by J. P. Lane
TEN
The face was so familiar it was almost startling. Sleepily, Lauren gazed at it. At first glance she had assumed it was Logan, but as she studied the portrait carefully, she came to the conclusion it must be Logan’s father. The elder Armstrong’s eyes were considerably darker than Logan’s and they did not hold as much warmth. Lauren got out of bed and drew closer to the portrait. The resemblance between father and son was remarkable. They had the same swarthy complexion, the same thick dark hair with traces of silver. Logan even had the same cleft in the chin.
Slipping on the robe Virginia had thoughtfully laid out for her the night before, she went over to the French doors and threw open the blinds. This room, which had been David Armstrong’s study, opened onto the verandah where she and Logan had sat talking the night before. Now with the sun up, Lauren had a clear view of the gardens merging almost seamlessly into lawns that swept towards the boundaries of the property. Beyond the property lines, miles of sugar cane fields stretched toward the low hills in the background. Vale Verde was one of several sugar cane plantations that had made the Armstrong fortune in the colonial days when sugar was king.
Lauren stood gazing out the window for a minute or two before she closed the blinds and went to shower and dress. What a stroke of good fortune Virginia’s invitation had been, she thought gleefully as she stepped into the shower. The Artful Dodger may have been able to give her the slip for the entire duration of his party, but he could not escape her now.
Gordon and Virginia had already started on coffee when she joined them in the breakfast nook. Completely engrossed in the Sunday crossword puzzle, Gordon was oblivious to her quiet entry until he heard Virginia bid her good morning. He tore his eyes away from the crossword and looked up, first with open-eyed surprise, then with displeasure.
Virginia quickly tried to smooth her husband’s ruffled feathers. “I’m sorry, Gordon, I completely forgot to tell you I’d invited Lauren to spend the night. She’s interested in doing an article about Vale Verde.”
Gordon summoned as much of his good breeding to the breakfast table as his fury would allow. He was livid with Virginia, in the first place for inviting the woman, and secondly for not telling him she had done so. Virginia invariably invited whom she pleased, but a bloody reporter invading his sanctuary on a Sunday morning? And they were now on a first-name basis as if they were friends? A strained greeting was on the tip of his tongue when Logan stepped into the room.
Lauren gasped in surprise. On seeing her, Logan nearly dropped the magazine he was clutching.
Gordon shoved his newspaper aside. “This morning is full of surprises,” he said with a questioning look at Logan.
“Nobody’s more surprised than me,” Logan retorted with an irritable edge to his voice.
If there had been any chance of learning anything from Gordon, Lauren now realized this was not to be. A flush of embarrassment came to her face as she realized he considered her an intrusion. It was obvious he had not been told she would be there, and neither had Logan. However, it was too late to reverse the course of events, so she had no choice but to make the best of it. She remained standing uncertainly until Logan took a few deliberate steps toward a chair and pulled it out for her. He seated himself beside her and promptly joined Gordon in his silence.
An excruciating five minutes went by before Gordon remarked to no one in particular, “I noticed there was nothing further about the McGuire incident in this morning’s paper.”
“There’s been nothing further to report,” Lauren quickly said.
Logan remained silent.
Virginia looked at him worriedly. “I read somewhere we have the highest murder rate in the world,” she declared in a desperate effort to start a conversation.
“I think South Africa has earned that distinction,” Logan corrected her.
“Really? Where did you get your information?”
A conversation about the rise in crime on the island ensued to which Lauren contributed very little. Still embarrassed by what had taken place, she was praying brunch would soon be served and over with so she could make her escape.
“Did you sleep well?” Virginia asked Lauren as they finally sat down to brunch on the veranda.
“Yes, very well, thank you.”
“I’m glad you did. I don’t sleep well in strange rooms myself.”
For the sake of something in response, Lauren said, “I was curious about the portrait in the room. The person has a striking resemblance to Logan.”
“That’s our father’s portrait,” Virginia explained, relieved that Lauren had opened up a topic of discussion.
Gordon, now somewhat thawed since the disruptive start to his day, added a few strokes of his own to the portrait as he popped the cork from a champagne bottle. “My father-in-law was quite a man. Whatever David Armstrong touched turned to gold.” Fending off Virginia’s attempts to interrupt he pressed on, “By the time David hit his mid-forties, his business acumen had become legendary throughout the island.”
“Like father like son?” Lauren murmured, noting Gordon, now on safe ground, had made a complete turn-around from the evening before when she had said she would like to learn about the family from him.
“Yes and no,” Gordon told her. “David was the beneficiary of a substantial inheritance. We’re talking about thousands of acres of prime agricultural land. Logan didn’t have those advantages. He pretty much started from scratch.”
Lauren was now all ears. During her interview with Logan, she had not learned why he had had to start from scratch. She was about to ask when Virginia thwarted her by swiftly taking the stage.
“That’s true, but Daddy would have done it, inheritance or not. Anyway, I don’t think farming was ever enough for him.”
“Don’t think anything was enough for our father,” Logan muttered under his breath.
“That’s not true,” Virginia objected. “Besides, you’re just like him, Logan.”
