by Vince Milam
“A wise decision, my friend. A wise decision. He is to be avoided.”
“You know him?” Tjon asked.
“We’ve met. Avoid him.”
Nika’s influence shone through Hoebeek’s statement. She’d presented me as a danger. Fine. I’d still sleep at night having failed the friend test with Mr. Trading Company.
Tjon nodded, looked into the night, and collected his thoughts. The ice cubes in Hoebeek’s glass clinked as he drained his drink. Tjon glanced through the windows at the gaiety inside, then back to Hoebeek. I checked for any upstairs veranda guests. None appeared.
“I can administer to this American if you think it proper. Dispose of him,” Tjon said.
“No.”
“I can ask one of my people to handle it tonight.”
“No, Ravindu.”
“This is a critical time. We cannot have disruptions,” Tjon said.
“No. The matter is being taken care of.” Hoebeek started to move away, and added, “I cannot emphasize enough the importance of secrecy. You did well regarding this man.”
Tjon smiled at the compliment, adding, “What is not secret are the beautiful girls and cocaine available at this moment.”
Tjon laughed. Hoebeek scowled.
“So come inside, my friend,” Tjon said. “This is a party. I have a few girls I’d like you to meet.”
The French doors swung open to the floor-level veranda, and several guests spilled out, stopping their conversation. An issue was made of the host and his good friend not joining the festivities, laughter echoed across the lawn, and the entire veranda crowd moved inside. Except for Hoebeek. I plastered myself against the chain, nestled ten feet above him against the support column. He remained contemplative, face grim. Then he turned and joined the party inside.
Another conversation about Case Lee, Esq., getting whacked. Great. I shoved the conversation aside and focused on the mission. The chain proved stout and quiet as I approached the third-floor veranda. The rooms visible through windows stood empty, the door leading off the veranda to the hallway unlocked.
The inside wooden floor squeaked at my first step, so I moved against the wall where subfloor supports were strongest. Laughter and chatter drifted up from the party. The first room’s door was wide open, and luck provided my objective. Ravindu Tjon’s office.
Large framed photos of Tjon and His Excellency the president hung alongside photos of Tjon on a golf course, Tjon at a grand-opening ceremony, and Tjon bundled in ski wear. The enlarged ski photo’s backdrop displayed a French après-ski restaurant. The minister enjoyed the French Alps. A large desk, a four-drawer wooden filing cabinet, and a substantial safe filled the room.
His desktop and desk drawers revealed little. I was rifling through the top filing-cabinet drawer when steady squeaky footfalls approached. Not good. The space behind the open door offered a hiding place. In marched the minister.
He squatted on large haunches, worked the combination of the safe, and pulled open the heavy door. My vantage point allowed view of his activities but not the safe combination. Tjon removed a cigar-box-size container, wooden, and lifted the lid. The interior was filled with white powder. Tjon dipped a fingertip into the substance, raised it to a flared nostril, and inhaled with gusto. A shake of his head and a positive “Yes, yes,” followed.
The safe held other items—papers, a leather sack, and a roll of what looked like blueprints. Pay dirt. Tjon stood and leaned over, the wooden container in one hand, and prepared to close and lock the safe, spinning the safe door’s combination. That wouldn’t do.
The sleeper hold, well practiced by Delta Forces, blocks both the left and right carotid arteries, causing a cessation of oxygenated blood to the brain and loss of consciousness within seconds. Improperly applied, it kills. Two long silent strides, and seconds later, Tjon took a short nap.
He’d come to in a minute, more or less, leaving little time. I started with the rolled-up blueprints within the safe. Spread on his desktop, a heavy stapler and desk lamp holding the edges. A detailed diagram of extensive docks, piers, and support structures lay before me. A quick turn of the pages showed more granular detail. A massive project. A navy facility, complete with dry docks. Bingo.
The lower right corner of each page displayed the same statement. Prepared and Presented by The Eerlijk Trading Company. Double bingo.
A global power saw Suriname as a vassal state, a pliable country. One that would support the big dog’s military operations. A naval base, home for aircraft carriers, destroyers, amphibious assault ships. The diplomatic shit would hit the fan, condemnations and economic sanctions threatened. The remaining question was the identity of the big dog. The blueprints gave no indication.
