The Gems of Tsingy De Bemaraha

by Roger Weston

  Kelly smiled. “He loved those bees. For a long time we dreamed. . .” Kelly leaned back in her seat and her smile faded. “You know when this sapphire boom took off in Madagascar, and you asked him to join you, something happened to Ryan. He wouldn’t talk about anything else. He could hardly wait to get there to hunt sapphires with you and make a fortune.” She shook her head. “I pleaded with him not to go. But he'd made up his mind, and the way I felt about it—that didn't matter. He said it was for me, for us, that he was going to meet you in Madagascar.” Her features softened a little. “He loved the search for treasure. He said that before I met him that he used to go out rock hunting with you all the time.”

  Paul grinned as he remembered those long summer days. “We had a great time exploring Idaho when we were kids. We would pan for gold day after day. Did you know that Idaho was the site of one of the greatest gold rushes in American history? We both talked about what we would do when we found an undiscovered vein or unearthed a giant gem. One of the largest diamonds ever discovered was found in Idaho. How we dreamed of finding a bigger one. As we got older we’d drive up north to search for star garnets. We had this idea that hunting treasure would help us get what we really wanted.” He stopped for a moment. “That all seems like such a long time ago now.”

  She nodded in agreement. “Before you asked Ryan to partner with you, we planned on buying a cherry orchard and keeping bees. It sounded so safe and wonderful. We were going to have lots of kids and spend all our time together there.” After a pause she continued, “But I know Ryan would’ve never been content with that life for long. He’s an explorer and adventurer just like you. It didn’t matter to me, though; I would’ve supported him no matter what he chose to do. Now all I want to do is find him.”

  Paul massaged his chin for a second then reached for her hand. “I want to find Ryan, too. He was the best friend I ever had.” Paul realized that Kelly was staring out the window and wasn't listening to him anymore.

  After a while she looked back at him and said, “If we're leaving Portugal, I’ll need to go to the bank in Lisbon first. I think it would be best if I left the sapphire in my safe-deposit box.”

  He looked at her for a long, silent moment. He knew that they needed to get out of the country fast, but he also realized that it would be best not to take the sapphire with them to Africa. “Sure,” he said. “We can make a quick stop there.”

  The more he was around Kelly, the more nostalgic he got about his idealistic days growing up in Idaho. He’d had such a sheltered childhood that it amazed him that his life had taken such a dark turn. While working as a deep cover operative for the CIA in the gem fields of Madagascar, he watched as foreigners and locals alike made thousands of dollars every day mining for the precious rocks. His youthful fascination with finding a priceless gemstone began to cloud his judgment and he became ruthless in his pursuit for treasure, and he showed no mercy for anyone who got in his way. Not even his best friend.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lisbon, Portugal

  In downtown Lisbon, Kelly got out of the car after Paul parked alongside the busy city street. She walked down the sidewalk toward El Banko de Portugal. Exhaust fumes filled the air. Pedestrians strolled along the sidewalk. She felt safer now, being far away from the Algarve and the attacker on the beach, far from the women in black robes who had been following her. Soon, she and Paul would be out of the country altogether.

  Going to Morocco based on that photograph didn't make sense to her, and she knew that it wasn’t known as the safest place in the world. Not only that, Ryan had disappeared in Madagascar. She knew that was where they should be looking for him. Still, going it alone scared her even more than trusting Paul. He knew his way around and knew the language. She would simply have to trust him. Ryan had trusted him once, but that trust had eventually been shattered. If Kelly had any other choice, she would surely take it. But the authorities in America and Madagascar had either told her that Ryan was dead or that there was nothing more they could do to help her because of jurisdiction.

  At El Banko de Portugal, Kelly withdrew some money and asked the teller to write down the Moroccan exchange rate. Then she requested access to a safe deposit box. As she waited in the small lobby, she gazed out into the street. Across the street was a quaint café just like the one she had met Paul at. She put her hand over her mouth. Devin was across the street. What was he doing here? How could he have found her in Portugal . . . in Lisbon?

  Kelly felt her heart pulsating. She stepped closer to the bank window. Devin was sitting in a rickety café chair pretending to read a newspaper. He wore sunglasses and a Basque beret.

