The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  It was a beautiful aircraft. The spitting image of a Citation Mustang, Cessna’s breakthrough model that was awaiting certification in the United States before it could hit the market.

  But it wasn’t a Mustang. While the Federal Aviation Administration snailed through the certification procedures, a maverick baby boomer from Boston had swooped in and started to manufacture look-alikes in Brazil. He used a stolen copy of the authentic Mustang design, but modified it just enough to keep Cessna’s legal bloodhounds at bay. People with very deep pockets and very secret missions were buying up the look-alikes even before they rolled off the production line.

  The one that had just touched down in the Pakaraimas had been the very first off the line. In honor of that distinction, the maverick baby boomer had the factory inlay a horse’s saddle in gold on the tail of the aircraft. Nothing garish. A tasteful size, just big enough to be seen from up close.

  The maverick baby boomer was Jackson Stone, a billionaire who loudly and shamelessly declared himself a modern-day Robin Hood. In private, he chuckled that every good deed he did was more for himself than for the masses that benefited from it. Good deeds, he said, were his wall of protection. An impenetrable barricade between himself and those who would thwart his success.

  And true enough, the half-hearted attempts to shut down his factories in Asia, Africa, and Latin America invariably ran into a wall of workers, spouses, children, even the elderly and the infirm. Jackson Stone’s factories had brought them jobs, and schools, and medical clinics, and decent houses, the people shouted angrily at the authorities. And what have you given us but empty words? they yelled.

  They wanted nothing fancy, the workers proclaimed. Nothing state-of-the-art. Just basic, ordinary things that took the shadows out of their eyes. The authorities knew when not to mess with the salt of the earth. The doors of Jackson Stone’s factories remained open.

  “Doin’ good deeds ain’t nothin’ but good business sense. Heck, I count my return on those measly investments in the billions!” Stone would laugh.

  His factories pirated every top-of-the-line name-brand item, from jogging suits to the aforementioned jets, and sold them all over the world, even in the United States. Few wasted their time wondering how he got away with it. Even his most avid detractors conceded, grudgingly, that all was fair in trade and war. He committed a third of each factory’s annual earnings to feeding, housing and doctoring as many of the earth’s wretched as he could. He paid Uncle Sam his due, gave generously to the Democratic, Republican, and Independent parties, got himself branded by the press as America’s lovable bad boy philanthropist, and dodged every bullet of jealousy fired in his direction.

  It helped a great deal that he was “a living, breathing, American Adonis, born into a poor Irish family in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, a college dropout,” as one bedazzled news reporter once described him.

  “I am the American dream: poor but ballsy blue-eyed boy makes his way to the top with no college degree,” he told his friends. Not a soul argued with him. When he branded his Mustang knock off “Sali,” borrowing from the popular Wilson Pickett song, “Mustang Sally,” opinion page and talk show pundits shook their heads and roared with laughter. So did most of America’s business brass, though they did so in private so as not to offend Cessna. Now, as the golden-saddled Sali bounced along the runway, three young Indian men dressed in combat fatigues emerged at different points from the surrounding bushes. Each one carried an AK-47, cocked and ready. Not one of them was older than eighteen. They stood guard silently as the Sali rolled to a stop behind the aircraft that had touched down just minutes earlier, another Sali.

  The door of the arriving jet swung open. A man in dark glasses and an impeccably cut summer-weight wool suit stepped into the doorway. From a distance he cut an impressive figure. Trim. About six-foot-four, two hundred pounds, give or take a few. Dark-skinned, though more of a Mediterranean hue than Latin American.

  Up close, his square-jawed, handsome face was cruelly marred on the right side by a scar that formed a jagged crescent from his temple to the corner of his mouth. It was a trophy from his first fight in a bar in the slums of Caracas.

  His bearing exuded arrogance and inspired fear. This was a man who was used to commanding and to being obeyed.

  He descended the metal staircase with measured steps, a half-smile on his face, head held high, turning slowly in a studied, piercing sweep of the clearing. The moment his foot made contact with the earth the three combatants simultaneously lowered their rifles and saluted smartly. The man did not return the salute. He stood still at the foot of the staircase, his back as erect as if he had had military training.

