by O. L. Casper
“We just need the audio. Secondarily, if you can, we would like you to extract any information you can about the meeting from Stafford himself—though you must do this in a roundabout way.”
“Try as I may—that is very likely impossible.”
“We understand the difficulty. The opportunity to discuss it may not arrive. Possibly you won’t even be included in this trip, but we’d like you to try. If you do make it to the Seychelles, an agent will be there to meet clandestinely. However, that agent will not be me.”
Chapter 16
Sophia Durant’s Diary
November 16, Mahé Island, Seychelles
The longest journey by air of my life was from Eleuthera to Mahé Island in the Seychelles. The first leg of the trip was a hop from Eleuthera to Jacksonville in the Gulfstream. From there it was an eight hour 767 flight to London, a refueling, and then the last leg to the archipelago of 115 islands comprising the Republic of the Seychelles. The approach to these islands was much like the first approach to the Bahamas, but stranger (considering how far I felt from any place with which I was familiar) and more exhilarating. The islands appeared to float serenely on the deep blue of the Indian Ocean. They were larger and more scattered than the islands of the Bahamas. They seemed like a true hidden treasure of the world, so beautiful and remote. The Four Seasons Resort was more of a scattered bunch of tree houses overlooking Anse La Liberte, a wondrous expanse of ocean perhaps even more enchanting than Eleuthera’s Anse Lazio.
For appearances, Stafford and I occupied adjacent rooms that opened out onto the same balcony, equipped with pools and luxuriant dining tables, all seemingly suspended in the trees. Setting my bags in the room, I ventured out onto the balcony to take in the view. I took a deep breath and noticed the air was cooler and less humid than that of Eleuthera. Stafford joined me.
“Safe to talk here?” Stafford mumbled.
“Maybe if we got in one of those pools next to a fountain.”
He started to undress. I followed his cue and in seconds we were naked and in the pool. We floated over to one of the fountains and kissed briefly before he started to talk.
“So what the fuck is going on? I’ve become extremely paranoid lately.”
“You are? I’m going fucking crazy over here.”
“One of us has got to keep our heads.”
“I don’t for a second believe you’ve lost yours.”
“We’ll see.”
We twisted in a circle near the fountain, holding hands.
“I have a theory.”
“Yes?” I asked.
“Someone’s framing me with the deaths of all these girls. It could be some angry former associates, businessmen, a foreign government—could even be the American government. I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re bloodhounds. The lot of them.”
“Could be. You’d know more about that than I would.”
“It makes me mad. But the anger is good. It motivates me. Anger and jealousy have been some of the key motivational factors in my life—and revenge.”
My heart ran cold as he looked at me when he said this. I regained my senses and composed myself.
I had told him the FBI was following him on this trip and wanted me to spy on the exchange. This was our first opportunity to trip them up.
“I’m buying up a textile company based in Pakistan. That’s what this trip is for.”
“Legitimately?”
“As legit as it comes.”
“Are you having me sit in on it with you or watch from a distance or not at all?”
“You can sit in if you like. Other than that, I just want a relaxed holiday in the Seychelles.”
“You come here often?”
“This is only the second or third time.”
“Can I ask you a silly question?”
“Ask away. You can ask me whatever you want.”
“Why do you do what you do?”
“In business or in life—or both?”
“Business.”
“I suppose it always changes. It started mostly by accident. Growing up, I never intended to go into business.”
We got out of the water and dried off, continuing on the bed in his room.
“What did you want to do as a kid?”
“I don’t know. It always changed. I got into something. Got tired of it. Got into something else. Everything from painting to playing cards to studying animals and archeology.”
“You had money as a kid…or your parents did?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Paint costs money.”
“Not that much. Never received anything from my parents. If I needed paints I stole them. I stole animals. I stole pretty much whatever I wanted. I was a good thief and it was pretty much the only way I could get things.”
“And now—how do you get things now?”
“Pretty much in the same way.”
He winked.
“How did you get started in what you do?”
“I was in Africa, actually. On an adventure.”
“What in the world were you doing in Africa?”
“I’d saved up for a summer. I worked odd jobs and saved for a ticket to Angola. It was a country I randomly picked on the map. I’d dreamed of going to Africa since I found it on a map as a boy and was told the most interesting animals lived there. I was twenty-five when I went. From Angola I found my way into Nigeria. And there I found the oil business. I discovered local millionaires who had made all their money diverting the funds from the oil. What economists call the natural resource curse.
“I was deep in the jungle with some ‘friends’ I’d met there—thieves actually—wanted to kidnap me and make a fortune from the ransom. They were unsuccessful. But it was through them I discovered some very powerful natives. Rich natives. Politicians who had stolen the wealth of the country. I wanted to go into business in that country in order to divert some of the money away from the politicians and help the poor masses. Later I would realize what a futile effort it would be; the people were no better than the politicians when it came to distribution of wealth. Nigeria is a nation of thieves. Not everybody, but most of them. But that’s beside the point.
