by Gar Wilson
"It's a department matter, Mr. Johnson," Smith replied stiffly. "However, I can assure you that you won't be working with Sergeant Bristol in the field again."
"Are you sure that's a wise decision?" Katz inquired, blowing a smoke ring across the room. "We have to keep a low profile, and we can't have every cop in Kingston involved with this mission. Bristol was chosen because he was familiar with one of the homicide incidents involving American tourists. That's the same reason you were chosen to assist us, Lieutenant. If you have another officer to replace Bristol, I must remind you that this individual should already be familiar with the incidents that brought us here. He or she must also have top-secret clearance from the governor-general's office and be familiar with all parts of Kingston and other parts of the island. Unless you have a suitable replacement, we'd like Sergeant Bristol to remain with our unit for now. For security reasons."
"You men must be used to getting your own way," Smith said through clenched teeth.
"We try," Katz replied unapologetically. "Look at it this way, Lieutenant. If we get our way throughout this mission, the terrorists don't get their way. If we're really dealing with the Black Alchemists or an outfit just like them, you'd better pray our side wins. The fate of the entire nation of Jamaica might depend on the outcome."
8
Delia Walkins lived in an apartment building near the Jamaican College of Arts, Science and Technology. Calvin James spotted the educational complex from her terrace. Moonlight cast a soft glow on the thirty-year-old college. The view was disturbed only by the swaying tops of palm trees and the glare of streetlights below.
A cool breeze drifted through the night, carrying the fresh ocean scent of the Caribbean. There was little traffic that night, and the streets were quiet. Kingston seemed a peaceful and pleasant city as James stood on the terrace. The distant sound of calypso music floated through the air, the music softer than the rattling of ice cubes in the drink Delia had handed him before she had disappeared into the bedroom.
James took a sip and grimaced. Whatever it was, it didn't please him; it tasted as if somebody had charred a hickory stick and stirred it in rubbing alcohol. But since Delia had made the drink for him, he could live with it... as long as he didn't actually have to drink it.
"Enjoying the view?" she asked as she emerged from the bedroom and stepped onto the terrace. James turned to face her. A white terry-cloth robe was tied around her narrow waist, revealing the round curves of her dark brown breasts. The hem of the robe was short enough to show off her well-shaped legs and firm ebony thighs.
"The view's great from here," James answered with a smile. "How are you doing now that you've had a chance to relax a bit after all the excitement?"
"I've been a police officer for several years, Cal," she answered. "It really wasn't because I was so terribly distressed about what happened at the Creole Dream that I let you bring me home."
"I didn't figure you were really rattled by that," James replied, stepping closer. "You handled yourself pretty well. You're a very impressive lady, in more ways than one."
"Really?" she smiled. "You've barely touched that drink. Don't you care for gin and tonic?"
"So that's what this is." James glanced at the glass in his hand and frowned. "I thought maybe it was used to thin paint or something."
"I'll take it," Delia said. "I should have guessed gin and tonic was something an American might not care for. Popular here, of course, because of the British influence, I imagine. Would you care for a beer or a rum and soda instead?"
"Either sounds fine," he assured her. James watched the woman cross the room to the bar of her kitchenette. "Hey, did you attend the college out there?"
"Arts, Science and Technology?" Delia replied as she took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. "No, I attended the University of the West Indies in Mona. That's a suburb of Kingston. I couldn't afford to live there on a police sergeant's salary. Going to university there was expensive, of course, but my mummy and daddy insisted. I was supposed to be a sociologist or an anthropology professor or something intellectual. My parents weren't terribly happy when I left college and entered the police academy. I suppose they still aren't very pleased about that."
"Parents always want their kids to do things they never could," James commented, walking to the kitchen as Delia approached with the beer in one hand and the gin and tonic in the other. "They have dreams for their children and sometimes forget kids have their own dreams. I'm sure your parents will realize you have to do what you want with your life. It is your life, after all."