  Behind his dark glasses, his jet-black eyes continued to sweep the thick foliage that encircled the airstrip. He cocked his head slightly and listened intently, as if filtering the raucous brawl of the hundreds of species of birds, howler monkeys, and other fauna that inhabited the Pakaraima region. He scanned the skies beyond the mountaintops, where the sun was making its laborious ascent to noon.

  And he waited.

  The combatants cocked their rifles again and they, too, waited. No one spoke.

  Suddenly, there was a break in the foliage and another figure emerged into full view. Startlingly pale in the tropical sun, the graying, middle-aged man who strode onto the runway wore the casual business attire of an American executive attending a meeting in the tropics: khaki Dockers; pale-blue oxford shirt open at the neck; navy-blue jacket of some new high-tech blend; laced leather brogues; and designer dark glasses.

  He walked quickly and confidently toward the one the Indians called Sickle Face, his hand outstretched in greeting, his face grim.

  “We meet again, Alejandro. How are things in Caracas?” It was a boyish voice. High-pitched. Full of charm. Devoid of warmth.

  Alejandro grasped the outstretched hand. “They are well, my friend. And for you? How are things in New York?”

  The resonant timbre of Alejandro’s voice contrasted sharply with the high pitch of the American’s. His heavy accent was more Spanish than Venezuelan. It was the accent of his father, a Basque revolutionary who was educated in Madrid and who fled to Venezuela after bombing the headquarters of the Guardia Civil.

  The American frowned and shot a quick glance at the three guards. Voices carried in the mountains.

  Alejandro nodded toward the staircase. “Shall we go aboard?”

  “New York is not pleased,” the American said when they were settled in the soft leather seats of the custom-appointed aircraft. “Things are moving much too slowly in Georgetown. But this sudden death of Andrew Goodings. A little too obvious, don’t you think? Too convenient, the timing. The old man has already made comments to that effect. He is very shrewd.” Alejandro fixed his obsidian gaze on the American and smiled a slow smile. “It had to be done. You know it was the only way to handle him.” His tone was patronizing.

  “Something had to be done. Perhaps this was not the most prudent thing to do.”

  “You sanctioned it, my American friend. We understood each other that day. On the phone.”

  Grant Featherhorn ran his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, sighed, and looked away. He leaned back in the seat and stared up at the ceiling, chewing his bottom lip.

  He sighed again. “Yes, you are right. It was the only way.” They were silent.

  “And now?” said Featherhorn after a while.

  “I meet with Minister MacPherson later today to discuss my proposal to develop an eco-resort and conference center here in these mountains. It is a project the Guyanese government desperately wants. Needs, in fact. Foreign investors are staying away. Too much crime. Too much trouble with the opposition. Blacks and Indians killing each other over who did what during the elections and who should rightfully be running the country. The place seems to be disintegrating and the government appears to be at a total loss as to what to do. A project like mine would give the president something to brag about to the internation
al community. He could say it is a sign of renewed foreign confidence in Guyana; that no one would invest in the country if they were not satisfied that the government has a tight grip on things.”

  Featherhorn’s eyes narrowed as he watched Alejandro light a cigarette. He thought irritably that the Venezuelan’s movements were affected to the point of being effeminate.

  “Fools!” he snapped.”If they want a sign of renewed foreign investor confidence, then why won’t they go forward with Savoy’s proposal?”

  Alejandro inhaled deeply, blew out the smoke through his nostrils, and then continued as if Featherhorn had not spoken. “But I have made the issue of transportation a determining factor. Clever, don’t you think, my friend? I am insisting that the government provide adequate air transportation to my resort. I have impressed upon them, all of them—the president, Minister MacPherson, the tourism minister, the commerce and interior ministers, all of them—that this would demonstrate their commitment to the project. But they have been stalling. Understandably, of course. But, in the long run, foolishly. They plead they have no money, therefore they want me to be responsible for the transportation. I have said I cannot leave myself that exposed when the situation in the country is so uncertain. So we have been at a stalemate for the last month or so.”

