Circle of Bones: a Caribbean Thriller

by Christine Kling

  It wasn’t how he would have done it, but they were bringing him in now to clean up their mess. He had to tread lightly here. Politics and all.

  Diggory took another sip of the wine, swished it around in his mouth, and swallowed. Yeah, he thought, we risk nothing but more wasted time if these idiots screw up again. The wine had a supple, earthy taste. Not bad for a no name label.

  Caliban continued. “Don’t know how the devil old man Thatcher got on to this. It was more than sixty years ago, for God’s sake. There’ve been all sorts of rumors about what happened during the war, but nobody ever got it right. We had one of ours on board the submarine, but he went down with the rest of the poor bastards. Only a handful of people ever knew the truth, and they’re all ours.”

  “What about Thatcher’s son?” Diggory said. “If he gets there before us –”

  “If that happens, I’m confident you’ll deal with it, Thor.”

  Diggory had no doubt the man knew both his real name and his reputation. There was a reason they had called him in on this one. They needed him.

  “And you’ll do a better job of it than what happened with the father.”

  Dig felt the corner of his mouth begin to turn up. He shouldn’t laugh, but really. They went a bit overboard with that one. Sexual strangulation and in a get-up like that? Amateurs. Most of those he worked with were old-school professionals with years of service in intelligence work, but some of the new generation had read too many books, watched too many movies. Whomever they’d used on that job in England had had more imagination than experience.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is on this sub that’s got everyone’s panties in a wad.”

  Caliban dragged on his cigarette, looking at Dig through squinted eyes. He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. “No,” he said.

  Asshole, Dig thought. He’s enjoying this. It’s all a power play to him. Then again, it’s possible even he doesn’t know. “Just so I’m straight on this — if Thatcher does find the damn boat and it follows our worst case scenario — in other words, if the goods are retrievable, what do they want me to do? Salvage or destroy?”

  The silver-haired man crushed his cigarette out and then flicked a finger in the air without glancing inside the cafe. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew a slender wallet, and by the time the waiter arrived with their bill on a saucer, he dropped a handful of colorful euro bills on the plate. Once the waiter was out of earshot, Caliban leaned close to Dig’s ear.

  “As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Thor, it never happened. Keep it that way. What is down there and why it’s there, could change everything. This administration is already on rocky ground as it is. This would not only ruin their legacy. Not to be over dramatic, son, but it would change history.”

  Dig drew back, the corners of his mouth pulled down in disgust. Son. Someday, he would make this man regret his choice of words. “I won’t go into this blind.”

  The older man leaned back in his chair and sighed. Then, turning away and gazing across the street, he said, “You don’t have any choice, Thor.” He reached up and ran his palm over his head, smoothing hair that didn’t need smoothing. He sat forward again and said, “I can tell you this. We have managed since the beginning to stay in the shadows. That’s the only way an organization like ours can be effective. If these documents exist, they could verify the extent of our influence. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Documents. At least he now knew that much. But it was crumbs, he thought. Dig nodded. When the time came, he would get a look at this, whatever it was, himself. These documents would be his.

  Caliban continued. “We don’t need somebody, anybody, finding this now — or at a future date. It doesn’t exist. We need you to make sure of that.”

  Dig nodded again. They needed him. “It doesn’t exist. I’ll make sure.”

  The man stood, glanced at the gold watch on his wrist and placed a hand on Dig’s shoulder. Dig held his breath, calming the desire to shake off the hand.

  “You’ve had years of experience dealing with this sort of thing, Thor. Yorick taught you well. I speak for all the others when I say we have every confidence in you.”

  “As you should.”

  Diggory watched the silver-haired man cross the Place de la Victoire and disappear into a narrow street. He stretched out the fingers of his right hand and then, starting with his pinkie, one finger at a time, he folded them into a clenched fist. He rotated the fist on his wrist. He repeated this over and over, flexing and strengthening the muscles of his right hand, as he stared unseeing at the passers-by.

