The Black Freighter

by Fred G Baker

  “Sir, we’re going to the Wong site right now. You’d better come. You’ll need the results right away.”

  “OK. I’ll take my car and men along just in case there’s an altercation. You two drive together.”

  ***

  They all left the warehouse and drove east along Morne Rouge Road to the site. When they arrived, there were two police cars and a black Mercedes already at the front gate to the construction site. Madeline pointed out the chief of police—the highest-ranking law enforcement officer on the island. He was talking to two people, a Chinese man called Fu and the Grenada representative of Wong Construction, a man named Garland. None of them looked happy.

  The chief was a tall, older gentleman with thinning white hair and a stern look that may have come from years of dealing with criminals and politicians. He dispensed with formalities as he began the meeting.

  “Gentlemen, we’re here to tour your construction site. We have had reports of the possible storage of weapons on your property and must determine if this is true. With your permission, we will walk the property with one of your men and see what we shall see.”

  “I resent your insinuation, sir,” said the Chinese man, Fu. “It is insulting for you to come here.”

  Garland saw that this was the wrong thing to say to any police chief, and he tried to smooth out the answer. “What Mr. Fu means is that he finds it unreasonable that you should arrive at his construction site without warning, or making an appointment. He left a very important meeting to talk to you, and he is upset that he has not been shown the correct level of respect that he deserves.”

  The chief looked at Fu and was about to say something, but he hesitated when his assistant whispered something in his ear. “I apologize, Mr. Fu.” He gave a perfunctory dip of his head. “I’m sorry for the short notice and my failure to make proper arrangements for this inspection—but there are extenuating circumstances that have led me here so abruptly.”

  Garland conferred with Fu, and he seemed somewhat appeased. “Mr. Fu wishes you and your men welcome to his site office for normal procedure of tea and preliminary conversation.” He acted as though this was a usual occurrence. “You see, gentlemen, Mr. Fu must contact his home office for their guidance for such a sudden invasion of the workspace. It is quite natural for the Chinese to require this approval, even though it may seem strange to us here in Grenada.”

  “Only for a few minutes, Mr. Fu, Mr. Garland. Then, we will have the inspection to which we are entitled per your contract for operation in this country.” The chief was clear.

  They walked slowly to a nearby trailer that the construction company used as their field office. Fu urged all of them to sit while an assistant prepared green tea. They made small talk until the tea was ready—a ten-minute period of limited conversation. The chief tried to bring up the purpose for the inspection several times, but Fu or Garland always changed the direction of the conversation. Finally, Fu stood up and excused himself to take a phone call—presumably the call from his masters. He was gone for ten minutes.

  “Mr. Garland, we can wait no longer.” The chief stood up, and he and his people began walking toward the door.

  That was when Mr. Fu returned and said that his home office had cleared everything. Mr. Garland was volunteered as their guide around the site in one of the company vans.

  “No, Mr. Fu—we will drive ourselves on our inspection.” The chief walked to his car, his driver leading the way.

  Mr. Fu shouted something in Mandarin. Suddenly, three Chinese guards holding AK-74 rifles blocked the chief’s path. They raised their weapons. They were unsure of what Fu had said, but it was clearly unfriendly. Garland seemed as shocked as the Grenadians by this action. The chief’s driver put his hand on his gun under his jacket. So did the two protective agents for Lightchurch, who closed in around him and pulled out their weapons.

  “Fu, you can’t do this,” the chief yelled.

  Fu shouted again in Mandarin and more guards approached, their weapons held low. Garland said, “Mr. Fu insists that you ride in a company vehicle because it is required by our insurance company.”

  “Mr. Fu, Mr. Garland, any further attempts to delay our inspection will be dealt with in the most severe manner. Everyone on this property will be immediately arrested, including both of you. The site will be closed for months as we investigate what you are up to, and your contract will be canceled and awarded to a company that will cooperate with this nation.”

  Fu took a deep breath as he prepared to respond, but Garland held up his hand for him to hold his tongue.

  The chief had a full head of steam up, and he glared at Fu. He took on a mean look. “No doubt Mr. Fu’s employers will dismiss him as manager of this project, and he will likely not find work in any legitimate firm in the West or the East. And, of immediate consequence, I will order my men to shoot the two of you directly upon the discharge of any weapon tonight.”

  The chief then turned to his men, who took aim on the two managers immediately. Eight men pulled their weapons slowly and aimed them at Fu and Garland.

  Garland practically shit his pants. He started arguing with Fu in Mandarin, and the effect was dramatic. All the guards appeared nervous and looked to Fu for instructions. He seemed ready for a game of chicken, but Garland ordered the men to drop their weapons.

  It was a Mexican standoff for about thirty seconds. Finally, Fu backed down—and was suddenly all smiles. He apologized for a misunderstanding. Of course agents of the hosting government were exempted from the insurance conditions. What a load of bullshit! Wilson thought.

  The chief waved everyone into their vehicles. Madeline took the lead and raced forward in her Land Rover toward the heart of the site. The chief insisted that Garland ride with him and show them the way. Five cars and trucks sped into the job site.

