by Fred G Baker
“Let me send these names off to my editor and see if research comes back with anything. Then, I’ll join you.”
Martin left the room, and Wilson sent an email to Langley. He packed up his computer and decided he should check on Vargas one more time in case she’d come in late. He walked to her room and knocked on the door. No answer. It was after midnight. She should be in by now.
He stopped at his room and then had second thoughts about leaving his computer there without him, so he entered and checked his room phone for messages. Nothing.
He looked out the window at the passing storm. It was at its peak right now, according to the weather app on his phone. Through the rain, he could still make out the mooring lights of the black freighter at anchor.
He walked down to the main bar and sat next to Martin, who was slurping down a rum punch. Wilson ordered a Glenlivet Scotch, neat, and sipped it while Martin told him how much work remained before they could finish the story. Wilson listened half-heartedly. He wasn’t interested so much in the story as the underlying source of the money.
After a second drink, Wilson called it a night. He carried his computer back to his room, wondering if he should drive it back to the warehouse so that it would be secure for the night. He was too tired to drive there. He stopped by the front desk again and used the house phone to call Vargas’s room. Again, there was no answer.
He walked over and spoke with the night clerk, someone he knew from a daytime shift. “Good night. I just called Ms. Vargas’s room and there was no answer.”
“Oh, Mr. Wilson. How are you? She was a friend of yours, was she not?”
“Yes. I’ve been trying to reach her all afternoon, but with no luck.”
“I assumed you knew. She and several others from the Venezuela conference checked out this afternoon.” He paused and smiled at Wilson. “Because of the storm, I think—but I don’t know where they would go in this weather.”
“Checked out? When?”
“Let’s see.” He consulted a list. “Just after noon. I remember, because she had someone pack up her things for her. She must have been too busy with the conference.”
“You mean she’s gone?” Wilson practically shouted at the man.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson. She didn’t tell you?” The desk clerk was startled at his outburst.
Shocked, Wilson turned away from the desk, mumbling, “Thank you.”
He headed for the bar. His head was spinning. Why hadn’t she said something? There must have been time. Gordon was gone for the night and only one man remained to serve late-night stragglers. He ordered another Scotch—Glenlivet, double.
Maybe she was being watched and couldn’t get away, or leave a message. Maybe they all had to leave on short notice because of the storm. Things were a bit dicey here at the hotel with the storm surge rising. Maybe they had another, safer location to move to.
He had another Scotch, and then one more as he tried to figure out what could have happened—all while trying to work through his emotions. He hadn’t really cared for her that much, right? He had known her only a few days. Why did he feel like this? Did she feel the same? Or was it really just an act to draw him in? It certainly worked. He felt defeated and abandoned.
But she had given him information that put her in danger. At least part of it was true—she wanted out of Venezuela. And her parents? He could have Langley check whether they were real—if they did exist in the conditions she claimed. Then most of her story was true. Right?
He resolved that he would look for her in the morning. It was too late to go pounding on doors now. Hell, after 2:00 a.m. He would catch someone from the Venezuelan delegation in the morning and see where they all went. It would fit her play anyway. She was supposedly bringing him in close, so he would naturally want to find her. Just another lovesick journalist who met a sexy beauty on vacation. Right?
The barman said he was going home—the bar was closed. Wilson got up from his stool and signed the bar tab. He stumbled off to his room and collapsed on his bed.
Rain and wind beat a steady drum on his window all night. The black freighter’s mooring lights drifted ominously on the dark horizon.
Chapter 15
Tuesday
Election Day began with heavy rain. Wilson listened with closed eyes to a weather report on the television in his room before he got dressed. The worst of the storm had gone north, and there was concern of flooding and heavy storm surge on the sister island of Carriacou, which was lower-lying and smaller than Grenada. Rain continued, but the storm surge near Saint George’s was receding slightly. In any case, the airport and the harbor were closed. Three days had passed since a cruise ship had docked and that looked like it would continue for at least another few days. Other harbor traffic was limited by the storm.
There were reports of three people who had drowned during the storm. Several others were missing, but the news team hoped for the best. Elections were taking place, with many people braving the elements and turning out to vote in this important event.
The hotel grounds were largely flooded, except the area of the main buildings. Streets all around were swamped. From his hotel window, Wilson could see people walking out by the seawall, looking at the shoreline erosion caused by the storm. Huge waves still crashed on the seawall, sending spray twenty feet into the air. The sun attempted to show itself here and there between the thick black clouds that still drizzled rain on the landscape.
Wilson’s head felt like it would explode. The pain behind his eyes was staggering. The light bothered him, reminding him of the Scotch he had tossed down last night. His head hurt, and his stomach growled for something that would absorb the alcohol that still polluted his system. He dug in his travel kit for aspirin and swallowed three. He finished dressing and gazed out the window again.
Then, he noticed it—the black freighter was gone. He jumped at the sight. After seeing it for so many days in a row, it was like his world was suddenly destabilized and he couldn’t get enough air.
Where had it gone?
He grabbed his binos and checked in all directions to see if it had just sailed toward the horizon. But, no—it was not in sight.
