The Trade

by Chris Thrall

  Back at the Mason’s place, Jessie had been playing with Pearl in the yard when her father arrived with the news that changed their lives forever. She still didn’t know the full extent of what had happened, only that a bad man had hurt Mommy and JJ and made them dead.

  Whoever carried out the hits were professionals, leaving no traces of their identities for the investigators, which was clue enough for Hans to know who had ordered them. It was something he would have to live with forever. He’d done his best to explain the loss to Jessie in terms she could understand, giving the angels-in-heaven scenario a miss. When they’d sprinkled Mom’s and JJ’s ashes on East End Beach, Hans had told his little girl how they would always be with them in the waves, the flowers, the birds and the trees.

  Tired from her workout, Jessica drifted off to sleep but awoke to the sound of raised voices. Mouthwash and another man stood outside the cell having a disagreement. The other man was unhappy Mouthwash had brought the English girl to them when the American was poking his nose into their affairs and the island crawled with journalists and police.

  “Lo siento,” Mouthwash Man apologized.

  “Mátala y deshacerse del cuerpo!”

  “Bueno, voy a salir con ella en el barco,” Mouthwash Man agreed, saying he would take the English girl out on the boat and dispose of her.

  From the tone of the conversation, Jessica knew the outlook was not good, but from Spanish lessons with her mom and their domestic help back home, she understood what “El americano está aquí” meant: her father was coming to get her!

  - 59 -

  Hans called Muttley in the morning to request backup, disappointed to hear Phipps and Clayton were tied up and wouldn’t arrive for another two days. Now Logan was clearly in the frame, Hans needed to start the surveillance operation and begin watching his villa for any comings and goings giving a clue as to Jessica’s whereabouts. He planned to sneak into a reconnaissance position somewhere on the hillside and find a suitably large shrub to act as a hide, offering camouflage while he observed the house through the sniper spotting scope loaned from the US embassy’s armory.

  Penny drove him into town to buy equipment and supplies. In a supermarket Hans chucked three loaves of bread into the cart, a pack of thick-sliced ham, some local cheese and a jar of pickled gherkins, adding a roll of saran wrap and a few bars of chocolate for good measure. From a hardware store he bought two plastic gas cans and a pair of pruning shears, and in a sports outlet a backpack, camping roll and two-inch-long red anglers’ glow sticks.

  Knowing there were no military surplus stores on the island, they met Enrique in a coffee shop to pick up a camouflage net procured from the US Marines in the barracks.

  “Be careful out there, Hans,” said Enrique. “You know this guy has some serious firepower, and he’s not afraid to use it.”

  “Thanks for the warning, friend.” Hans smiled. “But so do I.”

  Back at Karen’s place, they were surprised to find gifts on the doorstep – two bottles of vintage red wine, a bouquet of flowers, chocolates and a card.

  “Hmm.” Penny smiled. “This fairy can come again!”

  “Most definitely.” Hans peeled open the card. “Ah, they’re from the mayor. He says, ‘Once again I urge you to leave this matter to the authorities, but if you must continue, please let me know if I can be of assistance. Wonderful to make your acquaintance. Your friend, Videl.’”

  While Penny cleaned and oiled the Beretta as Hans had taught her, he sliced the bread and made twenty ham, cheese and gherkin sandwiches. He filled one of the gas cans with drinking water – the other would be for when it came out the other end, the saran wrap for when he needed a dump. He strapped on the holstered M9 and shoved all the gear, including the camera, into the backpack.

  As evening fell, Penny dropped Hans off a mile up the coast from Logan’s villa and then continued into town to keep an eye on Chico’s from a discreet distance. Hans ducked off the road and shouldered the backpack. After crouching awhile to let his eyes adjust to the dark, he began clambering over the rocky terrain and brushing through the shrubs to reach a suitable vantage point.

  In the blackness Hans wasn’t overly worried someone might spot him, and the gentle but steady breeze covered the sound of his tracks. Nonetheless, he got down on all fours three hundred feet from his predicted lookout and crawled on his belly the rest of the way.

