by Fred G Baker
THE BLACK FREIGHTER
also by fred g. baker
fiction
The Black Freighter
ZONA: The Forbidden Land
The Detective Sanchez/Father Montero Mysteries:
An Imperfect Crime
Desert Sanctuary
The Modern Pirate Series:
Seizing the Tiger
Prowling Tiger
Restless Tiger
Raging Tiger
non-fiction
Growing Up Wisconsin:
The Life and Times of Con James Baker
The Ancestors of Con James Baker of
Des Moines, Iowa, and Chicago, Illinois,
Volumes 1–3
The Descendants of John Baker (ca. 1640–1704) of Hartford, Connecticut, Through Thirteen Generations,
Volumes 1–2
Light from a Thousand Campfires,
with Hannah Pavlik
The Black Freighter
A Caribbean Spy Thriller
Fred G. Baker
Other Voices Press
Golden, Colorado
Published by Fred G. Baker. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2019 by Fred G. Baker. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, and occurrences are products of the author’s imagination or are fictitious in nature. Any resemblance to real events or persons living or dead is coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
All images, illustrations, logos, quotes, and trademarks included in this book are subject to use according to trademark and copyright laws of the United States of America.
Published by Other Voices Press, Golden, Colorado
ISBN 978-1-949336-15-3
Cover Design by Nick Zelinger, NZ Graphics.com
Southwest Clip Art by GoGraph.com
All Rights Reserved by Fred G. Baker.
Printed in the United States.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people for their aid and support in the writing and production of this book: Dr. Hannah Pavlik for her support and encouragement; my beta readers who provided helpful comments and ideas; Donna Zimmerman for word processing; and Nick Zelinger for cover design.
Chapter 1
Tuesday, March 6
Grenada, West Indies
The passengers were already fed up with the wait to get through security screening at the Maurice Bishop International Airport. The screening was tighter than usual because of the recent demonstrations in Saint George’s—the capital city of the small, island nation of Grenada. Threats of violence were always taken seriously during a sensitive period like this—as the contentious national election had divided Grenadians against one another. Rumors of outside interference in the election filled the air.
Robert Wilson stood inside a kiosk at the airport terminal, watching passengers deal with the chaos of modern travel. They jostled each other, tempers flaring occasionally, as they made their way through the screening line.
He was glad he wasn’t traveling today. He was just killing time as he waited for a certain Caribbean Airlines flight to arrive from Caracas. He wasn’t meeting anyone from the flight, but he was interested in who might be on board.
As he paged through a tourist pamphlet, he noticed that one of the many terminal televisions was carrying a story about the recent volcanic eruption on Grenada. The video shown on the TV was taken years before, on the island of Montserrat, where the Soufrière Hills volcano had exploded. It served to show what might happen if the current eruption got completely out of control. It was dramatic enough to cause tourists to stop in their tracks and stare in awe, before hurrying on to their departure gates.
The rush to evacuate tourists from the island had accelerated when the Grenada government raised the volcano alert level from yellow to orange—and noted that it might turn to red shortly. An undersea volcano called Kick ’em Jenny had recently begun venting gases and pouring lava onto the seafloor. It was an ancient volcano, which hadn’t erupted since the 1930s—but it did occasionally belch steam and sulfur dioxide into the sea, poisoning the water and threatening maritime traffic.
The government had issued a five-mile exclusion zone around the volcano, because the gases could build up in the water and change the ocean’s density. That meant that a ship sailing through the gassy water might not be as buoyant as usual. Ships could actually sink in the bubbling sea.
In any case, most tourists had not included a volcanic eruption in their vacation plans. The American government and some other countries had issued an advisory, while a few touring companies had rerouted their cruise ships. Many tourists had decided to vacate the island. The problem was that there were only so many flights to and from the island each day, so all airline seats were booked up quickly. Nobody was really in panic mode yet, but a red alert would send foreigners into hysteria.
Wilson checked his watch, then purchased a cup of coffee at the café and loitered outside the airport exit. He positioned himself where he could remain unobserved, watching the passengers depart the Caracas flight. He checked the faces of all the men who exited the baggage area. He took their photos on his cell phone surreptitiously. He was surprised that none of the men from the flight were the ones listed in his briefing file. That was odd. Who were these men?
He walked to his rental car and watched as a few more people exited the terminal. He rubbed his hands over his face to ward off fatigue. He needed to focus on the work ahead. It was important, possibly dangerous work—and he had only a week to do it.
Chapter 2
Tuesday
Driving from the airport back to his hotel on Grand Anse Main Road, Wilson had time to think about the challenge that lay ahead. He had come to Grenada on assignment, posing as a journalist covering the upcoming national election. In reality, he was collecting information about what was really happening beneath the surface of the election campaigns. He was an analyst, tasked with reporting back to headquarters whatever he discovered. It sounded easy enough, but there were strong political undercurrents—some of them foreign, most of them clandestine.
