His rogue methods started a political shitstorm and details only emerged later, when his help finally talked. By then, he’d fled to Iceland, where, at the time, whaling was not only acceptable, but welcomed. Fishermen wanted the competition gone, claiming the whales depleted their stocks. Which is absolute bullshit.
In 1982, the International Whaling Commission enacted a total ban on whaling, trying to protect whales from total annihilation, but Icelandic whalers used a loophole to continue to kill whales on a commercial scale under the guise of scientific research. Like Japan still does today. Iceland only quit whaling because of a public boycott of Icelandic fish in Europe and the U.S., plus the threat of U.S. Government-imposed trade sanctions.
Even with the public outcry for the whales, Ray Goldman never showed an iota of remorse. Then, he simply vanished into the ether.
Until now. Assuming it’s really him. But it seems plausible. China and Russia are building new mega-aquariums and the demand for live orcas has resurged. One live killer whale carries a one million dollar price tag. That’s a lot of dollars floating around in the sea. And nothing brings a trafficker back to work faster.
I turned to head for the pub when Dalton’s phone rang.
He held up one finger, signaling me to wait. “It’s Nash.”
Joe Nash was our supervisor, a legend in Special Ops. He’d been the Special Agent in Charge on my first assignment with Agent Dalton in Costa Rica. Dalton and I were undercover as a married couple, buying illegal animals for the pet industry. Nash thought Dalton and I made a good team. He had no clue that, before we caught the kingpin, we’d damn near killed each other.
Dalton punched the speaker button. “Yep.”
“Hey,” said Nash. “How’s it going over there?”
“We’re heading to meet the informant right now,” said Dalton.
“Good. Proceed with caution.”
Dalton flashed me a like-I-said look.
“I don’t have to remind you, we’re out on a limb on this one. I did some fancy dancing to get you on this special joint effort with NOAA. Your directive is to confirm it is indeed Ray Goldman, gather the evidence we need to convict, then call in the Norwegian authorities to make the arrest. Got it? Just do that cute couple routine and you’ll slide in under his radar.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. From day one, our fake marriage felt like it was headed for a fake divorce.
“Got it,” said Dalton, winking at me.
“A lot of people around here have been wanting to bust this guy for years. Keep it by the book. I don’t want any loophole he can slither out of.”
“Right, boss,” said Dalton and disconnected.
Before he could say anything, I said, “I’m going to head in.”
He shook his head.
“What?” My cheeks flushed pink. “I’m quite sure I can handle a little reconnaissance. You just make sure you’ve got those shirtsleeves rolled up.”
I turned on my heel and left him standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk holding onto his phone.
Bergen is the second-largest city in Norway, as modern as any other in the world, but for some reason Johnny-boy wanted to meet at the Bryggen wharf in Old Town.
A series of buildings lined up in a row, all the same shape and size, distinguished only by their bright colors—red, yellow, orange, and white. I wished I had time to explore, learn about the history of this place. All I knew was that these buildings had been here since the late Middle Ages, part of the Hanseatic merchant guild that stretched along the north European trade routes. There was even a Hanseatic museum here to get the whole, sordid scoop. Alas, maybe next time.
Occasionally an alley separated two buildings where a wooden-plank boardwalk provided passage to the many shops and pubs tucked behind the storefronts. On this late fall afternoon, the shadows were already darkening the corners. I made my way down the main thoroughfare, through the crowd of tourists, then turned down one of the deserted alleys.
When I managed to find the pub, I had to admit, Dalton had been right about it. The place smelled of stale beer and fish guts and everything was coated with the brownish hue of tar from decades of cigarette smoke.
Five locals hunched over the dimly-lit bar—fisherman, or dockworkers maybe. Two other men ate at a table in the corner. At another sat three looking like they’d spent the last ten weeks on a boat and had dragged themselves down the dock to land here before hitting the showers. Otherwise, the place was empty.
With the exception of the computer cash register, it felt like I’d stepped back in time to circa 1650.
Yeah, I got the looks, the side-glances, the what-the-hell-is-she-doing-here expressions. But hey, a girl should be able to get a beer in peace, right? Wouldn’t take long and they’d forget I was even here.
I climbed onto a stool at the end of the bar and waited for the portly barkeep to mosey my way.
He wiped his hands on his apron—also appeared to be circa 1650 by the amount of crusty grime glommed onto the front of it—and gave me a curt nod, his way of welcome.
“A Beamish, please,” I said in my best Irish accent. Everyone knows the Irish drink Beamish. None of that Guiness sludge.
In good time, a frothy mug of my favorite, tasty malt beverage was slid my way. I took a sip and settled in to watch for unusual behavior.
The five men at the bar eased back into their conversation. Thankfully, nearly everyone in Norway speaks English and I could follow along.
The one who sat on the end, closest to me, seemed to have the attention of the others and I got the sense he wasn’t from around here. He was about my dad’s age, though this man’s manners would never have been accepted at my mom’s table. He had both elbows propped on the bar, his chin leaning on grubby hands. His features—large, bulbous eyes, pointy nose, protruding ears, pencil-thin lips—weren’t all that odd, individually, but the combination somehow didn’t quite go together, like he was a toddler’s Mr. Potato Head creation, come to life. Even his weathered skin resembled an old spud.
