by T J Walter
As Petit passed, the colonel said something to him, in a stern voice, that Rose didn’t catch.
Petit’s reply was brief but respectful.
As they walked down the stairs, Middlemiss whispered to Brookes, ‘Kin ‘ell, boss, have we gone back a few centuries here?’
Brookes gave him a glare that said keep quiet.
Petit’s mobile phone rang at that moment, saving further embarrassment. The call lasted a few minutes.
Returning the phone to his pocket, he turned to Brookes. ‘Good news, Monsieur, Your fugitive used the ‘otel phone to make a call in the short time he was there. The number he called is that of Pierre Thoreau, a small time criminal. He is … how do you say … a fixer?’
Brookes nodded. ‘Yes, someone who arranges things, usually illegal.’
‘Exactly; the man is known to us. He knows many people, including drug smugglers. My colleagues are on the way to see him. They will bring him to my office; we go there now.’
Petit’s office was in a modern building half a mile from the Commissariat. The office was large, with a dozen desks and all the paraphernalia of a modern detective office. Just two of the desks were occupied. An attractive black woman in her late twenties said something to Petit in what Brookes imagined must be the local Creole.
He replied in the same language then said to Brookes, ‘My colleagues have him; he will be here in ten minutes. Please sit down and I will get you some iced coffee.’
Ten minutes later, there was the sound of a scuffle outside. Then the door was thrust open and three men entered. The one in the middle had his hands cuffed behind his back and was cursing his two companions. They ignored his complaints and bustled him through a door into an adjoining room. A moment later, the door opened and the waiting detectives heard a loud slap and a cry of pain. The man who appeared in the doorway beckoned to Petit, who got up and joined him. The door closed behind them, blocking out any more noise.
Rose looked at Brookes. ‘Shouldn’t we do something, sir? Surely we can’t let them beat him up to get information for us?’
He gave her a hard look. ‘What do you suggest, Jacqui, this is not our jurisdiction.’
‘But surely we can’t condone this, sir.’
‘Nor can we insult our hosts. Now just be quiet, please.’
Rose got up and started pacing back and forth. After a few minutes, she sat down again, but avoided eye contact with her two companions.
It was some twenty minutes later when the door to the interview room opened again and Petit emerged with one of his colleagues. The man was tall and muscular, his skin somewhere between brown and yellow. His features were black African except for his eyes; they had the slant of the Chinese. There was a thin film of sweat on his forehead.
Petit had a smile on his face. ‘Monsieur Thoreau has been co-operative; he has told us where he took Fleming. La Trinite; it is a small port in the north-west of the island. Many small ships that trade through the islands visit there. He was looking for a ship going west towards Jamaica. There is a man in La Trinite who makes such arrangements.’
Brookes frowned. ‘Jamaica? That’s the last place he’d go.’
‘But of course, but he won’t want anyone else to know that. These small ships stop at many islands. I expect he will disembark somewhere on the way. But we must go to La Trinite. Once we know the name of the ship he is on, we will be able to trace it.’
‘So the fixer doesn’t know what ship he’s on?’
‘No; he was paid to put Fleming in touch with a man that makes such arrangements.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘This is Detective Pierre Du Plessis. He will come with us. He is from Martinique and speaks the Creole better than I. And he has a contact in La Trinity; an informant, I think you say.’
Brookes gave Du Plessis a nod and a smile. ‘Thank you for your help.’ Then to Petit he said, ‘What will happen to Thoreau in the meantime?’
Petit smiled. ‘He will be detained here; don’t worry, he will not be able to warn them we are coming.’
Brookes returned his smile. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be trying to teach you to suck eggs.’
‘Suck eggs? What is this strange expression?’
Brookes explained its meaning on the way to Petit’s car.
Du Plessis had gone ahead in his own car; Petit and his guests followed at a more sedate pace.
