The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel (Volume 1) (The Case Lee Series)

by Vince Milam

  “I’m very, very serious about this,” she said.

  “I can tell.”

  We stood outside, and she pressed in, smelling of lavender. A half step back opened personal space again.

  “I could play the femme fatale. Gather intel in ways you can’t. Have you ever seen how effective a female approach can be?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “And electronics. Computers. A strong suit of mine.”

  “Gotta go, Abbie.”

  Her lips pursed, joining a hard stare.

  “You’ll consider it?”

  A pit bull on a fresh bone, and I’d lost the energy to pull the treat away. An Abbie Rice wear-them-out strategy. It worked.

  “I’ll consider it.”

  She smiled large and extended her hand to seal the deal. We shook.

  “I’ll consider it, Abbie. No promises.”

  “All I’m asking. You need a ride?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Going home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Not far.”

  She smiled, conceded my obfuscation, and waved as she drove away. Fatigue settled, heavy. The Uber driver cruised the three hours to Norfolk, happy about the lucrative pickup. I traded between nodding off and snapping awake—tired, wounded, finished. Contract fulfilled, it was time to slip back into the rhythms of the Ditch.

  Chapter 23

  I retrieved Bo’s old pickup from the Norfolk airport parking lot and confirmed the .40-caliber Glock remained stuffed deep into the seat cushion. Armed and on home turf. The Clubhouse meeting seven hours distant, I checked into a decent hotel and crashed for five hours.

  It’s an otherworldly experience waking in a safe environment after a mission. Four days afield. Shorter than usual for a Global Resolutions gig. But a busy four days. Added points for meeting Abbie Rice, on a personal and professional basis, with one big asterisk. The “let’s join forces” bit remained beyond the pale. So I wallowed in the Abbie Rice situation to find an out, a letting go of a possible personal relationship.

  I’d asked Abbie to poke around the Company and look for tips or trails identifying the bounty sponsor. She’d do it to prove herself, and expect our next steps toward a partnership. It would be sweet information to identify the paymaster of the bounty, but I’m not a user. And Abbie would be used, without any intention of forming a team. Not a good thing.

  I waded in the “let’s find some negatives” pool, ammo to salve a guilty conscience. She’d invaded personal space. Went into too much detail about everything. Thought ol’ Case had more than a few rough edges. Well, she had a point about the last one. But it would still be wrong, using her with no intention of fulfilling her expectations.

  And her mild negatives aside, she appealed to me. Funny, bright, cute. But she’d drop me like a hot rock when the partnership thing didn’t develop. I offered Ditch life and a lack of stability—broad brushstroke warning signs for a woman you liked. The possibilities of a relationship became opaque, distant.

  The head games started, mental ping-pong on occupational selection. Suriname had been a success. I was good at this stuff. Damn good. But the business had serious downsides, including violent death. Mine and others. And continuation of my career ensured another shot at the white picket fence remained distant. Odds of a solid, long-term relationship were slim to none as long as I plied my current trade.

  After I showered, the view from the bathroom mirror reflected the less-than-ideal stitch work on my rear end. I dressed the wound again and made a mental note for stitch removal in eight or nine days. Another round of bacon and eggs called, fuel for the fire.

  I parked near a drugstore and café and bought a small bag of Australian black licorice—a weakness of Jules’s. Over breakfast I tried Bo again. No luck. I texted him and sent an email as well. Shards of worry etched fine lines of bother and concern. But time and schedules failed to resonate with him, knowledge that helped with the concern. When the waitress poured more coffee, I ordered an extra round of bacon to celebrate home turf.

  Familiar blank, hooded stares greeted me at the Filipino dry cleaners, the pistol again placed and covered. The stairs still squeaked. Two knocks, the clang of the electronic deadbolt, and the usual pirouette for Jules. Pockets emptied while she verbally poked and prodded, shotgun aimed at my torso. I held a money clip and the licorice.