  It had been a while since anyone had mentioned Yorick’s name to him. Since his forced retirement, this new lot tried to pretend the old man never existed. Feared they’d never quite live up to the legend.

  After presiding as Uncle Toby at Diggory’s initiation and doing his damnedest to drive off the fatherless youth, Yorick had followed Diggory’s career. The old man began to appear like a dark shadow, laughing when Dig’s waitress mother hugged him at graduation or writing effusive letters of recommendation when Diggory applied for jobs. Later favors had done little to change what Diggory felt every time he thought of his first night in the Tomb. That empty, wandering eye and the other, the one that always judged him and found him wanting. Diggory had played the role of pet mutt, sitting at the great man’s knee and soaking up the knowledge. And only he knew that one day this dog would turn on its master. That day was nearly here.

  This Caliban was not up to Yorick’s standard. Though they were relatively small in numbers and decidedly elite, there were still incompetents within their circle. Not many, though. He had to grant that. He hadn’t made up his mind about this Caliban, yet. Using the barbarians was a mistake, of that he was certain. Yorick never would have tolerated it. But, for the moment, Diggory had no choice. For more than fifteen years he had worked hard in order to prove himself. In order to rise in the ranks. Biding his time until the time was right. Now, men like Caliban — and Yorick — were on their way out. Whether they knew it or not.

  He stood and walked out of the cafe then paused at the street, undecided about which way to turn. Though it was only just past six, it was dusk already. Strings of colored lights had been looped across the street the full length of the Place de la Victoire giving the evening a festive air. Caribbean pop music spilled from the restaurant on the corner.

  His rendezvous with the barbarians wasn’t until eight. And after that, nothing scheduled until his meeting tomorrow evening. That was the important one. Like the old adage about killing two birds with one stone. Literally.

  He could take an early dinner, handle the meeting and then retire, or he could telephone that little German schoolteacher he had met out at Saint Francois in the discotheque. She had been drinking zombies like they were water and each time the bartender served her another drink, she showed him how she could tie a knot in the stem of a maraschino cherry with her tongue. He smiled at the memory. She would be delighted to hear from him after she’d nearly begged him to stay in her room last night.

  Something to pass the time, to take the edge off. That was what he needed. So tomorrow, when he met her, he could play it cool.

  He pulled out the small cell phone he had purchased for local use and cursed when he saw it had no signal. The damned French couldn’t even build a cell phone network that worked. He had used the phone earlier down by the waterfront, so he began to walk in that direction. When he arrived at the Rue Duplessis, the phone was working, and he scrolled through his recent calls for her number.

  On the periphery of his vision, he saw movement. He scanned the area with a quick glance. There was a woman, down on the quay, waving her hands and shouting. She was wearing khaki shorts and a white polo shirt that showed off a firm, compact shape with tanned and muscular legs. Her auburn hair was cropped short, and it curled at the back of her long neck. He was thinking there was a certain resemblance, but the hair was different
. Then, she threw her arms into the air and walked around in a circle. He saw her face. Diggory smiled like a boy who had just received an early Christmas gift.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Atlantic south of Bermuda

  February 12, 1942

  Woolsey scrambled into a crouch and peered into the dark. He’d recognized the voice. “McKay, you bastard, you scared the friggin’ daylights out of me.”

  “Piss off.”

  “What about Mullins?”

  “Over here, sir.”

  “Glad to know you’re both all right, then.”

  “S’not what it sounded like to me.” Sean McKay, the telegraphist, was a career Navy man serving in his second world war. Built like a cartoon seaman with massive biceps, one of which sported an anchor tattoo, and a neck near as wide as his head, he looked more like he belonged in an old boiler room than where he was usually found — in the radio room hunched over the telegraph key with his headset on. He filled the tiny compartment, but he had one of the fastest hands in the British Navy. He had made it plain from day one that he didn’t like the young lieutenant. Woolsey had heard McKay call him “Lord Muck” and “Lieutenant La-ti-da” under his breath due to his RNVR rating from the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. Woolsey had been attending university in America only a few months earlier when he returned home to join up.

