by K. T. Tomb
The scene abruptly ended. Silence blossomed in the apartment. Manny, who had gotten to his feet without realizing it, swayed slightly as conflicting thoughts battled for dominance in his mind.
“Bullshit! You old fuck!” He spoke to no one.
Alone in his rooms, Manny didn’t have to fake a smile for his grieving family anymore.
“I wait my whole life to come into this inheritance, and you’re fucking with me from beyond the grave? You sick bastard! Sorry for existing!”
He picked up the briefcase and tossed it against the wall, dislodging a large mirror hanging there, and granting him seven years bad luck to go with the twenty-two he felt he had spent already. The briefcase had landed open, inside to the floor. Cursing his own stupidity at giving himself a chore to do, as he swept up broken shards of mirror, Manny gingerly picked up the briefcase. A slash ran from one end of the silken interior fabric to the other, across the inside pocket where through the tear, Manny could see the envelope which he knew contained plane tickets to an Island he had never heard of and didn’t care about.
There was another piece of paper there. He plucked it out, and unfolded it. In a bold typeface, five lines of some kind of awful poetry.
Colors blind the eye.
Sounds deafen the ear.
Flavors numb the taste.
Thoughts weaken the mind.
Desires wither the heart.
Manny was too furious with everything, his family, and himself to bother puzzling out anymore of this cryptic nonsense. Leaving the broken mirror where it lay, he grabbed a beer from the kitchen. He felt he would need several.
Chapter Three
It was past midday when Manny surfaced in the aftermath of the seven beers and half a bottle of Baileys he consumed the night before. After regurgitating what was left in his stomach, he stumbled into the living room trying his hardest to remember some of what happened. He was grappling with the beginnings of a headache and was jolted back to reality when he cut his foot on the remains of the mirror still strewn about the floor. Manny switched on the TV, channel- surf while he drank coffee, and then he booted up his laptop. His ego was not in the best of shape following his one-sided argument with his dead grandfather, and it had resulted in the down spiral of self- pity that had resulted in an alcohol-fueled nightmare.
While he had reservations about the validity of the buried treasure hokum, he had come to the conclusion, somewhere around the five beer mark, that a trip to a tropical island might not be such a bad idea. Tropical islands meant sunshine and hopefully some hot bodies in bikinis to hang out with; that was without doubt a better option than freezing to death in New York until April next year. According to the airline tickets, he’d need to fly to Antigua first, and then take a two-engine prop island hopper over to Montserrat. He logged onto his laptop, and began checking flights from JFK Airport, but paused as he was typing the name into Google. Deleting it, he typed instead ‘Captain Marlowe + Pirate’. On the third site, the previous two belonging to works of fiction that had appropriated the Marlowe name, he found what he was looking for.
“Captain B. Marlowe, aboard the Suffering Amy, terrorized the Caribbean in the mid-nineteenth century. He raided many island forts, and sunk ships of France, England and Spain.” Eventually captured, he was tried and hung for piracy, on November the 2nd, 1871. So, at least that part is true. From what he could find out online, Montserrat was still a no-go area for half the island. There were tours and such to see the volcano, but short of joining one and then bailing out of a moving truck, he didn’t see much hope getting up close to it, if this wild goose chase should even go that far. What would he do if the treasure was halfway to the middle of nowhere, where no one went? He didn’t think it would be a good idea to go roaming around an island with no clue where to go. The map was little help. The miniscule writing denoted three locations; the Volcano was clearly marked, which was understandable as it was surely the biggest feature of the tiny island. There was also a kind of parabola that might have been part of a circle or semi-circle once, with the legend ‘Look West’ written next to it. So... there was a widely curved path, that didn’t appear on Google Maps, and was made nearly two hundred years ago, and he should follow it to the west, when the path curves to the east and back to the west. That would mean he’d be walking away from what he should be looking at for a fair few miles, over what the internet told him was over the Centre Hills, and right across the valleys where an active volcano might decide to bury him under molten rock at any time. Great! Finally, there were three tiny, faded letters, which after a moment of analysis Manny decided spelled ‘E.I.C.’
