Paradise (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant)

by O. L. Casper

  Sophia Durant’s Diary

  February 5, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas

  Something strange happened today. It has put me on edge even more perhaps than the FBI investigation. I was walking back to my new Porsche Panamera (a wedding gift from Stafford) from the grocery store in Governor’s Harbour when suddenly I heard a sharp, cracking sound behind me. Immediately on top of that was a buzzing sound ripping through the air just to the right of my head. The pavement exploded about ten feet in front of me—the result of a gunshot. Instinctively I ducked and looked back. The few people on the street started running in different directions. My heart rate kicked up and everything else slowed down. I heard a second gunshot. The windshield of a van exploded right next to me. I didn’t waste any time. I turned and ran to the Panamera. I started it faster than I ever started any car in my life and gunned it out of Governor’s Harbour, onto Queen’s Highway.

  As I zipped along the road, my mind started working overtime. Who could it be? Who wanted to shoot at me, to scare me or possibly kill me? I thought about Taylor and Mason. That was a vague possibility. I doubted Carter and his boys would get up to such a thing. They’d rather make an arrest. I didn’t really see the FBI as capable of making a hit. But, oddly, my mind kept returning to one person, no matter how unbelievable it seemed, as though pure intuition was playing a part—Mark Stafford. But why would he do such a thing? He did say I was dangerous. But would he kill me because of that? I seriously doubted it.

  I got out the HTC and opened my messages to text Stafford. But as I looked at the flashing cursor in the blank message box, I really felt I didn’t know what to say. Setting the phone in the passenger seat, I decided to wait.

  Somewhat leery of the prospect of returning to the villa, I pulled off onto a dirt road and parked in a place that was closed in by thick foliage in every direction. I cut the engine, put the seatback down and went into Minerva in the HTC. I went to the folder marked “Stafford” and tapped on it. I scanned his recent calls and messages. The most recent were two unsaved numbers in Eastern Europe and Russia. I listened to the contents of some of the calls. The conversations were, I assumed, related to his work with Mason and Taylor but I couldn’t be sure—they were extremely vague conversations with a lot of talk that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Probably coded messages. There was no talk of bubble gum or tennis rackets, however, or any of the various code words I heard used before.

  The last conversation set up a meeting somewhere on Eleuthera. The European on the other end of the line was flying in to Eleuthera tonight and would meet Stafford tomorrow at an undisclosed location. I would find the meeting place and watch to see what happened. Perhaps this would throw some light on the strange events of the day. I decided to stay the night in my car. I have the Beretta with me and a car charger for my phone. I’m so wired from getting shot at today I don’t think I’ll get much sleep anyway.

  Sophia Durant’s Diary

  February 7, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas

  Next morning—I awoke with a start as my phone went off in the seat next to me. I picked it up. A notification from Minerva flashed on the screen. Stafford had sent a text with directions to his European connection. The location of the meeting was at the part of the island where I had been chased by Stafford’s men. As I accepted the fact that I was going there—my intense desire to put the puzzle pieces together left me no other choice—I rolled my eyes at the stupidity of putting myself in so much danger once again. Though I trusted Stafford more now than I had at the time of the chase in the woods, I was shaken by the gunshots and I felt an untraversable chasm growing between us. The meeting was set for eight o’clock, two hours from now. I felt hungry and debated whether or not it was wise to drive into Governor’s Harbour and buy a sandwich. In the end I did go purchase a sandwich, all the while on the lookout for anyone who might have been watching me.

  No one was out of place as far as I could tell. I got back in the Panamera after leaving the grocery store with a sigh of relief. But as soon as I got back on Queen’s Highway all that relief was gone and was replaced by nervous tension. On my high-speed drive to the north end of the island I ate the whole sandwich to try to calm my nerves. It didn’t work.

  I hid the car in roughly the same spot I had parked last time. Using the HTC, I navigated my way along the beach to the meeting spot. It was a few minutes before seven when I set out on the long walk. The sky was clear apart from a few scattered clouds on the horizon to the north. There was a light breeze and I found myself rubbing my hands together every so often due to the cold. I brought the Leica M4 with me, which I habitually kept in the car.

