The Trade

by Chris Thrall

  The sun rose in a cloudless sky, and the heat in the hide intensified – as did the pain from the hundreds of mosquito bites on Hans’ back where they’d penetrated his shirt. Having accidently upset a scorpion during the night, Hans’ left ankle had inflamed to twice its normal size and throbbed with intense pain. He reached into the backpack for the first aid kit and popped an ibuprofen and a couple of antihistamine tablets, washing them down with lukewarm water. The rank aftertaste of the pills, combined with soaring temperature, sleep deprivation and general discomfort, made Hans nauseous, but he put it out of his mind, for as far as the former Navy SEAL was concerned, he was alive, he’d been through a lot worse, and he would go through it all again if it meant getting Jessica back. He radioed Penny to let her know all was okay and that he would give her a further update when Logan surfaced.

  Lying there, Hans found it impossible not to think about Jessie. Since his recovery in Boston, he’d done so every waking moment. He remembered when she came into the world with hardly a whimper and made him and Kerry such proud parents. She could swim the width of their pool back in Portland at two years old and scuba dived in the sea off Maine aged five. Carl, his younger brother bought Jessica a Rubik’s Cube for her sixth birthday, which came with step-by-step instructions. When Hans went to tuck Jessica into bed that night and read her a Willard Price adventure story, he found the little girl fast asleep with the completed cube sitting on the nightstand. She was such a smart kid the school moved her up a year, and Kerry spent time in the evenings tutoring her.

  When Kerry and JJ were murdered, Jessica displayed a maturity way beyond her years, dealing with her grief better than most adults would. Then there was the night Hans downed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and sat staring down the barrel of his Beretta – she had been his reason to go on living then. Now, checking the date on his cheap plastic watch, November 1, tears began to well. It was her birthday in three days.

  With the time approaching 11:00 a.m., Hans let out a monster yawn. He had to get some sleep or he’d be no good to anyone, Jessica or otherwise. Setting the alarm on his cell phone for 1:00 p.m., he laid his chin on his hands and dozed off.

  - 61 -

  The sound of a shotgun blast rocked the hillside.

  Hans woke in an instant, his mind flashing back to numerous enemy contacts during his days as a SEAL. Staying calm, he pulled the pistol from its holster and put his eye to the scope – Phew!

  Logan stood on the terrace pointing his twelve-gauge out to sea.

  “Pull!”

  His automatic launcher hurled another clay pigeon into the air, and Hans heard the familiar zing as the disc whizzed skyward like a miniature flying saucer. Logan raised his barrel in a fluid motion and squeezed the trigger, shattering the imitation bird into a thousand pieces over the ocean.

  “Pull! . . . Pull!”

  Hans was impressed as he watched Logan dispatch two more clays in quick succession. The man could certainly handle a gun, prompting Hans to rethink his camouflage. He thought about pulling the balaclava from the backpack, although its solid black color wasn’t ideal. A trained sniper would only have to glance at the hillside to spot the discrepancy immediately. Logan wasn’t about to start scanning the surrounding area with optics, though, and in the cover of the hide, Hans wasn’t overly worried. Besides, he was far enough out of range of the twelve-gauge for its ammunition to be effective.

  Ironically, the impromptu target practice provided Hans with entertainment, taking his mind off the pain and discomfort. In between slugs of beer, Logan sent forty or more clays sailing out over the sea and hit almost all of them. Hans smiled when the Brit swapped to his pistol, which from its two-tone gold-and-black finish looked to be a German-made Sig Sauer 9 mm. As expected, he missed every one of the next ten targets, then stopped for the day and carried his equipment inside.

  What happened next saw Hans raise an eyebrow. Still wearing a white tank top and Union Jack flag shorts, he emerged from the main door of the villa with his Doberman, having swapped his flip-flops for gumboots. He crossed the courtyard to one of the brick toolsheds and took out a garden fork and a rake. For the next two hours he worked flat out, digging over one of his vegetable plots, pulling weeds, smashing the clods of earth into smaller lumps and raking stones to one side, only stopping to throw a ball for his hound.