Down the hall, stairs creaked. Someone climbed, approached the third floor. Tjon moaned, regaining consciousness, his box of cocaine spilled alongside him. Time for Case Lee, Esq., to skedaddle.
Out the door—a quick glance ensured the arriving guest hadn’t reached the top of the stairs yet—and onto the veranda. I started down the drain chain, stopping below the third floor. If I continued my descent, I risked the new person noticing the heavy chain’s movement. Best to hunker down, be quiet, be still. The ground-floor party remained in full swing, the laughter raucous. I hung suspended, plastered again between the chain and support column, hidden by the shadows.
The footfalls moved toward Tjon’s office. Above me, a muffled admonition, unclear and frustrated and angry. Then movement. One body stumbled, unsteady. The other moved with sure intent. Both came closer, together, exited the veranda door, and approached the railing above my head.
A brief “Whaa?” and the minister of economic development flew several feet past me, headfirst, toward the ground three floors below. Two sounds—a muffled impact similar to a sack of rice hitting the kitchen floor, and the discernible crack of neck vertebrae. Ravindu Tjon sprawled on the dark stone pathway below, dead.
A face peeked over the railing, focused on the fallen man. Luuk Hoebeek. He pulled back, and his footsteps retreated. The party remained inside. No screams or horror-filled recognition as a body whipped past the ground-floor windows and made a lethal stop. The laughter and good times continued.
Mr. Trading Company played for keeps. Just ask the former minister of economic development. And, in a heartbeat, he’d turn the same attitude toward Case Lee, Esq. Fine. Him, Nika, whatever. But I wasn’t just another shmuck, another victim. Delta Force, baby. And if you had any intentions of tossing my butt off a balcony, you’d better bring several dozen large men.
I eased down the chain and jogged into darkness, through elephant ears, canna lilies, and banana plants. Rain jacket retrieved, wrought-iron fence hurdled, I continued to jog until, several backyards later, I hit a street. The noise of the party behind me carried through the dank air.
Chapter 17
Paramaribo’s finest whorehouse—a two-story wooden building with low outdoor lighting—stood four blocks from my hotel, tucked into a large tree- and vine-covered three-acre lot. A few vehicles were parked on the gravel drive out front. Music—a bass-driven American pop song—filtered through open windows. Two prostitutes smoked and chatted, occupying the front porch. They dropped their smokes, ground them out, and struck a pose as I approached. I nodded and smiled, passed them, and entered a world of sadness and despair. Another day at the office. Witness a murder, drop by the local cathouse, and chat with the resident mercenary. Mom would be so proud.
Christmas lights, a permanent fixture, were strewn across the ceiling and wrapped around any vertical room support. A small bar, arrays of liquor, and more Christmas lights. Cheap wooden tables and a small dance floor. Painted velvet art festooned the walls. A sci-fi goddess astride a dragon, gravity-defying boobs and six-pack a sign of her power. Another painting held her counterpart, some dude with a minimalist loincloth. He gripped an ax, scowled, long hair streaming. And another of Elvis. On velvet, crooning. The poor bastard.
A dozen women
milled about. A variety of sizes, shapes, and colors—both the women and their attire. It smelled of cigarettes, liquor, sweat, and sex.
I took off the rain jacket, the pistol protruding from my back waistband. No worries as no one would blink an eye at its display.
My guy sat at a corner table, a young woman perched on a knee. Two others occupied adjoining chairs. Mr. Air Jockey, stud of the universe, filled a one-piece flight suit covered with aviation patches. A long, thin cigar smoldered in a stamped-metal ashtray. Bishop. Have chopper will travel.
I approached, and the girls scattered, leaving the two of us alone. My demeanor, look, or walk indicated “other business.” Working girls had a keen eye for the inherent dangers of the here and now. An American approached the helicopter pilot, and their internal radar sent a signal—step aside. Leave. Leave and not overhear anything they could later be associated with. Pure survival instinct. A core skill set among prostitutes in a gritty country.