As they were leaving the outskirts of Port de France, Petit said, ‘Your man has lots of cash with him, Monsieur. He paid Thoreau one thousand US dollars just to take him to La Trinite and introduce him to the smuggler. But he was most unwise to use the ‘otel telephone; did he not realise we could trace the call?’
Brookes nodded. ‘As far as we know, Fleming is not a professional criminal; he left far too many clues at the murder scene to be a pro. He has no previous convictions in England or Jamaica, according to their police. I think the London gang leader set him up in business because to outward appearances he was a respectable businessman; then no-one would suspect he was laundering drug money. As far as the cash is concerned, I think he started preparing his escape six months ago. That’s when the false passport was issued. I’m not surprised he built up a pile of ready cash for the journey; I doubt that a smuggler would take his cheque.’
Petit smiled grimly. ‘I see. He will be lucky if he lives to reach his destination. A fool carrying large sums of money among drug smugglers is like a bleeding man swimming among the piranha fish.’
‘Then we must catch up with him as quick as we can. We need him alive to give evidence on the London gang.’
They lapsed into silence and the three Brits turned their attention to the scenery.
Within a mile of leaving Port de France, the tarmac ended and they found themselves on a dirt road. In the hollows, there were deep ruts that had dried to the consistency of concrete. Petit had his work cut out finding a path through them.
The interior of the island was mountainous and the road threaded its way along the valleys between steep slopes, the upper parts of which were covered in wild vegetation. All the lower slopes and the valley floors were under cultivation; they passed through vast plantations of sugar cane and bananas. The growing bunches of the fruit were sheathed in plastic bags, which, Petit explained, was to keep insects, mould, and fungus from destroying the crop.
Middlemiss commented, ‘Now I’ve seen everything: bananas in pyjamas.’
As they drove, Petit pointed out some of the mountains. They were of volcanic origin. He pointed out the tallest of these in the distance.
‘That is Mont Pelée. In nineteen-oh-two it erupted, killing thirty thousand people. Most of them lived in St. Pierre, the old capital; only two people in the town survived.’
From the back of the car, Rose said, ‘Are any of the volcanoes still active, Jean?’
He laughed. ‘Now they are all sleeping. But who knows when one might awaken?’
The three Brits became quiet again, each thinking how different this world was from the one they knew. Twenty minutes later, they arrived in their destination, La Trinite.
As they approached the waterfront, Petit stopped the car outside a building with a brass plate on the wall that said: “Le Capitaine de Port”. In English, this meant “harbourmaster”, Rose explained.
De Plessis was already there. He and Petit had a brief conversation. Turning to Brookes, Petit said,
‘Yesterday, there were two small cargo ships here; they both left during the night. Neither showed a passenger on their manifest. But that is no surprise; if your man wants to travel incognito, he would not want it shown on the paperwork. Now we should have some lunch whilst Pierre meets with his contact. He will find out if either ship carried a passenger.’
He led them to a small cafe opposite the concrete dock. There was no fence around the dock and Brookes could see how difficult it would be to police the comings and goings from ships docked there. Someone could slip aboard in the night with no-one the wiser.
Seeing his anxiety,
Petit said, ‘Please do not worry, Monsieur; if your man is on one of the ships, Pierre will find out. Look around you; apart from us, how many white faces do you see? People will talk when they see someone who does not belong. Now you must relax and eat some of the delicious fish which is caught in the bay here.’
They feasted on the local seafood, washed down by a bottle of more than passable white wine. The combination of French and island cuisine was easy on the palate, despite the hot spices initially taking their breath away. None of them sampled the local snails, however.
Middlemiss mumbled over his food, “I thought rice was for afters, not the main course. I miss me chips already.”
When it was explained to Petit what was meant by “afters”, he laughed. He and Middlemiss were fast becoming friends, much to Rose’s surprise. Brookes noticed that Middlemiss ate all of his meal, right down to the last grain of rice.
Du Plessis joined them as they were drinking their coffee; he had good news for them.
