The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance

by J. P. Lane

  “No thank you,” Pavel declined with another practiced smile. “How long do you think he might be?”

  “Mr. Foster isn’t back from lunch yet, so I’d say about twenty minutes,” she told him, blushing as she met his gaze.

  “Then I’ll just make myself comfortable while I wait,” Pavel smiled.

  The receptionist could hardly take her eyes off him as he went over to the seating area. He was, if not the most, one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. As he sat and faced her, she quickly returned to her file. But unable to help herself for very long, she stole another glance at him.

  Aware of her furtive glances, Pavel placed his briefcase on the floor beside him and picked up a magazine. He smirked inwardly, satisfied his good looks had done the trick again. The lady would be a piece of cake to manipulate if the need arose. He checked his watch. It was 1:41. He had exactly nineteen minutes left, but he needed to sacrifice one in order to maintain the façade. It was 1:42 when he got up and walked back over to her.

  “Excuse me, is there a restroom I could use?” he asked.

  “Certainly, Mr. Duncan. It’s beside the lunch room on the fifth floor,” she told him.

  Moving with urgency, Pavel dispensed with the elevator and hurried up the short flight of carpeted stairs to the fifth floor. He paused at the lunchroom and took a quick look inside. Luckily, it was empty of people. Muffled voices coming from a room some way down the corridor were the only sign of life on the floor. Judging that the coast was clear, he proceeded to his destination. He quickly put on his gloves and reached inside his pocket for the key. He opened the door to the storage room and slipped inside.

  Pavel perused the dimly lit room. There was a light switch by the door, but turning it on was out of the question. There could be no hint anyone was there. On the side of the room facing the street, an excuse for light fought its way through dilapidated aluminum blinds into the musty space. Pavel shrugged off his jacket and went over to the window. From where he stood directly in front of the capital building, his vantage point was superb. He opened the window a crack and went over to the closet against the far wall.

  Quickly, he started pulling out file boxes and placing them on the floor, calculating it would not take long to find the weapon. He hadn’t got to half a dozen boxes before he froze. Hardly daring to breath, he listened as the click of high heels came to a halt outside the door. Pavel’s mind began to race. If the person entered the room, he could deal with them fast enough, but what if they screamed? That would be the end of it. Noiselessly, he went over and stood by the door, readying himself for the moment it opened.

  Twenty precious seconds went by and the person still didn’t move. Beads of sweat began to drip down Pavel’s forehead as he tried to get a sense of their intent. What were they doing, he cursed inwardly. Sleeping on their feet? As he glanced worriedly at his watch for the second time, the click of high heels resumed and disappeared down the corridor in the direction of the elevator. Pavel closed his eyes and exhaled. Moving at a rapid pace now, he placed the last box of files on the floor and reached for the long black case. He opened it and gazed at the Parker-Hale M-85 in admiration.

  The Prime Minister straightened his tie in the mirror of the private bathroom adjacent to his office. He checked his watch. It was exactly 1:45 p.m., time to go. Even with the road cleared for his motorcade, it would take ten minutes to get to the capital building. All of a sudden, he had a strong premonition that the day would go well. He had no idea why he felt so positive, but he could feel change in the air. Trailed by two bodyguards, he left his office and went to his waiting car.

  Deputy Prime Minister, Allan Harvey was pensive as the Audi transporting him to the opening session of the Houses made its way slowly through the downtown streets. Sitting beside him, the assistant to the minister gazed at the mirror-black Mercedes ahead of them. He glanced at the minister, “Think we have a tough afternoon ahead of us, Minister.”

  “Yes, it’s going to be a rough one,” Allan Harvey replied in a low voice. “But we all have to do what we have to do.”