“I wanted to go into business for myself and I came up with a plan. I had met someone there who I became friendly with. He was a local prince who had no money but had inherited an island off the coast of Bayelsa State. He believed it to be rife with oil just waiting to be plucked from the ground. He said he could prove it if I went there with him.
“I never went there with him. I was too scared of getting kidnapped and killed. Bayelsa was in the South where all the kidnappings and killings of Americans were happening at the time. But I trusted the prince implicitly. He had saved me from falling into the hands of the local police on more than one occasion, which would have resulted in a bad fate indeed. He had saved my life. And he had proven to me through his actions that he wanted nothing more than my friendship. Some Africans are very noble.
“He told me that if I could get ships down to his island, he would sell me oil at twenty-five cents a barrel. He promised the capability of producing up to five hundred-thousand barrels a day. In about two months I managed to convince an Italian oil company to provide two ships. I promised them great prices. Bonny Light Crude was on the market for about twenty to thirty dollars a barrel at the time. I told them I’d sell it to them half-price.”
“This was on the black market.” I cut in.
He smiled.
“I started selling to the Italians for their reserves and money just started pouring in. I took the profits and bought the controlling interest in an African oil company within two years. It cost over a hundred-million dollars. In two years I went from nothing to over a hundred-million dollars. On the advice of some business magazines I bought from street vendors with baskets on their heads, I decided to diversify. I talked to my friend, the prince, who by now was quite well off too, and he mentioned other business possibilities. The b
iggest one across Africa, apart from oil, is war.”
Weapons.
“That’s something I can’t smile about.”
I dropped it. The conversation had come to an end and I drifted off. As I fell asleep, I was conscious of Stafford drifting around the room and the vague thought of wondering whether there was any truth to the story of the African prince and the hundred-million.
It was some time at night when I woke. I found Stafford with the light on gazing at an iPad. I got up and slipped off to my room. The soft pitter-patter of rain hitting the gutter outside was pleasant and lulled me back toward sleep, which I would have entered nicely if it wasn’t for the sound of a knock at my door.
Expecting it to be Stafford, I got up and peered through the peephole. On seeing nothing but an empty hall I opened the door. No one was there. I closed it and sat down on the bed. Nearing sleep, I suddenly opened my eyes with the fearful thought that there might be a presence at the foot of the bed.
What I saw gave me chills. There at the end of the bed stood Emma Green. A mysterious faint light enveloped her and I noticed a second person step forward from behind her. It was Ava Madeiros. They both stared at me with expressionless faces. I lay paralyzed with fear.
In my thoughts I said, “What are you doing here?”
Emma communicated her thoughts directly without moving her lips.
“We are real. You were warned. Let the judgment begin.”
I looked at Ava. Her thoughts spoke to me.
“The judgment has begun.”
I finally managed to roll over, and woke up, realizing I had dreamed the whole thing. Still, the awful haunting feeling of the dream clung to me like a damp mist I couldn’t shake.
I got up and walked over to the refrigerator. I found a bottle of wine inside and several bottles of beer, plus a few bottles of liquor. I opened the wine and drank the whole bottle.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
November 17, Mahé Island, Seychelles
As Stafford and I sat down to breakfast in the hotel dining room, an enchanting woman approached our table. She was English and looking for company.
“Your first breakfast here?” she asked in a delightful tone.
“Yes,” Stafford obliged.
“I’m Emily—Emily Mordaunt. I own the hotel across the street. The Majestic.”
“Ah, it’s beautiful,” he exclaimed.
“Yes.”
“You must have quite a fortune, owning a hotel like that one.”
“Nothing like your fortune, Mr. Stafford.”
“You know who I am.”
“I’ve read about you in magazines from time to time.”
If she made him uneasy, he didn’t show it.
“All good things, I hope.”
“You’re incredibly wealthy. I’m sorry if I’m intruding. It’s just that I see so few English speakers come to Mahé and I’m starved for company. The staff pretty much shuts me out over there.” She laughed.
“Have breakfast with us. This is Sophia, my…my good friend.”
I smiled and took her hand briefly in mine. I got a small shock of static electricity on touching her. The shock surprised her and she jolted upright, recovering with a smile.
“I’m here on business. I should be meeting my man in not too long.”
“You’re welcome to come have a tour of the Majestic later on if you wish. Also, I can show you around the island. Show you the nice beaches. That is if you have time, of course.”
“I’d love it. We’ll be here a few days. We’ll have to exchange numbers. I’d love a tour.”
For a minute I wondered if she was the FBI agent I was to meet on the island. However, I reasoned she could not be, mostly because she was so clearly British and the agent would probably not pretend to own a hotel apart from not being British. I had the feeling Stafford would meet with Ms. Mordaunt privately and I looked forward to spying on them at least through the mic on his phone. As they conversed, my mind drifted further and I began to think about how I might eventually meet the FBI agent.