  He paused again and inclined his head with an air of modesty, misreading Featherhorn’s silence as approval of, even admiration for, his negotiating acumen. “It is now time to play hardball. I plan to say to Minister MacPherson that I am well aware of Savoy Aerospace’s interest in setting up an air transport network in Guyana to better access its interior and its neighboring countries, of its offer to sell the government a fleet of small planes on very attractive terms. I will state to him in no uncertain terms that I would consider it very bad faith, very bad faith indeed on the part of the Guyanese government vis à vis my project if Savoy Aerospace’s interest were dismissed. You see my point?” He stared at Featherhorn expectantly. Featherhorn nodded, concealing his annoyance. Alejandro’s voice and the roll on his r’s had deepened as he became caught up in the drama of the scenario he described. Of course, he saw the point. Alejandro Bernat’s money was behind some of the most exotic and successful eco-resorts in Latin America. If Guyana continued to balk, he would threaten to walk away from the project. And if he walked, he would not go quietly. No way! The Alejandro Bernat he knew would create a stink in the press. And he would not do it in Guyana’s local media either. This was the kind of story that would be lapped up by news organizations in Europe and North America.

  Featherhorn pictured the whole thing in his mind. Bernat would set up the reporters he had access to, feeding them information about his discontent with Guyana’s investment environment. He would cite the hallowed names of Savoy Aerospace and Pilgrim Boone as fellow victims of the Guyanese government’s ineptitude. Before long, the press would be seething at the gall of some dirt-poor rice republic to turn down investments that so many other countries coveted. By the time Bernat was through, the poor little country would be hard-pressed to get even its own émigrés to consider investing there.

  Hell, it was brilliant! Using the press was a textbook Pilgrim Boone tactic.

  Suddenly, Featherhorn could not help grinning. There was no need to say more on that subject. He was relieved, actually, that Bernat had things so well figured out.

  He nodded to Bernat.”You know of the Pilgrim Boone woman in Georgetown?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yes, I do. I have not seen her, but I have heard much of her. A black American woman, is it not so? Of Guyanese extraction, I believe?”

  “Yes. She’s very smart. And very much like Pilgrim himself. Approaches negotiations the same way. He was her real mentor. As much as she wants this deal to go through, she, too, will ask questions about Goodings’ death.”

  “Ah, my friend. You worry too much. We, too, have our woman in Georgetown. Her name is Leila. She is an Amerindian woman who is very loyal to us. I will assume that you know who the Amerindians are. She despises the government of Guyana for what it has done to her people: robbing them of their tribal lands, leaving them defenseless against the Canadian mining companies and the Malaysian timber concerns. Venezuela was smart enough to give them sanctuary when they rebelled during the Burnham regime. Our woman, she was just a little girl at the time of this rebellion, but she knows intimately the story of the men of her family and of her tribe who died. She is strong in her vow of vengeance. She will see to it that your woman does not ask too many questions. She is discreet and most efficacious. Goodings is a fine example of her work.” Featherhorn felt his skin crawl. Alejandro was going too far. “Alejandro—” Bernat cut him off. “Perhaps you are tired after your long flight from New York. And the thought of making that very journey back in—” His voice trailed off as he raised his arm and looked at his gold Rolex. “—just over an hour, I am sure it must make you doubly tired. Let us relax and have a drink. We still have a lot to discuss, assuming Guyana will act wisely.”

  He chuckled and leaned closer to Featherhorn, his voice amused and intimate. “This meeting between us, Grant. You said it was necessary to put things in perspective. Surely that does not mean it has to be unpleasant.” Featherhorn shrugged. He knew Alejandro Bernat well enough not to be fooled by his chummy demeanor. Challenging Bernat’s unspoken but obvious plan for getting Drucilla Durane out of their way would put him on Bernat’s wrong side, a place he had no desire to put himself in. Oh, well, too bad for Dru, he thought. She should have gotten out of Pilgrim Boone long ago. He had tried hard to make her do just that. The stubborn fool. She had to prove how tough she was, didn’t she? Well, this is what you get when you play tough in the wrong game. She’s on her own, now. It’s no secret that Guyana isn’t the safest place to be.