A merc is a merc, and Bishop would focus on business. I sat near him, back against the wall, and signaled, smiling toward the nearest working girl. A beer. She returned a nod and left.
“I sense another operator,” Bishop said. He grinned and plucked his cigar from the ashtray. He could have passed for a NASCAR driver with all the commercial patches on his one-piece. “A man smelling easy money,” he added.
Great. Another bosom buddy. A quick recon of the room confirmed no immediate danger.
“Something like that,” I said.
My heart broke in these dens of cheap life. The girls, often teens, plied the world’s oldest profession out of desperation. Parents had sold them, pocketing cash while their daughters immersed themselves in the deep pits of a miserable life. Some were kidnapped and held as slaves. Desperate poor countries with desperate people. Their next meal was a constant concern. Beaten, fed drugs, abused mentally—a shitty life, a downward spiral. I never contributed to their decline. Sad and depressing. Vile bastards like Bishop fed the beast. A user of others’ pain and struggles.
A small lizard ran up a nearby wooden support pole and found a perch on a red bulb among the Christmas lights. The music changed, another pop tune. Tires crackled on gravel outside—another customer or two arrived. A sad damn place.
“John Bolen. Not an operator. Information only,” I said. My head craved such a demarcation.
“Sure,” Bishop said, smirking. He hadn’t bought the separation. “Whatever you say, John. Clever name. You sure we haven’t crossed paths? Sudan?”
Not Sudan. Neighboring Eritrea. We hadn’t made physical contact in that war-torn African country, but Delta knew of his efforts. He flew for the highest bidder, carnage be damned.
“Never worked that part of the world,” I lied. Misdirection, head him off any potential past trail. My beer arrived. “And no desire to. How’s this gig treating you?”
His answer was dependent upon several factors, not the least of which was liquor consumption. Sufficiently lubricated, the macho mercenary bullshit might surface and legitimate answers be given.
“Lots of opportunity. Lots of money. Lots of girls. A man could do worse.”
Well lubricated. All good.
“You’re the Suriname Air Force at the moment, I understand.”
He took a large swig of beer, puffed his cigar, and added, “Seems that way. As usual, flying for the HCIC. Head clown in charge.”
Head clown. Suriname’s president. Bishop’s lack of class shined bright.
“Side gigs?” I asked.
“Poor boy has gotta eat. What did you have in mind?”
“Nothing at the moment. Just checking availability.”
He’d already demonstrated willingness to take other clients. Hines’s arrival at the Coppename bridge, for instance. What other players utilized his service?
“Give me a heads-up twenty-four hours in advance. I can bullshit the HCIC and get you where you want.”
“Good.”
“Two grand an hour.”
“Reasonable.”
“Including standby time. Minimum three hours. That’s six large for those of you challenged by math.” He laughed, drained the beer bottle, and waggled the empty toward the bar.
“Good to know. Just don’t want to cut in on someone else’s schedule.”
His beer arrived, and he fished the cigar from the ashtray, relit it. As he puffed, the mercenary shields rose. Bishop had lived this long knowing when to shut up, regardless of booze consumption. Damn.
“Nope. Just the chief and his army commandant.” A lie, and his hooded expression gave clear indication he wouldn’t tolerate much more digging.
I plowed ahead, took another sip of beer, and remained sociable. I had to choke the beer down—the room held such a rank smell, the whole landscape tawdry.
“You know the minister of economic development? Ravindu Tjon?”
“Heard the name.”
“Luuk Hoebeek?”
“Look, asshole. I have a good thing going here. Chill with the all the damn questions.”
The music switched—a god-awful Dutch pop tune. Two girls wafted by the table, smiled, and trolled for business. Fatigue washed over me. A busy day. The establishment’s vibe of desperation overlaid with cheap perfume and cigar smoke added weight, depression.
“What you need is to get laid,” Bishop said. “Learn to relax.”
I couldn’t handle any more beer. One more question, then exit.
“Now, I’d suggest the one over there.” Bishop pointed out a young woman in hot pants and halter across the room. “Will tear you a new one.”
He laughed. I feigned a smile.
“Or the one with the sarong. Lie back and let her drive. A spinner.”