There had been reports of political intrigue before the national election, and a few sources suggested that the current government—one friendly to America—might fall. In an open and fair election, that would be considered democracy in action. However, rumors suggested that outside influence was at play—and that would be a problem.
Wilson pulled the Toyota Noah minivan up to the guard station of the Hempstead Resort. The guard came out of his little shack with a clipboard. He checked Wilson’s ID and noted the license number of the vehicle: R344, a Hertz rental.
“Good night, Mr. Wilson. How you be?” The guard, named Leslie, was a huge black man with a friendly smile—who prided himself on knowing the names of all the guests within two days of arrival.
“Hello, Leslie. Doin’ fine today.” Wilson had not yet gotten used to the local tradition that anything after noon was considered ‘evening’ and any time after dark required you to wish passersby “good night” even if you were just arriving.
Wilson drove to the small car park and switched off the engine. He had started parking in the inner area due to recent shenanigans by protesters at the public park nearby. A few men had been seen within the Hempstead compound—men who should not have been there.
He walked to his room on the second floor of the main building, where he had an ocean view—Grand Anse Beach only fifty feet away. He wa
lked immediately to the front window, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped out onto the balcony. He picked up the binoculars from the small, plastic table and raised them to his eyes.
Yes—the long, black ship was still at anchor nearly half a mile offshore. It was a freighter of some sort, with two cranes mounted on its deck and several containers also visible there. The lettering COBRA was painted in white on the side of its hull, and it had an identification number and name on the stern: Shanghai Maiden. He had managed to sail past the ship three days before on a rented sailboat, giving it a once-over. He had memorized the name and number. He had seen several Chinese seamen on board.
He had sent an email back to his control at Langley, asking for more information about the ship. It had arrived in port three weeks ago and had never moved from its present anchorage. That was odd for a cargo ship—which would have to load and unload in order to maintain its shipping schedule and turn a profit.
The ship had two masts on it—one on the forecastle and one aft. They didn’t have spars on them, so they were probably not in current use for sailing. The ship had a satellite dish, a radar dish, and several antennas—some of which were attached to the masts. That many of them were not normally found on a freighter.
Wilson called the mystery ship the Black Freighter.
Wilson walked into the bathroom and washed his face after the long, warm tropical day. He looked in the mirror at his suntanned features—where worry showed in lines around his brown eyes. He was tired from a few late nights, in addition to days of conversations with locals and government officials about the upcoming election. He combed his gray-tinted, brown hair, noting the sunburn on his somewhat crooked nose—a reminder of his college boxing days.
He checked his voice mail and email before leaving the room. Then, he walked along the darkening pathway toward the hotel’s beach bar. Tiny frogs sang out in high-pitched chirps from their hiding places in the lush vegetation that lined the path and filled the landscaped spaces between buildings. He crossed the inner courtyard and made his way to the main swimming pool, where several hotel guests were still entertaining themselves. Palm trees, red bougainvillea, ginger, and other plants made the grounds feel like natural jungle in a parklike environment. The smell of ripe mango fruit filled the air. The sound of reggae music drifted toward him as he made his way to the center of activity.
He entered the beach bar, which opened right onto the beach and the swimming pool. It had a straight, mahogany bar on one side and was open to the beach at the front, with the pool to the right. A dozen tables stood inside the café, with high-tops just outside the canopy. The serving staff of three was challenged when the place neared capacity on weekends. Wilson had learned that going directly to the bar was the best strategy if he wanted a drink within fifteen minutes of arrival.
“Rum and ginger ale, Gordon,” he called cheerily to the bartender, a very tall man who wore a black bow tie, a white shirt, and a broad smile every evening he worked. His well-groomed Afro and goatee, along with the square-framed glasses he wore, gave him the air of a young jazz musician or a university professor.
“Comin’ right up, Mr. Wilson. How ya tonight?”
“Doin’ good,” Wilson replied. “And you? Keeping out of trouble?”
“Tryin’, you know. It difficult with the election coming up. People come and argue for NSP and the blue. Others come in to drink and want the GPC and orange to win. I’m just a bartender. I gotta agree wid both sides, so I just listen, listen, and listen.”
Wilson and Gordon bumped fists. Wilson laughed as Gordon handed him a rum and ginger ale, a much better drink than a rum and Coke. The ginger brought out the flavor of the rum; whereas the Coke killed it.
“So, who’s going to win? I hear all sorts of things that the GPC will win, and there will be a sea of orange T-shirts all over. Then, I talk to someone wearing blue and they say the NSP will win,” Wilson said, slapping his palm flat on the bar. “They’re both sure they will win.”