  “So what happened to the two of you?”

  “I was in my bunk, sir,” Mullins said. His voice was close to an octave higher than McKay’s. They made an odd couple. Mullins, a refined, self-educated lad, was born to working class parents, but his innate intelligence was getting him ahead. Already, his tastes ran to classical music and opera. Woolsey supposed the boy was a poof, but it was none of his business.

  “Catching up on sleep, sir, before the long night watches I reckoned were ahead. They came for me and dragged me out of my berth. Kewpie didn’t even let me put my shoes on.”

  “No injuries, then?”

  “No, sir.”

  Woolsey was about to say something more but his words were cut off.

  “No thanks to you.”

  Woolsey heard the challenge in McKay’s voice, and he didn’t know what to do about it. His only hope of leading a man like Sean McKay was through military authority, and it appeared the French were doing their best to break that down.

  He tried to ignore the big man. “Walter, did you hear them say anything? Any idea what their plans are?”

  McKay wouldn’t let the young signalman speak. “All we heard was you out there begging with them Frenchies, then crying in here.” McKay imitated Woolsey with a high falsetto voice. “‘Let me off. I got orders. Let me outa’ here.’ Couldn’t help but notice you didn’t say we had orders. Planning on leaving us on board, were you, Lieutenant?”

  “Whatever you think you heard, that was nonsense. I was only trying to talk my way out of this. Mullins, you understand that, right?”

  “Sir? I’m not sure what I heard, sir.”

  “I was making up a story. Trying to get them to take me to the captain.”

  “Bollocks,” McKay said. “You was savin’ your own skin, Lieutenant.”

  In the dark, Woolsey heard the shhh of cloth moving.

  When McKay spoke again, his voice was much closer. “Sounded to me like you knew exactly where to lay your hands on those orders. A little bloke like you wouldn’t try to take on a guy like Gohin. Too scary-lookin’ for the likes of you.”

  Woolsey began to crab his way backwards across the deck.

  “Lieutenant La-ti-da had those orders, didn’t you,” McKay said. “You was leaving us.”

  “For Christ sake, man, it was a bluff.” Woolsey was now scrambling, crawling as fast as he could – away from that deep voice. “I was just saying whatever came into my head. It was nothing.”

  With a dull thud, his head hit the steel bulkhead behind him. At the same time, a ham-sized hand closed around his ankle and dragged him away from the wall.

  “Sean McKay, I am your superior officer. You lay your hands on me and –”

  “Shut-up you friggin’ arsehole.”

  Woolsey felt the man’s fingers close around his throat. In a choked and raspy voice he said, “McKay, I’ll get us out of here. Figure out something.”

  “You couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.” The big man’s hands began to tighten, closing off his air supply so Woolsey couldn’t make another sound. “Why wait for the Frenchies to throw us to the sharks? I’m doing you a favor, Mate. I’m giving you a quick way out.” McKay started to laugh.

  Even over the ever-present rumble of the engines, they heard the grinding noise followed by a clunk as the wheel turned on the outside door, then light flooded the compartment, blinding them all. Woolsey squeezed his eyes shut against the glare then gasped for air when McKay released his throat. The big man scrambled back into the shadowy recesses of the hold. Woolsey, still closest to the door, curled up on the floor and tried to cover his head with his arms, protecting himself both from the light and the likelihood that the French soon would rain blows to his body. He waited, but no one touched him. Several different voices were shouting in French, then Woolsey heard a thud as a body hit the floor not far from him, and the hatch door slammed shut.

  He understood now why no one had spoken when he was thrown inside. It was bloody quiet after all that row stopped when the hatch closed and they were plunged back into darkness. The advantage would go to the one who had the most knowledge, and he didn’t want to speak to give away his location. His breathing sounded so loud, he did his best to hold his breath.