  Across the street from the capital building, Pavel caressed the sniper rifle, his fingers running down its sleek shape with respect. What a beauty it was, capable of a guaranteed first round up to six hundred meters. With his marksmanship and the short range involved, the hit would be a breeze. And the rifle was as light as a feather, twelve and a half pounds. He checked the case for the accessories: a scope and the silencer. There would be no sound when he felled his target. He hurriedly returned the file boxes to the closet and closed the door. Next, grabbing a footstool, he unscrewed the cover of the air conditioning vent and put it aside. Now all that was left was to lock and load his weapon. He attached the scope and silencer and checked the magazine and safety catch. He was ready. He checked his watch. Not long to go.

  It was getting hot in the closet of a room as Pavel peered from behind the blinds with his weapon poised. “Finally, here they come!” he breathed. First came the front guard, the immaculately uniformed mounted police ceremoniously leading the way for the motorcade traveling a few yards behind. The cars moved forward at a stately pace – first the Governor’s, then the Prime Minister’s, flanked by the heavy security vehicles of the Police Special Forces. Intently, Pavel watched the complete assembly of officials disembark from their cars: the Governor, the Prime Minister, then the other ministers and their respective retinues.

  The Governor and Prime Minister exchanged official courtesies, then turned to face the press and TV cameras before leading the way up the steps to the entrance. Pavel waited with the patience of a cat, his scope on the Prime Minister, his forefinger in readiness. Until now, there had been too many people milling around the head of state to get a clear shot. Then came his chance – a news cameraman, his lens aimed at the Governor and Prime Minister. Erick Freeman stopped his ascent of the steps and turned to face him with a smile. His amber eyes narrowing to a squint, the assassin took aim.

  The first carefully marked bullet hit Erick Freeman in the forehead leaving a neat hole between his eyes. Following swiftly after the first, a second bullet went straight for his chest, ripping through his heart. The Prime Minister collapsed in a crumpled heap, his life seeping away in a red pool. There was a hush, followed quickly by a woman’s scream. Police Special Forces appeared out of nowhere, fending off curious onlookers. Camera flashes went off like blinding ammunition as the confusion grew to a crescendo.

  Pavel moved fast. He removed the two spent cartridges from the floor and returned the weapon and tripod to their case. Climbing the stepladder, he shoved the case inside the air conditioning vent and screwed the vent cover back on. Quickly shrugging on his jacket, he cautiously opened the door of the storage room and slipped out. He shoved his gloves into his pocket made his way leisurely back to the fourth floor.

  It was exactly what he expected to find – total chaos, people crammed in front of the reception area window trying to make out what was going on across the street. Pavel stood watching quietly, contrived perplexity written all over his face. Amidst the confusion, a phone rang endlessly. At last hearing it, the receptionist ran to get the phone. At that moment, she saw Pavel. “Oh, Mr. Duncan, there you are! While you were in the restroom, the Prime Minister was shot,” she panted as she rushed past him. She took the call and came back to him, her words tumbling over each other as she said, “Mr. Duncan, I’m sorry, but we have to cancel your appointment. Mr. Foster can’t get back to the office. All the roads in the area have been blocked off. He’s asked if his secretary can reschedule you.”

  A response was on Pavel’s lips when eight heavily armed Special Forces officers entered the room. “Anybody seen anything unusual up here?” the officer in charge asked.

  One of the legal partners stepped forward.

  “Were there any strangers lurking around here?” the officer asked him.

  “Not as far as I know,” the attorney answered uncertainly.

  “Who was
in this room in the past ten minutes?” the officer asked the perturbed group.

  The receptionist dragged herself away from Pavel’s side. “Only me. I was the only person here,” she said.

  The officer assessed her briefly then discounting her. “Do I have your permission to search the premises?” he asked the attorney.

  While the Special Forces men dispersed to search the building, the receptionist hurried back to Pavel. “I’m sorry about your appointment,” she said breathlessly.

  “No need to apologize,” Pavel reassured her smoothly. “I fully understand this is an unprecedented emergency. It’s just that my time is limited and I have to leave soon.”

  “I’ll get Mr. Foster’s secretary right away so we can reschedule your appointment.”