  Bernat patted Featherhorn on the arm. He spoke kindly. “Relax, Grant.

  There is too much at stake for us in Guyana to be distracted by unknowns. Now, let’s toast our good friend Jackson Stone and these amazing Mustang Salis.”

  16

  That face.

  That bearing. Tall, svelte.

  The walk. Long, heavy strides.

  And his hair. So thick. So black. Curling down to his shoulders.

  The color of his skin was like the flesh of old tamarind, a fruit she grew up seeing in her home. A deep, burnished brown.

  What a striking man, Dru thought. He reminds me of someone. Fascinated, she stared at the man through the tinted windows of Dalrymple’s SUV.

  Dalrymple had picked her up at her hotel and brought her to the Ministry of Transportation. On the way he told her that he and Roopnaraine had called in a ton of favors to get her a meeting with MacPherson that very afternoon. She had been adamant about the meeting, refusing to be swayed by their protests about protocol and short notice.

  “You’re supposed to have the clout to pull off something like that. That’s why Pilgrim Boone paid you the outrageous retainer you asked for,” she had said tersely.

  She and Dalrymple had just driven through the gates of the ministry on Battery Road when she saw the man. She had singled him out from the crowd of people coming and going in the ministry compound not only because he was so tall, but also because he seemed familiar.

  She scanned the man’s long, thin face more intently, her brow drawn tight with the effort to jog her memory. His eyes, set deep under bushy, perfectly angled eyebrows, seemed unusually small. His lips were thin and unsmiling. The lift of his head caused his chin to jut out slightly, adding to his air of absolute power. The longer she stared at him, the stronger she sensed she had seen him before.

  Dru squeezed her eyes shut and tried to place the man in her past. Where would she have seen such a man?

  Suddenly she knew. Marseille! He reminded her of the man in Marseille all those years ago. The man Theron St. Cyr had called “Ramy.”

  Ramy! He whose nearness had made her skin crawl. He who had made her huddle close to Theron St. Cyr. The on
e who, if what St. Cyr said on the plane was true, would have kidnapped her all those years ago had he, St. Cyr, not reached her first. Could this be the same man? Would Ramy be this old? This guy seemed to be in his late forties.

  You simply would have disappeared and you never would have escaped alive, Dru. Believe me.

  Dru shuddered as she recalled St. Cyr’s words. He had sounded so earnest, so sincere. Was he telling the truth?

  She pushed the question aside and brought her focus back to the stranger approaching the SUV. Dalrymple had stopped, waiting for the parking slot that was being vacated by a mint-new, silver-gray Honda Accord.

  Did this man really look like Ramy? Dru was beginning to doubt herself. Maybe Ramy was on her mind because Theron had brought him up on the plane in that laughable attempt to clear his name, she thought with disgust. Did he think she was stupid?

  Still, she struggled to recall details of the face of the man in Le Quartier Noir. No clear picture emerged. It was too long ago. She had seen him only that one time, that one weird moment when he strode by and shot pure hatred at Theron St. Cyr.

  It’s this man’s look and the way he carries himself that reminded me of Ramy, Dru concluded. The darkness that seems to emanate from him. The same aura of evil clings to this man as it had to Ramy.

  The man had almost caught up with the SUV now. His eyes were fixed on the darkened windows of the SUV as if he could see right through them. Dru tensed, sinking her fingernails into the arms of the seat. She stared back at the man, unable to look away.

  A memory stole into her head. There are evil people on this earth, the old woman on the train in France had said to her. Good people always sense their presence. If ever you sense such a presence, be on your guard. It is a sign of bad things to come.

  Dru blinked, surprised at the awakening of yet another memory from those heady days in Europe. Theron St. Cyr’s reappearance in her life had flung open a door in her mind. First Ramy, now the old woman.