  The quiet seemed to stretch on for hours, though it was in fact only a minute or two. The silence was finally broken when the recent arrival groaned. Woolsey heard the man’s clothes rustle as he got to his feet, then footfalls as he walked to the far side of the compartment, confident as though he could see. Then came the sound of wood cases sliding on the floor and the clink of metal tapping on glass. The man was digging through the cases of wine. What the devil could he be doing?

  Then a voice exclaimed, “Ahh! Voilà,” and there was a click and the thin beam of a torch lit the compartment as well as the man who now held it.

  “I thought you three would be here,” Captain Lamoreaux said, his face smeared with blood.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Pointe-à-Pitre

  March 25, 2008

  6:15 p.m.

  Riley pushed open the door to the Customs House and charged down the steps to the street, leaving the door to slam behind her. How had this day that started out so great turned into such a complete mess? Under her arm, she carried her portfolio that normally contained her ship’s papers, passport and money. Clutched in her hand was the sheaf of papers marked up with various official stamps, one of which was a receipt for her confiscated passport, and another demanding her presence at a hearing the following week.

  The sun was gone and the sky over the outer harbor had turned a dark, iridescent blue. To the east, a cluster of ash-colored clouds was rimmed with molten red. She hadn’t realized they’d kept her inside the office that long, but the French desk jockeys in there couldn’t get it through their heads you don’t smuggle illegal aliens into a country one at a time. It had probably been so long since they’d had any sort of real international crime on this island they just couldn’t wait to charge her with something. The Gendarme had looked at her over the top of his half glasses as if he was inspecting bad meat when Beaulieu had called him in and asked him to write up the paperwork.

  That was when she’d told the Gendarme she wanted to report that this Bob had stolen her handheld radio, and he’d smirked at her. Smirked! What? Did they think she was making the whole thing up?

  When they were kids, her older brother Michael was the only one who could ever get away with teasing her or laughing at her. Anyone else usually wound up with a bloody nose. Michael knew how teasing infuriated her, but he counted on the fact that she could never get mad at him — and
he used that, the little bugger.

  Being back in the Caribbean reminded her of the Barbados years. St. Winifred’s was the name of the school. She must have been eight years old and Michael nearly ten. She was a skinny kid but already taller than her older brother and growing so fast her mother had bought her school uniform a size too large. Two boys followed them from school to where they were to catch their bus. They started calling Mikey names like Midget, Fathead and Fish Face. She was going to ignore them until they called her Faggy Maggy in the Baggy Pants.

  She knew even back then to go for the leader. She turned around and walked up calm as could be. She asked the bigger boy his name. He preened and looked to his friends for encouragement, but before he could answer, she slugged him right in the nose. He staggered and fell, but got right back up and charged her, going for a head butt. She dodged him, and he tripped over the leg she extended. Then her brother grabbed her hand and the two of them ran down the street and onto the bus. They hurried to the back seat and looked out through the exhaust at the red-faced boy on the ground wiping at his bloodied nose.

  “Remember that day?” she whipered. She saw Mikey’s face in her mind, the glasses sitting crooked on his big ears, the watery blue eyes behind the thick lenses, the thin blond hair spreading out from his crown making him look like the barber had used a bowl to cut his hair. She always pictured him as she had seen him that last time, standing ramrod straight at his full five-foot four in the doorway of their apartment in Paris, the strap of his laptop case crossing his narrow chest bandoleer-style, and that lopsided grin trying to reassure her he would be fine. She grew older, but Mikey was eternally eighteen just as he had been that fall when he left home for Yale.

  I’m not going to let them do this to me, Mikey. It’s like when we were kids, Brother. It’s time to fight back.

  If the authorities weren’t going to help her get her radio back or do anything about Bob, she was going to have to find the man herself. She had that meeting next week for Mercury Security in Dominica. This was the first time they had entrusted her to handle an entire project, from bid through installation, and she wasn’t going to mess it up. Swinging her arms and taking long strides up the street rimming the edge of the inner harbor, she rounded the corner and nearly ran into the Creole ladies who were packing up their Scotch Bonnet peppers and greens at their roadside stand.