  “Oh please don’t concern yourself on my account,” Pavel told her in his most forgiving tone. “I’ll have my secretary call and make another appointment.”

  As a seasoned professional, Pavel was adept at making his hit then moving on without a trace. Taking advantage of the confusion, he did so now, slipping out of the reception area unnoticed. The back entrance of the building provided the perfect escape route and it was in this direction the assassin now walked hurriedly down a hallway, leather briefcase in hand. He opened the door and stepped into the parking lot, donning his sunglasses. At once, he spotted the two law enforcement officers at the exit. Calmly, Pavel got in his car and drove over to the exit.

  “Excuse me, sir. Can I ask what business you have here today?” one of the officers said as he stopped him.

  “I had a two o’ clock appointment with David Foster, my attorney,” Pavel explained. “But it was cancelled because of the shooting. Terrible thing. I find it hard to believe.”

  “Yes, it’s terrible, sir. If you don’t mind, we need to search your car.”

  The uniformed man made a cursory survey of the interior, his eyes stopping at the briefcase on the passenger seat. “Mind opening that for me, sir?”

  Pavel obligingly opened the briefcase to reveal a file folder, his airline ticket and his passport. Through the rearview mirror, he noticed the other officer opening the trunk.

  “Can I see your passport and driver’s license please?” the officer at the car window asked. He took the documents from Pavel and examined them methodically. “How long are you here for?” he asked flipping through Pavel’s passport.

  “Actually I planned to leave immediately after my meeting. Since it’s been cancelled on account of this tragedy, I might as well be on my way. No point waiting around.”

  The officer stepped back from the car and spoke into a two-way radio as the trunk closed with a clunk. “There’s a car coming through on its way to the airport. Red Toyota rental.” He read off the number of the tag. “We’ve already checked him. You can let him through.” He came back to the driver’s window. “Thank you. That will be all, sir. Better get a jump on it while you have a chance. If you wait any longer, you might not be able to get out of here.”

  Pavel made his escape slowly down the narrow lane. As usual, his camouflage had served him well. For some reason he could never fathom, the appearance of an affluent businessman never failed to work, even at airports where security had become tighter than ever. As he pulled up to the barricade a hundred feet in front of him, he could hear emergency sirens approaching from every direction. He was getting out of the city not a minute too soon.

  Using a map that had been provided for him along with the other contents of the package he received in London, Pavel headed for the airport, driving cautiously so as not to invite an accident, but not slowly enough to attract attention on the fast-paced roads. He thanked his good fortune no one had thought to read the rental contract for the car. The car rental had been the only flaw in the plan. For expediency’s sake, the car had not been rented in his name, the arrangement having been for him to leave it in the airport parking lot to be picked up after his flight departed. He checked his watch. He was cutting it fine, but with a first-class ticket, he didn’t foresee any problem making the flight. He looked up at the mountain crests shrouded in afternoon mist one last time before turning onto the harbor road and leaving the view of them behind.

  By the time he reached the head of the harbor, army and police vehicles had already started patrolling the roads to the airport. Yet again, he was stopped. Unperturbed, he watched the police officer saunter over to the car, his amber eyes taking in the crisp white shirt with epaulettes, the black pants smartly striped with red on either side, the pistol slung into the black gun belt. “Do you mind telling me why you stopped me, officer?” he asked in a tone meant to clearly show he was in a hurry.

  “We’re checking all traffic coming out of the city,” the policewoman drawled.

  “Why is that?” Pavel asked with feigned surprise.

  “The Prime Minister was just killed.”

  “Killed?” Pavel exclaimed. “When?”

  “Not too long ago. Can I see your driver’s license please?”

  Pavel pulled his license from his wallet and handed it to her.

  “You’re from the UK?” she asked examining the license.

  “Yes, I am,” Pavel confirmed. “I’m actually on my way to the airport to catch a flight back home. I’m already running late.”

