The Black Freighter

by Fred G Baker

  “That’s a great idea. I do know someone who could probably get me a look-see—and she owes me now.” Martin hesitated. “I think I could get the information but . . . it’s just that I’m not very good with numbers and accounting. I probably couldn’t figure it out very well.”

  Wilson saw an opportunity. “Well, if that’s all you’re worried about, I could probably help. I mean, if I don’t have a deadline. I could help you review the documents or files, if that would be useful to you.” He hesitated, and then went on, “It might even help me in my work, too—but I don’t know. It might pull me away from my article.” He didn’t want to appear too eager.

  “Would you be willing to help?” Martin leaned in, hopeful and even anxious. “I would be greatly in your debt. It could be just the thing to get me noticed back at the old Borg ship we call the Observer. Maybe my editor would be impressed enough to keep me in Miami once in a while.” Martin suddenly seemed despondent. He stood up from the table, and his face turned a shade of green and white at the same time.

  Martin fled the restaurant, headed toward the bathroom in the hallway. Several people in the bar noticed his departure and laughed. It was not the first time he had gotten sick on rum punch.

  A news headline flashed on the television screen over the bar, and one of the barmen turned up the volume. “This report just in. Mr. Neville Charles, the National Standard Party’s candidate for minister from West Saint George’s—who was injured in an electoral riot yesterday—has been transferred by air ambulance to Port of Spain, Trinidad, for further treatment. His injuries include a concussion and other serious wounds that require the care of specialists who cannot be found here in Grenada. It appears that he will not be able to continue his campaign for office under the present conditions.” Then, a political ad for Mr. Charles’s opponent in the election ran twice sequentially, along with the standard GBTV disclaimers. The barman switched the television to the in-house music source—Stingray —which played the current hit R&B single by Khalid, “Young Dumb & Broke.” Several people in the bar sang along with the catchy tune about a down-and-out youth who had no clue.

  Gordon worked his way over to the table with another rum and ginger ale for Wilson. “Mr. Wilson, dey beat him up real bad. An’ you hear what else? Six of the men they arrested were Venezuelans and two were Cubans. Now, what they doin’ protestin’ in our election? And beatin’ people?”

  “Really?” Wilson thought about it a moment and frowned. “Gordon, that should surprise me—but somehow it fits in with other stories I’ve been told about the election. I haven’t heard that on the TV yet. How did you find out?”

  “I heard it from some NSP folks. I hear about stuff all the time from customers who work on the NSP campaigns. They come in here and say somethin’ ain’t right about this year. Someone broke into the campaign office for south Saint George’s and vandalized the place. Sprayed orange paint on T-shirts, posters, an’ everything. Lucky no one was there and got hurt, dey say.”

  “It sounds like things are getting pretty rough, all right. Can’t the police do anything?”

  “I don’t know. I just feel it’s getting real bad—real bad.” He looked up as Mr. Morant entered the bar. “I gotta go.” Gordon hurried away and intercepted Morant at the bar.

  Just then, Wilson’s cell phone vibrated with a call from an unlisted number. It rang four times, then stopped. He waited until the same number called back. “Hello. What can I do for you?”

  Darius Lightchurch spoke softly. “Need to meet ASAP. Can you come to Umbrellas right away?”

  Wilson looked around the bar. “Yes, give me fifteen.”

  The line went dead.

  Wilson wondered what that was about. He stood up and caught Gordon’s attention. Then, he made a writing gesture in the air, indicating he wanted his bill. Gordon nodded and walked over with the hotel receipt for his signature. “See you later, Mr. Wilson.”

  Wilson turned to walk to his room—and bumped directly into a young woman who held a glass of white wine in her hand. On impact, the wine splashed up onto her blouse, and she immediately began wiping it off with her fingers in rapid sweeping motions. “¡Dios mio!” she said. “Oh, shit.” Then, she looked up into Wilson’s face. “You spilled my wine, señor.”

  She stared at him like it was his fault—and maybe it was. She had wide-set brown eyes and a bronze complexion beneath light-brown hair, pulled to the side in a ponytail. Wilson was taken in by her good looks, but felt he couldn’t really be blamed for the accident. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “I guess I should have been more careful.” She smiled then with plump, red lips, forming dimples in her cheeks. It was a refreshing smile. “Sorry, did I get any on you?”

  “No, I seem unscathed,” Wilson said as she checked his shirt for damage. “But I’m sorry, too. It’s a shame to waste good wine. Chardonnay, was it?”

  “Yes, it was.” She smiled again, ready to let the incident go. Then, she seemed to make a decision and her expression changed. “I’m so sorry. Where are my manners?” She stuck out her hand like a realtor ready for business. “I’m Tori Vargas. I’m here with the economic conference.” Her pleasant voice carried a moderate Venezuelan accent.

  Instinctively, Wilson took her hand and shook it. “I’m Robert Wilson. I’m a reporter and historian. I’m writing about the election and how things work here in Grenada.” He smiled cautiously. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Oh, how interesting,” she said. “Maybe we can talk a little about your work?”