  As I neared my destination, I veered off the beach and entered the foliage as to further guard myself against the worst possible outcome—to be seen. The way to the spot seemed longer than it had the last time. Perhaps I was more excited or afraid last time. This time I had the distinct feeling that this was a pivotal meeting in Stafford’s business arrangements.

  After a long walk that was punctuated by the occasional crawl or climb I came to the inlet. Through the trees I could make out canopies like the ones I had seen on my last visit to the site. Slowly, I got down on the ground. I pulled myself forward in the leopard crawl. Coming to a point where I could only just make out the canopies and some men through the dense foliage, I lifted the M4 to my eye, but only after having checked to make sure that no shaft of sunlight fell down before me that might catch the end of the lens, thus giving me away. The sun had passed behind some clouds. The atmosphere was suddenly dark and colder. All the same I checked to ensure that if there was a break in the clouds and the sun did come out it would not cause any glints to bounce off the lens.

  I adjusted the focus and saw the same armed guards I’d seen before. The men paced back and forth nervously, some of them fingering the shoulder straps on their AK-47 and some of them trying to concentrate on smoking. Watching them, the sense that they were ill-at-ease came across clearly. Last time, as far as I could remember, they did not have this sense of fear about them. Adjusting my position so I could get a better view, the big man himself entered the frame. Stafford was leaning forward, head down, waiting for something. He seemed almost subservient. I’d never seen him like that before. It made me curious to see who it was he was meeting. I checked for the position of his phone on the map in Minerva but it didn’t show up anywhere on the map. If I remember correctly, he didn’t turn off his phone last time. Things got stranger.

  The “European” looked more Middle Eastern. In fact, I’d seen him before. He was one of the men in the pictures Mason and Taylor had shown Stafford. I assumed he was the possessor of the European phone number I had received the communications from. When he arrived all attention was directed at him. He looked like the boss. There was a charisma that was tangible through the camera lens. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. It wasn’t that he was physically attractive because he wasn’t. It was something else. He had long, flowing hair and a big build, athletic. He started screaming at Stafford. I couldn’t make anything out that was being said or screamed at that distance. Strangely, Stafford cowered at the end of one of the canopies, facing away from the hyperventilating boss. Stafford waved one hand next to his hip, like he was casually sweeping back what the man said. But even this normally casual gesture was unconvincing. Stafford was sweating it. Literally, he was wiping his forehead every few minutes between nervous nods.

  My mind began to work hyperactively. I thought of all manner of eventualities. One particularly absurd one comes to mind. I imagined myself gallantly stepping in to defend Stafford. I considered whether or not I could shoot accurately with the Beretta. Lying low in the copse, I gauged them to be 500 feet away. I tried to calm myself, recognizing what an absurd thought it was. But watching Stafford only made it worse. The nervous tension written all over him set me on edge. I had to do something—or leave. I let the camera down from my eye for a moment to think. I raised it back up to see Stafford lunge at the boss. Stafford
punched him. Suddenly a gunshot rang out, followed by several more in rapid succession. Stafford fell to the ground. I zoomed in.

  The boss had a pistol drawn and was pointing it down. It had just started to rain and I could see the drops coming down close up, like I was right there with them. The drops fell in slow motion. I was momentarily confused. What I saw didn’t make sense to me. For a second I felt something was missing in my thought process. I was searching for something, but what? Then it clicked. I couldn’t find Stafford. He’d fallen out of frame. It’d all happened so fast.

  I tilted the camera down and saw a mass lying on the ground. It was him. And he was surrounded by the darkness of wet, blood-soaked sand. He didn’t move. I pushed the telephoto as far as it would go. I got close to his head. I could see the back of it. The upper right side was split open and I could clearly make out a gaping hole. The scene fell silent. I panned along his body. There were several more bleeding wounds along the length of his body. I was stunned. I scanned the others nearby. The men with AK-47s were looking around listlessly, like they had just completed a difficult task. Some of them looked at Stafford. One of them walked over to his body and nudged it with his foot. Stafford rolled over on his back. His face turned up to the sky and his eyes gazed out motionless, hollow. He didn’t blink. I watched for a long time, what seemed an eternity, for a blink. But there was none. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Suddenly, I became concerned for my own safety. I was glad I had the Beretta, but was still very much afraid of those men with their AK-47s. I decided it would be best if I waited for them to leave before I did.

