by Fred G Baker
Wilson walked down to the beach bar a half-hour before he was to meet Vargas. He had the hotel umbrella with him to ward off the intense rainfall. It had been storming all day, and he could hear the waves crashing onto the beach outside the bar. The side streets had been flowing five inches deep with storm runoff that came down the mountainside as he drove over from the warehouse. Grand Anse Road had been equally flooded. Between the volcano and the storm, it seemed that all hell had broken loose on the island.
Oliver Morant was at the bar checking the liquor inventory and ordering booze for the next few days. He smiled when he saw Wilson, and came over to his side of the bar.
“Mr. Wilson, how have you been? I missed you yesterday.”
“Good evening, Oliver. I’ve been busy lately but doin’ fine.” He shook hands with the bar manager. “I wondered if we have anything we should worry about with so much rain. Will we be flooded here at the hotel?”
“No, no. When they built the hotel, they raised the land where all the buildings are. It may flood all around us, but we will keep our feet dry.” He chuckled. “But the power is another matter. We have lost power during storms before.” Then, his face brightened. “If so, we have a mighty generator.”
Gordon overheard this statement. “Yes, but last time the generator stopped working during the night. Scared the hell out of some of our guests.”
Morant did not like being corrected. “Yes, but we have a new generator now, don’t we, Gordon?”
“Yes, sir. Let’s hope we don’t need it.”
“I hope we don’t get too much rain. The streets are already flowing curb deep.” Wilson changed the subject.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wilson. I must go call in an order. We runnin’ low on gin, vermouth, and Stag.” Morant walked briskly out of the bar to his office.
“You hear the latest?” Gordon asked. “Dey had some problem wid the votin’ machines today.” He leaned in close to whisper to Wilson. “Yeah, they had a problem wid the Internet connection.”
“What do you mean? They’re still voting, aren’t they?” Today was the election day for the island’s police force. It was the test run before Tuesday’s election.
“Yeah, but they got reports that the machines been locking up sometimes. It made the officials go to a manual count,” Gordon said.
“But they don’t count until the end of the day, do they?”
“Normally, no. But some machines seemed froze up when they fed in the ballots. They tried scanning the ballots again, but the results made no sense. So, dey decided on a manual count for now. Maybe fix the problem by Tuesday.”
“Wow! That’s a problem,” Wilson said. He wondered why the machines were having problems, especially since they were new.
“The company that made de machines had a technician there. He say the Internet connection was unstable, but that is the way it be here. Always lines down with the rain.”
A bright flash of lightning lit up the whole waterfront, followed by a huge crash. One of the palm trees right in front of the hotel burst into flames from being hit by a lightning bolt. Two customers who were sitting at a tall table near the front of the bar jumped and fell to the ground. Gordon and three customers ran over to help them get up from the floor. They were unhurt, but scared to death by the sudden bolt so close by. They retreated to the bar and ordered fresh drinks.
Gordon came back with a gin and tonic for Wilson. “There is one other thing that is happenin’ dat is strange.” He had a conspiratorial look in his eye. “The FM radio station, Radio Free Grenada, is having trouble gettin’ signal through. They say the government be jammin’ their signal because they pro-GPC an’ de government is NSP. Ol’ Malcolm say it not so, but nobody believin’ him. He say it’s de storm.”
“Who’s Malcolm?” Wilson looked confused.
“Malcolm Churchill is prime minister now. He runnin’ against Senjai of the GPC again. People say he going to lose this time, even wid his lies.”
Wilson was surprised by this analysis. “He’s lying too? Senjai’s lying? Churchill said that the government has discovered oil just off the coast somewhere. That should be good news for Grenada, isn’t it?”
“Dat what I mean.” Gordon’s eyes widened. He put his hands in the air and looked up at the ceiling. “He say we found oil in every election. He saying it now too? That’s a lie.” Gordon shook his head, and his voice conveyed his disbelief.
“Does the radio station lose signal often? Maybe it’s the storm.” Wilson tried finishing that part of the conversation.
