by Jack Hardin
Somehow Fagan got the impression that she wasn’t his wife.
“Joel,” Félix said. “I will have my people at the port in Veracruz one week from tomorrow.” Then he turned and escorted the lady down a few steps to a deck closer to the water.
Fagan stepped back outside and strolled slowly down the dock. Everything was coming along nicely. The freighter had managed to get out of Africa with his container on it. But it was the freight switch here in Saint Lucia that he was most concerned with. It did him no good to get the container here only to have it discovered and confiscated by the authorities. Under pressure from the United States and Mexican governments, the Caribbean nations had been diligent in updating their inventory systems with checks and balances that made it much more difficult to get illegal past their security software. It was like the neighborhood had just put up high def infrared cameras on every house corner and backed everything up to the cloud in real time, where before there weren’t even working streetlights. Getting a shipping container full of rifles onto a new freighter heading for your destination of choice wasn’t as easy as it used to be.
But thankfully, Edward Latham, with his very sunburnt skin, was diligently pounding away on his keyboard to crack through the security software and update the manifest and the checkpoint credentials. By the time the ship came in tomorrow, all would be well. Finally, everything was going smoothly.
Except, of course, for that one thing that was buzzing in the back of his mind like a pesky mosquito.
Harry Holt still wasn’t answering his calls.
Fagan had yet to receive any confirmation on what happened with the information Michael Reddick had stolen from Roman Baxter and sought to blackmail him with. In truth, Fagan had been surprised enough that, given the level and detail of the information Reddick had hacked, Baxter didn’t require some form of legitimate proof that it had been recovered.
Perhaps he had finally earned the man’s trust after all.
But then that’s exactly what was making him so edgy. He couldn’t lose Baxter’s trust. Not for a second time. Those bums Holt had hired to wax Mike Reddick had gotten themselves killed trying to go after Ryan Savage. The short column in the Miami Herald stated that electronic equipment had indeed been stolen from Reddick’s home—clearly, the bums had recovered what they had been sent there for.
But the lingering question, of course, was what had they done with the servers?
Fagan didn't know. And he wasn’t one for operating with loose ends—that was no way to run a railroad. If Holt didn’t respond once Félix’s shipment was safely on the new freighter, then Fagan was just going to have to brave a way into the U.S. and have a little chat with Holt.
Then maybe he would just take care of Mr. Savage himself. Dear Lord, you couldn’t trust anyone to get a job done these days. And wasn’t it his Aunt Rita who had often recited folk wisdom, ‘never ask anyone to do something that you can do yourself’? That was stupid advice, but maybe in this instance, it wasn't so bad after all.
Fagan reached the end of the dock and crossed the fine sand, making for his Jeep as he once again picked up the tune for “Janie’s Got A Gun.”
Yes, sir...that wasn’t the worst idea he had had over these last few weeks: he would just take care of Savage himself.
Chapter Fifteen
After bailing on work early the day before, I made it back into the office a little after nine the next morning. Much to the satisfaction of my mental health, not only had Interpol sent over the information on all of Lukana’s employees, but Callahan was nowhere to be seen.
Ellie’s team forwarded me a batch of employee files, and Kathleen and I spent the better part of two hours combing through them.
Late in the morning, my desk phone rang. I snatched it up. “Savage.”
“Ryan, it’s Ellie.”
“Hey, Ellie.”
“I think we found something.”
“Fire away.”
“It’s a man who has been with Lukana for two years now. He moved to Rotterdam from London when Lukana was halfway through their development of the port security software. After going through a nasty divorce three years ago, his ex- cleaned him out for just about everything he had. His monthly alimony payments are through the roof, and all his credit cards are maxed out.”
“What’s his name?”
“Edward Latham.”
“So he’s broke?” It was a start, but we needed more to go on than that.
“He’s broke, yes. But more importantly, his wife filed a missing persons report last night with London’s Missing Persons Unit. She and Edward have a thirteen-year-old son together, and she let him go with Edward on a vacation to Martinique.”
“What makes her think they went missing?”
“Part of the agreement to allow her son to go was that he call her every morning and evening. Up until a day and a half ago, he was doing just that.”
“Is there any reason to think this isn’t a case of an angry ex-husband running off with the kid?”
“We considered that, but it doesn’t fit his profile. I have someone here at my office talking to the chief of police on Martinique. Hold on a second.”
The line went quiet. Half a minute later, Ellie returned.
“Okay,” she said. “The police in Martinique said that the Edwards’ belongings are still in their hotel room. After the maid came in yesterday, the beds haven’t been slept in. Edward hasn’t used his credit or debit cards for two days now.”
“You said the kid is how old?”
“Thirteen.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
“Ryan,” Ellie said solemnly. “Fagan kidnapped Latham’s kid, didn’t he?”
I sighed. “Yeah. That’s exactly what he did.”
The line went quiet for some time. Finally, Ellie said, “Then it sounds like you and I are going to Martinique.”
