by Chris Thrall
“Wasn’t it Lord Acton who said power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely?” said Penny, recalling her student days.
“Exactly.”
“And the initiation? Trouser leg rolled up, stand on one foot, drink the blood of a bat?” she joked.
“Ha, we’re not the Illuminati! It’s actually quite simple. You meet with your sponsor and handler somewhere private – mine was in the pool shed in our backyard. You hold a pebble, meant to represent the Lögberg – what the Icelanders called the Law Rock, which was the speaker’s platform at their Þingvellirs – and recite the ten pillars of the Concern’s constitution from the Jónsbók, or ‘law book.’”
“Like?”
“Like, I promise to always make myself available, as far as reasonably possible, should anyone acting in the capacity of the Concern request my services – blah, blah, blah.”
“No death before dishonor then?”
“No, just the pledges you’d expect from a weird bunch of covert do-gooders, followed by the symbolic burning of a scroll listing an operative’s seven requisite qualities.”
“Such as?”
“Courage, loyalty, selflessness, sense of humor in adversity – that kinda thing.”
“Now who do I know that possesses them?”
“I don’t know – it’s not that guy from room service, is it?”
- 23 -
At exactly 7:00 a.m. Hans’ cell phone rang. It was Muttley, calling to say he hadn’t managed to pull any additional intel on Captain Alvarez and to proceed with the plan, adding that he’d briefed Karen, and she was expecting Hans’ visit.
Hans called the ambassador to let her know his flight’s arrival time, leaving Penny in the hotel and taking a car to the airport. From there a scheduled island-hopper flight landed him in Praia on the island of Santiago in a little under two hours.
Although only a hundred miles closer to the equator, Hans felt the increase in temperature and flapped his shirt as he walked through the arrivals hall.
A middle-aged Latino dressed in a cream sports coat and designer jeans approached.
“Mr. Larsson?”
“That’s me.”
“Enrique Ramos.” He beamed and thrust a hand out. “Miss Shapiro sent me to collect you.”
Enrique led Hans to a modest beige Ford sitting innocuously in the parking lot. “It’s one of our runarounds. I have orders not to draw attention to ourselves, huh?”
“Good thinking,” Hans replied, and hopped in the passenger seat.
“You’re looking a lot healthier than when I last saw you, Mr. Larsson.”
“Really?”
“I was at the airport when the British Navy helicopter brought you in. You had us worried. No one expected you to make it.”
“Thank you, Enrique, and call me Hans.”
Enrique drove into the city, the difference between the two islands immediately apparent to Hans. The traffic moved with a sense of purpose along wider streets, lined with taller, five-story builds best described as “functionalist postcolonial” – less lurid pastels and solid concrete design as opposed to Mindelo’s rickety authenticity – with banks, cell phone companies, bathroom and furniture showrooms and other outlets pandering to the growing economy leasing the ground floors.
“So how do you end up in the Foreign Service?” Hans asked.
“My parents were Nicaraguan immigrants to the US, so after graduating in foreign relations from Harvard, I went back to Central America and worked in international development. Fifteen years ago I joined the Foreign Service and have been on the island for ten.”
He pulled into a private parking space in front of a surprisingly nondescript townhouse. The only clue as to the goings-on inside was the American flag flying from a pole jutting out at a forty-five-degree angle from the premise’s dirty cream walls. Below it was a circular plaque featuring the US coat of arms.
Two US Marines, looking out of place at the building’s shoddy aluminum-framed door, sprung to attention. Enrique ushered Hans inside and into an antiquated elevator to travel the three floors to Karen’s office, where he left them in private.
“Hans, good to see you!”
She stepped out from behind a somewhat flimsy wooden desk – complete with bald eagle figurine nonetheless – crossing the stock red-pile carpet to greet him. A gold-tasseled Old Glory hung wearily in a corner of the compact office.
After a hug Karen pulled a chair across for Hans and slumped in her leather-backed one as she cut to the point.
“So, it’s a lot better news than we coulda hoped for, but still far from good. This guy Alvarez is just one of the many scumbags feeding the trade for human life in these parts – but tell me about this Fulani woman. We have nothing on her.”
“You won’t. I’m pretty sure she’s an illegal, but she’s gone out of her way to make contact, and she’s risking her life by getting us more intel.”
“Are you sure it’s genuine – or is she after a handout?” Karen tilted her head, skepticism clear in her eyes.
“No, this isn’t about money or a work permit.”
“And you don’t think it could be a trap set up by the Trade?”
“For her this is personal. You can see it in her eyes.”
“What’s your rationale for approaching Alvarez?”
“We’ve nothing else, Karen. The guy’s got no record, no bank account, no known criminal associates. On the face of things he’s a simple fisherman. There’s no way to trace where the hell Jessica is – other than putting a tail on him. But that could take months to turn up a connection. Besides, how do we know this isn’t just a one-off, like opportunistic?”
“Agreed. It’s not every day a poor fisherman comes across a windfall floating in sea – sorry, Hans, I—”
“It’s okay. But you see my point?”
