by Fred G Baker
Wilson dropped down and found the path the men had being following. It ran along the slope about a hundred yards from the perimeter fence at the back of the property. He walked along the path, where it curved around and dropped down the slope toward the area where the locked containers were located. He made a mental note that this could be a route that would bring him nearer to the fence for a closer look at those containers. That would have to wait until a more opportune time. He walked west along the path until he could cut up through the trees, finding his original ridge trail again.
Wilson wondered why that set of containers had been placed at the rear of the property. Lightchurch, who was in direct contact with elements of the Grenada government, said they suspected some form of tax evasion. That was because all materials used for the construction project were exempt from normal import duties—the ones imposed on all other products entering the country. Lightchurch’s sources suspected the construction company might be smuggling other commercial goods past customs. Lightchurch and Wilson suspected even more sinister purposes for the subterfuge.
Back on the ridge, Wilson walked quickly toward Quarantine Point. It was nearly noon, and he wanted to check out the views of the construction site from that vantage point—if it was visible at all. He walked along the Morne Rouge Road and continued to the point where that track diverged from the road. Clouds were beginning to form overhead—a sign that an afternoon storm could be brewing.
At Quarantine Point, he looked eastward along the coast and Grand Anse Beach, where waves were breaking in uniform rows on the golden sand. He could just make out the construction site on the forested slope above the west end of the beach. It did not provide him with much additional insight into the operation there. He felt stymied by the secrecy of the construction activity. What were they doing on the site, besides constructing a hotel?
He crossed over to the other side of the point, where a lookout provided an overview of Morne Rouge Bay. It was a beautiful, deep embayment, bracketed by black volcanic cliffs on both sides of the channel and running back to a black sand beach near a resort. He had walked that beach a few days before and had lunch at the resort’s beach bar. It was a quiet setting.
What surprised him was the presence of a tall sailing yacht, anchored at the mouth of the bay. It had not been there on his previous visit. It was an amazing sailing ship, based on its size—at least two hundred feet long, with a boat launch on its stern for smaller craft. It had three, tall masts—each at least 120 feet tall, and a modern, sleek design. The white hull was eye-catching on the blue Caribbean water. It was the sort of yacht that spoke of luxury and money. Its name on its stern was Varoushka.
As he watched, two men launched a Zodiac from the stern, and they powered away to the beach. Another man stood in the shade on the aft cockpit, holding a rifle. At first, Wilson thought it odd that the man had a weapon. Then, he saw the man move forward on the deck with a precision that comes only from military training. When the man stepped into the light, Wilson saw that the rifle was an assault weapon—and that the man must therefore be a guard. That meant the owner of the yacht was not only wealthy, but also had reason to need protection. Diving tanks on the ship’s rear deck suggested they were there for reef diving, a great sport on the island. Wilson wondered who the owner could be, and what he was doing in Morne Rouge Bay. Varoushka suggested a wealthy, Russian owner.
Wilson checked his watch. It was almost 1:00 p.m. He started back toward Grand Anse for a meeting. He jogged along the road, going from tree to tree and staying under their umbra as much as possible in the rising heat and humidity of the day. He reached Morne Rouge Road and shortly came upon the driveway of the Cinnamon Tree Inn, where he was meeting a contact who he hoped could help him with a difficult issue.
***
Upon mounting the steps to the bar, with its ceiling fans and cool tiles, he heard a familiar voice. “Wilson! Over here.”
He made his way past several small, decorated tables to the bar—where a burly fellow sat wearing a blue jacket and a captain’s hat; his trademark for the tourist business. Frank “Jimmy” Pendergast—called “Captain Jimmy” by most people—was a robust man of about fifty years, a former member of the US Marines, and presently the owner, operator, and main force behind Reefer Scuba Diving Adventures. He was six feet, five inches tall, and muscular from years of military training and rough living. He also spoke three languages. He was larger than life and had a huge laugh that was recognizable from across the room—or even far away along the beach. The cap covered his shaved head—something he rarely displayed, except when diving. He was the man to know if you needed information about shipping, or any other activities along the seacoast.
“Hi, Jimmy!” Wilson called across the room as he approached the adjacent barstool. He shook the man’s big paw of a hand. “You’re starting a little early, aren’t you?” He pointed to Pendergast’s Mai Tai on the counter.
“The sun has set over the yardarm somewhere in the world. Why don’t you join me?” He called the barman over and ordered a refill on his drink. “I’m done with diving for the day, anyway.”
Wilson ordered a Stag beer and suggested they move to an out-of-the-way table for their conversation. He hoped that Pendergast had important information to share with him. Privacy would be essential.
When his beer came, they migrated to a small table at the edge of the open-air deck, which offered a fine view of a short stretch of Grand Anse Beach close to where Pendergast had his dock. Wilson asked, “Were you able to find out much about our friends on the freighter?”
Pendergast gave Wilson a quick evaluation, probably seeing how eager he was for the information. “Well, yes and no.”
“I’ve heard that before. It usually isn’t good news.”
