Predator Island

by Douglas Cameron

  Issaack stood just inside the doors and surveyed the room. Then he walked to and took a seat at what would have been several minutes past the six o’clock position and faced Harvey with Monica on his left. No sooner had he sat down than Declercq appeared bearing a tray with one glass upon it. Monica watched it and guessed that it was beer. Declercq stopped behind Issaack, picked up the glass from the tray, set it down on Issaack’s right side as he introduced himself. He then continued on around the table glancing at each individual’s glasses to ascertain the need for replacement and then disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I am not accustomed to drinking at this time of the day, but I need this,” Issaack said and picked up the crystal beer stein, lifted it toward each of them in silent salute or toast, and took a deep draft. When he replaced the glass on the table, it was half empty.

  “You’re Issaack Kinkaid, aren’t you?” Harvey Gladstone said.

  “Yes, how did you know?” Issaack acknowledged.

  “I watch the news and follow the stock exchange,” Harvey Gladstone answered. “That’s all television is good for. I’m Harvey Gladstone. I’m in real estate.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Issaack said. “And you’re Monica Bartlett. I love ‘The Slag Has Heart.’”

  “Thank you,” Monica said. “Are you a fan?”

  “No, I don’t really have time for music,” Issaack said, “but I watched you win Britain has Music. Your presentation of the song was fantastic.”

  “Now I know who you are,” Harvey said. “I saw that video where you were … uhh … well, sort of showing everything.”

  Monica blushed. “I’ll never do that again. I didn’t realize I would look so nude. My parents will never forgive me.”

  “They will if you give them some of the money,” Harvey said.

  Monica looked at him with a mixture of disdain and questioning.

  The three of them talked for a few minutes and then heard some kind of commotion coming from the lobby. Heavy metal shutters covered the windows in seconds and the lights increased in brightness. Issaack started to get up when Declercq appeared from the kitchen and walked rapidly to the door and stood off to the right side facing the table. If they had really paid attention they would have noticed the slight bulge suggesting a shoulder holster, but only one of them did.

  “Please don’t get up,” Declercq said. “There is nothing to worry about. Just a misunderstanding with the meeting’s regulations.”

  Issaack sat back down and glanced at each of the other two. Monica appeared apprehensive and Harvey Gladstone had finished his Tennessee Fire.

  In few minutes, the shutters opened silently, the lights went back to their normal illuminations and Declercq walked around the table glancing at glasses. “Everything’s fine,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen only to reappear with another glass of Tennessee Fire and another beer for Issaack. He then disappeared into the kitchen with the empty glasses.

  It was a silence-filled fifteen minutes before the next person entered the room. Harvey Gladstone recognized him and knew that he was the reason why the meeting was being held in Cartagena, Colombia. Ramiro Esteves was the head of one of the biggest drug cartels in the world. This was his first public appearance in five years because he risked being killed or kidnapped by his rivals or arrested and deported to the United States. His reception in the anteroom of the “Board Room,” as it came to be known, had been anything but civil. His arrival was heralded by two swarthy clean-shaven men of dubious origin dressed in dark pants and coats entering through the double doors. Simultaneously heavy deadbolts shot from the floor and into the dual doors leading into the Board Room rendering the steel doors virtually impenetrable. The noise of the bolts was the noise heard by those already in the Board Room. Declercq had been alerted from the moment the two men had entered the lobby.

  Underneath the coats of the two bodyguards were sparkling white starched shirts accented by white leather belts indicating shoulder holsters by the bulges in their jackets – the one on the right bulging on the left and the one on the left, on the right. Their progress toward the Board Room was halted by two equally impressive guards, who were not nearly as swarthy but taller, heavier, and more threatening because they were armed with Uzis. Between them was Symon Sheetz, who towered above his compatriots by a head. He was dressed in a black suit, black silk shirt with a black silk tie, all exquisitely tailored, and made one wonder whether he should be in the Board Room rather than checking and supervising the security clearance of those who were invited to the meeting.