“Sure. That’s why I’ve arranged for you to have this.” Karen pushed a black-covered diplomatic passport across the table. “You’re now officially contracted to the embassy in your capacity as private investigator.”
“Pleased to be of service.” Hans flipped open the crisp document to see a working visa stamp on the first blank page. “Was it hard to get authorization?”
“No, it’s within my remit to employ temporary staff – both local and domestic – but I had to run it by the State Department and the foreign office here. Luckily, Cape Verde’s prime minster is in the US’ pocket. He’s just signed a foreign aid agreement with Washington that requires cooperation in certain areas – crimes involving US citizens being one of them – so he’s eager to impress.”
“The mighty dollar.”
“The Trojan horse – but be discreet. This isn’t a license to kill – except in self-defense. You’re cleared to consular level on special mission status, meaning you can still be arrested if you cross the line but can’t be sent to prison.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’m guessing you’ll need a ‘toy.’”
“Some backup wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Then you’ll need these.” She handed over a gun permit and a diplomatic pouch to transit a weapon and ammunition through the airport.
She buzzed the receptionist. “Catarina, can you ask Enrique to join us?”
“Is he on the level?” Hans raised an eyebrow.
“He’s most definitely a patriot – but it’s no secret around here he’s with the agency.” Karen gripped her neckline with two fingers. “So, we keep our thing quiet, huh?”
“What happens in Vegas . . .” Hans smiled, recalling whose database he’d accessed earlier.
After a brief explanation of events, “Enrique, can you take Hans to the armory and give him what he needs?” Karen asked, and then said good-bye.
Enrique took Hans down to the basement in the elevator, where a short corridor led to a formidable steel door. He typed in a code and pushed it open, flicking a light switch to reveal a fair-sized vault with a locking rack bolted to the wall to secure thirty M1
6s.
“For the Marines,” Enrique explained. “A detachment of thirty’s barracked down the road.”
“I’ll stick with a pistol,” Hans joked, spying ten military-issue handguns below the rifles.
“Karen put a Beretta M9 down on the gun permit.”
“M9’s fine,” said Hans – a similar model to his sidearm back home.
Enrique opened a padlock and slid back a retaining bar to release the weapon, double-checking its serial number against the paperwork. Then he spun the dial on a walk-in safe and stepped inside.
“Hollow point or regular?” He nodded to shelves of neatly stacked ammo.
“Regular’s fine. A couple of boxes.”
“Less of a cleanup job, huh?” Enrique winked, both knowing the damage a hollow point did to its victim. “Wanna fire a couple off on the range?”
“You have one?” Hans looked surprised, as the building wasn’t exactly huge.
“Under the trap.” Enrique pointed at a metal hatch set into the concrete floor.
“No, I’ll be fine,” Hans replied, casting an eye over the sizable collection of ordnance in the safe – plastic explosive, detonators, grenades, Claymores and rocket launchers. “Quite an arsenal you’ve got here.”
“US soil, so we can defend it by any means. But if you ask me it’s not enough. Remember Benghazi.”
“Right.”
Enrique handed Hans a weapon-cleaning kit, oil, a shoulder holster and four fifteen-round clips. “And you’ll be needing comms. Cell coverage can be hit and miss around here.” He pulled out two walkie-talkies, earpieces and a charger. “Anything else?”
“A set of eyes please,” said Hans, nodding to a Leupold Mark 4 sniper’s spotting scope. “And I’ll take one of these.” He lifted a bulletproof vest from a pile.
“Safety first, huh?” Enrique grinned.
- 24 -
The cell door burst open, and the angry man walked in.
Jessica sat cowering on the filthy mattress, wrapped in the rough gray blanket to preserve her modesty. She trembled but tried not to show it.
The man threw a tub of wet wipes at her and dumped sandals and clean clothes on the bed, but not out of compassion, his orders as always to maintain the captive’s marketability. Then he left the room, leaving the door ajar.
Jessica was up in a flash and dashing across the floor to peer through the gap. Looking up and down the narrow stone corridor, she saw that hers was one of a series of rooms.
Seize the moment and move like there’s no tomorrow! Hans’ fatherly guidance echoed in her mind, and she knew it was time to escape.
She rushed over and grabbed her new attire – a pair of shorts and an ugly pink T-shirt with a transfer of Hello Kitty holding a balloon on it. Her parents never bought her pink crap.
Without wasting time dressing, she ran to the door and . . .
She heard the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor.
Jessica threw the clothes down, leapt back on the bed and pulled the blanket back around her. The man appeared in the doorway carrying two buckets, one – filled with water – inside the other, and a plastic basin containing a plate of food, a plastic beaker and a roll of toilet tissue. He stopped abruptly, his eyes flicking to the sandal lying at his feet.
As his mind almost registered the escape attempt, the quick-thinking little girl hurled the other sandal at him.
“And you can take that one too!” she screamed, folding her arms and sticking her bottom lip out.
Her cover-up worked. The man shook his head and set the stuff down. He picked up the footwear and threw it at Jessica, mindful not to hit her in the face, then placed the beaker and plate of food on the bed.