  “And I could buy you another glass of wine to make up for the spillage.” He grinned at the obvious pickup line. “I would love to do just that, but I’m late for a meeting.” He watched as a frown appeared on her face. “But maybe I could take a rain check, and then you could tell me about this conference you’re attending. What do you say?”

  She thought about it for all of three seconds and then smiled again. “Yes, that would be very nice, Mr. Wilson—Roberto. Maybe later tonight? I have a session, but will be finished at ten.”

  “I think I can do that. If not, I’ll call and leave a message with Gordon at the bar.”

  “OK.” She nodded her head as she checked her watch. “I must go too. Hasta la vista. See you later.” She bustled out of the bar toward the meeting rooms at the west conference center. Wilson watched her walk away with interest, and then departed quickly for the side gate of the hotel property.

  ***

  When he arrived at the beachside bar and restaurant called Umbrellas, it was very busy. Soca music was playing, and a lot of people were shouting and having a good time. The usual contingent of medical students was there, partying and celebrating something—perhaps they passed an exam that day and could finally risk the loss of gray matter due to excess alcohol consumption. He was always amazed that med students could put away so much booze in one night.

  He entered the main building, where the bar was located, and immediately saw Madeline sitting glamorously at one of the tall tables, dressed as if on a dinner date. He wasn’t sure if he should approach her and reveal that they knew each other, but she solved that problem by calling out his name. “Robert! Over here.”

  He stepped to the table and was surprised when she got to her feet, came over, and gave him a warm hug—something she would not normally do. He felt her slender body press against him. She whispered, “Pretend we’re on a first date. Don’t hug too long.” Her muscles tightened, and she pulled away after a few seconds. “And watch your hands.”

  “Where’s our friend?”

  “He’s outside in the Land Rover. Pretend we’re going somewhere else for dinner. We’ll walk outside together in two minutes, OK?”

  “You look lovely tonight. Have you eaten already?”

  “Yes, we were at a function earlier, so I nibbled on the hors d’oeuvres.”

  “But who is with him now? You’re his main protector, aren’t you?”

  “We have a driver tonight
, and His Lordship has upped his security.” She looked at her watch and stood to leave.

  They sauntered out of Umbrellas, Madeline leading and he with a hand to her back at appropriate moments at the stairs. She led him around the corner of the building to the side street that connected to the main beach road. A large, black Land Rover was silhouetted about a hundred yards down the road. It pulled forward as they approached, and the two passenger-side doors opened. Madeline pushed Wilson toward the rear door, and she stepped into the front seat. He got in and greeted Lightchurch, who occupied the other side of the back seat.

  “Good seeing you, Robert. Hope I didn’t inconvenience you with the late notice.”

  “No, Darius. What else would I be doing tonight?”

  “This is my driver and new security man, Nash. He’s cleared for anything we might discuss, same as Madeline.”

  “Nice to meet you, Nash.” A nod of the driver’s head came in response.

  “Let’s get down to it,” said Lightchurch. “I was disturbed by the list of container numbers you sent me. I had one of my people run the numbers through the database and, according to the results, those containers were never handled here on Grenada. So, something is amiss. Someone may be bringing in containers without going through the main port or the customs process.”

  “But how could that happen? It takes a heavy-lift crane to offload a container. They weigh too much to handle any other way,” Wilson said. “As far as I know, there’s only one port with those kind of cranes—Saint George’s harbor. The containers must have come in through the port.”

  “Exactly my thinking—but someone has failed to record those containers, circumventing customs.” Lightchurch twisted sideways in his seat. “The question is who, and why?”

  “It seems that someone in the dockworkers union must be involved if there were so many discrepancies.” Wilson considered the implications. “One or two errors might be a recording issue—but this seems deliberate, and therefore malicious. We must get to the bottom of it—and soon.”

  “The union is completely under the control of the GPC. They’re constantly supporting each other, even in this election. They’re all in Hjarad Senjai’s pocket.”

  “If we knew what was inside those containers, we would know what’s intended. From that, we can deduce who is importing the containers.” Wilson thought out loud. “But we need to find the containers and figure that out. The locked containers on the Wong job site might be the best starting point.”

  “It would be difficult to get past their security patrols and access the containers,” Madeline commented. “Could take some planning.”

  Wilson looked at her and smiled. She returned a conspiratorial grin. “Perhaps a diversion? Keep the guards occupied?”

  “Maybe it could be arranged.” Wilson thought out loud. “Two people could get inside the perimeter. A disturbance of some kind out front—noisy, and potentially dangerous to the job site.”

  “Plastic explosives could cut open the locks and doors,” Lightchurch suggested.

  “Too loud—it would attract the guards . . . Bolt cutters—big ones—and weapons.”

  Lightchurch leaned toward Wilson. “That’s why you need Madeline and me—to get it done.”

  “Can we get help from the police?”

  “I wouldn’t know who to ask for help under these conditions. We can’t trust anyone in the current government.”

  “We’ll have to make do.” Wilson looked at Lightchurch. “I’ll run it past my control. Do I have your support, Darius?”

  “Yes, and I insist that Madeline be your number two on this. She can get you any items that you’ll need. Shall we begin planning now? And you two can work out the details tomorrow?”