  “Word has it, Horatio, things became a tad active down there.” Inspection over, she lowered the shotgun and retrieved the cigar that was balanced on the edge of the desk. How Jules could have known about Suriname would remain a mystery. And there was a chance she didn’t know but surmised so from my past missions; stating a good-odds proposition added to her mystique.

  “Walk in the park.”

  “You’re favoring that right leg.”

  “Right butt cheek.”

  “Tough park.”

  I shifted in the hard chair, dispensed with hiding my discomfort.

  “Piece of a Toyota.”

  “At least you were facing the appropriate direction when you received it, dear.” She cackled, her eye squinting with pleasure, then held in a sneeze. Her body jerked. The shotgun was grabbed, then lowered.

  “So how you doing, Jules?”

  “Mesmerized, as always, by the abject stupidity of our fellow travelers on this earth,” she said. “End games. Planned, modeled, gamed, and triggered even when the unintended consequences loom heavy on the table.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Our world leaders. Dumb as a sack of rocks. Would that be for me?” She pointed to the licorice.

  I tossed it on her desk with a smile. She took the lit end of her cigar and burned a hole in the wrapper. Inserting two thin latex-covered fingers, she plucked a piece of the candy and popped it into her mouth. The chair squeaked as she settled back, closed her eye, and chewed.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve quit worrying about it. World leaders, sacks of rocks.”

  She swallowed, grunted, and reengaged. “Their ineptitude is a blessing. Business is good. As is this licorice. You are a dear boy.”

  “I try.”

  “Speaking of business, a ficus tree informed me of an endeavor by three gentlemen of Central Asian persuasion looking to fatten their bank accounts several months ago.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Mucking about south of here.” She blew cigar smoke at the ceiling, her hawk eye focused on my expression. “You failed to mention that little fandango when last we met.”

  “They’re taken care of.”

  Jules always amazed. Tendrils—some thick, some minute—spread across her world. Conduits, rivers, trickles of information. Even from the depths of the Dismal Swamp.

  “With a degree of finality, I would hope.” Her expression remained hard, stonelike.

  A tight nod from me ended that train of conversation.

  “Let us discuss another item in the same vein,” she continued. “And it distresses me to view you in such obvious discomfort. Are you taking medication?”

  “Bacon.”

  “Splendid. Never doubt the efficacy of that product.” She leaned back, her old wooden office chair protesting again, and flicked ashes on the floor. “A wandering child may have returned. A previous affiliate of yours. So word has it.”

  Few possibilities fit the descriptive. William Tecumseh Picket topped the list. Angel.

  “If it’s Angel, I’d love to see him again. Last I’d heard he was in South America. Bolivia, maybe.”

  Jules turned and stared at the old Casablanca movie poster on her steel wall. Bogart and Bergman, love unfulfilled. The Clubhouse AC hummed; I shifted again.

  “People change, Case. Hardly a revelation on my part, but one you might move to the forefront of your ruminations.”

  I didn’t have a clue where Jules was heading with this. Silence offered her the opportunity for elaboration. She declined.

  The chair squealed a different tune as
she turned. “Provide me an overview of your little Suriname tryst. It shall put me in arrears for our next transaction, but such is the cross I bear.”

  “No trysting. Although one of the players made a strong case in that direction.”

  She laughed. “The Russian?”

  I gave her an overview, culminating with confirmation of Russia’s move for a naval base. I halted halfway through the debriefing, eyebrows raised toward her abacus.

  “Ye of little faith,” she said, and then sighed as she shifted several black abacus balls.

  I finished my delivery. She peered at her abacus. “The blueprints for the naval base were in Tjon’s safe, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Although no guarantee they remain there now, given the proprietor of the trading company’s intolerance for shoddy discretion. Correct?” she asked.

  “Correct. I didn’t hang around to see what Hoebeek did with them.”

  I’d spilled the beans three times over the course of twenty-four hours, each with varying degrees of detail. My client received the most in-depth report, Abbie the least. Jules held the high points, furthered her cause, and provided me credit. A murky world; feints and maneuvers. But at the end of the day, Executive Decisions would be more than satisfied, the CIA—still on my side of the fence—alerted, and the Clubhouse bucket tilted in my direction. I’d tilt it more and cover my back in case the Company took a dim view of my activities. You could never tell with Spookville.