“Mr. Wilson, we have storms here all de time and never a problem like this. Some people say maybe it de new airport radar or something else jammin’ up the airwaves, but it ain’t because of no storm.”
“I heard on the radio that they’re testing the new equipment at the airport. Maybe that’s the problem.” Wilson checked his watch. Vargas was running late. They had planned on an early dinner and then entertainment afterward, but it looked like they weren’t going anywhere with the heavy rain. They might have to stay at the hotel and listen to the calypso band playing in the main bar. It was a good band, but he had heard it several times now. That assumed the band could get to the hotel during this storm.
There was a commotion in the hallway just off the bar, where one walkway joined the open area next to the pool. Someone had arrived, and he was not in a good mood. “Fucking umbrella.” A few people in the bar chuckled at the comment, having wrestled with one of the frustrating things at one time or another.
Tim Martin entered the bar, tossed a half-open umbrella on the floor next to the umbrella rack, and sputtered about how fucking wet it was outside. He stepped into the room, looked around, and spotted Wilson sitting at the bar. He sloshed over on soggy feet that actually made squeegee-like sounds as he walked.
“Hi, Robert,” he said, waving his arms in front of him. “I waded over here from the mall in that damn rain. I almost fell into a ditch on the way!” he shouted, outraged. “And a car almost ran over me on the main road out here.” He took off his soaked raincoat and threw it over one of the barstools.
“Geez, Tim,” Wilson said as Martin squeezed water out of his shirtsleeve. “How’d you get so wet? Why not take a taxi?”
“Couldn’t find one. They all shut down, I think.” He turned to the barman. “Hey, can I get a shot of bourbon? Make it a double.” He plopped down on the stool next to Wilson.
“And where have you been on this fine day?” Wilson asked, grinning and expecting a colorful download of misery.
“Me?” Martin welcomed the opening to speak. “I’ve been downtown at GPC headquarters all afternoon, working sources.” He turned toward Wilson and rolled his eyes. “Man, all hell is going on down there. They got people running around all over the island doing shit.” The bourbon arrived and he took a quaff. “And then, I waited at the bus stop like a dolt for a good half-hour in this damn downpour, before getting a number one bus back here to the mall. It took an hour driving here because of all the stalled cars on the road.”
“But they could have dropped you out front of the hotel.”
“They had to drive around the back way because the driver was afraid we’d get stuck in that big dip coming off the roundabout. Water two feet deep, he said.” He slammed down the rest of his drink and ordered another. He leaned in to whisper to Wilson. “Hey, see those two Chinese guys who just came into the bar?” He nodded toward two men in very wet raincoats who entered the bar and seemed to be lurking. “I’m not sure, but I think they’ve been following me. I saw them twice today.”
Wilson looked over at the men, who immediately turned toward the pool. One pointed to the broken palm tree on the beach. “Yeah, I see them.”
“I gotta talk to you about something. Maybe tomorrow.” He leaned in and whispered. “I finally got ahold of some financial records, and, quite frankly, I can’t make hide nor hair of them.” He looked cautiously at his fellow journalist. “Remember I said I could get the dope on fi
nancing?” He gave Wilson a meaningful stare and a slight grin to sell it. “Well, I got it.”
Wilson twisted around on his stool and stared at Martin. “You got it. What do you mean?”
“I have this woman contact in the GPC HQ who is quite friendly, and she made me a copy.”
“How many pages is it? How do you know it’s the right stuff?”
“Oh, let me tell you—it’s the right stuff. Even I can tell that.” He smirked confidently. “But I need help with the details. Account numbers, transfer codes, all that shit.” He looked angry. “I can’t figure it out—but you know that stuff, right?”
“Yeah, I do—at least most of it.” Wilson was surprised and impressed. “When can I look at it?”
“Well, you promised you’d look it over for me, remember? I need your help right away to get the scoop.” Martin smiled as the next bourbon arrived. “I’ll even cut you in on the byline if you help me write it up tomorrow.”