  How could he have found her again? She saw him lean back in the metal chair and peer over his sunglasses in the direction of the bank. After a moment, he returned his eyes to the newspaper.

  Kelly looked for another exit from the bank, but didn't see one. She didn't know what to do. She was trapped, and Paul was down the street waiting for her. She clutched her travel bag with the sapphire still in it and began to walk slowly, hesitantly toward the door. A hand touched her arm softly and fear stabbed her heart.

  She spun around quickly, body rigid.

  “Senorita?” the bank manager said. “May I help you?”

  “No.” Kelly said as her body relaxed slightly. “Thank you. I’m fine. I just remembered something, that's all.” She hurried for the door, and into the street, forcing herself not to glance in Devin's direction. The farther down the street she got, the faster she walked. By the time she approached Paul's car, she was breathing heavily. She got in, slammed the door and said, “Let's go!”

  “Relax, Kelly,” Paul said. “Don’t act so uptight.”

  “Can we go, please?”

  “You’re acting as if you just robbed that bank.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “I just want to get out of here.”

  Paul shrugged. He guided the car out into the street and drove towards the bank--past Devin, who was still sitting at the café. But now his newspaper was down on the table, and he was watching Kelly intently.

  She turned her gaze to the other side of the street and kept it there until they were well past him. She held her travel bag tightly. Then she realized she had sunken down into the seat. She tried to sit up casually without Paul noticing what she was doing.

  ***

  Devin stood and drank the last of his red wine. His gold ring glinted in the sun as he smoothed the material on the sleeve of his brown suede jacket. He stood there for a moment, staring at the little piece of paper that Kelly had dropped as she rushed out of the bank. The waiter came up and said, “Que mas, Senor?”

  “Another glass of wine, please. I'll be back in just a minute.”

  Devin waited for a truck to pass. Then he jogged across the street. He walked near the door of the bank and picked up the little piece of paper and smiled. Moroccan exchange rate—thank you, Kelly. But what was she going to Morocco for?

  Back at the café, Devin paid the waiter, gulped down his third glass of wine and waved to a taxi.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tripoli, Lebanon

  As Abu Bakr entered the Great Mosque, he felt a shortness of breath that alarmed him. He paused and leaned against one of the many stone arches as whiteness overcame his vision. The lightheadedness and disorientation faded within a minute as it usually did, but the pain running through his head, neck and spine persisted despite the morphine.

  “Abu Bakr,” Ishmael whispered. A stricken look hung on his face. He chewed on his lip. “What happened?”

  Abu Bakr impatiently waved a hand at him. “Shut up.” His sweaty fingers slipped around the grip of his MP5 submachine gun beneath his jacket and his eyes scanned the dim mosque, his ears listening intently.

  He gently pressed his fingers against his abdomen, just above the belt line, feeling the round pain pump, which his doctors had recently surgically implanted. The disk was an inch thick and three-inches around, and his fingers p
ushed his abdomen gently. The pain pump administered morphine through thin, flexible catheter tubes that had also been surgically implanted. They delivered morphine directly to the receptors in his spinal cord, which meant less morphine gave greater pain relief, and he felt minimal side-effects of the drug. He still experienced symptoms of his injuries, but he never felt high. The pump was working nicely because his pain was slowly fading.

  He walked into the stone-arched prayer hall of the Great Mosque with Ishmael at his side. The two men found Abe standing in a nook under one of the stone arches. Abe stared at them with questioning eyes.

  “This is my father,” Ishmael lied, gesturing towards Abu Bakr, who had dyed his hair gray in order to look twenty-years older. “He has agreed to talk with you as long as you keep him anonymous.” Ishmael chewed his lip.

  “Of course,” Abe said, blinking as he looked at Abu Bakr in the dim light, his eyes focusing on the cleft in Abu Bakr’s forehead. “You’re father looks younger than I expected,” he said to Ishmael. He turned to Abu Bakr. “And I’m sure I’ve seen your face somewhere before.”

  The comment angered Abu Bakr since he’d shaved his beard and applied heavy make-up. He guessed Abe was armed and might identify him at any moment, so he’d have to wrap this up quickly.

  “That’s possible,” Abu Bakr said. “I am a merchant. Perhaps you have been to my shop.”

