“That’s great news.” It would be a matter of hours before they had the heroin.
“What are you going to do about the distributors?” It was a relevant question. Without proper evidence, they couldn’t arrest them. Fitting out cars with secret panels was not a criminal offense. The DEA would have to catch them in the act.
“They don’t know their boss is dead yet, so we’ll try to organise a sting.”
Crane nodded, then wished he hadn’t as the pain radiated down his neck and spanned out over his shoulder. He took a deep, steadying breath. That’s what the DEA were good at. They’d catch them red-handed, especially now they had the drugs.
“Oh, you asked about Chris’s bank accounts…”
Crane perked up. “Yeah, you find anything?”
“They all had accounts in the Caymans. The twice yearly payments to the other two were there, just as Copeland said.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s still money coming out of Chris’s account. Every two weeks. Cash withdrawal.”
“Someone’s accessing his account?”
“So it would seem. What are you thinking, Crane?”
“I’m thinking I should take a trip.”
“Caymans?”
“I could be way off base here but I need to check it out.”
“Okay, keep me posted.”
As soon as he’d hung up, Crane dialled his travel agent. Yeah, it was old school but he didn’t have time to find a computer. “Hey, Liz, it’s Crane. I need to get on a flight to the Cayman Islands. Yes, tonight.”
After leaving Spirit and Buster with Doug, Crane dashed to the airport. It was after midnight when he landed in the Cayman Islands and thanks to the heavy-duty painkillers, he’d slept most of the way there. The island was quiet and dark as he walked out of the airport and hailed the first cab he could find to his hotel. It was too late to do anything now.
The Cayman National Bank was situated on a broad, sunlit avenue in the middle of George Town’s financial district. It was an impressive colonial building painted in cream with white cornices and balconies. Three flags flew out front, each on its own flagpole, flanked by several palm trees and a beautifully manicured lawn.
Crane had an FBI identity card with him that Doug had given him some time ago. It allowed him to ask difficult questions in places that would otherwise be off limits to a civilian. The bank being one of them. He asked to speak to the bank manager, a tall, willowy Brit with a serious, bespectacled face, wearing an open-necked shirt with no tie – Caribbean-style work attire. He introduced himself as Mr. Edwards and was cordial and polite.
“Yes, I recognise that man,” Edwards said, nodding at the photograph Crane had shown him. He’d printed it off Chris’s website. It was an old photograph but Crane was guessing Chris hadn’t changed much in the last ten years or so. “He regularly comes into the bank.”
Crane’s pulse quickened. Chris was alive. He hadn’t died in that fishing accident. Instead, he’d made his way down to the Caribbean and was living in secret, surviving on the drug money Kaz had paid them.
“When last did you see him?”
“About ten days ago. I remember him because he always withdraws money in cash and usually once a fortnight.”
“What day does he come in? Can you remember?”
“Always a Monday. Unless it’s a bank holiday, then the following day.”
Great, that meant he’d be back again in a few days. All he had to do was wait.
Crane thanked the bank manager and asked him not to warn Chris the FBI had been asking about him. “He’s not in any trouble. I just want to ask him some questions, that’s all.”
The bank manager nodded, but Crane could see he didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. Bank managers in tax haven’s such as these were used to awkward questions. It was a well-known fact they were used to launder ill-gotten gains or hoard fortunes belonging to people who wanted to avoid paying tax in their own jurisdictions.
Mr. Edwards had, no doubt, been advised by his chairman to be as cooperative and discreet as possible in circumstances such as these. They had to be seen to cooperate with the authorities. No one wanted any trouble. Share prices were vulnerable.
Waiting around was one of the things Crane was extremely good at. It was a core skill, you could say. In the special forces, he’d surveyed his enemy for hours, often in dangerous, uncomfortable surroundings, gathering intel to send back to the troops. He’d spent hours in the mountains, watching and waiting, sniper rifle at the ready.
But right now, Crane didn’t feel like waiting. Chris wouldn’t be back before Monday – three days away – and he had nothing to do until then. The Cayman Islands weren’t big. An American would be relatively easy to find for someone who knew where to look. To live some sort of reasonable existence, Chris would have to buy supplies, frequent bars and interact with the local community. These activities would leave a trail. The only problem was if Crane started asking questions and Chris got wind of it, he risked losing him again. No. It was better to wait.
Despite being winter in Oregon, The Cayman Islands were mild and humid. A warm breeze blew across the island making Crane restless. The wind always did that to him. It stirred up something inside of him, something that made him edgy. The anticipation didn’t help. Plus, he hadn’t done any exercise in three days. Exploring the island on foot didn’t count.
The locals went about their daily business in colourful dresses and short-sleeved shirts with sandals. Crane wore jeans and a T-shirt from a local store. It was strangely liberating not having any belongings, not even a suitcase to pack, although he’d have to buy a bag to take back with him since he was amassing stuff as he went.
Monday.