“For washing.” He held up the basin and set it down by the wall. “Toilet.” He dropped the roll of tissue into the empty bucket.
He pulled a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste from his suit jacket pocket and dropped them on the floor, then rummaged in another pocket for a strip of pills. He popped one and handed it to Jessica.
“Vitamina – eat!”
The man took up the beaker, filled it with water and handed it to her.
Hesitantly, she put it in her mouth and swallowed, so parched the pill stuck in her throat. It tasted foul, making her gag.
“Drink!” the man ordered, and for once she did what he said.
Then he stood there, contemplating whether to feed his urges and make her dress in front of him. But, deciding he’d had enough of the little pissant for one day, he turned around and left the room, this time shutting the door behind him and slamming the bolt home and padlocking it.
Not having eaten for two days, Jessica snatched up the plate. It looked like the kind of leftover food she got the day after her parents threw a dinner party or cooked something special on a Saturday night. The meat was dark brown and covered in an orange-flavored sauce. Jessica didn’t know what it was, but it tasted like chicken. She wolfed it down and began scooping up the small boiled potatoes garnished with fresh parsley and the sugar snap peas and baby carrots, shoving them into her mouth as fast as humanly possible.
Jessica cast the plate aside and began to get dressed. She pulled on the ugly T-shirt and the blue shorts but suddenly felt dizzy, gripping the bed to steady herself. She became increasingly light-headed and the room started to spin. Jessica stared at the floor, unable to work out if it was above, below or beside her, and then her legs buckled and she collapsed.
- 25 -
Hans packed the gear from the embassy into a khaki gym bag and placed the pistol and ammo in the diplomatic pouch. He asked Enrique to drop him off at a hardware store, saying he would make his own way to the airport.
Peering through the store window, Hans checked there were no CCTV cameras installed before proceeding inside. Even with the diplomatic pass it was best to err on the side of caution and leave as small a trail as possible.
Figuring Cape Verde would be a little short on leather gloves, he added a light pair of rubber industrial ones to his collection, a roll of duct tape, a foot-long jimmy, Maglite and a black balaclava – the type worn by metalworkers.
At the airport he entered the security channel reserved for diplomats and aircrew, showing his passport and gun permit to the official, who asked him to place his bag and diplomatic pouch on the X-ray machine, explaining the pistol and ammunition would go in the plane’s hold.
Before boarding, Hans made a call to Penny, having agreed she would speak to Baba, the kindly Senegalese manager at Mindelo’s Porto Grande Marina, and ask him about Alvarez.
“How’d you get on, hon?”
“Hans, I was about to call. Baba says he knows Alvarez, and the Rosa Negra’s berthed at the industrial port next to the marina. He showed me her through his binoculars.”
“You mean she’s not put to sea?” Hans frowned and began massaging his forehead.
“That’s why I was about to call – according to Baba, it’s unusual. He says these guys go out three-six-five in all weather. Do you think something’s up?”
“I don’t know. Where are you now?”
“I’m in Salgadeiras, the café bar, keeping an eye on the boat.”
“I’ll see you there in two hours.”
Back on São Vicente, Hans headed for the airport’s Hertz desk. Karen had offered to ship an embassy car to him the next day, but Hans didn’t want to draw attention to himself in an official vehicle, plus he needed wheels right away.
Browsing the laminated brochure, he ignored the flashy high-end models, opting for a compact Daihatsu Terios jeep in modest gray. It was small enough to negotiate the island’s narrow backstreets and hectic traffic, capable of going off-road, and blended in with the hundreds of other 4x4s buzzing about. Hans left his driving license and credit card details and drove toward the marina.
- 26 –
“Any change?”
Hans joined Penny in Salgadeiras, the cabana-style café bar she’d sat in every day for a month watching out over
the ocean when Future went missing.
“See for yourself.” Penny pointed across the harbor to a rusting tub moored against the dock wall.
“No one’s approached her?”
“Not a soul. Is it worth making more inquiries – with the fisheries department or in the fish market?”
“No, it will only cause a stir. I gotta pay this guy a visit anyway.”
“Do you think the Fulani woman could have talked?”
“She was making inquiries into Jessica’s whereabouts, and it’s possible Alvarez got wind. When I see her tonight, I’ll ask.”
“Could Jessica be on the boat?”
“I’m pretty sure Jessie changed hands weeks ago. Alvarez wouldn’t have kidnapped her without the contacts to sell her on. Plus the boat’s been at sea every day. It would be impractical to keep her on board – Alvarez knows the fisheries inspector could pay a visit any time, or a dockworker might see or hear something suspicious.”
“I’ve asked Baba to tell his staff to watch out for any movement.”
“Good thinking.”
Hans hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was now midafternoon. “Fancy some food?” He pulled a menu from the condiments rack.
“The cachupa rica is good,” said Penny. “Slow-boiled stew with pumpkin, sweet potato, and fish or chicken. And try the local red, bottled from grapes grown in a volcanic crater on Fogo.”
“What’s this perceves?”
“Sea fingers – purply-brown things. You crack off the skin to get at the meat. Looks like squid.”
“But what are they?”