Edward Latham’s fingers clicked across the keyboard with a practiced but unsettled ease. He squinted at the screen as he settled his hand over the computer mouse and clicked. Nothing happened. He tried again.
Cursing under his breath, he wiped a line of sweat from his cheek with the flat of his hand. It was stifling in here. The room was windowless and entirely made of concrete. A small hole in the foundation led to a metal pipe that spirited Edward’s refuse away, and a single naked light bulb hung from the ceiling by a crooked wire. Other than that the only light came from the glow of the two computer monitors before him.
He tried to swallow, but it didn’t work so well. His throat was dry, scratchy, and his parched tongue was swollen. Another wave of nausea stirred his head, and he grasped the table for support. He had already thrown up once, hardly making it to the hole in the floor before his guts exploded up through his mouth.
He was sick, exhausted, and badly sunburned. His skin felt as though someone had plugged him into an electrical outlet and whatever wirings were inside him had turned his skin into a heating pad that could sizzle an egg.
Because that’s really what he felt like: a sizzled egg.
His breathing grew more labored as he bore down and returned to his work. He was running out of time, and he kept running into unexpected problems.
The metal door behind him opened, grinding solidly against the floor and letting in a burst of sunlight and a welcome gust of fresh air.
Edward turned in his chair and squinted into the light as Joel Fagan’s tall silhouette drew close.
“Hola. How’s it going, Edward?”
“O—Okay. I still can’t get it to upload into the system’s intranet.”
“Why ever not?” Fagan stopped beside Edward, who swiveled back around and put his attention on the monitors.
“I’m not sure.” He lifted a finger to the screen directly in front of him. “I think they’ve recently updated a protocol, and I’m having trouble manipulating the code.”
Fagan raised a hand and slapped it down on Edward’s shoulder. A shock of light
ning lit up Edward’s sunburnt shoulder, and the excruciating pain radiated down his arm as stars danced wildly in front of him. He thought he might pass out.
Fagan left his hand where it was. “Here’s the thing, Edward. That freighter arrives in port in a little over twenty-four hours. If my container is not reassigned in the system well before then, they won’t reroute it to the other freighter. If that’s the case, then my shipment doesn’t end up with my client. Capiche?”
“I’m tr—trying.”
“You've done this little workaround for a few others before,” Fagan said. “Why did you stop?”
“Because it’s wrong. One of the containers that I helped get through Monaco ended up having teenage girls on it.” Edward hung his head. “I want to be a better man than that for my son.”
Fagan leaned over and set his face near Edward’s ear. “If you don’t get this done for me, you won’t have a son to have an opinion of you either way.”
“Where is my son? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Just fine. Would you like to see him?”
Edward’s face brightened a little. “Yes. Yes, please. I would like to see him. “
“Right on.” Fagan slipped a leather satchel off his shoulder and brought out a laptop. He pushed Edward’s keyboard down the desk and set the laptop in its place. He lifted the screen, clicked over to a video chat icon and pressed down on the trackpad. A live video feed emerged on the screen.
Rory was in a room similar to this one. He was stripped down to his underwear. His hands were tied above his head, the rope tethered tightly to something above the view of the camera. A gag was secured tightly around his mouth, and his toes hardly brushed the floor. For a moment Edward thought he was looking at a prisoner of war and not his own son. Rory had a long deep cut just above his navel. A line of blood had oozed out, making several distinct tracks down his skin.
A man with a semi-automatic rifle stood behind Rory, seemingly indifferent to the whole ordeal.
Edward felt a twist of horror, repulsion, and fury. “Please! Stop! I’m doing my best.” He began to cry. “I am...truly.”
“I don’t need your best, Edward. I need your talents. And I need them to work.” Fagan slapped the laptop shut, picked it up, and slid it back into the satchel. He reached farther in and brought out a bottle of water, set it on the desk. “That will be the last thing you ever drink if you don’t find a way, Edward.”
Then Joel Fagan walked away, humming the tune to The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes” and slamming the heavy door behind him.
Chapter Sixteen
Ellie and I met at the Miami airport hours after agreeing on our next course of action. There was no doubt in our minds that Edward and Rory Latham had been taken against their will. Where they had been taken to was still up for grabs, but it was clear enough now that Fagan wanted Edward to manipulate the very software program that Edward had helped design and build.
And that meant that Fagan had an illegal shipment of some sort in route to a destination.
We produced our badges at the airport’s security checkpoint and made it quickly through airport security and boarded a small international flight for Martinique. The flight took off at less than half capacity, so we had a chance to talk more freely without being overheard by another passenger.
To my surprise, I learned that prior to her current role with Homeland, Ellie had been an agent with the DEA, and before that she had put in over a decade with the CIA. When I asked her in what capacity she had served with Langley, I received a reticent look and something about signing an NDA with the Agency before she left.
“You can’t tell me you were a spook?” I said.
“I was a spook,” she said. “But not in a typical arrangement.”
“So... a clandestine samurai?”
She smiled. “No. Not a samurai. But that may not be as far off as you think.”
I opted not to press any further.