  “I know that Mr. Fu was trying to delay our inspection and you were his accomplice. You had better hope that you can appease me with your full and complete cooperation now—or there will be consequences, Mr. Garland. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir—but he is my boss. I had to support him in this. Don’t you see that?” Garland literally squirmed on the car seat as he spoke, like a worm on a hook.

  “That will be your comfort while wasting away in prison, Mr. Garland.”

  Garland gagged, and it seemed like he was choking. Then, he went silent. Madeline’s choice of routes led to a dead end, and one of the chief’s men poked Garland in the back with a finger, gaining his attention. They needed him to show them the way to the rear of the site. Garland jumped as if they had put a gun to his back. The man did as he was told, but his gray face looked as if his life had already been taken from him.

  The road led past the current working area and to the back of the site. All five vehicles pulled up along the rear fence of the site and next to the same collection of containers that Madeline and Wilson had opened two days before. Everyone disembarked and walked to the first container, whose doors were unlocked. Wilson stepped forward and swung the doors open for all to see.

  The container was empty.

  He stepped to the next one and opened the doors. Also empty. Madeline and one of the police officers then ran to each of the containers and threw open the doors. All the containers were devoid of any contents whatsoever. Madeline set about taking photos of the containers as they stood there in some disarray.

  Wilson eyed Garland, and he saw a sneer on the man’s face. Apparently his boss’s delaying tactics had paid off. They had been played.

  Wilson was ready to choke the little weasel, but he controlled himself. “Let’s check the warehouse next,” Wilson said.

  The entourage moved over to the warehouse just before darkness settled on the landscape. When they opened the doors of that building, they encountered little of interest. It had been emptied as well, except for a few cots, tools, and a flatbed, two-ton truck. They walked around the warehouse and the area where the containers had been stored. They found tha
t there were fresh tire tracks and skid marks all around the containers. They also found a few rifle cartridges—5.45×39mm, the caliber used in AK-74 assault rifles. Garland said they had several of those weapons on-site for security purposes.

  There was little they could do, unless they searched every container on the site—and that would take time and likely yield the same result. Apparently, someone had either tipped the Wong people off—or they had already moved the military equipment on their own schedule earlier. That thought made Wilson nervous. He caught Madeline’s eye. “We’ve been fucked over.”

  The vehicles exited the construction site and pulled up in an echelon on the side of the road just outside. They stepped out of the vehicles, and the chief assembled his entourage in a circle to say a few words.

  “I am very embarrassed that we inspected that site and found none of the weapons that you two people reported.” He looked sternly at Wilson and Madeline. “But I believe these weapons were there. They clearly were delaying us, and there can be only one reason for that. Or, if there were no weapons, they had other illegal activities they were covering up. Either way, there is criminal activity going on here.” He stared at each person in the circle. “I want each of you to know that I will not let this sort of activity continue in this country—but now I must report to the prime minister what we have not found, and what we have found.”

  One of the policemen asked, “What do you mean, Chief? We found nothing. The raid was a complete failure.”

  The chief smiled and laughed gently. “No, my friend. We have found out about a conspiracy, and we found this.” He held up one of the rifle cartridges they had found on the ground. He passed it to the policeman for examination.

  “Sir, this is an armor-piercing round. This is strictly regulated ammunition.”

  “Yes—it is illegal to possess this in this country. Our inspection was not a failure. We now have evidence of illegal activity, and a strong basis for a warrant to shut the entire site down for further investigation.” He chuckled loudly, but then his face hardened dramatically. “No one plays the fool on me. No one.”

  He looked directly at Wilson. “No one.”

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday

  During the evening, Tropical Storm Betty made landfall and kicked up the storm surge again—with high winds, but less rain than before. The wind wreaked havoc on the entire island, blowing down trees and power lines, creating whitecaps on the sea, and lashing everything exposed with harsh rain and flying debris. Telephone lines and TV cable transmissions were interrupted completely, or made extremely unreliable. But, still, the dedicated voters of Grenada turned out in record numbers to do their duty and exercise their right to select their own leaders.

  The power went out at the Hempstead, and the new generator kicked in, maintaining emergency levels of power. All rooms still had water and lights, but television and phone service were curtailed. Power was routed to all refrigeration equipment in the kitchen and food storage areas to keep food from spoiling, but there wasn’t enough power for the air conditioners or for the refrigerators in individual rooms. Guests could take their perishable goods to the restaurant, where the hotel pledged to place food in cool storage for their guests. No one needed air-conditioning anyway—not with the horrific winds blowing across the property. Only the main bar and restaurant remained operational.

  Wilson, Madeline, and Martin sat at a table near the bar and sipped Carib beers that were partly cool. They were waiting for word on how they should proceed in each of their endeavors. Martin waited for a call back from his editor about the election-funding article, spending the time cribbing notes about a second article he had started about the storm and its effect on the election. Madeline waited to hear back from the chief on whether he had obtained a search warrant for the construction site. Wilson wondered what would happen next on all fronts—the freighter, the missing weapons, the Chinese construction site, Tori Vargas, and the bloody Russians—what were they up to? They were all upset or on edge as they dwelled on their own, private worries.