  The security light on Logan’s property came into view in the gulley below, and Hans continued another fifty yards before stopping to find cover. Fortunately, several clumps of spurge, known locally as tortolho, sprouted from the otherwise barren ground. Hans knew it would have to do and began preparing the hide.

  Using the secateurs, Hans carefully snipped away foliage to form a tunnel in the bush. Once inside he widened the space enough for him and his rucksack. The bush was sparse, so the camo net came in handy. Hans strung it around the hide using spring clips to hold it in place. He took the roll mat, sniper spotting scope, camera and gas cans out of the rucksack, then unholstered the M9 and placed it inside. Having unrolled the compressed-foam mattress, he maneuvered himself onto it – not an easy task in the confines of the hide – and then set up the scope on its tripod. Finally, he tied back some of the leaves in the front wall to form a viewing hole.

  Now all Hans had to do was what Navy SEALs did best – to watch and wait – figuring there was enough food and water to last until Phipps and Clayton arrived in a couple of days to take shifts. He hadn’t gone as far as applying camouflage cream to his face, since this wasn’t a military scenario, where a determined enemy would have sentries posted watching for any sign of movement, an out-of-place shape in the brush or light reflecting off skin and equipment. Nor had he bought military fatigues, which would arouse suspicion should he bump into an islander, but instead wore jeans, sneakers and a long-sleeved shirt. Hans chuckled. He couldn’t imagine anyone had ever lain in the dirt conducting covert operations in Armani, Ralph Lauren and New Balance.

  Despite applying the strongest mosquito repellent available, neat DEET, to his exposed skin, Hans felt insects biting through the thin fabric of his shirt. Having experienced far worse, he didn’t flinch. Years of self-discipline had taught him that if you resist the urge to scratch, then the itch disappears in two days and, besides, bugs weren’t his problem tonight. He rested his elbows on one of Karen’s couch cushions – she wouldn’t mind – and scanned the property in a figure-of-eight pattern with his naked eye, checking through the scope every couple of minutes in case he missed any subtle movement.

  There were lights on in some of the villa’s rooms, but drapes prevented Hans seeing what was taking place inside. Cupping a mini-glow-stick in the palm of his hand, he began drawing a three-dimensional map of the property and surrounding ground.

  The villa itself sat fifty yards up the hillside and enjoyed a stunning sea view. It had an L-shape design, with a barbeque and sunbathing patio and swimming pool fronting the seaward wing. The other wing was furthest away from Hans’ position, and nestling in the crook of the L-shaped design was a block-paved courtyard skirted with a triple garage and two outbuildings. Neatly manicured garden lay all around, and there was a fair-sized vegetable plot, its soil darkened by the water from a sprinkler system.

  Hans suspected the property housed hidden rooms, likely in a basement, and felt a pang of anxiety that his terrified daughter could be so close. He would conduct further reconnaissance later to check if the property was alarmed – highly probable in view of its secluded location and the fact the speedboat appeared to be. If he ascertained the type of alarm, he could ask Jonah to provide technical direction on how to disable it. The recon patrol would have to wait until tomorrow night, though, as he needed twenty-four hours to assess the movement at the villa and daylight to see whether there were any surveillance cameras.

  Hans took out the radio and clipped on the earpiece. “Skipper, you there?”

  “I’m here,” Penny replied, her voice reass
uring to Hans in his vulnerable position.

  “Anything?”

  “I buzzed past Chico’s in the jeep. Logan’s playing host to the usual suspects. I’m parked a block down watching the door.”

  “Okay, let me know when he leaves.”

  “Will do,” said Penny. “Are you all right?”

  “Having a blast, honey. Booked into the Ritz Praia.”

  “Ha! Don’t eat your sandwiches all at once.”

  “Roger that. Later.”

  As Hans placed his eye back on the scope, the house lights extinguished. In the glow of the security lamp, he made out a local woman lock up the front door and hop on a moped. Figuring it was the domestic help, he wrote in his notebook, “2104 hrs – DH leaving property.”