  “Gentlemen,” Sheetz began, in unaccented Portuguese although it pained him to address them in such a manner, “you are not on the list, so I must ask you to leave.”

  The swarthier of the two bodyguards, who were stopped by the imposing barrier of the three, looked at the other, shrugged and both started to pull their weapons out of their holsters. Their movements were halted by two simultaneous events, one physical and one vocal. The physical action was the two Uzis being thrust violently yet non-lethally into their chests pinning their gun hands to their chests just shy of their guns as the two security guards stepped forward. The vocal action was a strong voice uttering “NÃO” (“No” in Portuguese). Both actions brought everything to a halt as Ramiro Esteves entered the room through the double doors which had closed behind the swarthy two. Just as Symon Sheetz was dressed all in black accented by a head of perfectly coiffed white hair belaying his age of thirty-five, Ramiro Esteves was dressed all in white. The material was linen and his hair an unruly yet oily mess of natural black. As much as Symon Sheetz towered over the swarthy duo, they towered over Ramiro Esteves. His brown eyes peered out from under a heavy brow. Between his eyes was the start of a hawk nose, which had been broken numerous times in his youth. Under the nose and above a perpetually smiling mouth exhibiting perfect brilliantly white natural teeth was a razor thin mustache that only close examination would reveal was not penciled on. The real fault of an otherwise impressive face was the chin or lack thereof. It was this fault that had precipitated the fights in his teen years in which his nose had been broken. These fights had continued until an aggressor had discovered a line of blood seeping across his knuckles. Ramiro Esteves was standing with empty hands beckoning his attacker to return for more. No one could figure out how he had done it or would venture to see whether it would happen again. As the mystique surrounding Ramiro Esteves increased, so did his power. Even now, thirty-two years after he received his nickname of Switchblade, no one would mess with him. Until now.

  “My men merely wizh to azcertain that the room is zafe for me to enter.” He said switching to English which had been specified as the official language of the meeting. He didn’t like English because the malformation of his jaw gave him a terrible time with English esses.

  “Señor Esteves,” responded Symon Sheetz. “If you do not believe that your host has made the meeting place perfectly safe as was guaranteed in your invitation, please feel free not to attend. If you choose to attend, your ...” Sheetz looked at the swarthy two as he searched his English vocabulary for a proper word and chose “… assistants will have to depart the premises until you ask us to summon them either when the meeting adjourns, or you choose to leave.”

  Ramiro Esteves stood as though considering the obvious affront to his stature and whether it was worth his time to adhere to the conditions as set forth in the invitation or to turn and leave. At this point, the latter would mean only an affront to his dignity and mystique. Also, and most important, at least in the eyes of the inviter, it would mean not knowing what opportunity he was missing. The invitation had read:

  You are invited to attend a meeting to provide you with a unique business opportunity. This pro-position, should you decide to accept it, is potentially not one which will provide a return on your investment . If successful – and that is by best estimate a 70-30 proposition – at worst, you will earn a place in history of scientific investigation. At best, acclaim in th
e world press and perhaps a partial recoup of your investment.

  Your acceptance of this invitation will necessitate a deposit of one hundred million dollars U.S. in a secure account, method of deposit to be given to you upon your acceptance. After attending this meeting, those funds will remain in the account to be used in the advancement of this project for ten years. If you choose not to participate, the funds will remain gathering interest for ten years which is the anticipated time frame for the project. If you have remained silent about this project during this time, your deposit will be returned to you with interest estimated to be a minimum of ten per cent.

  The remainder of the invitation held the conditions under which the invitee must comply to attend: No other person(s) allowed on the premises in which the meeting would be held, no electronics or mechanical devices of any form, no cameras, no methods of recording any portion of the meeting other than one’s memory.

  His mind having raced through the options, Ramiro Esteves shrugged and said, “Paz.”