He packed up his computer, the briefcase, and his handgun before leaving the room. He needed coffee and eggs—no, maybe toast. He would make several calls. He needed to think. He needed his headache to go away. The light hurt his eyes as he stumbled toward the dining room.
He selected a table in the corner of the main dining room—where the buffet was usually served, but where only the smaller a la carte menu was being offered today. He ordered black coffee and the continental breakfast, his stomach still a question. After the coffee arrived, he made his first call.
“Jimmy, it’s Wilson,” he said in an unsteady voice. “The freighter has left its moorings. Do you know anything about it?”
“Morning, Robert. I called earlier. Didn’t you get my message?”
Wilson checked his phone. He had missed two messages. “No, I just noticed them now. Did you call about this?”
“No, about the other matter we discussed.”
“Oh, that.” The Russians. “We need to talk about that later—unless it’s time sensitive?”
“It can keep awhile, I suppose.” He paused. “Are you all right? You sound punchy.”
“I had a bit of a bout last night. Bad morning.”
“Come by and I’ll make you my hangover remedy. Fix you right up.”
“Maybe.” He held his head and sipped coffee. “Hey, can I use your truck today. We’re still knee-deep here.”
“No problem—no business anyway.”
“About the freighter?”
“I’ll make some calls and get back to you. Let’s meet before noon.” He hung up.
Wilson looked at his watch. Shit! Almost 10:00 a.m. He had slept too late. He ate several bites of toast with nutmeg jam on it and decided he’d risk a few scrambled eggs. Then, he checked his messages again. A call from Madeline.
He hit the dial button.
“Robert? Where have you been? I tried to call you earlier.”
“I missed it. Running way behind today. What’s happening?”
“Shit. You weren’t with her again, were you?”
“No, no.” He thought of what he should say. “She’s gone.”
“What? Where’d she go?”
“Just gone.”
“You’re not making any sense, Robert. Do you mean gone somewhere else? Or gone like dead? Or—what? I don’t understand.” Impatience marred her voice.
“I don’t know. She and several others packed up and left yesterday afternoon. I know not where.” He realized that, in his confusion, he was not explaining anything well.
“Robert, you sound funny. Have you been drinking? Oh shit! You broke up with her, didn’t you? That’s what happened, isn’t it?” She sounded both concerned and amused. “Or did she dump you?” Quiet giggling, then silence.
He hadn’t thought of that possibility. Maybe that’s why he felt so strange. He felt like he had been dumped, because it was so sudden—out of his control.
“Robert? Are you there?” Now she sounded concerned. “What’s going on? You can’t do this. We need you—now, damn it!” She shouted these last words, and he pulled the phone farther from his ear.
“I’m OK. I just need some time to get it together, that’s all.” He wasn’t sure he would get it together anytime soon.
“Look, here’s what’s happening on my end. Overnight, the PM decided to act on the information we gave him. He’s authorized the police to apply to the chief magistrate for arrest warrants for those Venezuelans we identified yesterday. They’re in court right now going through the process. They think they’ll have them by noon—then they can act.”
“So, the police will handle it?”
“Yes. We’ll assist in any way we can. Nash and I are driving over to the Best Beach Hotel right now, but it’s slow going. That’s why I called you, to see if you wanted in on this.”
“I’m tied up all morning, and probably this afternoon. I should wrap things up on the financial angle and then go see someone.” He looked at his watch again. Time was flying. “Listen. I’ll call you back when I know how the morning goes. I’ve got to find out where the Venezuelans at the hotel went to.”
“OK. I’ll stay in touch too. Do you want me to come over there?” There was real concern in her voice. “You don’t sound right. Can I help with anything?”
“No,” he said. “Go catch some bad guys.” He ended the call.
He stood up too quickly and felt squeamish. He threw money on the table and slinked out of the dining room toward the front desk. He passed the bathroom and decided he had better get some water on his face. Then, he rushed to the toilet and puked up breakfast. Twice, but he felt better. Catharsis.
He cleaned up and walked over to the front desk clerk.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilson. How can I help you?”
“I wondered if you’ve seen the Venezuelan conference people.” Not very subtle, he thought. “I wanted to ask them some questions, if you know where they are. In the conference room?”
“Oh no. You have just missed the last of them. They left a short while ago. All of them.”
“Where did they go?” His confusion was obvious.
“The airport, I think—but it isn’t open yet, so I’m not sure.”
“Just now?” Wilson was stunned again. “All of them?”
“Yes. A van picked them up.”
“Do you know which company?”
“I don’t know.”
He felt at a dead end. A little desperate. “Thanks.”
Wilson walked to Tim Martin’s room and knocked on the door. Martin scowled at him.
“Where have you been? Did you hear back from your source yet?” Martin noticed Wilson’s face, which was greenish in hue. “You OK, buddy?”
“I was delayed,” Wilson said, struggling to the side table to set up his computer. “I’ll check now.”
He logged on and saw three emails from Langley. He opened the first one and read it. “What the hell?”
“What is it? Anything we can use?” Martin read over Wilson’s shoulder.