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Pendergast said. “My sources tell me the freighter unloaded several containers four weeks ago and then sailed away for a few days. They’ve been anchored where they are now for at least three weeks, doing nothing much except maintenance.” He sipped his drink. “At least, that’s what they say they’ve been doing.” He raised his eyebrows.
“That seems like a lot of maintenance at anchorage. They should be in dock for something that extensive.”
“Precisely my thinking. They send a boat ashore twice a week for supplies, food, and miscellaneous stuff—but the amount of fresh food seems inordinately large for a crew of fifteen, which is what they list as their complement.”
“How much?”
“Maybe enough for forty or fifty men, though I don’t know how they’d keep them out of sight.” Pendergast rubbed his chin and stared at his companion. “I wonder why they would have so many men on board, even if they are some sort of listening ship.”
“Wait,” Wilson said. “Do you have any info that supports that? I mean, I thought they might be doing electronic eavesdropping, but I have no proof except the inordinate number of antennas on the ship. And why station a listening ship in plain view of the entire bay?”
“One of my people says they purchased several electronic devices in Saint George’s—a digital amplifier, some chips, and a few other things out of the ordinary. Not repair material for most ship’s systems.” He paused for effect. “They also picked up a shipment of electronics at the marine terminal. A crate that was rushed airfreight from Caracas. My source said it was listed as electronic testing equipment—at least, that’s what the customs form said.”
“What happened to the containers?” Wilson swigged his beer as he listened intently. “Were they routed to Wong Construction?”
“Good guess.” Pendergast made a surreptitious scan of the tables nearby before he continued. “I have a list of serial numbers here.” He tapped his jacket pocket, then slowly removed a sheet of paper—folded twice, like a business letter—and slid it across the table to Wilson. “The equipment in each container is also listed there, for what it’s worth.”
Wilson looked over the listing and frowned.
“I doubt that this is all metal framing for the warehouse out at their site.” He paused and sipped his beer. “The weights are rather high, even for construction supplies.”
“Can’t help you there.” Pendergast signaled the barman for another round. “What else can I do for you?”
Wilson thought for a moment. “What do you know about the huge yacht over in Morne Rouge Bay?
Pendergast leaned forward. “She’s a real beauty, isn’t she? I’d like to look her over and see what she’s got below decks.” He paused. “The Varoushka is of Russian registration, owned by Boris Lavanenko, the Russian oligarch—apparently a close friend of President Petrov himself. So, that means rich and powerful. He’s the money behind RUS Industries, a big electronics and software company in Russia.”
“RUS?” Wilson said. “Aren’t they the people with the upgrade contract at the airport?”
“One and the same. Maybe he’s here for the completion of the work for Maurice Bishop.” He stared down at the beach and seemed to notice something happening there. He stood up and looked over the deck railing. “Odd for someone that important to oversee a rather limited contract, don’t you think?”
“Maybe he has a special interest in this job,” Wilson said as he rubbed his jaw. “Have you or any of your friends seen him, or know where he’s staying? On his ship?”
“I think he sleeps on board, but I can ask around and see what else I can come up with.” Pendergast looked down at the beach again, and he seemed suddenly concerned. “Say, I think I need to get down to the shop. I see a boat scanning our dock. I better see what they’re after.”
He got up and threw forty Eastern Caribbean dollars on the table. “I’ll let you know what I find out.” With that, he walked briskly to the door and down the steps. Wilson saw him run toward the path that descended to the beach and his shop below.
Wilson lingered at the Cinnamon Tree as he finished his beer, enjoying the view of the sea and beach below. He thought that this was one of the most pleasant postings he had been at in his short career as an agent. The island and the people beat his hometown of Chicago by a mile, except that he missed the jazz clubs he had frequented there regularly. But, after moving around on assignments so often, he found the Caribbean the closest thing to home for him. He relished the laidback atmosphere of the islands. He enjoyed doing what he did for the agency, and he was able to keep at his vocation as a writer and historian between assignments. What could be better?
He sipped the last of his beer and left twenty Eastern Caribbean dollars on the table. There was work to be done, and he had much to accomplish in a short time.
Chapter 4
Wednesday
Back at the hotel, Wilson finished comparing the list of containers he had seen at the Wong site with the lists he had received from Lightchurch and Pendergast. Many of the numbers on the open, actively used containers were on Lightchurch’s list, so they seemed legitimate construction supplies. None of the containers from the back of the site were on either list. He quickly compiled a list of numbers for the ones at the back of the lot and then sent it off in an encrypted email to Lightchurch, sharing what he had discovered. Maybe he could find out if any of those numbers belonged to other shipments made to the island by other means, or by other parties. He also indicated in the email that he would like to see what was inside the suspicious containers, perhaps under cover of night. He wondered what Lightchurch thought of such a maneuver.
He did some research online about Boris Lavanenko. He was closely allied with Petrov, in Russia, and was suspected by some intelligence agencies of doing some of Petrov’s dirty work. He certainly shared business investments with Petrov, and had vacationed at his summer home on the Black Sea several times. They appeared to be old friends.