  Abe raised his thick black eyebrows. “No, that’s not it.” He kept looking at the cleft in Abu Bakr’s forehead. “Wait, a minute, I’ve seen your face--” Abe glanced at Ishmael with a confused expression. “Who are you?”

  “I am a good man,” Abu Bakr said, “who is burdened by destiny with certain unpleasant duties.”

  Abe stared at Abu Bakr intently. “Maybe, but at least you’ll be saving lives.”

  “I did not come here to save any lives,” Abu Bakr said.

  Abe squinted. “I know you! What’s going on here?” He glanced at Ishmael before his hand went for his gun.

  Both Abu Bakr and Ishmael drew daggers and fell upon a stumbling Abe, whose scream was cut off when Abu Bakr’s razor-sharp blade slashed his throat. Abe was silenced before he even hit the floor. He landed on his back and Abu Bakr and Ishmael both stabbed him several times as he struggled desperately. When the job was finished, they rose and wiped the blood off their hands with brown hand towels.

  Abu Bakr cleaned the blood off his dagger and said, “Very good for your first assassination.”

  Ishmael was shaken by the experience, almost in shock. He nodded without looking at Abu Bakr. “What about my money?”

  “Of course,” Abu Bakr said, “here is your down payment.” He dug his knife into Ishmael’s throat, then sliced harshly as he pulled it out. Next he plunged his blade into Ishmael’s heart. He leapt on top of the fallen informant and cut his throat from ear to ear. As Ishmael died, Abu Bakr said, “You did good work, my friend. But you can’t be trusted.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Lisbon, Portugal

  In the bathroom of the train station, Juan Candelario entered the stall and removed a pistol from his handbag. Next he screwed on a silencer and wrapped the weapon in a light windbreaker. After putting on a blonde mustache that matched his wig he slipped on his sunglasses and buttoned up his overcoat.

  At the mirror, he smiled at how the blond hair contrasted with his smooth, dark skin. He hadn’t bothered to change the hue of his dark brown eyes because he didn’t want to mess with contacts on a job like this. Everything must go smoothly. There had been jobs he'd regretted doing, jobs that rendered him incapable of sound sleep. Devin would not be one of those. Devin needed to die. Then Juan could get back to Teresa and the kids in time for the family reunion in Cabo San Lucas. He left the restroom, entering the terminal slowly and cautiously.

  He noticed Devin by his jacket, hat and sunglasses. Devin stood amidst several other travelers, his travel bag at his feet. Juan drifted out of Devin's field of vision, strolling behind a column that was no more than twenty yards from the doomed man. Once in place, he mentally prepared himself for the moment of execution. The killing would be the easy part; his exit strategy would be harder. In any case, there was no way he or Devin was going to board the train.

  Juan stepped forward, casually peeking around the column. His hand reached into the overcoat and gripped the handgun.

  Then he noticed the girl. For several days he had been shadowing Devin, waiting for the right opportunity. Patiently, he had hoped to establish a pattern and a weakness that he could exploit, but Devin was unpredictable. Yet now a pattern was emerging. Devin was watching a young woman and a man who were standing about seven train-cars away. Juan realized this was the same woman that Devin had followed earlier, the woman at the bank. She was attractive with nice legs and striking red hair. Juan remembered thinking yesterday that he would like to take her to bed.

  He remembered watching her drop that slip of paper outside the bank. Devin had gone over and picked it up. Juan loosened his grip on the handgun. She was with a man, so why was Devin following her?

  But something else about this girl troubled Juan. There was something, but he didn't know what. Had he seen her before yesterday? he wondered. What was it? Where had he seen her before?

  And then he remembered. It was during the party at the villa south of Puerto Vallarta. Juan had been out by the pool. Devin was looking at a miniature portrait painted on ivory. Juan asked Devin what it was. Devin said it was just a lucky charm.

  Juan looked at the red-haired woman on the ivory and said, “I'd like to get lucky with her.” But Devin didn't laugh. The arrogant bastard just walked away.

  “Superstitious gringo,” Juan said.

  After all this time, Juan couldn't be certain this was the same woman, but he thought so. Devin and the woman were up to something. Juan just didn't know what. Maybe they were setting up the guy she was with.