  Tears streamed down my face as the reality of what had happened suddenly swept over me. This was an eventuality I had never expected. I had never even considered it. I was overcome by the intensity of my feelings. I started to disbelieve what I was seeing. I checked Minerva. I don’t know why, but I felt an inclination to so I did. A pulsating gray dot indicating the European phone showed in the inlet.

  Then they left. I watched them shuffling through loose items on the tables under the canopies. Picking up a cigarette box or a lighter, pocketing the item, and walking off. The boss left last, back into the trees whence he came. They left Stafford’s body on the beach. I watched the gray dot get on the highway and head west, then south.

  I was torn between the desire to go see Stafford lying there and the desire to leave and put the whole event behind me. I put the camera strap around my neck, stood up and ran through the brush to the inlet. I ran across the sand to the body. The rain came in a torrential downpour. I put one arm around his shoulders, propping up his head with the other. As I lifted him gently, I saw the edge of the gaping hole near the top of his head, and his lifeless eyes.

  The villa was exactly as it had been the day before when I left. Business as usual. I saw Anna in the kitchen putting away dishes when I walked in to get a cup of coffee and try to relax. I turned on the Keurig and placed a cup on the drip tray. As I pushed the button to turn it on, I recalled the first time I had seen Stafford walk into that kitchen. It was like it had just happened yesterday. I remembered his easy smile and affable manner. Tears came to my eyes, but I restrained them from spilling over. Still, Anna noticed.

  “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  She walked over.

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine,” I lied, wiping the tears from my eyes.

  The coffee began pouring into the cup. Somehow the sound took me back to that scene with Stafford. I’d seen him enter the room in the reflection on the Keurig. He’d mentioned something about a Brit. Some business he’d had to do. He gave me 2,000 dollars. Admitted to wearing reading glasses. Called himself a buffoon and laughed about it. He’d been self-effacing for the first time with me, and I’d become infatuated. I’d fallen in love. The feeling along with the remembrances hit me like a ton of bricks and I fell to me knees, in tears. Anna stooped down and embraced me.

  “Come on, let’s get you to your room. Something’s happened.”

  I resisted her pulling me about.

  “No. I want to stay here. I want to drink my coffee. I need to think. I can’t be in my room right now.”

  I wiped the tears from my face, took my cup of coffee and sat down at the table by the window. I recalled telling him about reading an article on the NSA via Twitter. Life seemed so small without him. He was a giant whose shadow I’d hidden in. Death underlined the insignificance and absurdity of life. I held back more tears. I would let it all out later when I was alone.

  I realized the need to come up with a plan. Perhaps the FBI would come after me when they found out he was gone. Who knows who else might be after me once knowledge of his passing became public? I also needed to secure my future.

  The New York Times

  February 17, New York, New York

  Obituary—Multi-billionaire Mark Stafford, 39, was found dead on Eleuthera Island, Bahamas by the local police. He was shot to death in an undisclosed location on the north end of the island. He is believed to have been shot approximately one week before he was found. A forensics team sent in by the Bahamian government to determine the time of his mysterious death has not yet made its findings public. It has been reported that the FBI is also present on the island, investigating Mr. Stafford’s death. There is much speculation about who might have been involved in the shooting.