"Oh, I think they're accepting it... gradually," Delia said. She handed him the beer. "What are your parents like?"
"They were hardworking people who didn't get many breaks," James answered with a shrug. "They were poor, and they had a lot of problems caused by racial discrimination. Fortunately, they lived to see things change for the better and even helped to make some of those changes happen. My father died shortly after two of his sons went off to Vietnam; he never knew only one would come back. My mom was killed by muggers... hell, I don't really want to talk about that."
"I'm sorry," Delia told him, steering James toward the couch. "Sounds like you've had a rather hard time growing up, then Vietnam and all the other things that led you to do whatever it is you do now. You and your friends are very mysterious, Cal."
"I can't tell you much about that," James said as he sat beside her. "Don't ask. Usually I have to tell a lot of people a lot of lies in my profession. I've been pretty up-front with you, and I'd like to keep it that way."
"No questions," she agreed, sipping her gin and tonic. "Well, I do have one. When you asked if you could see me home tonight — was that just because you were worried that I was upset about the shooting and the snake and all that rot?"
"That was part of it," James replied, putting down his beer to take one of her hands in his. "But that wasn't the only reason, and I think you know it. You're not only beautiful, you're also bright and appealing. That's a very attractive combination."
"I don't generally bring men up here," Delia began, glancing down at the ice cubes floating in her glass. "Especially not a man I've known for less than a day. After what happened tonight, though, I realize we might both be killed before it's over. Even if we both survive, you'll go back to the States when this is finished. So right now might be all the time we have..."
James placed a hand on her cheek and gently turned her face toward his. He kissed her on the lips; a gentle, brief kiss. When she responded, he kissed her again, his tongue sliding across her teeth and probing the roof of her mouth.
They embraced as their hands made tentative sallies across each other's bodies. Delia untied her robe; she was naked beneath the terry cloth. James caressed a breast gently, feeling the rigid nipple between his fingers. Delia slid a hand inside his shirt and ran it across the hard muscles of his chest.
She stripped off his shirt as he stroked her long, smooth thighs. For a long time they feverishly held each other, trying to get as close as possible. There was no need for words when he finally heaved himself above her, only Delia's willing compliance as they joined in the ultimate intimacy.
* * *
The following morning, Calvin James and Delia Walkins arrived at Kingston police headquarters together. Colonel Wells, Lieutenant Smith and the other members of Phoenix Force were waiting for them in the homicide investigator's office.
"I'm so glad you managed to join us, Mr. Johnson," Katz remarked. The hard stare he fixed on James's face suggested to the black commando that the Phoenix Force commander was somewhat less than pleased.
"How's everybody doing today?" James asked with a weak grin. He knew he would get an ass-chewing from Yakov later. The hell with it, he thought. It had been worth it to spend the night with Delia.
"I managed to contact an old acquaintance I knew when I was in Jamaica on those treasure-hunting trips of my youth," Rafael Encizo explained. "The fellow is in a bit of trouble with
the government right now — he hasn't paid any taxes for about two decades. They're demanding he either comes up with about six hundred thousand dollars or goes to jail for about a hundred years. Unless he can make a deal with the governor-general's office."
"Can't say I approve of this sort of thing, Mr. Sanchez," Colonel Wells remarked. "Making deals with criminals doesn't seem right to me. This man Kevinson is a smuggler as well as a tax evader. Not the sort of person I regard as trustworthy."
"Todd Kevinson is a smuggler," Encizo agreed. "Cigars, rum, curios and stuff like that. He's never dealt in drugs or gunrunning. Kevinson is hardly a tribute to good citizenship, but he's far from a threat to the national security of Jamaica. If he can arrange for us to meet Montgomery Penn, it will be worth making a deal with the guy."
"I still say we arrest Penn and make him talk," Smith declared. "I guess you were right to want to use that truth serum and make him tell us where to find these Ton Ton Macoute scum."