“I tell you what,” he said to the other four men. “Another go at it?”
They glanced around at each other, nodding, then dug some paper kroner from their pockets and slapped them on the bar.
“All right,” the first man said. “I'm a slippery fish in a cloudy sea; Neither hook nor spear will capture me; With your hand you must hunt and seize this fish; To see that it ends up in the dish.”
The four fishermen’s eyes darted about, to the ceiling, to the floor. One scratched his beard in thought. A few glugs of beer, some barstool shifting, but no one spoke a word.
“Not even a guess?” the riddler asked. He waited. “Do you need a hint?”
One of the men eyed the pile of cash on the bar and grimaced, shaking his head in frustrated resignation.
The first man slapped his hand over the money and slowly dragged it in.
“A bar of soap,” I said, then quickly drew in my breath. Dammit. I’d said it out loud.
The man flashed me a dirty look.
I flashed back an innocent, apologetic smile.
He turned back to the men. “One more? Just for fun?”
A young, rosy-cheeked man with a round, cheerful face piped up. “Sure, man.”
The riddler glanced at the bartender and some unspoken signal passed between them.
“What has rivers but no water, forests but no trees, and cities but no buildings?”
More head scratching and lip chewing. “Dunno,” said the one on the far end, a young, blond man of about my age, built like a barn. He tipped up his mug and chugged.
“Me neither,” said the bearded man next to him, shaking his head. “What’s the lady say?”
All eyes turned my way. Crap. I was supposed to blend in.
The riddler glowered at me.
“C’mon. Nothin’s ridin’ on it,” one of them said.
The riddler raised his eyebrows and nodded his consent.
Rivers but no water,
forests but no trees. “A map?”
The men snickered and grinned.
“Put the lady’s beer on my tab,” the riddler said to the bartender. “Okay, boys. Another bet?”
The bearded man shook his head right away, but the guy next to him dug into his wallet, then nudged the bearded guy, goading him until he finally dropped a bill on the bar. “My money’s on her,” he said, his gnarled finger pointed my way.
I shook my head and turned my attention to the contents of my mug. Why didn’t I find some hidey-hole in the corner with a view of the bar and keep my big mouth shut? Dammit, McVie. Blend in. Blend IN.
The others nodded their agreement and coughed up the cash.
“Fine by me,” the hustler said. He leaned forward on the bar as though ready to tell a ghost tale of old ‘round the campfire. “I can't hear you, but I can touch you; You can feel me, but you can't see me; I can't see you, but I can kill you; You can't kill me, but you can hear me.”
The blond barn on the far end dropped his face in his hands, then shook his head, tipped back his mug, and drained the contents in one gulp. The others seemed to try to solve the riddle, their eyes glassy and tired.
The bearded man raised his finger. “What about it, sweetheart?”
Crap. I couldn’t win either way. If I didn’t answer, the four men would be in an uproar. If I did, the hustler would get pissed off. I gritted my teeth. I hate hustlers. “The wind,” I said.
The bearded man flung his head back and roared with laughter.
The hustler didn’t flinch. He saw his opportunity. “Double or nothing,” he said.
The men shelled out the cash without hesitation.
“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not—this isn’t…”
“All on the girl,” the hustler said, his potato-face puckered with amusement.
I kept shaking my head, no, but the men were back in the game now.
They pushed the cash into a tidy pile.
With a starchy grin, the hustler said, “With no wings, I fly. With no eyes, I see. With no arms, I climb. More frightening than any beast, stronger than any foe. I am cunning, ruthless, and tall. In the end, I rule all.”
I stared. I had no idea. I fly, I see, I climb. How’d I get myself into this mess? Cunning, ruthless, and tall?
“C’mon, lass,” someone said.
“I…” I shook my head. In the end, I rule all? “I don’t know.”
“Give the lady a minute, now,” said the round-faced man with the kind smile.
My mind was blank. “Really,” I said, “I have no idea. I’m sorry.”
Outsmarted by Mr. Potato Head. Could my day get any worse?
The hustler grinned wide and swept the cash off the bar and into his pocket. “Sorry, men.”
“Now wait just a minute,” said the bearded man, rising from his stool. His blue eyes flared with rage. “Why do I feel like we just been swindled by you two?”
“What? No.” I shook my head.
His fury wasn’t focused on the hustler, but me. The other three men fell in behind him.
“I didn’t have anything to—”
The hustler started to slip from his stool.
I nudged him in the shoulder with my finger. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The four men turned to him. His buggy eyes darted from one to the other as he assessed his foes.
I said to him, “I’m pretty sure what you just pulled isn’t legal. So go on, give these men their money back and call it a day.”
He smirked and stood taller. “I’ll do no such thing.” He looked to the barkeep as he adjusted his collar and smoothed his shirt sleeves. “It was a fair bet.”
“Maybe we should let the police sort it out,” I suggested to the bearded man.
The hustler grabbed me by the arm and shoved me against the bar. He probably stood about five-ten, two-hundred pounds of net-hauling muscle. “Maybe you should mind your own business, sweetheart.”