  “Can we pull this off by tomorrow night, Madeline?” Wilson asked.

  “It’ll be close. Let’s see how the plan comes together.” Her face drew tight as she focused on the task at hand. “The diversion might take more time to set up.”

  “Let me make a phone call, and then I’ll have time to work on it now.” He stepped out of the car and made a call to Gordon at the hotel bar.

  Chapter 5

  Thursday

  Wilson rose early the next morning. To avoid a traffic jam, he rode the Number One bus into downtown Saint George’s to the office of the election commission. They were located in one of the gray government structures built on the old botanical gardens property. He was one of about a dozen journalists, and three dozen other interested parties, who had come to hear about the preparations for the upcoming election.

  The matronly woman in charge began with a long list of introductions of people who were in even the smallest way involved in the elections. He could see that everyone was extremely proud of the effort made to get this election right. Grenada was widely known for conducting fair and accountable elections—perhaps having the best record of any government in the Caribbean and Central America.

  The guests of honor at the meeting were the seven poll watchers who had been sent by the Organization of American States, or OAS. They asked several questions as the presentation went on. Finally, the woman told the assembled press, and the others, that there would actually be two elections—one on Sunday, three days before the main event on Tuesday. The Sunday election was held just for law enforcement officers, who would be unable to vote on Tuesday because they would be hard at work maintaining the peace on Election Day itself.

  Then, a man—Mr. Chambers—stood up and made the technical presentation of the actual vote-counting machines that would be used. This was the part of the story that Wilson was interested in. For the first time in history, Grenada was going to use automated ballot-counting machines for voting. The voters would use traditional pencils to mark their preferences on a paper ballot, and their ballots would be numbered so that voters would get a receipt tied to their ballots. They could then validate their votes if there should be any question of the accuracy of the ballot count. The ballots themselves would be scanned through a device that would then tally the results and present them to the electoral board, who would supervise it all. When satisfied that all ballots had been cast and counted, the board would certify the election results. Then everyone on the winning side would be happy, and the losers would protest as usual.

  The technical man demonstrated how it all worked by passing out sample ballots with fictitious names on them to all participants. The audience was then told to mark their choices with pencils and to tear off the small strip at the bottom of the ballot for their records. He collected the ballots and ran them through the machine for a count. He told everyone the results, and they were instantly displayed on a computer monitor. It went quite smoothly.

  Wilson then asked him a question. “Excuse me, but I wonder how you verify any one single ballot. I mean, suppose I have my receipt and I want to see that my vote was counted correctly. Can that be done?”

  Chambers responded the way all bureaucrats answer questions anywhere in the world: “Yes, excellent question. I was hoping someone would ask this, because it is just what makes this voting process so vital.” He smiled and walked over to Wilson. “Sir, do you have the identification strip from your ballot?”

  He reached out and took the strip, then showed everyone on the computer screen as he typed in the ID number for that ballot. The screen then called up a complete image of the ballot and showed a summary of the actual votes for the ballot just below the image. The scan and the data matched. Everyone in the room applauded when they saw how it worked. It was impressive.

  Chambers said, “It makes verification of a ballot very simple—and if you must rerun a set of ballots from a single ballot box, you can do that and compare the results of each count independently. We’re doing just that to the results for the Sunday voting, just to be sure everything is running correctly. Of course, we won’t release those results until the full Tuesday ballot results are complete—and then we’ll mix the police votes in with each appropriate parish or precinct.” H
e paused and looked around the room for questions, answering a few before the meeting broke up.

  Wilson walked to the front of the room and asked about taking a picture of one of the voting machines. He was allowed to do so, as were others. He also noted the name and model of the machine. He even noticed that the serial number for the machine was printed on a strip at the backside of the device. He wrote it down. He thanked the commissioners for their presentation and then walked down to the main road, where he caught a bus back to Grand Anse.

  The bus was crowded with schoolchildren on the return trip, because they’d had only a half day of classes. When they entered the bus, all the little boys and girls—from six to fifteen years of age—said, “Good morning.” Most of the fellow bus riders responded in kind, even making places for the youngsters to sit comfortably. It was nice seeing so many polite people in one place.

  ***

  When he arrived at the hotel, Leslie greeted him as he passed through the gate. “Another good day, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Yes, it looks like fine weather. Hardly a cloud in the sky.”

  “Don’t be fooled, Mr. Wilson. Dey say we may get a soakin’ tonight.” Wilson had learned in a short time that Leslie was a better predictor of the weather than the GSTV weatherman.

  “Oh, you think so? I was going for a hike later this afternoon.”

  “You be fine with an umbrella this afternoon, but tonight it come like raining frogs. You’ll see.”

  Wilson went to his room and began researching the voting machines and their manufacturer. They were model 156-B of the Votadigit Company of Minneapolis, Minnesota. They had a good track record with several election commissions in various states in the US and Canada. There were even testimonials by researchers and others.

  He dug into the ownership of the company and found little, other than that the company had been sold three years earlier to a conglomerate that included many electronics companies and makers of technical instruments. He decided to send the information he had back to Langley, so that someone else could research it—his time being limited due to other events. He sent it off in an encrypted email.