by Fred G Baker
Suddenly, there was an altercation at the far end of the bar where one of the Venezuelans demanded a drink. He had apparently pushed one of the locals out of his way, and harsh words were exchanged. A mix of Spanish swearing—punctuated by Grenadian insults—led Morant to intervene bodily in the argument. The bar manager—who had been a professional wrestler at one time—simply clamped the angry Latin in a bear hug, pinning the man’s arms to his sides and carrying him out of the bar to the beach.
“Stay here till you can be friendly. We all friendly here.” Morant then marched away, leaving the man to fume on his own for a while.
A warm breeze filled the bar as a light rain began falling, creating a pattering sound on the metal roof of the establishment. Rhythmic island music, a ska tune now, drifted over the clientele of the beach bar.
Wilson saw a large cruise ship lumber into the main port of Saint George’s, four miles away—all its lights glaring against the water. It seemed as though every cabin and deck light was illuminated for the show. Wilson wondered if all cruise lines would stop docking at Grenada now that the volcano was acting up. The volcano—it was a new factor that had everybody on edge. People were already nervous about the upcoming election.
Just then, a banner flashed across the TV screen: Breaking News. Gordon called for the people in the bar to be quiet and then turned up the volume on the television.
A very calm woman appeared on-screen. “We have just received news that Neville Charles, who is the National Standard Party’s candidate for minister from West Saint George’s, has been seriously injured in a fight at a campaign rally. Mr. Charles was speaking at an event near the city market, where a large crowd of his supporters had gathered earlier this evening. It seems that several rowdy and possibly drunk men—dressed in orange shirts, typical of the Grenada People’s Congress—crashed the event. They began chanting campaign slogans for the opposition. A lot of shovin’ and name-callin’ erupted, and soon the GPC supporters shouted down the candidate. Several men ran onto the stage and snatched the microphone from Mr. Charles’s hand. Then, a fight broke out between the newcomers and Charles’s supporters. Some of the men had cricket bats, which came into play, and a general riot resulted. Mr. Charles and several other NSP members were injured and removed to hospital. Police arrested nearly two dozen men . . . More news later.”
There were many comments from the customers as they digested this news, which created a sense of fear and uncertainty. Everyone seemed upset.
A Grenadian man said, “This is bad.”
A woman said, “This isn’t right, this violence.”
One of the Venezuelans commented in Spanish, “¿Amigos, es como neustras ciudad, no?” This was just like home. He led his comrades in jovial discussion. They all laughed raucously. Some of the Grenadians stared at the men, muttering their disdain. The Venezuelans curtailed their mirth.
Gordon looked at Wilson with concern. “Mr. Wilson, this is not like our Grenada. We argue, but then have peaceful elections. None of this fighting.”
“What has changed?” Wilson asked, curious.
“It’s those outsiders,” said Morant. “The Chinese. The Venezuelans. Who knows? But this is not like us. This is like it was when the damn Cubans were here—always meddling.”
Wilson tossed down the last of his rum and ginger and stood up from the bar. “Well, I have an early morning. I’ll see you gentlemen tomorrow.” He nodded to Gordon and Morant, and to the others at the bar who noticed his departure.
He sauntered back toward his room quietly, slipping through the vegetation-lined paths as he smoked a small cigar and enjoyed the singing of the frogs. But he did not return to his room. Instead, he followed the path that led to the side of the property—where there was a gap in the fence used by the lawn maintenance staff. It led to a side street—not much more than a sandy lane that ran from the beach to the rear of the hotel, where the trash dumpsters were stored. He headed for the beach, with light provided by the half-moon in a cloud-cluttered sky guiding his way.
***
He walked directly to the path that followed the beach and wandered past several other resorts and beach properties. He took his time, puffing on his cigar as he shuffled through the loose sand on this warm tropical evening. As he walked along, he greeted the night watchmen, who stood silently in their cotton uniforms in the dark at the more exclusive resorts.