Wilson listened carefully, then stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Wait a minute, Tim. If what you say is true—and I believe you—then you’re sitting on dynamite.” He started thinking through what had to be done. This information could be scandalous.
“Yeah, I know.”
Now Wilson leaned into Martin to whisper. “No, you don’t. If you have what I think you have, you need to be very careful. It could be dangerous. Nobody wants that kind of info out on the street and certainly not in the newspaper.” He pulled away and stared at Martin to see if he understood.
Martin gulped down a slug of whiskey. “What do you mean?”
“Where’s the document?”
“Right here.” He tapped his shirt pocket, a smirk on his face. “It’s on a thumb drive.”
Wilson could see that Martin had no idea what could happen. “Here’s what you do, Tim. Make a printout of everything, make a backup of the thumb drive, and then have the hotel manager lock up the drive in the safe. Put it inside something so that he can’t tell what it is, OK?” He thought about it a moment. “Hell, make two printouts. Mail one to your office right away. We’ll need the other copy for work tomorrow. I’m busy tonight, or I’d come with you and start work on it now—but I can’t change my plans.”
“OK that sounds good.” Martin eyed Wilson suspiciously. “You really think it could be dangerous?”
“Absolutely,” Wilson warned, “and don’t tell anyone what you have—especially those guys.” He glanced toward the two Chinese businessmen. He wondered who they were. He had seen one of them in the bar before, but now they did seem to be watching Martin. What did Tim get himself into here? he thought.
Tori Vargas stepped into the bar wearing a small and sexy black cocktail dress. It revealed all her best features, including the radiant smile on her face. Wilson stood up. She came over and gave him a short, but sensual kiss on the lips that took his breath away.
“Hello, Roberto. It is so good to see you.” She slid onto the stool next to him and frowned. “Who is your soggy friend here?” She smiled at Martin.
“Oh, Ms. Vargas, this is Tim Martin—another journalist. You’re going to be hearing a lot about him soon. Just watch.”
She shook Martin’s damp hand and then turned back to Wilson.
“Maybe we could sit on one of those lounge chairs for a while. It would be more comfortable for me.” She stood up next to him and pointed with her clutch toward the low loungers that were usually only placed by the pool, but had been moved in out of the rain.
“OK, sure,” he said.
Martin stood up and threw down the last of his bourbon. “Well, I’d better get out of these wet clothes and do what you suggested.” He leaned into Wilson. “You lucky dog.” He shuffled away toward the business services area of the hotel.
“What will you have to drink? A rum punch?” He grinned at her in a conspiratorial manner. “I know you like them.”
She slapped his arm and giggled. “Roberto, you are being a devil.” She led them to the loungers, and Wilson passed her order on to the barman. They settled into the chairs, one on each side of a small glass table, waiting for her drink to arrive. She stretched her long legs out on the chaise, displaying her bronze thighs, knowing how distracting it would be for Wilson.
The storm intensified, winds howling through the trees and peppering them with occasional sprays of rainy mist. The warm moisture felt good against his skin.
“I planned to take you out to the Cinnamon Tree Inn for dinner, but the weather is ferocious. We may get stuck on the flooded streets. What do you want to do?” Wilson asked. “Go out? Or eat inside in the main dining room here?”
“I feel adventurous tonight, Roberto. I would like the Cinnamon Tree if you are not afraid to drive in this hurricane.” She laughed lightly. “It is supposed to be very nice there—very romantic.” She leaned toward him and batted her eyelashes.
“Let’s be romantic tonight, then.” He raised his glass to her and they sipped their drinks. The wind came up and the rain blew directly onto them, so they moved off the loungers and to a couch by the bar for a short time. At 7:00 p.m., they walked through the inner courtyard of the hotel, and Wilson had a valet get his car from the parking area. Within minutes they were sloshing up Morne Rouge Road toward the Cinnamon Tree. The rain let up for a few minutes as they climbed the hill, and they could see the rough sea in the lightning strikes as they drove. The sea was covered with whitecaps at the crest of the huge waves.