  Nothing of significance took place during the next two hours. Hans was in two minds whether to get some sleep, knowing Penny would notify him when Logan left the bar to return home. If Phipps and Clayton had been there for backup, it wouldn’t be an issue, the three of them taking turns to watch the villa. As it was, he worried a forty-eight-hour stretch awake with no possibility of moving about would tax his weakened body to the point where sleep overcame him. He couldn’t afford to miss any intel or compromise tomorrow night’s recon.

  Hans lay there until midnight, listening to the breeze rustling the leaves of the hide, the whining of mosquitoes and waves crashing on the rocks far below. He felt something pad across the back of his hand and in the darkness could make out a scorpion, likely of the Hottentotta genus, one of the island’s poisonous inhabitants. He smiled and watched as the creature clambered over his fingers and went on its way.

  Hans bleeped Penny’s walkie-talkie, a precaution before breaking radio silence.

  “I’m here,” she replied.

  “Anything, skipper?”

  “No, no change.”

  “Okay, in that case I’m gonna take a nap. Bleep me if there’s movement.”

  “Roger that. Out.”

  Without changing position, Hans lay his chin on his crossed forearms and drifted off. Every few minutes a mosquito dipped its proboscis into his skin, the sharp sting keeping Hans from deep sleep. He dreamt a bizarre and fractured dream in which Logan caught him snooping around the house and, rather than blowing him away with the twelve-gauge, invited him for a barbeque and then laughed at Hans’ paranoid accusations.

  The radio beeped, shaking Hans from slumber. For a split second he remained in the dream world, his mood lightened by Logan’s innocence, until Real World kicked in and a pang of anger coursed through him.

  Hans keyed the mic. “Skipper?”

  “Target’s leaving the bar now with four other men,” Penny replied. “Looks like holidaying Brits. They’re climbing into a black convertible BMW.”

  “Thanks, hon. Go back to the villa and get some sleep.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave the radio by the bed if you need me.”

  In preparation for Logan’s arrival, Hans unscrewed the cap on the empty gas can and, shifting onto his side, relieved himself into it. He took a well-needed drink of water from the other can and gobbled down some of the sandwiches. In a tactical operation such as this it wasn’t possible to cook with a stove, but under the circumstances his picnic easily passed as five-star cuisine. After stretching out his limbs one at a time, then his back, shoulders and neck, Hans settled into position as the lights of the BMW appeared up on the coast road. Logan turned into the long, hilly driveway and drove at speed toward the villa. He screeched to a halt in the courtyard, setting his Doberman off barking.

  One of the men crammed into the sports car’s backseat attempted to hop out of the car Dukes of Hazzard style. His mates roared with laughter as the drunkard crashed unceremoniously onto the block paving, where he rolled around, lacking the coordination to get up. The other men grabbed his arms and escorted him into the house.

  The next thing Hans knew, the patio was ablaze in spotlights, and one of the high-spirited Englishmen was carrying a cooler loaded with beer and spirits on ice as Logan led them to the poolside.

  “Last man shut the door on the dog,” he ordered.

  “Got it, Ed,” his guest replied, a lobster-red bonehead bordering on obese and wearing a white tank top with the slogan “Don’t Be Sexist to Bitches” emblazoned on it in comical pink lettering.

  The men’s raucous voices carried clearly across the gulley up the hillside to Hans’ position. He wondered if they’d feel so entertained if Logan came clean with them about his real business.

  “Who fancies a little Coca-Cola?” Logan bellowed as his new friends cracked beers and necked shots.

  Hans got that it wasn’t a reference to a soft drink.

  “Rude not to, Eddy!” said the fat bonehead.

  The others agreed – except the wasted guy, who’d fallen asleep on a sun lounger.

  Logan went inside and returned carrying a mirror with a bag of white powder and a box cutter blade resting on it, placing it in front of the men on the plastic garden table.

  “This better not be like the shite we have at home!” said the fat reveler.

  “Ha!” Logan mocked. “This ain’t Blighty, mate, and this stuff’s the real McCoy, from the South American jungle!”

  He proceeded to pour a good amount of powder onto the mirror and began chopping it up and furrowing it into neat inch-long lines with the blade.

  “That gear don’t look right,” said another of his guests, a weaselly-looking guy with thinning brown hair tied in a ponytail wearing an England football shirt, camo cargo shorts and black Adidas sports shoes. “Looks all sticky and that.”