  Meanwhile, Jules inspected the end of the cigar, tried a few puffs, and relit it.

  “I was met at the DC airport last night. CIA.”

  “Perhaps they missed you, dear. A simple open-arms gesture.”

  “Agent Abbie Rice.”

  I delivered it with a tinge of guilt. Jules, if she didn’t already know of Abbie, soon would. And the Clubhouse would relay any pertinent information about her, for a price.

  “And?” Jules asked.

  “I gave her Russia.”

  A scowl, grunt, and an irritated motion on the abacus. Two balls slid up a rail.

  “You’ve lowered the value of my information.” Blunt, businesslike, her eye hard.

  “She’ll sniff for the bounty sponsor.”

  Her countenance softened. “Then I shall partially forgive you. Admittedly, this poor creature has failed you in those endeavors.”

  “No knock on you. At all. It’s important you know that.”

  She plucked more licorice from the bag, eye closed as she chewed. The AC hummed.

  In due course, she peered at the abacus. “You’ve racked up a substantial credit. Even after accounting for spoilage.”

  “How much?”

  “Substantial. Would you care for information on Angola? Tasty items, fresh.”

  I had no interest in West Africa. “No, thanks.”

  “Ukraine? You do seem to have a Russian motif working.”

  “I’m headed for my old boat. Semiretired, for the umpteenth time. A little more information about the wandering child would be worth a lot.”

  She shook the abacus; the black balls slid down their rails, the math erased. “I’m suspicious by nature, dear. And perhaps you should be more so.”

  “Not following, Jules.”

  “Timing. Merging activities. Drivers of human emotions.”

  “Let’s focus on the activities.” Alarms tingled. She knew something.

  “Let’s focus on the drivers. Power, money, sex.”

  “Sure wish you’d be a little less cryptic.”

  “My nature, Monsieur Lee. My nature. Now pay attention.”

  “Always do.”

  “My personal joss rattles on the shelf. And so I offer a rare gem out of amity and the discomfort of carrying a debt.”

  The sage of the Clubhouse. An offer, attached strings to follow.

  “Describe this crown jewel, and I’ll decide if it has immediate value,” I said. “Not knocking your offer, but I’m off the clock at the moment.”

  “We have no rest, you and I. Merely pauses. I’m offering a conduit. Communication with the Clubhouse, deep web only. No voice communications, of course.”

  She plucked another licorice, chewed, stared with an eagle eye and continued.

  “Not to be overly Conan Doyle about events and activities, but something is indeed afoot, dear boy. I don’t like it.”

  Jules had always refused communication via telephone, and deep-web messages were for face-to-face appointments at the Clubhouse. This was a major departure, and my gut knotted. If she offered this unheard-of present, events were still active. Very active. Son of a bitch.

  “Thanks, Jules. I’ll accept. Sincerely, thanks. I assume you’ll keep tabs on my balance if I resort to using your offer?”

  She flicked an abacus black ball up its rail, then back down, smiled as she chewed, the attached strings identified.

  “Allow me to express what has promulgated such an offer,” she said.

  “All right. Can I have a licorice?”

  “Just one. It is possible your association with Suriname began prior to your departure. Certain facts, hazy at inception, have presented themselves with more clarity since your departure.”

  “Okay.” The candy was okay. I didn’t get the big appeal.

  “Your belief that our Mr. Hoebeek purchased military items for the rebels would buttress the rumor he also hired a trainer. A military trainer, for the rebel forces.”

  I remained silent and reflected.

  “Any sign of that, dear boy?”

  “Yes. Signs. No identification.”

  “Ah.” She gave a tilt of the head and benign focus toward me.

  “So what does this have to do with me prior to my Suriname departure?”

  Jules leaned forward and plucked another piece of licorice from the bag. She convulsed with a held-in sneeze, hand reaching for the shotgun. There was a suspension of activities, then quick recovery, and candy popped in her mouth. She spoke with her eye closed, worked the licorice, relishing the experience.