  Content with his spot of gardening, Logan rinsed the tools under a hose and stowed them back in the shed. Then he went into his villa, emerging minutes later wearing brown-framed glasses and carrying a book and a long drink, complete with cocktail umbrella. He lay on a sun lounger by the pool and began to read. Hans zeroed in the scope to see the book’s title: Break Through the Barriers Inside, by the world-famous American personal development guru Eric Jansen.

  His involvement in the Trade aside, Logan lived a fulfilling life, and, bizarrely, Hans felt he had a lot in common with the man. Both of them worked hard in business, both liked boats and had a connection with the sea, both enjoyed handling weapons, self-improvement and drinking a beer or two. Yet Hans didn’t need to remind himself there was a distinct possibility that circumstances might force him to put a bullet through Logan’s skull before the day was out.

  Darkness fell, and it looked increasingly likely Logan would spend the evening at home. Hans polished off the sandwiches as he watched the multicolored glow of a widescreen TV flicker across the courtyard. From the sound of intermittent cheering and running commentary, Hans guessed Logan was watching English Premier League soccer, the thought of a comfortable couch, cold beer and a ball game making him long for the day all this was over and he, Penny and Jessie could return to Maine.

  To cheer himself up, he called Penny on the walkie-talkie. “Skipper, you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Looks like Logan’s staying home tonight, so the reconnaissance mission’s off,” Hans whispered, holding up the cushion to prevent his voice traveling in the night air.

  “Can you wait until he’s asleep?”

  “I’d only wake his dog.”

  “Ah, I hadn’t thought of that. Listen, how about I pick you up, and we can continue this when Phipps and Clayton get here?”

  “To be honest that’s not a bad idea, but I can’t risk leaving this place. If anything happened while I was—”

  Wailing sirens interrupted their conversation.

  Hans looked up to see a convoy of vehicles with flashing emergency lights speeding along the coast road.

  “Orion, what is it?” Penny hissed.

  “It’s a police raid. Stay off the radio until I make contact.”

  “But—”

  Hans twisted the volume knob to “Off.”

  Blue-and-red light bathed the hillside, the sirens growing louder as police cars and SWAT team vans poured down the villa’s driveway.

  How not to conduct a covert operation. Hans scowled, strapping on the M9 and shoving everything but the sniper scope in the backpack. He had his eye to the scope when the first car pulled up in the courtyard and none other than Chief Inspector Barbosa Amado jumped out, pistol in hand.

  If you put my little girl in danger . . . Hans cursed, recognizing a bungled operation when he saw one.

  As the police tactical unit rushed the front door with a battering ram, Hans caught a movement at the seaward side of the house. He turned the scope to see the Englishman dashing across the floodlit veranda, manhandling a large suitcase, which he lowered over the parapet and vaulted after. From the exertion on Logan’s face, Hans could tell it contained something heavy.

  Jessica!

  Leaving the backpack and scope, Hans was out of the hide and bounding down the hillside, realizing Logan was making a dash for his boat in an attempt to sink the evidence of his involvement in the Trade to the bottom of the Atlantic. Pain rocketed up Hans’ leg from the scorpion bite, but he hardly felt a thing as he powered toward the dock, hurdling rocks and scrub and sliding down the steep drops on his backside.

  Logan had th
e speedboat’s engine fired up in no time, thrusting the throttle forward to roar away from the jetty. Hans sprinted down the walkway but knew his efforts were in vain. Even if he jumped he would miss landing in the boat by a matter of inches. He was about to give up the chase when he saw something dragging through the water. In Logan’s haste to cast off he’d let the stern line drop in the sea.

  The American needed no prompting, launching himself at full pelt from the end of the walkway and flying through the air to come down in a belly flop on top of the trailing line. He grabbed the thick hemp rope with both hands and plunged underwater for what seemed an eternity before the pull of the boat towed him to the surface.

  With the thunder of the diesel engine and the cabin door shut, Hans hoped Logan wouldn’t notice he had company, but if he did and came out on the offensive Hans would do everything in his power to put a bullet through his skull and give Jessica a chance to live.