He guessed he’d figure that out later once he got to the island. Getting back to the travel booking site, he began to make his reservations. From the apartment he’d take a taxi to JFK then on to Antigua, and Montserrat. Screw the old man, he was taking the challenge. He’d go and show him who deserved to be in this family. He’d show his brothers, his cousins and his dad; then none of them could tell him what to do, ever again.
Manny was not the only adventurer visiting Montserrat. While Manny, the youngest American son of an influential family, could not have any idea of the trouble he was getting himself into, Kang Xiaoping knew exactly what he was doing. Manny’s only experience of anything like what he was planning came from James Bond movies, and despite his complete lack of training in espionage, he thought he had what it took to pull off a treasure heist on his own. While he was still in the air somewhere over the ocean near Bermuda, Kang was arriving under cover of darkness, coming ashore on a dinghy launched from a small boat. He waded the last few paces through the surf at the deserted Bunkham Beach.
For all intents and purposes, he looked like any other tourist. Bad shirt, camera, cheap shoes, cheaper sunglasses in a shirt pocket and a duffle bag containing yet more awful clothes. His contact on the island had recommended Bunkham Beach as an easy entry point. There were steep, vegetation-covered cliffs stretching the full length of the bay, and only one way on and off the sand, unless you were a climber of prodigious skill. The beach itself was also very narrow, dropping off sharply into the Caribbean Sea, facing out across more than a thousand miles of empty water in a straight line towards Nicaragua.
Kang hiked up the beach, but did not leave the black sands for the rough path that led up to the Birds of Paradise Villa overlooking the beach. With no light source behind him, Kang was confident that even the sharpest eyed guest would not have seen him. Someone else did see him, however, and moved down to the shore trying to disguise his nervousness. He was another Chinese, dressed identically to Kang himself, the same shirt, right down to the same sneakers. Kang barely looked at him as he passed, but it was enough to notice that there was a good ten years between them in age, and the other was going grey at the temples where Kang’s hair was still thick and jet black. Kang was also taller, in far better shape, and had no protruding overbite. The fake-Kang muttered “Xièxiè, Xièxiè!” as he splashed into the water, clumsy and loud as a buffalo in the shallows. The oaf fell into the dinghy, and with little care for stealth began rowing madly out to sea as soon as he had managed to get in his seat.
Kang sucked air through clenched teeth with displeasure. Checking his luminous watch, he realized that there would be very little time for him to enjoy the sights of Montserrat, it was 4a.m. already, and he planned to be well on his way over the Pacific by noon. He had to get to work. Following the path the fake-Kang had taken down to the beach, the new and improved-Kang made it to the Villa in only a few minutes. The place was lit, but deserted. The Kang who had left in the dinghy had rented the entire 10- bedroom complex for his brief stay; opulent. The man had clearly gone soft on his fat government salary, and more than likely had taken plenty of bribes in his time to be able to afford this.
Entering by the sliding doors on the veranda, Kang proceeded to search the rooms for intruders. It was unlikely that there would be any, given the short time frame in which the two men had switched p
laces at the beach, but he hadn’t stayed alive this long, in this business, by being sloppy. Satisfied he was alone, the new Kang Xiaoping emptied his duffle bag of clothes, drew a short, snub nosed pistol from a rolled up t-shirt, and settled down in a chair, looking out to sea. Dawn was on the horizon, a new day, and the job at hand would soon follow.
Chapter Four
Kang had slept lightly, propped up facing out to sea, a pistol in his lap.