  “Lucky charm, yeah right,” Juan mumbled. “You lying snake.”

  All that mattered now is that Devin had a new game. If the woman had the twenty million, Juan would have to kill her, too, and recover the funds. His job was simply to kill Devin. Roberto, serving a life sentence in prison, had made no mention of recovering the money. Juan would get half a million just for the hit. That was good enough for him. He liked clean jobs. Recovering the cash could be dirty and risky. Juan didn't like that kind of work. No way, baby.

  But the redhead got his juices swimming. This beauty whose image he'd first seen on the ivory, she was so lovely and mysterious. The job was getting very sexy, and Juan found himself eager to take a few risks. Maybe he could take the woman and the $20 million as a bonus. And still be home in time for the family reunion.

  Juan would need a different plan. This might be very good. He backed behind the pillar, turned and walked back to the bathroom, where he took the silencer off his pistol and put it back in his handbag. He went out to his rental car and got his travel bag out of the trunk. Back in the station, he bought a ticket to Gibraltar.

  CHAPTER 9

  Paul and Kelly settled into their sleeper cabin on the night train to Gibraltar. Kelly went to the window and took a long look out into the darkness of the tracks. She closed the drapes and then opened them again partly, taking a prolonged parting glance into the train yard. Then she lay down on the lower bunk and closed her eyes. After a few minutes she was asleep.

  Paul got out his laptop and logged onto the internet. He sent an encrypted e-mail to Ted Walker, his old contact with the CIA, requesting any new intelligence on the whereabouts of Abu Bakr. Then browsing the latest Madagascar news, he scrolled down the headlines, his eyes freezing on one particular headline: More Foreign Prospectors Killed.

  As he read the story, his stomach muscles tightened.

  ***

  After boarding the train to Gibraltar, rather than going straight to his compartment, Juan Candelario went to the lavatory. Inside the small private compartment, he laid his duffle bag on the toilet seat and opened it up.
Withdrawing his toiletry bag, he got out his razor and shaving cream. After shaving, he removed a black beard and mustache and carefully applied them to his face. From under a false bottom in his toiletry bag, he got a black wig, which he put on. He looked in the mirror and slowly turned his head from side to side, checking for authenticity. The wig and long, thick beard changed his appearance substantially. The disguise looked natural. Juan chose a pair of sunglasses with round frames and black rims. After strapping a custom holster to his ankle, he slid the handgun into the leather and let his pant leg fall over the weapon. He hung his camera around his neck.

  Someone knocked on the door. He groaned loudly as if he were sick. He waited a moment then repeated the noise. He paused. Apparently the person had left.

  Standing up straight, he looked in the mirror and smiled. “Hey, man, you look good,” he said.

  His smile faded as he considered the border crossing with two weapons. He'd done it before in Tetouan, so he didn't expect any trouble. He pulled several passports out of his bag and removed the rubber band that held them together. Flipping through the stack, he found the right passport and shoved the others in his pocket. He opened the chosen booklet and held it up to compare the image in the photo with his reflection in the mirror. He smiled. Zipping up his bag, he left the lavatory.

  CHAPTER 10

  Strait of Gibraltar

  Juan Candelario casually strolled among the passengers. When the vessel left port, a clear blue sky stretched high overhead, all the way to a dark, ominous horizon. A few people looked at him, but he didn't draw much attention. The boat rolled gently, and Juan looked through the dirty windows at a wind-swept sea.

  He strolled to the food compartment and ordered a café con leche. He set down his duffle bag by an open bench and sat for a while sipping the espresso. He savored the strong, rich taste of the coffee beans. While he sipped, he casually watched the aisles in both directions in case Devin or the girl came by. When he'd drained his espresso, he lifted his bag and took a walk. He strolled around the compartment twice without seeing any sign of either Devin or the girl. On the upper deck he finally spotted her, the girl whose red hair whisked in the breeze. She and her companion stood at the rail, looking out over the ocean. For a few minutes Juan stood about ten feet behind them, fiddling with his camera. When the girl turned her head, Juan studied her face closely. She was beautiful. He studied the feminine curves of her body like he would examine fruit at the market to determine its ripeness. He regretted that he couldn't use his hands on her to be sure of the quality of the merchandise, but he had no doubt about that.