Soon, he heard the sounds of the establishment he was seeking. It was the small rum shop and bar called Mingo’s, which was located on the beach away from the tourist trade. It wasn’t much more than a shack, with a tin roof over a simple structure of posts and wooden siding. The floor was sand and the bar was a long counter propped up on barrels, with a plain set of shelves for a backbar. The rum drinks flowed easily and cheaply. Spirits were high.
It was where fishermen and entrepreneurs—of a sort—mingled after hours, for sport and for profit. Soca music—that favorite style of Grenada—filled the air, and a few couples danced to it next to the bar.
Wilson sought out one man in the mixed crowd—a man who would normally seem a bit out of place here. He was sitting at a tall table at the back talking to a lean, dark woman. Wilson would not have taken him for an English lord based on his current costume of worn khakis and a battered straw hat—maybe a beachcomber or fisherman, hoping to attract a tourist to his boat for a day of sport fishing—but not the British adjunct consul, Sir Darius Lightchurch, stationed in Grenada on assignment. He had a neatly trimmed beard and thinning hair that framed his reddish complexion—the result of years at sea. He looked like an English professor or even like that British actor who played in Jurassic Park. At least, that was who came to mind when Wilson had first met him. He was an affable man, with a good store of off-color jokes that came out after a few glasses of Scotch—his favorite libation.
“Robert, you were able to make it. How clever.” He spoke in a quiet Oxford style, perhaps slurring his words a little from an evening of Scotch sampling. He kept his head low, disguising his features. “This young lady is Madeline Caron, an old friend of mine—and someone who is quite discreet.”
“Good evening, Darius. You seem to be having a pleasant time.” Wilson looked at the stunning Madeline, noting her tight-fitting wrap. Her black hair was braided in a crown on top of her head, setting off her caramel-colored skin and light-brown eyes. “Good evening, Madeline. How are you?”
“Fine, Mr. Wilson.” She smiled and slipped from the stool she had occupied. “I’ll get us fresh drinks, if you’ll be drinkin’ the same as His Lordship here.” As she turned, Wilson noticed the slight bulge of her dress at the small of her back—which suggested she did not travel unprepared.
Lord Lightchurch followed his gaze. “She is pleasant to look at and also serves as my security team.” He finished the last of his drink and set the glass on the table. He chuckled. “Cutbacks, old boy. I used to rank at least two security men. Now, I have Madeline. Much more pleasant spending time with her than the stiff, silent types. The dark Ray-Bans always made me nervous.”
“We can speak in front of her?”
“Oh, yes. She has full clearance and is very helpful with information gathering.” The old gentleman snickered. “I think most people assume she’s some sort of escort, so they speak freely around her. They’d probably tell her their deepest secrets if I wasn’t nearby.”
“I heard that, old man.” Madeline returned with two generous pours of Glenlivet and a gin and tonic for herself. She smiled at Lightchurch. “You’re really like my grandfather sometimes.”
“Ouch, that hurt. So, it’s grandfather now? Yesterday, I was your kindly old man.” Lightchurch and Madeline chuckled at the old joke.
Wilson observed the two carefully and decided that he could share his information with them both tonight. After a moment Wilson said, “Let’s compare notes. Do you have any more info about the containers?”
Lightchurch leaned in to whisper his reply. “Yes and no.” He paused as he f
ormulated his response. “We know the containers were brought in two months ago—sixteen of them. But there may have been more since then. They come in under the aegis of Wong Construction Company, but they have never been opened since arrival.”
“And the other containers—how many?”
“We don’t know exactly. They arrive in small batches with other equipment and containers that are opened and used right away.” Lightchurch sipped his scotch. “Customs has them all listed as material for the commercial building they’re working on near Quarantine Point. You know—that huge, iron monstrosity that will overlook the bay. It’s supposedly a hotel of some sort, but it seems too big for that. Lots of steel compared to anything else on this island.”
“Yes, I drove by the site a few days ago. It’s extensive.” Wilson swirled his whisky in the glass before drinking. “They have a lot of security in place there—fencing and guard patrols. Seems excessive for a construction site.”