  Mr. Stafford was a reclusive billionaire born in Sarasota, Florida. He derived his large fortune from hedge fund management and derivatives trading. Forbes Magazine estimated his wealth at $3.2 billion in 2012. Stafford Capital Group, the owner of the hedge fund Mr. Stafford managed, is located in Jacksonville, Florida. Mr. Stafford’s education did not go beyond high school. However, he was able to enter Wall Street as a trader at a young age. With almost no connections and little assistance he rapidly accrued one of the largest hedge fund and derivatives schemes in the world. When he married Isabella Gardner in 2009 he took a step back from the financial markets. He is predeceased by his first wife Mrs. Gardner who died tragically when one of his planes crashed over the Atlantic in August, 2012. Just weeks before his death, he remarried. This time it was to Sophia Durant, 27. Mr. Stafford had with his first wife a now 13-month-old daughter, Savannah. Mr. Stafford’s interests reportedly included golf, baseball, and auto racing.

  Sophia Durant’s Diary

  February 17, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas

  Reading Stafford’s obit was decidedly strange and impersonal. I wondered where they’d found the information regarding his interests. Or had they just made that up?

  Email, Julie Cameron to Sophia Durant

  February 17

  My Dearest Friend,

  I don’t know how well this email will find you. I wish you would call me. I can’t get ahold of you. I’ve been trying severally ever since I heard the news. I’m truly sorry. I know how happy you were. There are no words. I will visit you at first chance if you permit me. I’m so terribly sorry. I understand if you’re preoccupied right now. I know you must not want to see anyone. I feel so horribly for you. I can’t imagine what it’s like. But I’ll tell you this—as much as you may not want to, now is the time to be with your friends. I’ll leave you at this. Better to be brief. Especially in matters so important.

  All my love,

  J.

  Sophia Durant’s Diary

  March 15

  I was sitting in Stafford’s office, going through some of his papers, searching for odds and ends, when there came a knock at the door. At first it was so soft I thought I was just hearing things. But then it came again. For some odd reason my heart raced as I looked up at the door. My nerves had been very bad since Stafford’s death and I had been unable to sleep well, but during the day I was not usually this much on edge. Before I could say anything the door opened.

  In stepped five Royal Bahamas Police. Two of them were the detectives I had met before. I expected it to be an interview and was totally unprepared for what happened next. They acted as though they were on guard
in case I might do something unexpected.

  “Are you Ms. Sophia Durant, formerly married to Mr. Mark Stafford?”

  “I am.”

  “You are under arrest—”

  “Excuse me?” I cut him off.

  “—under arrest for—”

  “For what?”

  “—for the murder of Mark Stafford.”

  Chapter 25

  Azadi

  Sophia Durant’s Diary (continued)

  Handcuffed and dragged downstairs past all the staff, I was stuffed into a small, hot Royal Bahamas Police car. I was livid. How could they suspect me of Stafford’s murder? Let alone arrest me for it? The irony of the situation didn’t escape me. I had killed all those women and now I was being arrested for a murder I didn’t commit? It didn’t make sense. What cruel irony of fate had led them to think I did it?

  I was driven to the south end of the island and thrown into a cell in a tiny jail that overlooked Rock Sound. Though my diary was in the MacBook and I was led to believe they had confiscated the computer, I knew none of their people could get to the writing. It was camouflaged and buried deep. I doubted even the computer forensics team of the FBI could crack the web of encryption I’d drawn around it. It was a riddle wrapped in an enigma, more lost than Atlantis. Still, I worried about the corrupt justice system of the Bahamas pinning the murder on me and never releasing me from this dark, decrepit, miniscule cell I now found myself in.

  I expected time would crawl and yet I found it hard to relax. In fact, I was near panic. The cell was twelve feet square. It was dark with stone walls. A small, barred window looked out on the sound. It was a strange view of paradise. I tried to relax in order to think. I firmly believe there is a way out of every situation and I would find my way out of this. The question was simple: how? A prison guard brought me food. He unlocked the door and handed it to me before locking me in again. It was a small paper plate with bits of chicken and some rice on it. I set the plate in the corner of the cell and sat next to it and began to think. My mind drifted to Stafford, Savannah, and all that had happened from the time I began my employment with them till now. Evening came fast and I was brought another plate. More of the same. I set it down next to the first untouched plate. The guard looked at me. Making sure no one was in earshot, he leaned into my cell as he stood in the doorway.