  The swarthy duo immediately relaxed, and the Uzis’ pressure lessened enough for hands to be removed, but not enough for pistols to be withdrawn from holsters. The swarthy duo separated, turning left and right, and passed through the doors and out into the sunshine of the early morning. After submitting to the security examination, Ramiro Esteves entered the meeting room through the door held open by Symon Sheetz. Turning around after closing the door, Symon Sheetz saw that the next guest was already standing inside the double doors.

  Chapter 3

  Entering the Board Room, Ramiro Esteves made a counterclockwise circuit of the room, finding the doors to the kitchen unresponsive, first to his touch and then his push. Continuing on to the restroom doors marked “Señoras” and “Señors,” his efforts to open the door to the Señoras failed. The second opened under his touch, and he went in and inspected it finding nothing unusual. He continued on to the windows, rapping on them and peering at them. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he turned to the table and saw the three looking at him.

  “You may call me Juan,” he said as he proceeded to the chair at the approximate two o’clock position so that he could get a better look at Monica.

  “We will call you ‘Juan,’ if that is what you want,” Harvey Gladstone said, “But we all know who you are.”

  He looked at Monica and Issaack who nodded their agreement. At this moment, Declercq stopped behind Esteves to his right and introduced himself as he set down a crystal tumbler filled with a clear reddish-brown liquid.

  Esteves looked at it and then picked it up, holding it up to the light. Lowering it, he swirled the liquid gently in the glass and then lifted it to his nose.

  “I would be glad to test it if you want, Juan,” Harvey Gladstone said. “Havana Club Máximo is one of my favorite rums.”

  “I don’t like rum,” Monica said. “Gives me the hiccups.”

  “A little rich for my taste,” Issaack said. “I don’t mean I can’t afford it, but the taste.”

  As Esteves had listened to this comradic banter, he had lifted the glass to his lips and taken a taste. Lowering the glass, he seemed to be swirling the rum around in his mouth before swallowing it. He let it sit in his stomach for a moment and then shrugged and downed the entire glass. Then he smiled and said to them, “As you wish. I am Ramiro Estevez.”

  At this juncture, the doors from the lobby opened and they all looked to see who was coming in.

  Phillip Parmelee was so brown one would have thought him a native of some Caribbean or south sea island. Actually, he was 100% Caucasian (he had his DNA tested and knew this for a fact) and was brown only because of the extensive amount of time spent in the sun despite his fastidious use of sunscreen. He was six feet three inches and two hundred pounds of muscle with 1% body fat. His manner of dress exhibited his preference for the out of doors. This may have been a business meeting, but no dress code was given, and he had come dressed as he usually did going out in public. He wore a Caribbean blue t-shirt on the back of which was a map of the eastern Caribbean islands of Dominica and Martinique. And between the islands was a graphic of what was obviously a sunken ship with the words Santa Teresa written under it in gold. On the front of the t-shirt, over the part of the chest where a pocket would be, was replicated the ship and its name although smaller this time. On his feet were thongs. His one acceptance of the fact that he was attending an extremely important meeting was that he was wearing long pants – a new pair of khakis that he had taken the tags off this morning. The belt that he used to hold the pants up was a piece of hemp rope and it was used only because the pants would have slid down his bony frame within ten steps without it. The t-shirt was the reason for his invitation. Not the shirt itself, but the ship that was emblazoned upon it. When asked about it, he would tell the following story, “I had been scuba diving in international waters along an isolated reef off the southwest coast of Dominica. With me was Bill Rutgers, my business partner, who had already started for the surface when a great white shark had made a run at me. Or at least I thought he had. Neither of us had done anything to provoke the fish, but I am a firm believer in running away to live to fight another day. A quick look around had revealed a hole in the reef that looked big enough for me to fit through and toward it I went, kicking my flippers wildly. Reaching the hole, I grabbed the sides and pulled to help propel myself in, quickly stretching out an arm in front to prevent crashing into a wall. I was expecting to find a small cave, but when I stopped, I realized I was in a room. I turned on my light – always carry one when diving – and realized that I was in a ship. I could make out chests and other things lying around. I knew that my time was short, so I gathered a few things in a net bag I always carry and then carefully exited the … well, I exited what turned out to be the Santa Teresa. Jaws wasn’t around – at least that I could see – and I surfaced quickly but cautiously. When I pulled myself up on the dive platform at the back of the boat, I yelled for Bill, but there was no answer. When I climbed up on deck, I didn’t see any sign that he had been there. I looked around the boat and over the side for signs of him, but there was nothing. I put the net bag down without looking in it, changed air tanks, grabbed two spear guns and went back in the water. I searched around for half an hour and found nothing, and I was nearing my physical limit as well as my time underwater. Back on the boat I called for help over the radio. A Dominican Coast Guard boat with divers came out, but nothing was found.”

