun. Royle could see how the animal had scraped grass and leaves over the gruesome remains, the scattered smaller messy bits suggesting foxes or vultures had also taken their share.

  Clutching his rifle, he wiped his sweaty forehead with his free hand, taking a moment to consider their situation. Admittedly, there was little here he had not seen before, in one form or another, though his companion was clearly having trouble. Seeing her disappear behind a bush he moved across, finding her throwing up.

  “Bit dangerous wandering away in here,” he suggested. “You’ve seen what these creatures can do if they put their minds to it.”

  In truth, several things were rattling around inside his head right now, in addition to the obvious danger these animals posed. The two big questions, though, were the same ones destined to occupy both their minds over the coming weeks, in the process dragging the pair halfway around the world. What the hell reason could Dan have for being in a place like this? And perhaps more importantly, what was so secret about it that he had felt unable to tell anyone else in the Department?

  Two

  Most other passengers were already comfortably settled as Royle made his way along the aircraft, checking the seat numbers as he went. Experience had taught him to view this boarding part of any flight as a defining moment, like that point in a bullfight where the matador is about to deliver the fatal sword thrust, what Spaniards call la hora de la verdad: the moment of truth. You never knew who you were being forced to spend the next ten or so hours of your life sitting next to, and he had suffered some particularly memorable experiences. Like the Catholic nurse returning to an African war zone, who spent the whole eight-hour flight counting her beads and praying not so quietly to herself. Or the overweight Russian woman who spent the night from Singapore to London occupying her own seat plus half of his. True, there had been some equally pleasing encounters, but inevitably it was the bad ones that left a lasting impression.

  Reaching his row, Royle saw he was about to be accompanied ba
ck across the Atlantic by a young man in a ‘Save-the-Forests’ tee-shirt. He nodded towards the window seat, at the same time squeezing his bag into the overhead locker. He’d had a hard day, so with more than a slight feeling of relief he buckled up, switched off his mobile and carried out a quick search for any overnight additions – blanket, pillow, whatever.

  He also realised how tired he now was, having caught an early flight out of Veracruz, over on Mexico’s east coast, to meet up with a valued and long-time informant here in Mexico City. He had tried snatching some sleep whilst waiting to board this onward flight, but inevitably found his efforts frustrated by the roving mariachi bands. What was it about Mexican Sunday evenings that always made them take on such a festive atmosphere? Already he felt the aircraft lumbering its way across the tarmac, pausing only briefly before thundering down the runway and climbing steeply into the evening sky, turning slowly east in the direction of its Texas fuel stop. Surprisingly quickly the drinks trolley appeared and Royle opted for a cold beer, already wondering what problems awaited him back at his London desk. He had enjoyed the conference, but now it was a case of getting back to reality, though not before he had caught up with some sleep.

  He awoke with a start, finding the tree-saver tugging his sleeve and pointing to the flight attendant, who leaned across and quietly explained there was a call for him up at the front of the aircraft.

  What now? he wondered, struggling to get his brain working. He followed the attendant along the aircraft, through business class to the forward galley where she indicated a phone on the wall.

  Hesitantly he lifted the handset, anticipating the worst.

  “How you doing, buddy?”

  He recognised the gravel voice of Doug Whitland, Federal Wildlife’s Florida Head of Enforcement.

  “I’m great, Doug, or I was until you woke me. Some kind of problem?”

  Whitland sounded uncharacteristically stressed. “Damn right, young fella. We may have a situation here; your old partner Dan Morgan’s not reported in for days now.”

  Royle waited as Whitland paused.

  “I gather you’re on your way home to London via Amsterdam, with a fuel stop at Houston. What’s the chance of you breaking your journey in Texas and getting yourself over here sometime tomorrow?”

  Clearly Royle’s doubts had been justified. “I could probably do that, Doug, subject to any re-ticketing complications. I’m travelling light so there’ll be no hold luggage to offload at Houston. But I’ll need some sleep somewhere along the way, and I’m also using my British passport, with no current American visa.”

  “Knew we could rely on you. You’re already booked on a flight out of Houston; it leaves an hour after the one you’re on lands. No economy seats so you’re booked business class; you’ll have to handle the additional comfort best you can. You still getting me, Phillip?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Good. Gets in around five in the morning, but Miami’s not short of hotels. And don’t worry about that visa business, I’ll sort that for you. Be talking at you later.”

  The connection went dead, Royle realising he was not now going home to London but instead was off to Florida. For who knew how long.

  The stewardess turned as he replaced the phone. “Sounds like you won’t be going all the way with us tonight, Mr Royle?”

  “That would have been nice, Julie,” he responded, noticing her name badge. “But more importantly, any chance of a large whisky whenever you’re ready?”

  Royle dutifully handed over his passport at the Houston arrivals hall. The border officer scanned it, studied his computer screen, gave Royle an exploratory glance and then pressed a button or two on his keyboard. Then, stapling something into the passport, the officer handed it back, telling him:

  “Have a nice day, Agent Royle.”