The NSP, or National Standard Party—with their blue jerseys and placards—were currently in power and had run a moderate and stable government for more than twenty years. The GPC, or Grenada People’s Congress—the orange party—had been the opposition party for two decades, running in all the elections as a populist and social reform party. They didn’t win many elections, but they always put up a spirited game.
Gordon leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The smart money say that NSP never lost an election and they incumbent. So, they hard to beat.”
“But some people say the GPC has lots of money to spend this time around. That’s why they have so many TV ads and banners everywhere.”
Just then, they were joined by Oliver Morant, the bar manager for the Hempstead. He was an older man who had been through the island’s political seasons many times. He said, “That the big question. Where does Hjarad Senjai get de money for all dem political ads, do you suppose?”
“Outside money?” asked Gordon. He knew that most NSP supporters were convinced that foreign cash was behind the GPC. It never failed to get a rise out of Oliver Morant.
Morant was a big man with graying hair and a marked stoop. He walked over to the bar and stood next to Gordon. “The opposition certainly got more money to spend in this election than ever they had in the past.” He lowered his voice and brought his dark features close to Wilson’s face. He whispered, “Some say it’s Chinese money.”
Gordon picked up the thought. “But nobody knows where that money is coming from. Nuh? Who got money for dat?”
“And not only who, but why?” Morant whispered.
Wilson had heard this before. The GPC had lost the last three elections because they had put up marginal candidates and couldn’t raise money. In fact, the man they were now putting forward as their party leader—and their candidate for prime minister—was Hjarad Senjai, the same man who had lost the last three elections. He was not a likeable man, and many people said they would not accept him as PM if he was elected. Yet, once again, the GPC had put him up as their candidate—along with many others who had run and lost previous elections. It just seemed that the GPC had no clue how to win office.
“And the GPC promising too many things, promising every child goin’ to have a computer for school, everyone goin’ to get a job, everyone goin’ to get free health care, everyone goin’ to get basic income. How they goin’ to do dat?” Gordon paused. “Wid no money?”
“But this year, Senjai seems flush with cash. He’s on TV a lot and gives speeches all over the country,” Wilson said. The GPC had a huge war chest this election. This concerned Wilson. What was different this time?
“I think it’s Chinese money.” Morant lowered his voice again. “He mighty friendly with the Chinese companies that do business here on the island. He was minister of public works, you know. He gave that big Chinese company its first construction job three years ago—the national stadium contract. He been friends with dem ever since.”
The television over the bar suddenly flashed an orange banner on the screen and a campaign ad for the opposition party ran loudly, with the PM candidate, Senjai, shouting out promises. He would make every man on the island prosperous with government programs, but he did not say how he would pay for them all. Then he talked about how the Chinese government stood ready to invest capital in industry on the island.
A peculiarity of the GBTV—Grenada Broadcasting, the only television station on the island—was that they ran a network disclaimer after every single political ad on the air. Lately there were so many orange ads appearing back-to-back with the disclaimer that it was rather monotonous.
“How you gonna pay fo’ dat?” a man at the bar shouted and then he and a friend laughed. “Give it to me!” he yelled. “I got no money to pay now. Why not give me some dat money?” Several customers laughed along with them.
It seemed that many Grenadians had a better understanding of how money worked than the candidate for the opposition, Senjai—but p
oliticians never failed to make promises they would never keep, even if they were elected.
Gordon moved down the bar to serve another guest. Morant looked around the room to see if any other customers needed help. He returned to the conversation. “Senjai made three trips to China since then—all paid for by Wong Construction Company. Since then, they won three more contracts from the Grenada government.”
“You think they gave him something? Money?” Wilson asked. He had heard rumors about Senjai receiving money before, but they seemed to be just that—rumors. “Maybe money for his campaign? That happens in the US all the time.”
“I don’t know,” Morant said. “But he drivin’ a big Mercedes car now. Brand new. That’s expensive with the government import tax. Where he get that kind of money? It ain’t from his government salary.”
Gordon came back. “An’ the news poll showing orange side, the GPC, very high, right up with the blue side. But I don’t know anyone who wants to vote for orange. How can that be?”
Wilson smiled at Gordon’s enthusiasm. He had learned that Gordon was the man to know for information about what was really going on in this country. He seemed to have a knack for gossip and for getting people to talk.
Two large groups of customers entered the bar and looked around for tables. As he rushed off to seat them, Morant said, “Where dat girl Simone? She late again?”
Wilson turned around on his barstool and watched the place fill up with dinner guests. A group of Venezuelan men came in. They were attending the economic forum at the hotel conference center a short distance away. They were a rowdy crowd and demanded rum punch cocktails immediately as they sat down at a table by the pool. Wilson wondered what kind of economic conference they could possibly have, given their currently failing economy at home.