  Then, it hit him. “The sports facility. Maddie, we better check on the sports facility. Are those people still there?” He jumped to his feet. “We have to go.”

  Madeline jumped up too. “You’re right! In all this other mess, I had forgotten about that place.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Martin asked. “What sports facility?”

  “We’ll tell you later.” Wilson was already at the door, with Madeline right behind.

  They splashed through a foot of seawater to the truck and drove out of the car park. Wind was whipping the palm trees over their heads, and bits of vegetation flew through the air. Occasionally, a piece of wood or metal roofing—torn loose from a building—whipped over their vehicle. There was very little traffic on the road, except for people with tall vehicles—high-clearance ones. Most people had reverted to wading to wherever they needed to go.

  A column of three police vehicles, full of men in uniform, crossed their path heading downtown. Madeline looked at them. “They must be new vehicles, because the police always use olive-green Land Rovers for patrols—not Toyota Land Cruisers.”

  They arrived at the sports facility to find the lights off and the parking lot empty of vehicles, unlike the last time they had been there. They got out of the truck quietly and approached the front door with caution. No one appeared to be around. That seemed unlikely on a day when most people would retreat to shelter. The front door was locked, so they fought the wind to the rear door. It was also locked—but its window was not blocked out like the others and they could see inside.

  There was no one there. They tried the large, garage door and found it unlocked. Wilson lifted the door while Madeline held her pistol at the ready.

  An empty building. Wilson was getting tired of finding nothing where he knew there had been something only days before. They entered and then slammed down the door, shutting out the fierce wind.

  It was very dark inside, with all the windows blocked with either cloth or cardboard. The lights didn’t work either, because of the storm. There was little they could do except confirm that the place had been abandoned and largely cleared out—except for several boxes and many pieces of luggage stacked along the wall.

  “Now we have another hundred men unaccounted for. Where the hell are they?” Wilson complained.

  “There’s not much we can do here. We’ll inform the chief, and he can get a search warrant to go through these things that they left behind.” Madeline was apoplectic about their findings. “Maybe they’ll come back for something.” She kicked one of the cots that stood idly by on the floor.

  “OK. Let’s head for the warehouse and catch up with Lightchurch.” Wilson was shocked that they found nothing there. The Venezuelans, Cubans, and Chinese were always one step ahead of them. They had to catch up with the game.

  ***

  They drove to the warehouse through flooded streets. They were suddenly cut off at the Mourn Rouge roundabout by a convoy of six police vehicles, driving fast and headed toward the downtown area.

  “More Toyotas. I didn’t know they were upgrading the police fleet.” Madeline’s voice was doubtful.

  The radio in the truck blared out a news report that evacuations of residents along the northwest coast would begin in the morning. The volcano had sent out a vast belch of sulfurous smoke, and minor earthquakes signaled a greater eruption in the offing.

  “That’s all we need now,” said Wilson. “A major eruption and a tidal wave.”

  At the warehouse, they encountered Lightchurch and his security people. He was on the phone when they entered.

  “But, sir!” he shouted into the phone. “You must decide now, because once the polls close, they will begin the counting process. It will be too late in an hour . . . I know it is unprecedented.” He held the phone to his ear and waved Madeline over. He put his hand over the speaker and said to her softly, “I hope you have some wire cutters. I don�
��t think he’ll make the decision.”

  “Sir, the polls should have closed by now. It may be too late,” Madeline said. “Let me make a few calls to see what’s happening.” She retreated to the far side of the room to use her cell phone, which was still working in spite of the weather.

  Wilson waited for something to happen. He attempted to put it all together in his mind. Where had everyone gone to? Why had they suddenly disappeared? And where were the weapons?

  Then it hit him. He jumped up and shouted, “They’ve already deployed! That’s why we can’t find anyone.” He rushed over to Madeline and grabbed her arm. “The police we saw on the road must be impostors. Nearly all the police should still be guarding the polling stations, or out helping stranded people. They wouldn’t be driving around in convoys. That’s why they were driving Toyota Land Cruisers, not Land Rovers.”

  Madeline’s eyes registered what he implied. She ended her call and turned to him, excitement in her eyes. “You’re right, Robert. I knew there was something odd about those police vehicles. Where were they going?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem.” He looked puzzled, then turned to her again. “What did you find out about the voting?”

  “I called a friend who works as a volunteer at the polling station in south Saint George’s. She said they lost power for a while and still can’t reestablish their Internet connection. She said that has happened at three other stations, and they may forget the new computers and revert to offline counting. If they do that, they can’t save the images of the ballots, and would have to consolidate the results from each station by hand. Some of the remote stations won’t be able to bring in physical ballots for storage until the storm passes anyway.”

  “So, maybe Tropical Storm Betty saved the day. That’s great.”

  “I must tell Lightchurch so that he can inform the PM.” She stepped away to talk to Lightchurch, who asked the PM to hold. After another minute, he ended his call.

  “Thank God that’s settled,” Lightchurch said loudly, exasperated. “The man is overwhelmed with all these issues happening. I can’t say as I blame him. It’s a lot to process.” He turned to Madeline. “What else aren’t you telling me? I could use some good news.”