He had greased a few palms and discovered that a man fitting Fleming’s description had boarded a small Dominican Republic registered cargo ship the previous night. The ship, named Julianne, had left at dawn yesterday, destination Santo Domingo.
Rose said, ‘That’s what we were afraid of. The Dominican Republic is one of those countries that are not members of Interpol and we have no extradition treaty with them; and diplomatic relations with them are not good.’
Petit said, ‘Don’t worry; he won’t stop there even if the ship is actually headed there. Don’t forget that many of these ships are smugglers and their captains don’t always tell the truth about their destinations. And Santo Domingo is no place for a white European, no matter how rich he is. He will be heading for somewhere else.’
Middlemiss asked, ‘Jean, if you were him, where would you head for?’
‘Somewhere where he will feel welcome; not in a banana republic, they are too unstable. If he knows the Caribbean, he will probably go to one of the British Islands where he will not stick out as a foreigner. But be patient, my friend, now we know the ship he is on, we will be able to trace its movement along the islands.’
Brookes had said nothing during this exchange. Now he said, ‘Do you have good relations with the police forces on the other islands, Jean?’
He shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face as only the French could. ‘Yes, most of them. When we tell them what ship we want to find, most will inform us if it docks in their country.’
‘You say most; does that mean there are some that don’t co-operate?’
‘Just a few, Monsieur. But it is these places that white men are not welcome; your man would be a fool to get off the ship on one of those islands.’
Brookes nodded grimly, wondering what his next step should be.
Reading his thoughts, Petit said, ‘Without knowing where he has gone, there is nowhere for you to go. I will take you back to your ‘otel, where you can relax until there is news.’
Brookes nodded, not happy without a definite plan of action. But the man was right, there was little he could do except phone London and tell them to alert other Interpol members of the ship’s name.
The journey back to Port-de-France was a quiet one, with Brookes deep in thought.
Back in his hotel room, Brookes picked up the phone and asked for a London number. Commander Aitcheson’s staff officer answered. He told Brookes that the commander was in a meeting, due to end about midday. Brookes looked at his watch and deducted four hours, making it 11am in London.
He said, ‘This is urgent, please get this message to him as soon as you can.’ He went on to tell the staff officer what he’d learned about Fleming’s whereabouts. He concluded, ‘Ask him if there is any way of tracking the ship and get him to ring me at this number as soon as he can.’
Putting the phone down, he suddenly felt weary and lay down on the bed. Within moments, he was in a deep sleep.
*
Chapter 15 – Help from Above
‘They that go down to the sea in ships: and occupy
Their business in great waters;
These men see the works of the Lord: and his wonders in the deep.’
Psalms 107, v.18
The meeting that Aitcheson was attending was a high-powered one chaired by the Home Secretary. Present were junior ministers from Health and Foreign Affairs, as well as senior police and the military. The subject they were discussing was the war on drugs.
Aitcheson got Brookes’ message as he was leaving the meeting and immediately turned round to seek out the Foreign Office minister, Desmond Harvey. He found him in conversation with a grey man who Aitcheson had observed sitting in the background and taking no active part in the proceedings.
Harvey looked up as Aitcheson approached. Without speaking, Aitcheson handed him the message.
After reading it, Harvey handed it to his companion, whom he did not introduce.
‘Your area, I believe.’
The grey man in turn read the message and looked at Aitcheson. ‘Yes, Commander, I think we may be able to do something about this. Leave it with me; I’ll get back to you this afternoon.’
Aitcheson smiled, ‘What name should I call you?’
‘Barrington-Smith.’
‘OK, I’ll wait for your call, Mr Smith.’
‘No, it’s Barrington-Smith with a hyphen.’
Aitcheson nodded and excused himself.
Returning to his office south of Waterloo Bridge, Barrington-Smith called a member of his team, instructing her to contact Lloyds of London at their offices at No.1 Lime Street in the City. He wanted all the information they had on a ship named Julianne, registered in The Dominican Republic. Within an hour, he had the information.