  He quickly realized this wasn’t going to be an option, for as the boat picked up speed it was all he could do to hold on, let alone think about drawing his gun. The churning seawater surged over him, placing enormous strain on his arms and preventing him drawing a breath.

  Desperate for air, Hans knew he had to let go but was determined to fire a few shots into the cabin before the speedboat disappeared into the night. Praying he wouldn’t get tangled in the rope, Hans counted, “One . . . two . . .”

  Logan realized something impeded the boat’s progress, so he throttled back, and the speedboat slowed. Fueled on adrenaline, Hans seized his opportunity, hauling himself along the line to within a yard of the hull.

  Fearing the stern line had wrapped around the propeller, Logan grabbed a sheath knife and left the cabin to investigate. When he saw Hans gripping the stern ladder, his jaw dropped, and he rushed for the suitcase.

  Hans leapt on board as Logan heaved the case over the side. Logan turned and, unsheathing the knife, rushed at Hans. The American blocked the thrust with his forearm and shattered Logan’s nose with a crunching head butt.

  Air bubbled from the suitcase as it slowly sunk into the depths. Hans dived into the sea and powered downwards. He managed to locate the case’s handle and kicked for the surface, no easy task lugging the deadweight.

  “Jessie, Jessie!” he screamed, gasping for air as the boat’s momentum carried the craft forward.

  He tried the catches on the case but Logan had locked them – Damn!

  Hans struck out with his legs and one arm. It was a good minute before he managed to grab the mooring line and pull himself to the ladder.

  “Urr . . . uur . . .” Logan started to come around.

  “Stay down!” Hans ordered, using his remaining strength to drag the case over the fiberglass coaming.

  “Jessie! It’s Daddy!”

  He grabbed Logan’s knife and broke open the catches. Clutching his nose, Logan looked both shocked and bemused.

  Hans threw open the case. “Wha—?”

  It was filled with cracked and chipped clay pots and figurines.

  He collapsed back on the deck, his mouth trying to form words that wouldn’t come.

  “So, you’re Interpol I take it.”

  Logan’s nasal tone sounded ridiculous. Blood dripped down onto his sweat-and-brine-soaked T-shirt and spread out in an ugly red blossom.

  Hans came to his senses, leaping up and pulling out the M9. “Where’s my daughter?” He leveled the pistol at Logan’s head.

  “Mate” – Logan held up his hands – “I’ve got no idea what you’re on about.”

  “Alvarez! He passed her on to you after he pulled her from the water.”

  “Who?” Logan looked utterly confused. “I don’t know anyone called Alv—”

  “And this?” Hans jerked his head at the suitcase.

  “I’d rather not say.” Logan broke eye contact.

  Hans tensed and pressed the barrel of the M9 into the Englishman’s forehead.

  “Okay, okay, okay!” Logan made a to-ing and fro-ing movement with his palms as if he were telling a car driver to stop, his demeanor more guilty schoolchild than international child trafficker. “They’re ancient artifacts. Colombian – mostly terra-cotta from the Piartal Period.”

  Hans let the muzzle drop and sank back on his haunches. It was his turn to look confused.

  “AD 750 to 1250,” Logan continued. “In fact, archaeological evidence proves ceramics were produced on Colombia’s Caribbean coast earlier than anywhere in the Americas outside of the lower Amazon Bas—”

  “Stop!” Hans had heard enough of the history lesson. “Is this the reason behind your boat trips to the Canaries?”

  Logan gave a mournful nod. “Some guy from Tenerife came into my bar one night. We got chatting over a beer, and he said he was an art dealer. When I told him I owned a boat, he asked if I was interested in making some serious cash. All I had to do was meet a fishing trawler from South America offshore, collect a package and take it up north and collect the money.”

  “Hence the dogleg,” Hans muttered, remembering the GPS coordinates.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.” Hans waved the pistol. “Go on.”

  “I got greedy. A lot of the items were similar, so I figured no one would notice if I helped myself to the odd piece. Only I couldn’t work out a way to sell them on.”

