She’d checked the plane. The 777 carried anywhere between 314 and 396 passengers. Sam reckoned BA253 was carrying 267 passengers. She had walked the length of the aircraft - twice. She counted as she walked (she didn’t need to, she just couldn’t stop herself) like a school teacher checking kids on a bus. As she walked she looked for a tail. Statistics taught her that 76% of professional tails were male. It wasn’t that women didn’t make great spies - 40% of Mossad were women and SIS were close to a 50/50 balance - it’s just that tailing more naturally fell to men because they were less conspicuous than their female equivalent. Women didn’t tend to hang about on street corners. And the ones who did, more often than not attracted a lot of unnecessary attention.
She had focused on the men.
Two were possibles, giving away their intent by trying very hard not to look at her as she had drifted past. ‘Trying not to look’ was an obvious tail’s trait (there was little about surveillance and informant-running that wasn’t common sense), and could be a giveaway. However, on Sam’s second pass both men were flat out; one looked like he had drunk his fill from the complimentary bar and the other was zedding to the world. So, no tails on the aircraft as far as she could tell. She would do a final check in the baggage hall.
Getting through immigration control was straightforward - the local behind the desk showed no particular interest in Sam. And, in the small but roomy baggage reclaim hall, Sam made a final once over. Nothing.
Job one - tick. She’d have to start again in the arrivals lounge.
Lynden Pindling International Airport, named after Sir Lynden Pindling, the ‘Father of the Bahamian Nation’ - Sam had asked a stewardess, was more a small regional airport than international hub. There were 6 commercial aircraft on the apron and a scattering of lesser prop-planes. The arrivals hall had an interestingly-curved concrete ceiling and there were a few places to buy something to eat, a couple of shops, two car rental desks and signs to various other modes of transport.
Wolfgang had booked Sam a hire car with Avis. She made her way towards their desk, stopping short to look like she was tying her shoelace. With her back to the car-rental desk, she knelt on one knee scanning the hall for a local tail.
Looking left. Nothing.
Right. Nothing.
Hang on.
There was a local on the rail opposite the customs exit doors - the ones she’d just come through. He was holding an A4-sized card, on which was written ‘Mr Jones’.
Mr Jones? Really?
And he was standing at an odd angle, half-facing the arrivees and half-looking around the hall. He shot Sam a quick glance, noticed her stare and immediately turned to face the exit doors.
An airport ‘pick [RJ51]up’. Good choice of cover. You have to look for someone, but you’re not an obvious tail. But this guy wasn’t very subtle.
And Mr Jones - poor choice of name.
Sam studied the man’s back. He was tall, six-two, well-built and wore ‘professional’ clothing - smart black slacks and an open-necked red shirt. He had a mobile telephone pouch hung from a snakeskin belt, and Sam caught[RJ52] the hint of a heavy gold chain around his neck.
She stood, moving away from the Avis desk towards the main exit, and then darted into a shop selling cards, trinkets and other tourist tat. Sam positioned herself between a carousel of baseball caps and the shop window, with semi-clear views of her potential tail.
She took off her cap with the palm motif and tried on a red one (not her colour, all that auburn hair) with ‘The Bahamas’ announcing themselves in yellow letters just above the peak. She feigned fitting it as she studied the man with the snakeskin belt. After a few seconds he wildly turned his head (really not subtle at all - needs more training), but this time he couldn’t see Sam. His whole body turned. He was now facing away from the arrival doors. She thought she spotted a hint of alarm as the man took a couple of steps towards the Avis desk. He then glanced left and right.
Panic mode now?
Whilst wholly frustrated that she had picked up a tail, Sam congratulated herself on being reasonably well-hidden. To reduce the chance of being discovered she dropped on her haunches and waited to see what would happen next.
The man took a few steps to the left, and then to the right. Real panic now. Sam was beginning to enjoy this. He then walked quickly to the woman behind the Avis counter. Sam couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was pretty obvious that he was enquiring about her. The woman pointed towards the shop. Sam dropped even further, curling into a ball.
But it was no good. Either the Avis woman was particularly adept at noticing people, or the pair of them were in cahoots and she had been observing Sam from the get-go.
How does that work? Who are these people?
With the red mist beginning to descend - can’t I go anywhere without some fucker chasing me? - and with no time to think through her options, she made a play.
She took her new favourite baseball cap to the counter and casually offered to pay for it. With a lethargy that she recognised from West Africa, the smart-looking female cashier took her time to take Sam’s money, fiddle at the till and then give her her change.
Sam stared at her open hand.
What?
There were now two conflicting issues that were pissing her off: her tail and her change. The price on the baseball cap was $15 - not a sum she would normally part with for any head gear, but needs must. She’d handed over a $20 bill and counted $3.95 in the palm of her hand. There’d been a mistake.
For an instant she’d forgotten about the man with the snakeskin belt who was now almost certainly in the shop with her. She fought it, but her OCD wouldn’t allow her to be short-changed.
‘The cap was $15.’ Sam stated, trying to hide her frustration.
The woman looked through her.
‘Tax.’