“How so?” Lauren asked with growing interest.
Logan groaned inwardly as Virginia rattled on, “Well, let’s put it this way. Despite his outward ease, our father had a tough streak and, they say, razor-sharp business sense. In that respect, Logan is a chip off the old block.” She gave Logan a surreptitious look as she continued, “Although my brother’s business sense didn’t become apparent until that time when…”
“You were much too young at the time to remember that,” Logan interrupted.
“I most certainly wasn’t, I was ten.”
“Well, it’s ancient history, so maybe you can skip that one. Don’t forget there’s a journalist in the house,” he added shooting Lauren a playful glance.
“I think Lauren would find it very interesting,” Virginia insisted with a mischievous smile. “Lauren, would you like to hear the story?”
Not waiting for an answer, Virginia quickly proceeded to give her mother’s account of the morning when the first piece of bad news concerning Logan had made its way from the office of the headmaster of a pricey boarding school in England to the breakfast table at Vale Verde. A storm passed over David Armstrong’s face as he read the letter written in the headmaster’s perfect hand.
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Armstrong,
It is with regret I write to inform you that your son, Logan, can no longer be part of the student body of Bishop’s College.
In his first year at Bishop’s, Logan has failed to meet our standard in every way. In addition to an abysmal academic performance, Logan has shown an alarming inability to conform to school principles, flaunting rules and displaying disruptive behaviour at every turn.
As you well know, Bishop’s College is dedicated to providing the finest academic experience and has maintained its reputation as an ideal school for students matriculating into the world of higher learning. We do not give up easily here at Bishop’s, but it has become apparent this is not the academic environment for your son. He needs a firmer hand than we seem able to offer.
&nbs
p; Please feel free to call me to discuss this matter at your earliest convenience. You have my deepest regrets. I am as disappointed as you both must be.
Respectfully yours,
Charles Applebee
David threw the letter aside and glowered at Elizabeth across the table. “I take it you saw this?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth wrung her hands nervously, cringing at the explosion she knew was inevitable.
“What the bloody hell do we do with that boy?”
David brooded silently for a moment before launching back into his tirade. “If he was here, I’d give him a damned good thrashing. That boy has turned his back on every opportunity we’ve given him. That bloody school has cost me a damned fortune and all for absolutely nothing! What in the name of God could he be thinking, the little idiot?”
Although they never failed to jar her, Elizabeth Armstrong had learned to deal with her husband’s outbursts and, as protective as she was of her son, she admitted David’s anger was justified on this occasion. Although she tried not to make it obvious, Logan was the apple of her eye. In many ways he was much like his father, although David had never been able to see that. “What about Wellington?” she ventured cautiously, afraid her suggestion might inflame David’s already foul mood.
“What about Wellington? More money down the drain? Why don’t we just put him in a local school and let the little bleeder sink or swim?”
“Well, we could do that,” Elizabeth answered, appearing to demur to him. “I went to a local school and my education was good enough.”
David stared at Elizabeth. He seemed to be considering her suggestion seriously. “He’s my son,” he finally said in exasperation.
“He’s my son too. And I think we both want the best for him. Maybe being expelled will turn him around.”
“I don’t know about that, Liz. What do you know about Wellington?”
“From all I gather it’s an excellent school. The problem is it might be hard to get him in after this.”
“He needs a school that will administer discipline instead of carrying on all that elitist nonsense like that damned place that’s been charging a king’s ransom. They should be throwing in a university degree for that kind of money.”
Elizabeth decided silence was the best course now the seed had been planted.
“Find out more about Wellington and let me know if they’ll take him, Liz. Let’s see where we go from there.”
Lauren repressed a smile as she glanced fleetingly at Logan.
“I should have known you would ferret it out,” he grinned good-naturedly. “Anyway, I think we’ve bored you enough.” He turned to Virginia. “I’d like to show Lauren around the property if you don’t mind. I’m sure she’d like to see it.”
“They make a lovely couple, don’t they?” Virginia sighed wistfully as she watched Logan and Lauren walk away.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Gordon asked. Then the penny dropped. “Is that why you invited them both to spend the night? You’re out of your mind, Virginia.”
“But there’s a nice little spark there don’t you think? I haven’t seen Logan look at a woman that way in a long time.”
“Virginia, if I were you, I’d keep my nose out of it. You should know your brother well enough by now to not meddle. In any case, I don’t trust that woman. No telling what she’s after.”
“Which woman with a grain of sense wouldn’t be after Logan?”
“I’m not entirely sure it’s Logan she’s after.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t you, Gordon.”
Gordon chose not to pursue it. Virginia was better off in her insular little world.