  That was his story and he was sticking to it, but there were always questions about what really happened when he revealed that he had discovered the Santa Teresa, a Spanish treasure ship on the way home to Spain from Mexico. Apparently she had been in a storm and sunk to settle to rest next to – and becoming part of – the reef. It is possible that she was attacked by pirates and scuttled to save the gold, but there were no signs of any damage other than what age would do. The find was worth 2.5 billion dollars and being in international waters, it was all his.

  The truth of the story is that Bill Rutgers had discovered the hole and had come out with the bag shaking it to show Phil that there was something important and headed for the surface. On their boat, they discovered that what the bag held was a gold goblet and plate and several doubloons. They had danced and celebrated and gotten drunk, all while still in their wet suits. Well, at least Bill had gotten drunk or drunker than he should have. Phil was sober enough and selfish enough with the thought of fame and enormous riches to take advantage of the opportunity. Seizing a gaff from the rack and swinging it, he hit Bill in the head with the metal handle and knocked him unconscious. Working quickly, he marked the site with an underwater beacon, and moved the boat several miles away into deeper water. He used fish they had speared for dinner as chum. When several sharks had appeared and were sufficiently frenzied (and it doesn’t take much when a shark is hungry) he had slit Bill’s hands and let the blood drip into the water to add to the frenzy. Then he rolled Bill – whom Phil had made certain would not
regain consciousness – into the water clad in his scuba gear and let the sharks finish their feast. The reason that no sign of Bill was found was that when Phil called for help he was anchored sufficiently close to the reef to make his story plausible but was two miles from where he had dumped Bill.

  He stood just inside the doors to the lobby and looked at the assemblage. Then he pointed and said, “Ramiro Esteves, Issaack Kinkaid, Monica Bartlett, and …”

  “Oh, I’m Harvey Gladstone, real estate,” Harvey said, a bit miffed that he hadn’t been recognized.

  “Oh, yes. ‘And the devil will drag you under by the sharp lapels of your checkered coat’…”

  And Monica, Issaack and Harvey chimed in “Sit down you’re rocking the boat.” And they all laughed.

  “What’z zat,” Ramiro said, “Zome Broadyway zhow zong? I donz’t know Broadyway.”

  “No matter,” Phil said. “We’ll explain it to you when we have time.”

  Phil laughed under his breath and walked and took the chair at approximately the ten o’clock position. No sooner was he seated than the entry door to the kitchen opened and Declercq entered the Board Room bearing several glasses on his tray. He stopped between Monica and Phil, introduced himself, and lowered the tray for Phil to see.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “We were able to narrow your likes down to these three, but you don’t seem to have a preference.”

  Phil looked at the selection and pointed: “Knobs Creek on the rocks, Macallan Single Malt on the rocks, and … I don’t know what that is.” Phil pointed at the third glass containing a dark red liquid in an amber glass.

  Declercq appeared surprised at Phil’s reaction. “I’m sorry, sir. That was one of the three on the list I was given.”