  “Well, you better get going,” she said jotting down his license number. She handed it back to him with a flirtatious smile. “Have a good flight.”

  Cleared once again, Pavel at last turned onto the airport road. On his left, the sea roared rough, crashing onto the pebbly beach that stretched as far as the eye could see. He looked towards the city, shimmering in the mid-afternoon heat. Lying across the harbor, it seemed innocent of poverty, crime, violence, or the tragedy that had just taken place. On the steps of the seat of government lay another notch in Pavel’s belt, the former Prime Minister Erick Freeman. Why he had been contracted to kill the man, Pavel would never know. But in his line of business, the whys and wherefores really didn’t matter. What mattered was getting the job done – efficiently and expediently. He had accomplished what he had come to do.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  In the downtown area, sirens screamed as emergency vehicles fought their way through the crowd of curiosity seekers surrounding the capital building where Palmer jumped out of his vehicle almost before it stopped. Accompanied by the head of the Police Special Forces and an army of law enforcement officers, Palmer barreled over to the cordoned off crime scene. “Get these people away from here,” he ordered on seeing the crowd pushing forward. He turned around irritably to fend off a reporter’s questions and hurried up the steps to where Erick Freeman lay.

  Palmer gazed down at Freeman’s lifeless body. “Who in the name of God could have done this?” he muttered under his breath. His eyes moved swiftly from Freeman to the buildings across the street, lingering briefly on an obscure window on the fifth floor of the Foster & Foster law offices. “Have we been able to pinpoint where the shots came from yet?” he asked his next in command.

  “Judging from the way the Prime Minister fell, the sniper had to have been in one of those buildings across the street,” the Special Forces chief surmised. “This whole area in front was lined with cars and our security vehicles at the time it happened. Every vehicle has already been searched. None of the drivers waiting for officials have been allowed to leave the cars yet. I already have men searching the buildings across the street. We’ve asked people in those buildings to stay put until we have a chance to question everyone thoroughly.”

  Palmer grunted and looked back down at the body. The ship from Nicaragua immediately flitted through his mind.

  At Island Daily News, Peter and Lauren collided midway through the newsroom, the impact almost knocking the wind out of Lauren. She jingled her car keys at him. “I got it covered,” she said breathlessly. Before Peter had a chance to respond, she rushed off, trailed by a staff photographer. Not waiting for the elevator, she bounded down the emergency staircase to th
e parking lot. The photographer had hardly managed to get both feet in the car before Lauren tore out of the lot.

  “Damn, Lauren, slow down before you get us killed!” the photographer shouted as Lauren screeched to a stop in front of a red light. Lauren clutched the steering wheel impatiently as she waited for the light to turn green. Not really expecting an answer she asked, “How on earth did a thing like that happen? Who could have shot him?”

  “Beats me,” her associate shrugged, “But whoever did it, hats off to them. Erick Freeman got his just desserts, if you ask me. About time somebody got rid of him.”

  Lauren gave him a reprimanding sideward glance. Though deep in her heart she concurred with him, she would never have voiced such a sentiment.

  She stepped on the gas the second the light changed, her mind keeping pace with her little yellow VW Bug. An assassination was unprecedented. Nothing like that had ever happened in the Caribbean, not the English-speaking Caribbean at any rate! This was a huge story and she could hardly contain her excitement over being able to cover it. Now she had a chance to give Freeman’s murder closer consideration, she was sure it was not politically motivated. There was no doubt in her mind it was connected with the shady business at the port. That still didn’t answer the question of who was behind it, however. Was it somebody local, or was it somebody overseas? Whichever it was, the whole thing smacked of a drug deal gone sour.

  Downtown was already a mess when they arrived, traffic jams at every turn. They ground to a halt a mile from the capital building. Lauren wove her way through the traffic as it started up again, going heavy on the horn to get cars out of her way. Finally, avoiding the main route, she took a short cut through a narrow alley. They were just two blocks from their destination when she found herself in front of a police barricade.