The SS Julianne was a 1750 ton diesel powered vessel registered to a Marcel Chapel, who was also the ship’s captain. Her home port was Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic and she plied for trade throughout the Caribbean. She had a cruising speed of 10-12 knots and was a cargo vessel with no licence to carry passengers. Although she was diesel-powered she was described as a ‘tramp steamer’, an old-fashioned term meaning that she did not have a strict schedule or published ports of call but traded on the spot market, picking up cargo when and where she could. Accompanying the report was a plan of the vessel and a photograph.
Barrington-Smith next contacted the US National Reconnaissance Office (NRO). First he identified himself and his mission. Then he requested their help in tracing the current position of the Julianne. Faxing the description he’d obtained from Lloyds, he added the date and time the ship departed from La Trinite on Martinique and the believed direction of travel. The man he spoke to promised to call him as soon as he had news. His orders from above were that any request from this source was to be treated as a priority: the Americans owed the British more than a few favours and were co-operating fully on the project.
The information was fed into the computer of one of the hundreds of spy satellites operated by the NRO circling high above the Earth. The operator knew the task was not a difficult one; the telescopes on these satellites were capable of reading the registration plate of a saloon car and would have no trouble spotting and identifying a 1,750 ton ship even in a sea the size of the Caribbean, once they had its approximate location.
*
Two hours after his call to London, Brookes’ telephone woke him.
It was Aitcheson. ‘We’ve found your ship, John; it’s doing about ten knots heading north-east towards The Dominican Republic. The distance is about six hundred kilometres, so it should take it about thirty-two hours total. That means it should arrive about two am local time. But I’m reliably informed that your man is most unlikely to disembark there; the natives aren’t friendly to Europeans. How does that match with your information?’
‘I agree, sir. This man prepared months ago for his run for cover. The only clue I’ve got to where he might go is something I noticed on the bank statement we found in his flat. Some months ago
he made a visit to a place in Mexico called Matamoros; it’s up close to the US border.’
‘Good; I’ll get onto our American friends and get that covered. A lot depends on how much cash he’s carrying. If he runs short he may have to pay a visit to his bank on Grand Cayman.’
‘Couldn’t he do that by phone?’
Aitcheson laughed into the phone. ‘No, Richard Mann came up with a scheme that means Fleming will have to go to the bank to prove his identity. You know the kind of priority this has.’
‘You’re telling me; when I last spoke to Mann he said that wasn’t possible.’
‘You’d be surprised what is possible, John, when the right people are behind something. When the economy is struggling and some criminal is sitting on over fifty million got from the proceeds of crime and hasn’t paid tax on it, the PM is not happy and wants him brought to book.’ He paused, then added, ‘You’d better stay where you are for the time being; there’s no point you flying about all over the Caribbean. I’m told that someone in Santo Domingo, the port he appears to be heading for, will be watching for our man. I’ll keep you informed.’
Anxious as he was to get after Fleming, Brookes saw the futility in fretting over the order to stay put. He decided to try to relax and enjoy the delights of Port de France. After a quick shower he put on casual clothing and went down to find the bar.
Taking a seat at the long bar counter he ordered a gin and tonic and sat studying his map of the Caribbean. A chain of islands stretched from the Venezuelan coast in the east, in a rough crescent northwest, towards the Yucatan Peninsula in the west. Martinique was some 500 kilometres from Venezuela, The Dominican Republic some 600 kilometres further along the chain. Looking further afield, he saw that The Cayman Islands were a further 1,500 kilometres west. Above the Dominican Republic were the Bahamas and Florida.
A voice over his shoulder said, ‘My colleague Pierre says that Fleming paid ten thousand US dollars for the trip. For that money, provided that the crew don’t murder him on the way, they will take him directly to his destination, wherever that is.’