‘Tax?’ Sam was losing it now. This was a tax-free country. That’s why terrorist organisations like The Church of The White Cross launder their money here. There’s no government asking questions - looking for capital gains tax, or any other tax you can think of.
‘VAT. Standard.’ The woman’s single-word answers made the ends of Sam’s fingers itch. She so wanted to hand the cap back and recover her cash.
Or do some other damage.
When, what she really needed to do was to take back control. To forget about the taxes in a tax haven. And get on with her play.
Sam breathed deeply. Three times. Calm.
‘Thanks.’
The woman smiled a rubbish, fleeting smile she probably used for all tourists.
Sam picked up her rucksack and bought herself some time by putting the new cap in the top compartment. As she did so she caught sight of her tail. He was by the door. Looking at the baseball caps? She sighed an inner sigh. When this was over she was going to set up business in The Bahamas running a security firm. And make a fortune.
The play.
Sam took a couple of strides forward trying to look as uncoordinated as she could. She held her bag in an odd way, not slinging it. She stopped mid-shop and played with a zip.
And then she absently bumped into her tail.
She got a good look at him. He was ugly-looking, mid-30s with a chipped front tooth. She’d recognise him again - anywhere. If she had access to SIS’s mainframe, Cynthia, she’d be able to use the photofit software and, if the man had a record anywhere, she’d have his name within the hour.
She didn’t have access to SIS’s mainframe.
But she did have her tail’s mobile, which she slipped into her pocket.
Next stop Avis, behind which was a beautiful black woman whose lipstick was as red as the Avis skirt she was wearing.
‘Hello. How can I help?’
Well, first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to dive over the desk and throttle you to an inch of your life. Then I’m going to ask you who you are working for? And when we’re done with that I’m going to stick you in the boot of an SUV and drive to a sec
luded beach ...
Get a grip.
‘You have a car for me? Sam Green.’
Getting the car took another 20 minutes. Sam really didn’t want to take a car. She would be using her name when she didn’t need to, the car would be tagged and wherever she went on the small island (Sam reckoned New Providence was half the size of the Isle of Man) they, whoever ‘they’ were, would be able to track her.
A random taxi would be the textbook choice.
But her tail had changed all that. She would lose control in a taxi. Assuming her tail thought she was just some blundering fool, incapable of walking in a straight line, then she’d be better in a car. More control.
She’d take a car.
‘Not that one.’ Sam said when the woman handed the keys over. Sam checked over her shoulder. Her tail, the man with the snakeskin belt, was 20 metres away trying to look nonchalant.
‘Sorry?’
‘I don’t want that car, I’d like another?’ Sam was at least trying to add some randomness to her decision making.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
Sam looked at the key fob. It read ‘251336’, which Sam assumed was the car’s number plate.
‘I don’t like the number. Bad Juju.’ Sam had no idea if Bahamians had a thing with witchcraft, but it was the first thought that came into her head.
‘I’m a tarot card reader.’ She added.
The woman took the key and looked at the fob. She scrunched up her face. And then, holding the keys at arm’s length as if they were diseased, deposited them in a tray to one side.
‘OK. OK.’ The woman nodding nervously as she spoke.
It took another ten minutes to sort a different car. The woman showed Sam the plate details on a piece of paper before finishing the transaction.
‘That’s fine, thanks. Good Juju.’ Oh dear.
And that was that.
Sam had a non-bad Juju car; certainly one which hadn’t been prearranged with her name plastered all over it.
Next, she had to lose her tail. Then find a new hotel. Wolfgang had booked her into a suite at Atlantis - Sam had seen the price; it had made her eyes water. And it also had her name on it. She needed somewhere fresh.
From there she could check out her tail’s mobile (probably with Wolfgang’s help). And then meet up with the paedophile banker.
Getting off this island, if she ever got that far, was going to be an altogether more interesting proposition.
Against the boredom of her life that was everything before she had bumped into Paul Mitchell on the ski-slopes of Austria, things had ratcheted up a notch or two.
That wasn’t such a bad thing. Was it?
The white Suzuki Swift didn’t have a satnav[RJ53]. There was a fold-up map on the passenger seat. But Sam didn’t need either. In the Sofitel at Heathrow she had looked over the island using Google Maps, zooming in on the capital Nassau to pick up some of the minor streets. There was a road around the island’s coast, two east to west through the middle, and seven more north to south. There were plenty more smaller roads, with Nassau being particularly busy. She’d spent ten minutes looking at the detail and had seen enough; like a camera, she remembered what she had seen. As for navigation, as with a number of things that went on upstairs which she couldn’t control, it came naturally to her.
Sam found the car easily, threw her rucksack on the back seat and headed east towards Nassau. She hadn’t looked for her tail - she assumed he would follow her in a vehicle, and that she’d be able to spot him more discreetly from behind the wheel rather than trying to pick him up in the car park.
The first four miles were dual carriageway: JFK Drive. She’d then have a couple of choices as to how to get into Nassau. And if she then wanted to go onto Paradise Island, the major resort where Wolfgang had booked her hotel, she’d need to cross the only bridge between the capital and the tiny island. Sam wasn’t keen on that idea, no matter how glamorous the suite that Wolfgang had booked. It was bad enough being stuck on a small island, without exacerbating the whole shebang by driving onto an even smaller one. No, she’d find a hotel in Nassau - not on Paradise Island.