  “So you shoved them in a suitcase.”

  “Yes, mate.”

  Hans gripped the Brit’s bloodied shirt. “Up!”

  He marched him through the doorway into the cabin, down the ladder and along the passageway into the stateroom, then ripped the mattress from the double berth and lifted the lid on the storage compartment beneath.

  “Explain the children’s clothes.”

  “Th-th-they’re for an orphanage . . . over on São Nicolau,” said Logan, still visibly trembling. “Before my partner, Krystal, up and left, we’d been trying for a baby. In the end we decided to adopt. We’ve visited the orphanage several times to meet the kids. The clothes cost nothing in the market and—”

  “Yeah, I get it . . . and the baby formula too. But what about this?” Hans picked up the duct tape and gave Logan a knowing look.

  “Actually, the formula and the tape are for something else.”

  “Care to explain?”

  Hans felt his whole being deflate as anger and suspicion flowed out of him, along with the last traces of hope. Logan might look like a thug, but he certainly wasn’t an international child trafficker. In fact, he sat somewhere between nerdy and pathetic.

  “Yeah, I can explain, but listen, er . . . ?”

  “It’s Hans.”

  “Hans, are you going to arrest me?”

  “I’m nothing to do with the police.”

  “Then what the hell was all that about?” Logan flicked his eyes in the direction of the villa.

  Mike Davenport, thought Hans, but didn’t say anything. “I have no idea.”

  “You mentioned your daughter?”

  “She’s been abducted.”

  “And you think I did it?” Logan looked horrified.

  “I have – or at least I had – good reason to believe that.”

  “Then I’m gonna do everything I can to help you and prove my innocence, honest. But let’s get this boat out of here first before the coastguard comes.”

  “Okay,” said Hans. “I know just the place.”

  - 62 -

  Logan dropped anchor in the inlet by Karen’s villa. “I don’t know about you, Hans, but I could do with a drink,” he said, nodding to the saloon.

  Hans took his drenched and defunct cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and sat down on one of the plush white leather couches.

  “Give that to me,” said the Englishman.

  “Sorry?”

  “Your mobile. I’ll put it in Eddy’s onboard repair shop.”

  “You can fix it?”

  “Ha! If you knew how many people have been pushed in the drink off this baby, then you’d kno
w why we have a system,” said Logan, chuckling as he opened the back of the phone and removed the battery. After rifling through a drawer in the galley, he pulled out a clothes peg tied to a length of cord with a wire hook at the other end. “Wait a minute.”

  Hans watched, intrigued, as Logan disappeared down the ladder to the deck below. He returned a minute later with a grin on his face

  “I’ve hung it below the hand drier in the head,” he explained and then pressed down on the jazzy coffee table. Its smoked-glass top rose up like something from a sci-fi movie to reveal a fully stocked liquor cabinet and glasses. “Ice?”

  “Be rude not to.” Hans forced a beleaguered smile.

  Logan went to the galley area and peeled off his T-shirt, exposing his dragon tattoo. He wet a corner of the shirt under the faucet and wiped the blood from his face. Then he opened the refrigerator and hit a button, dispensing an avalanche of ice cubes into a built-in plastic bucket.

  “Pretty neat,” Hans mused aloud.

  “Yeah, but a pity it doesn’t make this.” Logan pulled a half-eaten sleeve of chocolate chip cookies from its box and tipped a fat packet of cocaine out onto the drinks table.

  “Oh.”

  “The South Americans” – Logan shook ice from the bucket into their glasses – “often slip a kilo or two in with the artifacts. “The guys I deliver it to think I don’t notice or they don’t care.”

  “And you charge a little tax?”

  “I take a bit out for my personal use, mix some milk powder – formula – in with the rest so they can’t tell and—”

  “Tape up the packets with the duct tape.”

  Hans dropped his head into his hands as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  “Here.” Logan slid a tumbler brimming with whiskey across the tabletop. “You look like a man who needs a drink.”

  Hans let out a long sigh and downed it in one.