Ms. Mordaunt received a call and excused herself claiming she had some hotel business to attend to. Stafford didn’t say anything about her after she left but I could tell he was pleased to meet her. My heart sank. I was sure he loved me but if he had an affair with the woman it would add certain unpleasant complications to the situation I wasn’t quite sure how I’d handle. I was so distressed from the guilt of what had happened with Emma Green and Ava Madeiros that I didn’t really see myself handling matters in the same way again. But if I was pushed and became jealous, I would enter a fog of abhorrent emotion, and, in that case, I couldn’t really tell what would happen.
A crisp breeze came up off the sea, and we decided to take a walk on the beach and discuss the meeting that was about to take place.
“I want to see what you think of these gentlemen. Record the conversation. We can analyze it later.”
When we separated I decided to wait in the hotel bar and have drink, imagining that if anyone wanted to contact me it would give them ample opportunity. I looked around the bar, which was mostly empty. The few people I saw didn’t return a glance. Then a familiar man in sunglasses sat down at the bar next to me.
“So—as you can see, they approved my journey out here,” came the familiar voice of Glenn Carter.
He tipped his shades down and smiled.
“I was beginning to think no one was coming.”
“Oh, we’re always with you these days. It’s more a matter of whether we choose to reveal ourselves.”
I laughed out loud. The tone of the laughter seemed to irk my companion, I noticed a small frown on his face.
“I notice when you stiffs are around.”
“What is it about us that makes us so noticeable, Sophia?”
“Mm—where do I begin? The cheap, Italian shoes? The plastic digital watches? The uniformly awful suits that never quite fit?”
He smirked.
“Yes, it’s true. Our undercover capabilities are badly underfunded.”
“You don’t need a big budget for decent disguises.”
“Just a little creativity. I know, I know,” he said.
“You’re worse at undercover work than the Florida police.”
“You’re probably right. But enough about our shortcomings. What about yours?”
“You tell me. What are they?”
I was genuinely curious to know, though I was pretty sure he was talking out of his ass.
“You’re perfect.”
“Now I know you’re talking out of your ass.”
“No. We haven’t found your imperfections yet. We’re still searching.”
“That could take years.”
He laughed.
“You think you’re smooth, Sophia. My advice to you: don’t get caught up.”
“As in?”
“Don’t let your ego swell to the point where you think you can do no wrong. That’s when the danger comes.”
He looked at me closely, studying my reaction.
“I’m a law abiding citizen, Mr. Carter. That’s not going to change for anyone.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Let’s.”
He looked at me hard.
“I’ll ask you once more. If the answer is no—fine. Will you wear a wire?”
“No.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard of obstruction of justice.”
“I have. Would you like to take me in and book me?”
He smiled and took a drink of ice water.
“We’ll take the audio from your phone as you said we could.”
“You’re more than welcome to that.”
“Just don’t sit on your phone, alright?”
“Sure.”
“Has Mr. Stafford clued you in to any details about the meeting yet?”
“It’s something about textiles with a Pakistani businessman. That’s all.”
“Sounds good to me.”<
br />
He pressed an earpiece into his ear before getting up and moving away from the bar.
A moment later Stafford sat down next to me.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Just an American traveler.”
I looked at him for a moment too long. He returned my gaze for the extra beat. He knew exactly who I was talking to.
“Are you ready to meet the Pakistani—Omar Massood?”
“Sure. Here?”
“He’s on his way. We’ll probably end up taking a walk on the beach. It’s all very casual.”
I looked at him another moment to see if there was any hidden meaning in what he said. I couldn’t discern any. My heart began to beat faster, but I didn’t quite know why.
“How well do you know Omar Massood?”
“He’s an associate of one of my African connections. Other than that, I don’t know much. This will be our first meeting in person.”
Omar Massood, approached us in a well fitted suit. I was sure it was him because he was the only one I’d seen since our arrival that looked remotely Pakistani.
He greeted us warmly.
“Mr. Mark…and you’re lovely assistant.”
“This is my friend—Julie.”
I nodded. We all shook hands.
“Julie, how lovely to meet you? Are all your friends so extraordinarily beautiful, Mr. Mark?”
“Julie is a special friend.”
Stafford smiled enigmatically.
“Very well.”
He looked me up and down. I felt slightly uncomfortable at his intense gaze.
“Shall we conduct our business here, sir? Or would you prefer a stroll on the beach?” he asked.
“Entirely up to you, my friend.”
I made a fleeting glance to one side. I saw Carter sitting about twenty-five feet away at one of the tables, looking at us over his menu. What a fucking conspicuous twat. I observed one of the cheap, Italian, leather shoes tapping the ground nervously under the table and looked back at my companions.
“What would the lovely Miss Julie prefer?”
“The beach, please.”
I followed the two of them in the direction of the crashing waves. I knew the sound of the ocean would somewhat mask the conversation for the FBI and it was my way of further asserting what little control I now had over the situation. I wondered why Stafford told the man I was Julie. I assumed it was for my safety, but if this was a legit meeting, I didn’t know why such a precaution was necessary.