This guy was really starting to piss me off. I looked down at his hand, then looked him in the eye, and, with a smile pasted on my face, my voice all dripping with syrup, said, “Take your hand off me or I’ll break it.”
This seemed to encourage him more. “That’s not very ladylike,” he grunted through gritted teeth.
I matched his stare. “I’m not sure you know how to treat a lady.”
“What’s this? Part of your act?” the bearded man bellowed.
The hustler glanced at the door, the quickest of glances, but I caught it. He was going to bolt.
He shoved me into the bar and I reacted. I jabbed my elbow upward at his throat, extended my arm, gave his head a twist, and knocked him off his feet. He stumbled to catch his balance, but I had my foot on top of his. He teetered forward and, with a little help from my hand, face-planted into the edge of the bar. Take that. I brushed off my hands and wiped my brow. Mashed potato.
From his pocket, I pulled out the wad of cash and handed it to the bearded man. He responded with a bewildered expression, staring open-mouthed at the money as though it had magically shimmered into existence right there in his hand.
The hustler crumpled to the floor.
I picked up my Beamish. “Thanks for the grog,” I said and held it up in salute.
The four men exchanged glances, unsure whether this was still part of some elaborate con.
The barkeep tapped me on the shoulder. “Out.”
“What? Me?” I glanced down at the hustler, now sitting upright on the floor holding his head. “He’s the one who—”
The gruff old barkeep jabbed his finger at me. “I’m not going to ask you twice.”
Dammit. I didn’t even get to enjoy the beer.
I slinked out the front door.
As I walked down the wooden-plank sidewalk, I spotted Dalton coming my way.
“What’s going on?” he asked, his face wrinkled with concern.
“Nothing. I just—” I clenched my teeth together. “I just got kicked out of the pub is all.”
A grin spread across his face and his eyes lit with amusement. “Seriously?”
I wanted to punch him in the stomach. “Enjoy the moment.”
“What on earth happened—wait, I probably don’t want to know.” His eyes closed shut, then the grin took over again. He blinked them open. “Anything I should know?”
“No,” I said with a frown.
He shook his head and snickered. “I’ll meet you back at the lodge.”
I watched him saunter away, grinning all the way to the pub, the pub where I was supposed to be hunkered down in a dark corner to keep watch.
I headed down the wharf to walk it off. A couple of tall ships were docked, their wooden masts bedangled with complicated rigging. I’d always wanted to sail aboard one of those old ships, flying the Jolly Roger and spitting into the wind. Maybe drink rum from a wooden cask. I couldn’t go for the eye patch, but a pet parrot would be fun. I could teach him to swear with an Irish accent.
I sat down on the edge of the pier and let my legs dangle over the water. A couple of gulls skittered into the air, then circled back to perch on the pilings and the stench of backwater and diesel fumes wafted my way.
Of course I wouldn’t have a pet parrot. And some kind of partner I was. Dalton was in there alone right now, with no backup. Sure, the risk was low, but still. It was my job. And he was my partner. All because I’d misjudged the scene. And then I opened my big mouth. I wouldn’t blame Dalton if he sent me home tonight.
I grinned in spite of myself. That ass deserved to get clobbered. And by a girl, as he would say. That probably really pissed him off. Thought he was so clever with his riddles. Cunning, ruthless, and tall.
“Imagination!” I shouted to the gulls. Dammit. Head slap. Now it comes to me.
About four hours after Dalton went in, the warm light spilled out into the dark alley as he came out the front door of the pub and headed toward our lodge. I stepped from the shadows and followed
him. Made it two blocks before he spotted me.
“I thought I said I’d meet you back at the pension,” he said.
I shrugged him off. “I wanted to hang close. In case you needed me.”
“Uh, huh,” he said. “So how’d you get yourself banished anyway?”
“Some old man had grabby paws.” It was only a half fib.
Dalton grinned. “You’re something, you know that?”
“Whatever.” I gave him the look. “Did our informant show?”
He shook his head. “Waited all this time. Then the bartender hands me this note.”
He held it out for me to read. Fish Market, 10 a.m. Two days. Come alone.
“Two days. But Ray Goldman is out there, somewhere, right now. We need to get going. We need to know which direction.”
Dalton sauntered along, unaffected.
I kicked a tiny chunk of concrete that had crumbled from the edge of the curb and watched it skitter down the sidewalk. “We don’t have two days to wait.”
Dalton stopped and turned to face me. “Patience, my dear.”
“Don’t patronize me. You know time’s a factor here. We’ve got a tiny window to catch this guy. If he gets a whale before we catch up to him, he’ll sail off into the sunset, to sell it in Russia or China or Timbuktu. He’ll be beyond our reach. Don’t you care?”
His hands went to his hips. “Of course I care.”
“Well, how can you be so—”
“You’re so cute when you’re angry.”
My bottom lip was sticking out. I sucked it back in. “Cute!” A rush of color heated my cheeks. Errrrr!
“I want to catch this guy as badly as you do,” he said, calm as can be. “But some things are out of our control.”
Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series) Page 20