ELEVEN
The Prime Minister, the Honorable Erick Freeman, sat in a comfortable rocker looking out at a misty-blue sea stretching to the horizon. The day was unusually clear and from where Freeman sat on his upstairs verandah, he could see Cuba floating on the horizon like a mirage. Squinting at the far away cloud he knew was in fact the neighboring island, Freeman’s mind settled on an obscure bit of information, one he found of particular interest. Back in the nineteen eighties, Colombia’s Medellín cartel had paid officials in Cuba’s Ministry of Interior six million U.S. dollars to transship six tons of cocaine through Cuba to the United States. Freeman calculated that payment amounted to a million a ton, considerably less than his organization was charging to move eighty tons or more through the island en route to Europe. Freeman was aware his cut may have been considered steep, but with law enforcement in Central America becoming increasingly vigilant, he knew he had room for negotiation. He offered what few other countries in the region could: unobstructed passage for the container ships. What had prompted him to demand fifty percent of gross profits was another interesting bit of information he had stumbled upon. The Mexican, Juan Carlos Abrego, charged a forty to fifty percent commission. Freeman had pounced on that idea. However, Abrego’s commission was in kind, which suited Abrego. The Mexican had his hands in the U.S. market at that time. What Freeman wanted was cash – hard, cold cash. U.S. dollars.
The Prime Minister swished his rum and coke listening to the ice crackle as he watched the cars making their way along a road in the near distance. He conceded he was what you might call comfortable. He had this pleasant home when he wasn’t confined to the official residence of the Prime Minister, a nice enough apartment in Sutton Place, and the chateau in Provence where he entertained select friends from time to time. Freeman thought about it. If he were to be completely honest with himself, what he wanted was power. Absolute power. He was beginning to discover that that was not an easy thing to achieve. He wondered if his neighbor Fidel Castro hadn’t been right.
Freeman smiled grimly. They may have foolishly believed he would never get wind of it, but he was fully aware there had been rumblings among certain members of his cabinet of late. Three cabinet members in particular were of deep concern. From what he had been told, they were becoming alarmingly vocal about the government’s complete ineptitude in getting crime under control. Margaret Thomas came as no surprise. Neither did Boyd, the Minister of Tourism. It was Allan Harvey who had turned out to be the unexpected thorn in his side. He and Allan went back a long way. Together they had driven the party to success. There was room in his plan for a man like Allan. The problem was Allan seemed to have other ideas.
The ceiling fan hummed almost noiselessly above as Erick Freeman continued rocking deep in thought. At one time, he had seriously considered forcing the resignations of the three ministers. However, that idea had turned out to be flawed. They were popular with their constituents. They were above reproach as far as anyone knew, though he didn’t think it would be that difficult to pin something on them. One thing was certain, some form of action had to be taken before it was too late. Freeman stopped in mid thought. For a minute he wasn’t sure and then he realized his wife was calling him. “Erick, there’s an urgent call for you,” she said coming out and handing him the phone.
Erick Freeman’s face darkened as he listened. “Damn!” he barked. “How did that happen? This can’t go on! How the hell did they make a stupid blunder like that?”
Immune to the Prime Minister’s tirades, the person on the other end of the line stated calmly, “I can’t answer that at this point. I’ll look into it. Just thought you would want to know.”
“Make sure you handle it or heads will roll. That’s a promise. While I have you on the phone, heard anything back from our lady?”
“Still waiting for final confirmation. But from what I gather from her partner, it’s a done deal. They’re set to go.”
“Well, that at least is good news. Keep me apprised, will you? I’m anxious to hear what she says.”
Frank Sterling, the Minister of National Security and Defense, soberly considered the Prime Minister’s outburst. Erick’s frequent tantrums were becoming worrying. Erick had become nothing short of a megalomaniac. If he showed further signs of instability, he could very easily rock the boat
. Sterling found Freeman’s threat about heads rolling particularly unsettling in light of the recent threat that had been issued to Robert Palmer. Sterling hadn’t agreed with that reckless course of action. Palmer may have been powerless when all was said and done, but nobody was above indictment. The minister was not a happy man as he picked up the phone and quickly dialed another number.
“Frank here,” he announced briskly. “The PM’s fit to be tied over that C.I.D. detective. We need to talk. Your guys are messing up on a grand scale. What happened, man?”
“There’s been an unfortunate lack of communication going on, Frank. But let’s talk. When and where?”
Frank Sterling considered the options quickly. Privacy was imperative. The less anyone saw them together, the better. “Meet me at the marina at four. We’ll go for a sail and see if we can sort this out.”
Sterling hung up and dialed again. This time, the call was to Cali, Colombia.
Late that evening in Cali, Jorgé Caicedo Rojas tightened the sash of his burgundy smoking jacket and walked over to the well-stocked bar to make himself a nightcap. He deliberated for a moment between a Grand Marnier or a Rémy Martin. He decided in favor of the Rémy and poured a large snifter, filling it considerably more than is customary.
Across the room, Maria Echevarría lounged languorously on a butter-soft calfskin sofa, her white satin gown clinging to the curves of a perfect body. “You are such an uncouth pig, mi amor.” Her comment, breathed in a low, throaty voice, was iced, and she contemplated the man at the bar with disdain. “You live in the lap of luxury and yet look how you pour a glass of cognac, like a peasant. And here am I dying of thirst and you haven’t even thought to offer me something.”
Jorgé’s blood boiled at the insult, but he chose not to react. He had learned not to rise to the bait where Maria was concerned. “I apologize, that was thoughtless of me. What can I get you?”