The Cayman National Bank opened at nine. It was a quarter to now. Crane sat on a bench in the park opposite, his head buried in a newspaper, seemingly oblivious to all that was happening around him. A mother held a small child by the hand, a dog walker ambled by, his pooch stopping to sniff Crane’s shoes. Crane ignored it and surreptitiously watched the bank employees arrive, all dressed down in short-sleeved shirts with work pants or skirts and lightweight jackets. By nine o’clock they were all inside the bank, at their stations, first cup of coffee of the day on their desks or under their counters. Then the doors opened. A few people were waiting outside, eager to get their banking done as soon as possible. Chris was not one of them.
Crane relaxed into his position on the bench. He was used to this. He half-read the paper, aware of his peripheral vision which would notify him if there was any movement towards the bank.
Just after eleven o’clock a tall man with sandy-blond hair and a friendly, if slightly weathered face, strolled across the square, through the landscaped garden and up the path to the bank’s front door, which was open. He didn’t appear to be rushed, quite the reverse. He ambled idly, not looking left or right or behind him in a nervous manner. It was apparent he didn’t sense or expect anything out of the ordinary. The boating accident had been six months ago, so Chris probably figured he was safe now. No one had come for him, and the world thought he was dead.
Crane approached cautiously. He didn’t want the man to bolt. “Chris Elliot?”
Chris turned, his eyes narrowed. The relaxed demeanour changed to an anxious one. His shoulders tensed, his chest rose as he took a sudden intake of breath and he stiffened. He was getting ready to run.
“I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong person.” It was a good answer, one he would have used.
“I bring news from Sarah,” said Crane, keeping his voice steady.
“Sarah?”
Crane had his attention now. “Nothing’s happened to her, has it?”
So, he was willing to blow his cover to find out if Sarah was okay. That said a lot about the man.
“She’s in hospital, but she’s going to be okay. It’s not serious.”
Chris frowned. “Her husband?”
“Yeah. Is there somewhere
we can talk?”
Chris’s face clouded over and Crane saw the undisguised anger in his eyes. “I knew it,” he muttered. Then took a deep breath and said, “Follow me.”
He led the way to a little side-street bar which sold fruit juices and soft drinks. It had a turquoise awning which covered several circular tables positioned outside on the sidewalk. They took a seat. The owner, a massive, beaming man, who could have been a sumo wrestler in another life, came over to take their order.
Once they’d ordered, Chris leant forward and got straight to the point. “Tell me what happened?”
Crane obliged. “Kaz Erkel is dead.”
“Dead?” Disbelief, comprehension and relief washed over his face, in that order. Then Chris shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a long story, but he was under surveillance for drug smuggling.” He paused and then said, “There was a chase, he ran into a river, lost his footing and drowned in the rapids.” He could fill in the rest of the details later.
“And Sarah?”
“He had one of his thugs beat her up, but she’ll be alright.”
Chris nodded, then Crane said, “You don’t have to hide anymore. She’s safe now. Your son is safe.”
Chris wrapped his hands around his glass and whispered, “I can’t believe it’s over.”
“Yes, it’s over. Obviously, you’ll face charges for drug smuggling, but I’m sure you can work out a deal.”
Chris nodded. “I’m prepared to face the charges.”
He looked up at Crane, his face alight with hope. “How soon can we go home?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sarah’s scream of joy echoed down the corridor as Chris walked into her hospital room. She’d been in for five days and was healing nicely. Crane, who was several steps behind, smiled to himself.
“Chris? Oh my God! Is it really you?”
She tumbled out of bed and stood in front of her ex-lover, a man she’d mourned and grieved for, a dazed expression on her face.
“Yes, it’s really me.”
Her eyes softened as she reached out a hand to touch him, to test if he was real. “I thought you were dead.”
“No,” he whispered, then opened his arms to embrace her. Sarah fell into them, hugging him as close as she could with one arm in a sling and four cracked ribs. Her head rested on his shoulder and her free arm wrapped around his back. She had her eyes closed, as if she were savouring every second of having him in her arms.
Crane stood respectfully at the back of the room, near the door, until Sarah opened her eyes and noticed him. She pulled away from Chris and stared at him, a sheepish grin on her face. “This is your doing, Crane?”
He smiled back. “Yeah, I tracked him down.”
Sarah glanced from Crane to Chris and back to Crane again. “How did you know he was alive?”
Crane moved forward. Gate-crashing their reunion when they were obviously so overjoyed to see each other made him feel awkward. “It was nothing more than a hunch, but when we checked his off-shore bank account, we saw he’d been withdrawing funds every couple of weeks. So it was just a matter of going down there to find him. Besides, his body was never found, which I always thought was odd.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, grasping Chris’s hand with her good one.
Crane met her gaze and nodded. “You’re welcome.”
“How are you holding up?” asked Chris, touching her sling. He’d barely taken his eyes off her since he’d walked in. “I heard he beat you up pretty badly.”
“Yes, he did. Or rather that brute Sergio did. But I’m okay. I heal fast.”
Chris frowned. “Bastard.”
“I’m not sorry he’s dead,” she whispered, glancing at Crane, who still had the dressing on his shoulder from Kaz’s penultimate bullet, although it wasn’t visible under his shirt. “Now he won’t hurt anyone else, ever again.”