Wilson moved his body to cover the computer screen. “Hey! It’s my confidential source. No peeking. Let me parse it first. Then you can see.”
It took a few minutes to absorb. Maybe he needed more coffee. He thought about what he could tell Martin. He rewrote it in simpler form, excluding all references to sources and methods. He made it bare bones. Martin waited on the edge of the bed.
“OK, here it is: Grenada Construction Company is a newly formed company in the last year. It was created when Wong first won the contract here. It’s owned by a Venezuelan company named Marzo Adelante, or March Forward in English. They sent the money to Grenada Construction through an Aruba bank. It appears they’re a unique company that handles only Chinese construction projects in Caracas. Most of their money comes from Chinese sources. I can’t tell you how I got this or any of the details—it’s classified. We’ll attribute it to a confidential source in the banking industry.”
“Holy shit!” Martin jumped up. “Who’s your source? The Treasury Department?”
“I can’t say. But it’s as solid as it comes.”
“Holy shit! Holy shit!”
“There’s more. Melbourne Consulting is a shell company for a very nasty outfit. If you go back along the routing of the money, it comes indirectly from World Electrosystems LTD, a subsidiary of Zangchung Industries in China. I think they’re owned by the Chinese government, at least in part.”
“Holy shit! Are you kidding? Are you crazy?” Martin was overjoyed at the news. Then he stopped and stared at Wilson. His eyes narrowed and his jaw dropped. “You’re not shittin’ me, are you? Is this real?” He got close to Wilson to study his face.
“Real as it can be. But what? Didn’t you think the Chinese might be involved?” Wilson asked. “The talk all over town is that there’s Chinese money funding the GPC campaign.”
“Yeah, but rumor is one thing—proving it is another. We gotta talk about your source, Robert. How reliable is it? I mean, if we’re writing this, we better be damn sure it’s right.”
Wilson’s head hurt again. “OK. Let’s do this—we’ll write the article and send it to your editor for verification. Your facts team can test it and see if they can back it up. If they come up with another source, we can include it and strengthen the article.”
“Yeah, that sounds good—but it will burn a lot of time. We won’t get this out today.”
“Yeah, I know we won’t get the Election Day explosion, but we’ll still have dynamite.”
Martin grinned from ear to ear. “OK. Let’s do it.”
“You get started. I have to check on a few other things.” Wilson read two more emails, both confirming information about the Russian oligarch Boris Lavanenko. His relationship with Petrov was as expected—an insider who the premier trusted and someone who undertook certain missions for his ruler. He had his fingers in many Russian companies—from travel, to electronics, to military hardware. He was a major player.
Lavanenko! Wilson remembered he was meeting Pendergast by noon. It was already eleven.
He jumped up and immediately regretted the sudden movement. He pushed Martin from the chair where his computer was located and took over the writing task. “Sorry, Tim. I know just how we write this up. Let me do the draft, OK?”
Martin was upset, but didn’t argue. He stood by Wilson’s side and read over his shoulder as his feverishly typed the story.
It just came to him, and he typed like a madman. In thirty minutes, he had finished the draft article. He reread it and then read it out loud to Martin. “What do you think?”
“Hell, that’s great. Let me add a couple of things and then we can polish it up. Good goin’.”
“Listen, Tim. I have a few things I have to take care of. Can I step out awhile and catch up with y
ou in a couple of hours?”
“Yeah, sure—or I can email you the final and you can comment over the phone.”
“That works, too.” Wilson left the room, feeling like he had accomplished something important. If only his head would stop throbbing.
Chapter 16
Tuesday
Wilson was lying on his back on the wooden dock at Reefer Scuba Diving Adventures, the sea sloshing all around him and waves crashing on the end of the timber structure. Drizzle caressed his face. He was recovering from Pendergast’s homemade hangover remedy. He had been assured that it would cure him in minutes, and it had been fast-acting. He had sipped the smelly concoction, drinking only half before Pendergast suggested he step outside and not fall in the water. He had been violently ill for about three minutes and then a calm came over him as he realized he had survived the ordeal. His blood pressure was returning to normal, and his headache was dissipating remarkably well.
“Ya gonna make it?” Wet Dog checked on his condition by calling out from the office doorway.
“Yeah, I think. Maybe. Give me a minute.” His voice seemed modulated somehow, but talking didn’t hurt any longer. He rolled onto his side and felt like he might live. He sat up—not so good.
Wet Dog handed him a Stag. “This helps stabilize your brain.”
Wilson took a sip of beer, and the tightness in his head began to recede. He sipped more and felt better. In a few minutes, he stood and did not sway. The mist on his face turned to moderate rain, so he shuffled back to the office. He sat on a chair and stared at Pendergast, who was grinning from ear to ear.
“Give it another ten minutes and you’ll wonder what all the trouble was.”
“It’s getting better. That shit really works.” He tried to grin, but it still hurt his eyes a bit.
“In the meantime,” Pendergast said, “I have info on the Shanghai Maiden, your freighter. They didn’t sail away, just into the harbor this morning to offload twelve containers. Put them directly on trucks that went to Wong’s job site.”