He also looked into the business interests of Wong Construction—and learned that it was not only a construction company, but also the construction arm of the Chinese trading and shipping giant World Electrosystems LTD, which was itself a subsidiary of Zangchung Industries. They, in turn, were a Chinese state-owned conglomerate with interests in far-flung locations around the world. Zangchung was the company most commonly chosen by the Chinese government to execute large-scale construction projects around Asia and in countries where China had long-term strategic interests. Those interests usually revolved around the development of resources, or trade with third-world nations that needed an economic boost and willingly worked with the Chinese toward that goal—such as their Belt and Road Initiative. One of their recent joint military and commercial projects was located near Djibouti, on the horn of Africa, where they would have access to the most important sea trade routes from Asia to the Mediterranean.
Wilson then went through his emails and sent a brief summary of events to his control via 256-bit encrypted email. It was nearly 7:00 p.m. by that time, and his stomach growled from neglect. He shut down his computer using the standard protocol and walked to the hotel’s beach bar.
He nodded to Gordon as he entered the bar and pointed to a table near the rear of the dining area. He walked to the table and sat down. The bar was nearly full of diners and drinkers—more than usual for a Tuesday night, but perhaps not surprising with the election only seven days away. Many of the usual hotel guests were present, and he nodded to one or two he had spoken with on occasion.
One was a journalist named Tim Martin, with the Miami Observer. He and Wilson had discussed the local election situation, and the man was sure that the opposition party would win the election. Martin had spent some time in the field with Hjarad Senjai’s supporters in the GPC. He was impressed by their organization and funding. He was working on the money angle behind the election. Wilson needed to talk to him again and find out what he had learned. He waved Martin over for a drink and a chat.
Martin was already inebriated, which seemed to be his normal state when he had no deadline to meet. He also had a healthy expense account, so Wilson let him buy the drinks most of the time. It went with his cover of being a fellow journalist—there working the election story. Wilson’s angle on the election was the socioeconomic effect on the nation as it entered a new chapter in its history. He had used this cover to ask many people about the election, and what it meant for the islanders and their economy.
Martin arrived at the table at the same moment that Gordon brought Wilson’s rum and ginger ale. Martin sloughed into the chair across from Wilson and ordered another rum punch before Gordon left the table. Martin had developed a love for the hotel’s rum punches, which were loaded with a devastating pour of four different rums and a nominal amount of mixed fruit juice. In any case, it made him a very jovial man and a good sport.
“Wilson, old man! How are you?” He reached out his hand and shook Wilson’s briefly with his sweaty palm. “You’re not afraid of the volcano, are you?”
“Have you heard any more about the eruption?”
“No—only that it’s proceeding deep underwater. I guess a local freighter ran right into the exclusion zone yesterday and saw the sea rising up on him. He turned tail just in time to float out of it.” Martin took a sip of rum punch and smiled. “I wrote a short piece about it for the paper, but my damn editor said no one would possibly care about a freighter in this hell hole of a country.” He laughed, but then stopped and looked worried. “I wonder if I have a future with the Observer. They’re so shortsighted and want only to please millennials these days,” he mused, sloshing punch down his hatch.
“I missed that. I’ve been buried in documents today and have several meetings tomorrow with government types. It will be another dull day, I’m afraid.” Wilson liked to build up the shear boredom of his research and writing, keeping Martin from asking too much about it. As it happened, he did have a few meetings at Government House the next day, and some of that would be tedious. Fortunately, Martin carried the conversation while Gordon returned with more drinks and took Wilson’s dinner order. Martin decided to join him for the meal and ordered the grilled mahi-mahi, th
e same as Wilson.
“I was out today with my friends at the GPC hustings in the Saint Andrew North Parish. They’re very charged up about the election and were plastering those awful, orange posters everywhere. They had a whole pickup truck full of the damn things and were stapling them to almost every light pole—even on shop walls and windows. I asked how they could afford so many of them, and they said they didn’t know—but they loved the action! One of the fellows told me that no one seemed to know why they had so much money available, but they were happy for it. They feel they have a chance at winning this time around—and they get free drinks sometimes, too. A hell of a party.”
“No wonder they have so many volunteers. Free beer is a great incentive to knock on doors.”
“But that’s just it. It truly seems that nobody knows where the money has come from. One of the district leaders said she’d heard it was from lots of small donations, especially from Grenadians who live overseas—but I doubt that. I mean, I saw a sheet with part of their budget, and it seems way more than the average person could contribute, even if they were doing well overseas.” Martin ordered yet another rum punch and finished his meal with a burp. “Damn fine fish they have here in Grand Anse. It’ll be a shame to go home after the election.”
“I wonder if you could talk to one of the people at campaign headquarters about their fund-raising. Maybe you could get a look at the books. Say you need it for your story.” Wilson planted the thought in Martin’s head. “That would be a great story—a real scoop if you got the dope on the campaign financing.”