She slunk back down on the bed, wincing. Her cracked ribs made it painful to stand. “But I want to hear all about you. How did you survive the sinking of the Lucky Strike, and why didn’t you tell me you were still alive?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” explained Chris, perching next to her. “I was afraid if your husband knew, he’d hurt you or Ben to flush me out.”
“You know about Ben?” Her eyes widened. She glanced at Crane, who gave a little shrug and shook his head as if to say, Nothing to do with me.
“Yes, I knew you were pregnant. Kaz told me and used it to blackmail me into bringing in the heroin. He said I’d never see my son come into this world if I didn’t agree.” His breath caught in his throat. “I thought he was going to hurt you and the baby. I had no choice.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” She reached for his hand and clung on to it. “He told me if I left him, he’d hunt me down and kill me and Ben.” She stifled a sob. “So I stayed.”
He had them both where he wanted them.
“It’s not your fault. But when the Lucky Strike was rammed, I knew the game was up. If I survived, I had to make sure Kaz thought I was dead, and the only way to do that was to disappear. That way you and Ben would be safe.”
“You could have gone to the police,” suggested Crane, stating the obvious.
Chris turned his head as if he’d forgotten Crane was standing there. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. I should have done, but I was afraid he’d get to Ben. The man is… was a monster. You saw what he did to Sarah. What if something went wrong? What if the authorities couldn’t protect my son?”
Crane nodded. He understood. When he’d first set eyes on Sarah in the cabin he’d wondered whether she was alive or dead. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine what he’d do to her if he thought Chris was going to betray him. Although, the fact remained, with Chris bringing in the drugs, the DEA could have arrested Kaz years ago. They would have had all the evidence they needed to put him away, and this would never have happened. He sighed. Life was seldom that simple.
“So what happened?” Sarah asked. “How did you survive?”
Chris’s eyes glazed over as he recalled what had happened. “The other boat was heading straight for us. I turned to avoid a collision but a wave struck us side-on. The Lucky Strike capsized and I was thrown overboard. The water was freezing. I knew there was a buoy nearby, because I’d seen it earlier but in the mayhem and the rain I couldn’t find it. I was losing consciousness when I literally bumped into the thing. I couldn’t believe my luck. So I hung on for dear life and waited for the rescue services. We’d put in a distress call so I knew they’d be on their way.” He swallowed over a lump in his throat. “I watched the Lucky Strike go down with Rick and Chef on board. I didn’t think they’d make it.”
“Rick survived,” Sarah told him, then glimpsed at Crane. “Although he was injured in a fire a few weeks ago. Kaz wanted to make sure he wasn’t around to give evidence.” She screwed up her face. It obviously pained her to talk about her husband now that she was aware of his criminal activities. “But he’s okay now. He came to see me yesterday.” She smiled at her childhood sweetheart. “I’m sure he’ll come and see you now you’re back.”
Crane didn’t comment. Doug had informed him Sarah had been told Copeland was alive, but she didn’t know the part he’d played in the arson attack – other than he’d dragged Copeland out of the burning house – and he wanted to keep it that way. She’d had enough surprises for one day.
“Yes, Crane filled me in on the way here. I’m so glad Rick survived both attempts on his life.”
“So what happened next?” asked Sarah, diverting Chris’s attention back to his story.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “There was another boat out in the storm that night, in our vicinity. It was a luxury yacht. Seemingly, the skipper had taken her out for a late afternoon run and got caught in the storm, just like us. He was heading for the river mouth, keeping the buoys in sight, when he saw me. I convinced him to drop me off as soon as we fo
und shelter, and he gave his word he wouldn’t say anything. I owe that man my life.”
Sarah squeezed his hand. “Thank goodness. All this time, everyone thought you were dead.”
“It had to be that way.” He massaged her hand with his thumb. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through.”
“No, please, don’t apologise. It’s my fault entirely. If I hadn’t gone back to Kaz, none of this would have happened and we’d… we’d still be together.”
The way she looked at him told Crane all he needed to know. He gave a quiet sigh, ignoring the pang in his chest, then approached her bed. “I’ll let you guys catch up in private. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to talk about. Chris, there’s a policeman on duty outside and he’ll take you in when you’re ready.”
Chris nodded. He knew what he had to do.
Crane turned to Sarah. “You take care of yourself now.”
“You’re going?” She let go of Chris’s hand and stood up.
He nodded. “I’ve got another case lined up.” He gave an awkward grin. “No rest for the wicked.” It was kinda true. Doug had a new case for him, but only when he’d healed up and had some time off.
He smiled at Sarah. There didn’t seem to be much point in hanging around. His work here was done. The case was closed, well, his part in it anyway. Doug had located the heroin stash and the FBI were working with the DEA to set up a sting operation during which they would arrest Kaz’s distributors. Chris had been located. Kaz was dead and, he believed, further afield, Interpol were honing in on Kaz’s Pakistani and Afghan contacts, now they had ID’ed them. It was all coming together.
Sarah gave him a huge hug. “Thank you, Crane.” Then she murmured in his ear, “I don’t know what I would have done without you. You were my salvation.”
Undercurrent: A P.I. Munro Crane Romantic Suspense Thriller Page 25