A message sent to the prepaid mobile phone he had found on the kitchen counter simply said “Heron found on lake.” Kang took time enjoying the shower at the villa. He had been at sea for some time, and the Nicaraguan fishing vessel he had traveled on for the last few days was distinctly lacking in modern amenities. Not that he was unused to hardship, but he was not a man to turn down the finer things in life when they were available. As he toweled dry and dressed in the ridiculous resort wear, Kang wondered what would happen to the other Kang when he got back to mainland China. He had looked weak and pathetic, but from what he had been told by his handler in Beijing, the man had a significant amount of influence throughout the financial sector. Kang took that to mean that he would not be punished too severely for his failures. The hallway to the front door was wide and well lit. The marble floor, like the rest of the villa, was comprised of large, well set tiles. The walls were solid and white where glass partitions had not been preferred. In the hallway there was a low telephone table next to an umbrella stand carved from wood into the shape of a tropical bird. The bird looked at the ceiling, mouth open, and from his gullet protruded several decent quality umbrellas. Kang considered the wooden bird. It seemed like a joke on the sculptor’s part, or at least the owner of the villa in the purchase of such a tasteless piece for a place like this.
On the table, there were several pamphlets and guides for the tourists that stayed there when the property wasn’t rented out in entirety by dummy companies owned by the Chinese Ministry for State Security. Kang leafed through a couple, and selected the one with the best map on the back. The short book reiterated some of the things Kang had already discovered prior to coming to the island. Population; five thousand residents or thereabouts. Half the island was under a strict exclusion zone policy due to the active volcano and most structures were less than twenty-five years old due to constant hurricane damage. Attractions included hiking in the rainforest-covered central hills, scuba diving, and of course the volcano itself, on official tours only.
Kang would not be doing any of that. He tucked the map into a pocket of his light jacket, ate a small breakfast from the scant supplies left by the previous occupant and was about to set out the door, when he noticed the green 4x4, parked in plain view on the road that led over the hill to the nearby town of Salem. Even from that distance, Kang could recognize military men when he saw them, even if they were only volunteers from the Royal Montserrat Defense Force; he checked himself, or men who looked like volunteers. The villa was the only building for half a mile in any direction. There wasn’t a good reason for them to be parked up there, if there had been a crime to investigate, members of the small local police force would be here. The last thing he needed was a body count involving locals, he could imagine the furor in Beijing already. Moving quickly, he went into the kitchen, slid out the metal fascia below the electric cooker and stashed his pistol in the gap. He wedged it between the underside of the element and the stone floor. It wasn’t ideal, and he would need to retrieve it later so long as it wasn’t found in a thorough search. It wouldn’t go well for a future guest to kneecap themselves whilst cooking. As soon as he had replaced the cover, the front door was opened by a Caucasian man in his mid-fifties. He had the typical ruddy face that fair-skinned people tended to develop when overexposed to the Caribbean climate. His slightly too-small shirt accentuated his portly frame, and the four green-clad military men, dark-skinned and well built, made him seem rather short.
“Hello,” he said, with the clipped pronunciation of the educated British. “You are Mr. Kang?”
Kang looked at the gweilo, and hid his contempt for his corpulence.
“I am he,” he said.
“Good. My name is Richard Quincy. I am Her Majesty’s Governor of Montserrat and I require you to come with us.”
“And why should I do that? Am I under arrest?”
Kang had not counted on this. Involvement with the British government on this assignment could mean only one thing that he could think of, and he had no countenance that M16 were aware of the activities on the island.
The Englishman smiled. It was the well-practiced, political smile that Westerners used far too often to be an effective concealment of hidden agendas.
“No, I wouldn’t say you are under arrest at this time, but it’s become necessary to take you to our police station in Salem for… a chat.”
Kang bowed slightly.
“I understand. However, I must decline your invitation. I have business to conduct today and it is a very busy day for me. Perhaps we could make an appointment for tomorrow?”
Quincy nodded to his guards, who quickly stepped forward and seized Kang by the arms. Kang could have fought back, and won with little difficulty, but this was not a fight he wanted to have until he knew what his opponent knew. Quincy had the advantage, for now.