“And they have a lay-down area with many containers arranged along the back of the site—where no one can see them being opened.” Lightchurch stopped and raised his hands in the air, palms up. “What the hell are they doing?”
“I’d like to get in there and take a look inside one of those containers,” Wilson said. “Did you get the list of the ones we know about?”
“Yes.” Lightchurch nodded to Madeline, who subtly passed a slip of paper to Wilson as she shifted her arm next to his. “This is what we can tell. These numbers are for the containers we suspect so far. There may be others.”
“I’m going for a walk out that way in the morning. I’ll try to get an angle and read off some of the numbers on the containers in the back.”
“How will you get close?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m a bird-watcher sometimes.”
Lightchurch laughed. “It might work. Just don’t let them see you.”
“And what news about the Russians working at the airport?” Wilson changed the subject.
“They have a legitimate contract to upgrade the radar and communications systems at Maurice Bishop—but I still suspect them of some sort of espionage. It’s in their blood, and I wouldn’t doubt they’re up to something.”
“When do they finish the work?”
“According to my sources, they’ll finish at the end of the month, just after the election.” Lightchurch grimaced. “It’s interesting timing, isn’t it?”
Wilson signaled the barman for another round of drinks and thought quietly for a few moments. “And I suppose the last thing is the black freighter. Any news?”
“Nothing new there. The ship was originally registered in Hong Kong, but has been steaming overseas for years. It never comes into a British port and was reregistered in Macao three years ago.”
The drinks arrived, and they toasted to good fortune. Wilson looked puzzled. “Ironic that it was of Hong Kong registry, but now works Caribbean waters.”
“Suspicious is what you mean,” Madeline chimed in, her eyes flashing as she spoke.
Wilson looked around to ensure that no one was within earshot. “We’ve learned a few things about the Shanghai Maiden. She’s spent much of her time off the coast of China—either running to North Korea, or between Chinese ports with a variety of cargo, as far as our source could tell. He deals mostly with trade in the South China Sea.” Wilson watched Lightchurch for his reaction.
“It’s consistent with your observation of the freighter—just lying about,” Lightchurch commented. “Curiouser and curiouser.” He raised his eyebrows.
“We need some answers,” Wilson said as he finished his single malt. “Thanks for the drinks. I have an early morning or I’d stay longer. I want to take a hike up to Quarantine Point. See what I can see.” He threw some money on the table and stood up to leave.
“Let me know what you find on your bird-watching trip.” Lightchurch chuckled and raised his Scotch. Then, he leaned forward and whispered, “Be careful, Robert. The whole political climate here reminds me of other unsettling places I’ve been posted to—just before trouble began. Jakarta, Tehran, Cairo . . . I feel that mischief and revolution are in the air.”
Chapter 3
Wednesday
The next morning, Wilson woke early and had breakfast at the hotel as usual, reading a local birding guidebook and asking his waiter a few causal questions about local wildlife. He finished breakfast by 8:00 a.m. and left the hotel on foot, wearing khaki pants, a blue cotton button-up shirt, and a Miami Marlins baseball cap. He traveled along the beach to the public park and then turned onto the lane that led to the small shopping center nearby. That, in turn, led to the Morne Rouge Road—the two-lane blacktop highway that climbed along the coast to Quarantine Point and continued west to Morne Rouge Bay. That was the next embayment along the coast west of Grand Anse. It was a beautiful, deep bay with a pocket beach and a resort with the same name. The road led right past the Wong Construction site, where the mysterious containers were stored.
It was a pleasant morning, and a light breeze blew in from the sea. The sky was clear, but offered a few clouds that could carry rain later in the day. Traffic along the road was light, as usual, and no one seemed interested in a tourist who was obviously involved in the sport of bird identification.