We talked most of the way there, some about the case, some about my experience in the Army and her life on Pine Island. I decided that I liked her confidence. Ellie radiated a steady wave of self-assurance and competence. Her eyes were sharp and, as far as I could tell, didn’t miss a thing.
The flight took just over three hours. Once we started our approach, I turned my attention out the window, where the occasional island punctuated the vast blue expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
The Caribbean is made up of more than 7,000 individual islands, including thirteen sovereign nations and twelve dependencies. Martinique is positioned in the center of the Lesser Antilles, the chain of islands that form the eastern belt of the Caribbean and the smattering of land nearest to Africa’s western coast twenty-five hundred miles farther east. Martinique is home to nearly four hundred thousand French and English speaking people. The rugged island is thirty miles long and fifteen wide and is famous for its magnificent beaches, dramatic mountains, tropical gardens, and fascinating history. The island is rich in architectural attractions that testify to its pre-Colombian and colonial past.
As we made our final descent, I could just make out Saint Lucia to the south. The island nation was famous for its pair of tapered mountains, the Pitons, rising swiftly above the island like two fabled teeth.
The plane touched down on the narrow runway of Martinique’s Aimé Césaire International Airport. We deplaned, retrieved our side arms at the baggage claim counter, and stepped outside.
The air was warm, not hot; humid, but lacking the stickiness generally felt back home. Palm trees rustled at the outside edge of the terminal, and it was easy to catch the excited vibe of arriving tourists who were excited to be vacationing on the edge of the earth.
A dark-skinned man in a khaki-colored police uniform was standing beside a gray Toyota Land Cruiser, holding a handwritten sign: “U.S. Homeland.”
Ellie and I made our way to the police chief. “Officer Robine,” I said.
He lifted his chin in a greeting and lowered the sign. “Agent Savage.” We shook hands and then he took Ellie’s. “Agent O’Conner.” Robine stood at six feet tall and had short, wiry hair that was beginning to gray and thin. He indicated the Land Cruiser. “Please. I will take you to the station and we can talk there.” He spoke in a breezy, sing-song voice with a thick French accent.
I settled into the front passenger seat, and Ellie got in behind me. Robine pulled away from the terminal and took the A1 west into the capital city, Fort-de-France.
“Have you been to our lovely island before?” he asked.
“Once,” I said. “Many years ago.”
“And you, Agent O’Conner?”
“Yes,” was all she said. I looked in the side mirror and caught her reflection. She was staring at the window with a look that On the way here I pegged her as confident. Now there was a mystique about her that I couldn’t seem to peg.
The Police Nationale Commissariat was a narrow three-story building on Victor Sévère Street that had been built in the early 1900s. Alternating red and white stone formed the exterior, and at the front, a marbled archway was engraved with the date of the commissioning and a name I was unfamiliar with. It was enclosed in an white ornate iron fence.
Robine quickly cleared the security checkpoint and pulled into a reserved space on the side of the building. We entered through a side door, and he escorted us down a checkered marble floor, through an ante room where his receptionist sat, and then led us into his office.
His desk was cluttered with paperwork, a series of bookshelves stuffed with binders and punctuated with pictures of who I assumed were members of his family. A seating area with a couch and two leather chairs was on the far end of the room. He offered us the chairs, and he positioned himself at the end of the couch.
“So,” he said. “You mentioned over the phone that your government is interested in the whereabouts of Mr. Edward Latham, who went missing two days ago.”
“That’s correct,” Ellie said.
“And if I may, what is
your interest in him? He is a British citizen, living in the Netherlands. And his son is from a suburb of London, I believe.”
I said, “We have reason to believe that Mr. Latham and his son’s disappearance may be connected with a high-profile fugitive that our government has vested interest in.”
“I see. And this...fugitive. What is his name?”
“I’m afraid we can’t provide that,” Ellie said.
“Mhm,” Robine said. He seemed neither surprised nor offended.
Police corruption is rampant in Caribbean nations. Many police officers and politicians create and enforce laws and codes that line their own pockets, making deals with local and international criminals under the table while maintaining an air of propriety. I had no reason not to trust Robine, but on the other hand, I didn’t have a reason to either. Ellie and I had agreed that if we didn’t need to show our cards, we wouldn’t.
“What can you tell us about their disappearance?” Ellie asked.
“They were last seen at Plage des Salines, a popular beach on the south end of the island. A food vendor does remember seeing them in the late afternoon, the day before yesterday. Mr. Latham ordered two baskets of fried shrimp and drinks for both himself and his son. Several of my officers spent all of yesterday questioning people at the beach and in the vicinity of their hotel. But no one else recalls seeing them, I’m afraid.”
“And no security cameras have picked up anything?” I asked.
Robine gave an appeasing smile. “This is the Caribbean. I’m afraid we do not have as many cameras as you do. Here in Fort-de-France, a few. But nothing like that down near the beaches. We searched their hotel room, and nothing appeared unusual except for the fact that after the maid cleaned the room, the beds were not slept in again. Their luggage and belongings were about the room as would be expected.”