“Mr. Kang, perhaps I did not make myself perfectly clear. You are required to come with us, it is not a request. I understand that you are a very busy man. I only wish to know more about what you do to keep so busy and as such these fine men will escort you to the Salem Police Station, where you will remain, at Her Majesty’s pleasure, until I am satisfied you do not pose a terrorist threat to the island of Montserrat and her peace-loving citizens.”
Quincy still bore the effected smile as the soldiers marched Kang outside and towards the waiting SUV, which had been brought to the top of the driveway by yet another soldier.
Kang was in trouble and he knew it. That speech about terrorism was an obvious smoke screen for the benefit of the troops, so whatever Quincy was interested in him for was not public knowledge,at least not yet. That gave him time to come up with a plan, provided he lived long enough to put it into play.
The drive from the villa to the nearby town of Salem was short. Relatively speaking, everywhere on Montserrat was close to everything else, being an island of less than forty square miles of land, and over half of that being in a volcanic exclusion zone with a rumbling volcano in its midst. It was barely even coincidence then, that around ten o’clock in the morning, as Kang was being marched from the military SUV and into the police station, that the scene was witnessed by a young African-American man, still a little green from the bumpy turbo prop ride from Antigua and the even bumpier minibus journey from the tiny John A. Osborne Airport.
***
Manny felt exhausted, but elated, to have made it to Montserrat in one piece. He had never traveled in such a tiny aircraft. He felt ostensibly over-dressed and self-conscious in his designer travel wear, and resolved to pick up something locally that didn’t make him look so out of place. The minibus and taxi drivers had eyed him in the way people do when they’re assessing how much to charge someone who they feel can afford to pay through the nose. For a very reasonable price of triple the going rate, Manny secured a ride. More important than the taxi was the information Manny had eventually gleaned from his thieving driver. There were no internet cafés here as far as he had seen and his iPhone showed him no Wi-Fi or GPS signals at all. Wishing he had spent more time researching the treasure map clues instead of drinking himself senseless whilst he had still been at home with access to high-speed internet, Manny eventually found a driver who perhaps would know what the initials E.I.C had stood for. The driver had considered for a long time, until Manny slipped him a few dollar bills, which seemed to have a rejuvenating affect on the man’s memory.
Apparently, there was a business of some type called the East India Company that had operations on the island. What East India had to do with the Caribbean,
Manny had no idea; but the cabbie seemed to remember that at one time, there had been an office for the East India Company in Salem, and that was good enough to give Manny a reason to check it out.
Montserrat was, if anything, even more sparsely populated than Manny had imagined. He had no idea how many people lived in his district of New York, but he was sure the entirety of Montserrat could fit in the Village many times over. It disconcerted him, as he was used to flowing through massive crowds whenever he stepped out of his apartment, which was often. Here, it felt like agoraphobia was looming. If it wasn’t for the undulating topography he would have felt paranoid that the island could be swept away at any minute by a wave unsuitable for even the most novice surfer. As it was, his fear was much more focused on the ash-grey mountain visible from the plane as he had landed. The wisps of smoke were even visible from Antigua on a clear day and, knowing nothing about volcanoes, Manny’s fear mounted exponentially as he got closer.
As his taxi pulled into Salem, a tiny village but beautiful in its simplicity, Manny’s attention was drawn to the green off-road vehicle in front of them, emblazoned with a crown laid over what Manny presumed was the flag of Montserrat. It was driving a lot slower than the taxi driver would like, but he made no attempt to motivate them with his horn; overtaking on the rough road was out of the question. They followed in convoy until the SUV pulled over in front of the oldest building Manny had seen on the island so far. Whether it was old enough to date back to the time of Captain Marlowe, Manny had no idea, but it would be a starting point at least.
“Hey, driver! What building is this?” He said.
The man answered Manny in that typical, drawling island patois that was endemic to the Caribbean nations that were colonized by Britain.