  Checking the passport, he saw that his temporary American address was shown as the US Federal Wildlife Service. Evidently Whitland was on the ball still and he was officially back with the Department. Albeit temporarily.

  Landing at Miami International there was the usual on-board riot to gain access to overhead lockers. Recovering his bag, Royle slotted into the impatient queue leaving the aircraft to the chorus of mobiles being switched on. The upside being that his exit from the airport was quick and hassle-free, both because there were no passport checks off internal flights, and because he did not have to wait for any hold luggage to be offloaded.

  Crossing the arrivals hall, he became aware of a public announcement: “Mr Phillip Royle, arriving from Houston, please go to the information desk.”

  Putting down his bag, he thought this unexpected development through, aware that probably only Whitland knew of his presence in Miami airport at that moment, or of his route there via Houston. Certainly nothing in their mid-flight conversation had suggested otherwise. Besides which, Whitland already had Royle’s mobile number should he feel the need to speak. Either way, Royle felt uneasy about this development so, picking up his bag, he headed for the taxi stand, casting an eye over the many Latino porters before selecting one about his own height and build.

  “What do they call you, amigo?”

  “Diego, senor.”

  It occurred to Royle that Diego’s features perhaps might not stand critical examination as a white European. Nevertheless, it was not the reaction of the official behind the desk that interested him – what he wanted was a look at whoever was waiting to see who responded to the message. He needed to see who they were, and ideally find out what their interest in him might be.

  “Like to earn a quick twenty dollars?”

  Diego seemed attracted to the idea.

  Royle held up a $10 bill. “This is yours now. Do as I ask, and you’ll get the other ten. Comprende?”

  Diego nodded enthusiastically.

  “Go to the information desk and tell them you’re Phillip Royle, alright?”

  More nodding, “Si, senor.”

  “Then come back and tell me what they said.”

  Looking more than a little confused, but eager to take advantage of the unexpected offer, Diego took Royle’s money and turned to do as requested.

  “Wait,” Royle called, pointing to some stairs to the upper level. “Give me time to get up those then go to the desk.”

  Still more nodding.

  Royle crossed to the stairs, climbing only enough to get a clear view of the information desk, his attention already directed at whoever might be taking an interest in his voluntary stand-in. Sure enough, thirty feet away was a male figure in a Miami Dolphins jacket, holding a camera – the only person taking any apparent interest in what was going on at the desk.

  Extracting his phone, Royle took five or six photographs of the man. Then as Diego turned away from the desk, the mystery photographer also turned, hiding his face from the porter but providing Royle with even better pictures.

  Arriving back, all Diego could say was that an unknown man asked them to relay the message, “But did not stay to see if Mr Royle he come.”

  With so little to report Diego seemed concerned the cash might be withheld, but then, discovering he was wrong, he agreed to call Royle a cab.

  “Intercontinental,” Royle instructed the driver, opening a door and throwing in his bag.

  “In Miami long?”

  “Just overnight.”

  Detecting Royle’s English accent, the driver offered him some advice. “Saw you getting friendly with the porter there. Need to watch those guys, you never know what they’re up to. Just so you know.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that.” What was it about cab drivers, he wondered, that made them feel so protective towards their passengers? However, at that same moment his mobile burst into life with a message from his new service provider.

  ‘Welcome to America’, it read.

  Yep, he thought, welcome to America.
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br />   Royle used the same hotel whenever he was in Miami, with outstanding service and equally outstanding views out across Biscayne Bay. Things were naturally quiet at that time of the morning, so while he was checking in he asked the desk clerk to order him a rental car. “One with some guts in it,” to be delivered around midday. He then headed for his room, which at his own request was on the tenth floor – less chance of disturbing traffic noise up there.

  Five hours later, refreshed by sleep, a shower, and coffee and doughnuts, he pulled on a clean shirt and began to feel something like his normal self. Checking with the desk, he discovered that the rental car was waiting in the basement parking lot. Ten minutes later he had signed the hire papers and was driving up the ramp and out into the bright sunlight of a late-spring day in downtown Miami. Easing the Chevy into the midday traffic he headed west a couple of blocks, along palm-lined streets busy with shoppers, before turning north on Interstate 95 and then hanging a right at the turnpike, in the direction of Fort Lauderdale. Calling the switchboard he asked for Whitland’s office. Paula Howath answered.

  “I’m about forty minutes away. Oh, and I’ve got some photos that need printing urgently. Fix that and you get a bunch of flowers.”

  He heard laughter at the other end. “Won’t be a problem, honey, you know how we American girls can’t resist that English accent.”

  “And get the kettle on.”

  “Whatever you say, lover. By the way, how did you like travelling in the expensive seats?” But the phone went dead before he could respond.

  Briefly exiting the freeway he pulled off into a garage forecourt and purchased a bunch of red roses. He already knew that in everyday terms true power in the Florida office was equally divided between Department Head Doug Whitland, and the secretary Paula Howath.