There was one exception to this observation. The Chinese guard at the gate of the construction site eyed Wilson as if he were a saboteur, and watched him as he proceeded up the road. The road continued up the hill to a ridge, which reached up to the coast range on the left, and ran out to Quarantine Point on the right. The point took its name from the olden days—when any newcomers from ships that might have carried the plague or other illnesses were harbored there until the local medical staff cleared them of infection. Now, it was a hilltop park with a full view of Grand Anse to the northeast and Morne Rouge Bay to the southwest.
Wilson turned left and scurried up a gravel road that led to the ridge behind the Wong site. The lane ended at a cluster of new houses at the tree line, where a small trail ran off into dry forest. It was an ideal location for bird-watching—and for an approach to the rear of the Wong property, granting an overview of their operations.
He followed the trail through the brush for a quarter mile, then deviated from its path and cut downward between small mango and other wild fruit trees toward the Wong Construction site. He reached a point where the vegetation was very dense, but where he could gain a view of the rear of the construction site—its south side—below him. He noted that cyclone fencing, or the Chinese equivalent of it, encircled the entire property.
The contractors had cleared the front of the property and had knocked down many trees near its rear boundary as well. The main building for the commercial center—on its north side, toward the sea and main road—was still just a forest of girders for the proposed hotel near the front, but large warehouse structures had been completed behind that, on the east and the south. A broad assortment of machinery and sea containers were arrayed in the center of the site, where work was under way. Several of those containers were open, and Wilson could see stacks of pipes, fittings, lumber, and other objects inside through the open doors. A lay-down area of girders, steel sheeting, concrete blocks, and other building materials were arranged neatly to the west side of the lot.
The construction site was a hive of activity as heavy machinery, including bulldozers and a tracked excavator, dug out foundations in an open area up front. Meanwhile, cranes lifted iron girders onto concrete pads nearby. It looked like four different buildings were under way at the front of the site. Men and vehicles scurried here and there, moving supplies and tools where they were needed. Three large, warehouse-like structures were already built near the west and south boundaries, possibly for maintenance or other facilities.
Forty or fifty additional sea containers formed a dense array at the back of the property, apparently hidden there. These did not appear to be currently in use, because their doors were closed—and Wilson could make out padl
ocks sealing many of them at the top and bottom of each door. These containers interested him, so he began making a list of the identification numbers on the steel doors. There were two sets of numbers, one that seemed to match the standard ID system—four letters followed by seven digits—and then a set of larger numbers that may have been some sort of Wong Construction internal code. It took nearly an hour with his pen to crib the numbers into a small notebook he had with him. He could not see all the numbers clearly, due to the rising haze of the morning air and some stray tree branches.
When he had finished writing down the numbers of the locked containers, he began noting the IDs of the open containers in the active construction area. He could not see all these numbers, because machinery and stacks of lumber blocked his view. He would compare the numbers of all the containers to the list he had received from Lightchurch when he returned to his hotel.
Wilson had just put the notebook in his shirt pocket when two Chinese men in uniform suddenly appeared in the forest, just below his location. He immediately crouched down behind a low hibiscus bush and kept still. The men were dressed in brown uniforms, similar to those worn by mall cops everywhere in the world—many of those uniforms probably looking alike because they were commonly manufactured in China. The men stopped for a few moments and looked out to sea, lighting cigarettes. They chattered on, speaking Chinese in low voices just at the edge of Wilson’s hearing, and then sauntered on along a dirt path—apparently on a routine sweep around the exterior of the property. Wilson wondered why Wong had a security patrol out so far from their construction site—but perhaps they were worried about people just like him, spying on their operation.
After the men left, Wilson watched the comings and goings of trucks to and from the site below. Semitrailers delivered and picked up sea containers every once in a while, and other supply trucks made frequent deliveries. Several gravel trucks brought in crushed rock for use in concrete production. It seemed like any other construction site—except that one of the containers delivered was routed to the rear of the property, and was dropped off next to the locked containers as he watched. Three men, dressed in uniforms different from those worn by the security guards, stepped out of the warehouse at the rear of the property to receive and sign for the new container. Then, the delivery truck left the premises.