Visions of a white-picket-fence future shimmered, unreachable. This current path skirted the possibility, led to muck and mire. Led to those that relished the filth and degradation. All right, the money was damn good. Mom and CC received most of it. But the thought of family and a past life with Rae, in this place at this time, had me circling the drain.
I cleared my mind of loved ones. This was work. I was good at it. Damn good. And in a couple of days, I’d be back on the Ace a million miles from this setting. I shivered, let it go, and did my job.
“How about a blonde hanging out at the hotel? Seen her?” A bit of a stretch, as Bishop lived at the whorehouse and worked at the airfield, keeping his bird mechanically fit for service. He wasn’t the type to hang at decent hotels.
“Sweet piece of ass. Seen her. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it for this supersleuth bullshit you’re playing.” He turned surly.
“Dude, I’m not an operator. An errand boy, nothing more.” I held up both hands, palms facing him.
He didn’t buy it.
“It’s a good gig I’ve got here, Bolen. Too many questions makes me uneasy.”
“Not my intent.”
“Harshes my mellow.”
“Understood.”
“So before you ask the next one, let me preempt the effort.”
“Okay.”
“Shove it up your ass.”
Several of the girls had started dancing—desultory moves, prompted by an unseen command from management. Bishop, agitated, raised a hand toward the bar and signaled a “come here” to someone.
Someone was the large bartender, muscle for the owner. Backup followed. Classic other-world bar scenario. The lead big guy, muscle number one, would inquire if Bishop—his best customer—was all right. He’d also want information about this strange man that kept Bishop from buying the girls drinks and spending money in the usual manner. I was bad for business. The guy behind him, tall and wiry with more than a few face and neck scars, stood a discreet two steps back.
“Everything okay, Mr. Bishop?” muscle one asked, his voice an amalgam of accents.
Bishop leaned back, swilled beer, and cast a smile my way. “Everything okay, Bolen? Why don’t you tell my friend ev
erything is okay?” He chuckled, back in control.
I assessed the large muscle. Tall, broad, and a face long bereft of a good-natured grin.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. I’d had enough of Bishop. Exit time. Graceful or humble or violent—it didn’t matter.
A young girl came around muscle two and stood, her look nervous, fingers fidgeting. Drugs—meth, coke, or a god-awful combination that might include laundry powder, snorted or injected. She was lit, high voltage, and scratched her forearm. “I’ll sit with Bishop if you’d like, Bello.”
She tried to placate big muscle, start the party again with Bishop, and do her bit to alleviate any unnecessary activities. A legitimate attempt, and she deserved a hell of a lot better than she received.
Bello glanced over his shoulder and backhanded the young girl. She yelped, grabbed her cheek with one hand, and fled to a corner of the large room. Another prostitute comforted her, rubbed her arm, and whispered in her ear. Someone turned off the music.
There’s not a caped-crusader trait built into my character. I wanted out of the place, to walk away. But this hellhole of an establishment deserved a lesson in manners.
“Best of luck, Bishop,” I said, standing. “I’m fairly certain the Stingers I smuggled in a couple of days ago haven’t been deployed yet.”
Chopper pilots weren’t fond of small-arms fire from the ground, aimed skyward, but they were shit-scared of the shoulder-mounted Stinger missiles. It was total bullshit I’d smuggled any of them, but Bishop wouldn’t know that. And the possibility of a Stinger in the wrong hands induced ulcers for chopper pilots of Bishop’s ilk.
Bishop’s eyes went wide, any semblance of curled-lip mirth long gone. I turned and addressed the large muscle, Bello. “Stop hitting the girls. They don’t like it. I don’t like it. Any questions?”
He telegraphed his next move. His torso turned toward the backup muscle as he prepared for a backhanded head blow. It came as expected. I caught his wrist, stepped close, locked eyes. He struggled against the pain in his now-bent wrist, his body a shield between me and muscle number two. A short vicious kidney punch put the large man on the floor. The wrist grip remained, and his kneeled position revealed the backup muscle with a flicked knife, flashing under the low lighting. He moved laterally, kept the knife low—a legitimate knife fighter.