  “Lovely tidbits, these. Lovely. And now we loop back. The wandering child. It would appear the military trainer working for Hoebeek, and by association your Russian amour, is an American.”

  I didn’t see that coming and refused to accept it. Angel might have done a lot of things, but setting up rebel armies in the employment of Russia wasn’t one of them.

  “Not Angel,” I murmured.

  “Hmm.”

  “Blood brother.”

  “Of course.”

  Quiet shared stares and unspoken communication. Her hand disappeared underneath the desk, and the metallic click of the door unlocking followed. The meeting was over.

  “Yes, well, as I have stated, the lines of communication will be open in the near term twixt you and I. Now depart,” she said. “Attend to your posterior.”

  A mild groan, standing. It ached, and the Ace called.

  “Flee to your haven,” she continued, an arm wafting. “An ostensible wandering existence on a well-defined watery path. You do see the incongruity, don’t you?”

  I did.

  Chapter 24

  No returned messages from Bo. Fine—I was going home regardless. A large sporting goods and outdoor supply store across the bridge in Newport News had a selection of canoes.

  “I’ll take the ten footer, green, out front,” I said, pointing toward the front doors of the store. “And a paddle.”

  The man behind the counter had the earmarks of retired navy—a forearm tattoo of an elaborate anchor with a US shield, and an attitude.

  “Flotation device?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Extra paddle?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ll have to register it as a watercraft. The morons in Richmond say so. State law.”

  “Fine.”

  He pulled below-counter forms, shook his head, snorted, and found a pen.

  “All right. Name?” he asked.

  “Kofi Annan.�
��

  He looked up, chuckled, and asked, “Spell that with a K, right?”

  “Indeed.”

  “What address you want me to put down, Kofi?”

  “Make one up.”

  “Can do easy. This going to be a cash transaction?”

  “Indeed, again.”

  He helped me load the canoe into the bed of the pickup and tie it down. I’d be at Bo’s old barn to park the truck in a little over an hour. Concern for my friend grew, tempered with the knowledge he was liable to be sitting in a tree, contemplating, and had decided to remain there for a day or two. It was quite possible. And now the news of Angel. Not confirmed and hard to wrap my head around. If—and it was a very big if—he’d trained the rebel forces in Suriname, maybe he worked directly for Hoebeek. It was false hope, grasping at straws. He would have figured out the backer, the power player. It made no sense. He didn’t need to take that kind of gig. Ex-Delta members had plenty of other opportunities. Opportunities on this side of the fence.

  A tinge of fall weather hinted, suggested, as I hid the truck in the barn. A short trip to carry the canoe across the small two-lane highway and down the trail to the Ditch. Across from the canal, the Dismal Swamp waited, primal, separate, and ancient. A living, breathing thing. There was no boat traffic. Dead silence interrupted only by nature’s scurries, calls, splashes.

  The muted sound of the paddle brought a sense of calm and separation. I shifted on the small hard canoe seat and eased the butt throb. Going home, each paddle stroke propelled toward a place where safety and love reigned. The world would move on, babies born, people dying. Laughter, love, tragedy—baked in the cake. Archimedes had been wrong. No lever of any size or power was sufficient to move the basics.

  I reversed the paddle stroke. Something was wrong. Where a fine trip wire—fishing line—should have been stretched between two cypress trees, the line dangled. A near invisible filament, cut. The Glock, pulled from the rucksack, rested on my lap. A quarter mile later, another cut trip wire. Shields raised, all senses alert. Movement of small animals brought focus; silence offered no surety.

  The canoe drew only two inches of water, so I took a different route to Bo’s houseboat and the Ace of Spades. I approached from the opposite side of the island where they were parked and stopped a hundred yards from the island. I left the canoe wedged between two cypress knees, water waist-high. Submerged to nose level, I moved away from the canoe, waited, senses cranked high. Insects buzzed, ducks splashed in the distance. A rich, biting smell from the tannic water. Nothing. No human sounds or sights.