"That idea is fine up to a point," Katz began, gesturing with his trident hook. "Kevinson can tell us where to find Penn, but he can't tell us anything about what sort of security the gangster will have. That could mean a bloodbath. Also, Penn has a number of lawyers who've kept him out of jail every time you've arrested him in the past. They'd probably be contacted the moment you snapped the cuffs on the guy. They'd be here waiting for him before we got him back to the department."
"We could always take him somewhere else, give him scopolamine in a more private setting," McCarter suggested, lighting up a Player's cigarette. "No need for those shyster legal eagles to know a damn thing."
"And have the Kingston police accused of kidnapping?" Smith snorted. "I think not, Carver."
"The last point is probably the most important," Katz continued. "Since Penn isn't a Haitian, I'm sure the Ton Ton Macoute isn't going to trust him with any more details than they have to. We may not learn anything of any earthshaking importance from him. Sure, he probably knows dozens of low-level hoods involved, but he may not even know where the Cercueil impostor and the other real leaders are located. Even if he does know, they'll most likely abandon their headquarters as soon as they learn Penn's been arrested."
"Do you really think this plan of yours has a better chance of success?" Wells demanded. "It sounds very dangerous and risky, in my opinion."
"Excuse me," James began sheepishly. "Can I hear the plan?"
"What do you say, fellas?" Manning asked the others. "Should we let him in on it, even if he did arrive late?"
"Okay," Encizo began, in a more serious voice. "Todd Kevinson has done business with Penn; smuggling Jamaican cigars to Florida, for instance, and passing them off as Havana-made in order to get a higher price. Anyway, Kevinson knows enough about Penn's operations to know the gangster has been trying to get a covert connection with a banking corporation in the Lesser Antilles for about two years."
"Lesser Antilles?" James raised his eyebrows.
"The Antilles Islands," Katz explained. "Most are still dependencies of the Netherlands, France or the United Kingdom. Until recently, they were best known for petroleum, phosphates and tourism. Lately they've become a popular spot for individuals and organizations who want a secure bank account."
"Like the kind of secret Swiss bank accounts the mob and crooked politicians are fond of?" James asked.
"Swiss bank accounts aren't what they used to be," Gary Manning told him, pouring the last of a pot of coffee into his cup, and frowning as black grounds spilled into the Styrofoam container. "Pressure from several governments, law-enforcement agencies and other international organizations have convinced the Swiss in recent years to alter their secret banking policies. The accounts aren't so secret anymore."
"Same thing happened to the banking business in the Cayman Islands," David McCarter added. "That had been a favorite place for American mobsters to launder money and for cocaine syndicates to stash away cash in secret accounts. But the United States and England complained long enough and loud enough until the Cayman Islands decided doing banking for crooks wasn't worth the heat they were getting. Besides, the Cayman Islands are still technically a British dependency."
"So that leaves the Antilles Islands as the favorite spot for crooks to deposit their money for safekeeping," Encizo supplied. "Panama is very popular, too, especially among the cocaine syndicates of South America. Penn doesn't want his money that far away, and he's been trying to get a supersecret account in the Antilles. He doesn't want to go through regular channels for fear he'll run into trouble with the authorities. The Antilles' banking businesses are currently under the same sort of pressure the Swiss and the Cayman Islands experienced in the past. Getting so criminals just can't save a dishonest dollar."
"Okay," James began. "I think I get the picture now. We're going to pretend to be representatives from some bank from the Antilles Islands. We promise him a secret bank account with ten percent interest, a free calendar, and a chance for a great savings plan for retirement."
"Something like that," Katz confirmed. "Kevinson says he'll gladly arrange for us to meet with Penn and help us with our cover in return for amnesty by the governor-general's office for withholding taxes all these years."
"A hundred things could go wrong with a plan like that," Smith warned. "Penn isn't a fool. It won't be easy to convince him you blokes are genuine."