Chapter 12
Sunday
They were seated in the main dining room at the inn, where a quartet was playing classic, smooth jazz. They sat in a cozy booth—built for lovers to be close together, nearly touching. The booth faced the quartet, and they ordered a bottle of Chilean red wine—a merlot—before dinner.
“Roberto, this is very nice and romantic, is it not?” She purred her satisfaction. She leaned against him and they kissed warmly. “I am glad we came here instead of eating at that dreary hotel.” She touched his knee under the table.
“I agree. I have eaten there so many times, I’m also glad for a change—and with such a beautiful woman.” He grinned at her and she blushed.
She leaned in and kissed him again. “I have a surprise for you.” She reached her hand down between his legs, and he intercepted her prowling fingers, surprised at her familiarity. “Take it from me and hide it, but don’t let anyone see.” She pulled his head to her and kissed him deeply as a distraction, as she passed him something small and hard.
He kissed her warmly as he fingered the item and realized it was a thumb drive. He carefully pushed the drive into his pants pocket without looking at it, and without releasing her lips. It’s a great kiss anyway, he thought. Why stop now?
She released his neck, and he straightened up in his seat. “That was quite a kiss.” He said it out loud, aware that several people were watching them. A young couple at a nearby table giggled and clapped their hands softly. He smiled at them sheepishly and looked at his date.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“I will tell you later. Protect it with your life. They would kill me if they knew what I just did.” She cringed as she tried to smile. “I hope it will all be OK for us.”
For us, he thought. She’s getting serious—or I’m getting seriously played. He wondered what was happening, a little confused by her sudden gift. He opened his menu to cover his surprise. “They have many good dishes here.” He perused the menu. “They have curried shrimp over rice with callaloo sauce. I’ve had callaloo before; it’s really tasty.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful, but I think I may have the crab cake appetizer first and then the mahi-mahi appetizer.” She looked at Wilson for his approval. “Is that too much?”
“No, no. Not at all. Order whatever you would like.” He knew she could not finish all that food, but he would help her with some of the fish if needs be.
They ordered their meals and listened to the quartet, snuggling against each other until their dinner
s arrived. Wilson was enjoying this close relationship more than he expected. He didn’t have to pretend he liked the woman. She was quite endearing on her own. He wasn’t sure where this would lead, but he would enjoy her company while it lasted.
“They are here, watching,” she said pleasantly as she stared into his eyes.
“What do you mean?” He began to swivel his head. “Where?”
“Don’t look right at him.” Her face was deadly serious now. “See the tall man with a mustache by the bar?”
Wilson turned his head as if looking for the server. It was the same man he had seen at the sports facility. “Oh, him. Isn’t that Cortez?”
“Yes, and there is another man out by the pool, too. You can’t see him now, but I recognize him.”
“Why are they following you?”
“They always watch me—but we left the hotel, so they sent two men to be sure not to lose us.”
“Shit. I don’t like being watched.”
“Me neither—but it is part of my life.” Her eyes teared up, sadness just beneath the surface of her lovely face.
“Why Cortez? Isn’t he too important to spend time on surveillance?”
“He has a special interest in you and me. He thinks we’re enjoying the sex too much. He told me this during our meeting today.”
“Why should he care? You’re just another agent to him, aren’t you?”
“He likes me in his own wicked way. He hurt me today because he thinks I like you too much. But I told him it was all an act to get you involved with me—to make you love me.” Her eyes turned to Wilson’s, asking his understanding. “I do like you, Roberto. I might even be . . . Well, love is another thing, is it not?” Her eyes were a mystery. Pain? Love? Fear?
“And we just kissed in public,” Wilson said, now worried. “Won’t look good to him, then.” Wilson wondered what to do. The woman was growing on him. He didn’t want her hurt. What would Cortez do?
Wilson’s phone beeped an incoming call. He looked at the screen and recognized Pendergast’s number. What timing.