  “That’s because it’s hundred percent pure,” Logan gloated. “Not like that powdery crap back home.”

  “Here’s a note,” said the other holidaymaker still awake, holding out a clumsily rolled-up banknote.

  “You Neanderthal,” Logan scoffed. “This ain’t fuckin’ Bromley.”

  He rerolled the note but folded back one of its corners an inch so the paper tube neatly interlocked. “There – that won’t come undone. Now shove your nose in it.”

  Up on the hillside, Hans snapped close-ups of the guests for the record. As the men snorted marching powder and washed tequila slammers down with gulps of beer, he listened intently for any swing in the conversation – particularly Logan’s bragging – that might lead to finding Jessica.

  In reality Hans knew Logan wasn’t going to jeopardize his lengthy and profitable operation by divulging anything to these bozos. He knew from time spent in England that the country’s working class, including its thugs and criminals, hated crimes against children more than anything else – even murder. One misplaced word from Logan would see him drowned in his own pool – after which these tattooed lager louts would snort all his cocaine and drink all his liquor in celebration.

  The rest of the morning went as expected, with the booze and drugs inducing boast-and-bravado-filled speeches, discriminatory jokes and cringeworthy revelations – in addition to dive bombs in the pool and a belly flop competition, won not surprisingly by Mr. Misogynist, God’s fat-bellied gift to women.

  Come 6:00 a.m. it was clear Logan wanted his bed. Unlike his guests, the millionaire playboy indulged in this behavior most nights, and the novelty of a hedonist’s paradise wore thin.

  “Right, fellas, taxi’s here!” he announced.

  The three men roused their buddy and, following man hugs and false promises to keep in touch, lurched toward the cab waiting out front. Logan left the pool area in a mess of bottles, cans and overflowing ashtrays and went inside the villa. Seconds later all the lights went off.

  Hans reviewed his notes, feeling a cloud of depression envelop him. Not once during the morning’s festivity had Logan sneaked away to check on Jessica and Holly – only his dog – confirming the likelihood they were imprisoned at another location. He set the alarm on his cell phone for 8:00 a.m. and attempted to grab a little sleep, knowing the sun’s relentless rays would bear down on the hide soo
n, making rest impossible.

  - 60 -

  Hans awoke to the put-put sound of the domestic helper returning on her moped. He hadn’t expected to see her with it being Sunday, but as she began clearing up the poolside mess, the reason for the overtime became obvious.

  Hans pressed his eye against the spotting scope and chuckled, for the young and pretty mestiza, unaware of anyone watching, racked up a couple of fat lines of Logan’s coke and snorted them through the left-behind banknote. Then, having pocketed the cash, she piled the contraband and paraphernalia onto the mirror and carried the lot inside. On her return she downed a couple of tequilas and, to Hans’ surprise, peeled off her tank top, shorts and panties and dived in the pool. Hans glanced down at his notebook, figuring that, when he briefed Penny later, he’d leave this part of the proceedings off the record.

  The girl swam ten lengths of the twenty-meter pool using an impressive front crawl, slipping seamlessly from the water to dry herself off with one of Logan’s towels. After putting her clothes back on, she tidied the few remaining items, locked the property and sped away on her scooter.

  Knowing Logan would be sleeping off his booze-and-coke hangover Hans didn’t expect to see much action for the rest of the morning. He worried the Englishman might take Sunday off from Chico’s, thwarting his plan to reconnoiter the property as night fell. Putting it out of his mind, he scanned the grounds, searching for surveillance cameras. He couldn’t see any through the scope – although they might be out of his line of sight.

  Hans drank some water and ate a couple more sandwiches, and not long after, his digestive clock told him it was time to take a dump. This was always a challenge in covert operations. Rolling back against the hide’s scrub wall, he took out the saran wrap, tore off a generous length and spread it along the camping roll. Having unbuckled his belt and jeans, Hans rested on his elbows and relieved himself, then cleaned up with wet wipes and sealed the lot up in the plastic film. He wrapped a few more layers around to be safe and placed it in the backpack.