"It's risky," Katz agreed. "But it's also the best way to get close to Penn and learn enough about the bastard to see if he can lead us to Cercueil. If nothing else, we should be able to get enough information to make an arrest stick when you nail Penn later."
"Who's going to take part in this little masquerade?" James inquired.
"I planned to play the banker," Katz answered. "Would you like to be one of my bodyguards, Mr. Johnson? I realize you have a busy social life, but perhaps you could manage to squeeze this into your schedule."
"I'll do it, man," James assured him, embarrassed by Katz's sarcasm, although he realized he deserved it.
"That's nice," the Israeli said dryly. He turned to Gary Manning. "Do you want to join us, Mr. Green?"
"Sure," the Canadian replied with a shrug. "Which one of the Antilles are we supposed to be from?"
"A French dependency," Katz answered. "All three of us speak French fluently."
"I speak French, too," McCarter declared, worried he might miss out on the action again. "Why not take three bodyguards?"
"Three reasons," Katz answered. "First, two bodyguards wouldn't seem suspicious. More than that will probably make Penn a bit uncomfortable. Second, I didn't choose Green and Johnson just because they speak French. With his background in business and foreign trade. Green might be able to help me convince Penn we're really with a shady banking outfit. And Johnson is a logical choice because blacks are the largest ethnic group of both Guadeloupe and Martinique; three white faces might seem a bit odd. Finally, I want you and Sanchez to head a backup team in case we get in trouble. Make sense?"
"I suppose so," McCarter said with a sigh.
"Cheer up," Encizo said, patting the Briton on the back. "You'll get to shoot somebody eventually. I suggest you guys claim to be from Martinique. It isn't as big as Guadeloupe, but it attracts more casino crowds, and it's more likely to offer the sort of banking deals which would appeal to Penn."
"Good idea," Katz agreed. "We'll brush up on Martinique while you contact Kevinson and find out how soon we get to meet Kingston's Al Capone."
"Just a moment," Colonel Wells began. "You gentlemen can't be serious. This isn't a strong enough plan of action to possibly be successful."
Delia, who had been silent since entering the room, aware that Lieutenant Smith was probably as upset with her as Katz appeared to be with Calvin James, now added, "The colonel has a point. Perhaps you should plan this more carefully."
"We really can't plan much more until we find out where and when we'll be meeting with Penn," Katz explained. "We'll work out the details when we know enough to make the res
t of our strategy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to have a few words in private with Mr. Johnson."
"Oh, shit," James rasped under his breath.
The two Phoenix Force members left the office, and headed up the corridor to an exit. James kept his mouth shut and followed Katz to the door. The Israeli led him outside into the parking lot, past a row of police cars.
James was anxious, eager to get the ass-chewing over with. Not one to take any chances, Katz did not speak until he was certain they were out of earshot of any of Kingston's finest. He even turned his back to the police building in case Smith or Wells had a lip-reader with a pair of binoculars posted at a window.
"Did you have a good time with Sergeant Walkins last night?" Katz inquired, taking a pack of Camels from his pocket.
"I know what you're gonna say, Yakov," James told him.
"Really?" Katz raised his eyebrows. "Then you realize you violated our security last night? You left with that woman without telling any of us where you were going. If we had needed you, if there had been an emergency, we would have been unable to contact you. Rafael guessed you were probably with Sergeant Walkins. You two seem to have had a real attraction for each other from the moment you met."
"It won't happen again," James assured him.
"We can't afford any emotional involvement during a mission, Cal," Katz warned. "You don't know her well enough to trust her. You have to keep your mind on the mission. Don't you remember what happened in the Bahamas when you wound up in bed with that woman from the casino?"
"I remember," James said with a nod.
"You almost got killed that time," Katz stated, lighting a cigarette. "I would have thought that would have taught you a lesson. We can't afford to be short-handed during a mission. It's not just your life you put at risk when you're operating at less than peak level. Phoenix Force is a team, and we have to function like one. Each of us has to be able to rely on the others to do their jobs at all times. Understand?"