The other advice she’d picked up from various internet travel sources was ‘to stick to the main carriageways and avoid minor roads, especially in the middle of the island’. Gang crime was rife. In 2015, out of an island population of 250,000 people, there had been 150 murders. Most were gun and knife killings - and nearly all of the dead were local men with links to other crime.
That was sound advice.
But, she had a tail to lose. And it was daylight.
She’d be OK. She would.
After less than a mile Sam had picked up her tail. He was driving a blush metallic-pink Nissan Cube, a ridiculous looking car which, after just ten minutes on The Bahamian roads, seemed ubiquitous. It was probably Japan getting rid of the vehicles that no one in their right mind would have bought in the first place. Looking like it sounded - a box on four wheels - she’d easily be able to find it in a crowd, especially as there was a distinctive[RJ54] crack in its front bumper. That was another rule that her new friend had broken. Make sure your vehicle is unmarked. The other two were: always drive black or silver, and never adorn a tailing car with accessories. In short: don’t tail in a car that shouts. Snakeskin-belt man had failed on every count.
She’d be awash with work when she came out here to set up her new business.
Losing a vehicle tail wasn’t like it was in the movies. Unless you were driving across The States, with endless flat roads (and no state troopers), you could never guarantee to outrun a tail and it was foolish to think you could. Driving down the pavement or jumping a gap of a rising bridge, the must-dos in any action movie, weren’t included in the SIS evasive-driving course.
And there was the more difficult ask when losing a tail without being compromised. In her case she wanted snakeskin-belt man to lose her - and think that it was his fault.
SIS’s breaking-clean mantra in a car was: brake - turn - accelerate; brake - turn - accelerate. That is, make a very late decision say, turn left, accelerate from the turn and follow up with another snap turn. Repeat if necessary.
It helped that Sam had a good idea of the road layout.
JFK - straight over a roundabout onto Thompson Boulevard.
She reckoned there were three left turns off Thompson Boulevard that could be immediately followed by another sharp left. Left hand turns were good - they drove on the left over here. Making one quickly would be easier than cutting across traffic.
Her plan was: make a quick left, then, looking like an incompetent, turn left again. If she’d not lost the Cube by then, she’d hang another left back onto the main drag. A woman driver who had just got lost and, by chance, found herself again.
She’d try that before a set of traffic lights in half a mile. If it didn’t work, she’d have to think of Plan B.
The roads were adequately maintained - the odd dinner-plate-sized pothole asking a lot of the Swift’s suspension. But the traffic was nuts. Sam was almost taken out at a roundabout by a truck the size of a house. How many lanes do you want? There was no road discipline and even less road sense. Cars pulled out just before you got to their junction, they tailgated, and stopped and turned without warning. Only one car in five looked roadworthy. Having working indicators was clearly not a prerequisite to passing the local MoT. Using them was clearly against the law.
And horns. They were as much a part of The Bahamian driving psyche as was texting whilst you drove.
All of these things were to Sam’s advantage.
First, though, she needed to put a couple of cars between her and the Cube.
She accelerated to pass a 1980s gold Dodge Diplomat - the driver was the coolest dude on the road. Getting past was a tight fit on, what was now, a single-tracked road. As a result her manoeuvre was accompanied by horns, shaking fists and looks of dismay from the drivers of the cars that had to swerve.
Calm dow
n everyone.
She had one car between her and the Cube. Tick.
Left hand turn one - in 200 metres. Keep your eyes peeled.
There was a rusty-red Chevy van in front of her. She accelerated again.
More horns. A near miss with an old, white Ford pickup with four locals sitting on the side of the open boot. She picked out ‘Oi, white girl! Wassupppp?’, before she shot past.
Concentrate.
There it was. The left hand turn. On its corner was a street vendor selling a few green oranges off a rickety old table.
She slammed on her brakes. The Chevy didn’t spot her deceleration and loomed large in her rear-view mirror - she turned and accelerated just before the Chevy's grille joined her rucksack in the back seat. More horns.
The nearly-new Swift, which was nimble, spun on a pin, its rear left wheel lifting as the front right squealed in protest.
As the car regained its composure she floored the accelerator. Fifteen then 20 miles an hour.
Brake! Now turn! Just the other side of that wooden shack-cum-bungalow.
The Swift obliged.
Floor it! It reacted again.
The road ahead bore gently right - both sides of the road were peppered with shacks and yards, broken fences and clapped-out motors. Sam checked her rear-view mirror. Nothing.
Shit!
There was a kid on the street. She swerved to miss him.
She looked behind again. Fuck. There it was: the Cube. Fifty metres. Her tail may be rubbish on foot, but he was OK behind the wheel. He was accelerating fast. And she had lost the surprise.
And he knew that she knew …
Bugger.
She would have failed her SIS evasive[RJ55]-driving course.
And she couldn’t drive too quickly down these streets - she’d already swerved to avoid one kid, and now there were a couple of women on the side of the street.
She had about ten seconds on the Cube.
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