“I’m driving,” Sebastião said. “That is nonnegotiable.”
Fernando said, “Absolutely. Lead the way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A private stairway set into the cliff face led down from the Hotel Mariana to the beach below. The sand was a rippling golden pond from this height. Fernando could see where the meet with George Abe was set, a rocky outcropping that separated Albufeira Beach from Fisherman’s Beach to the east. He followed his father and Anibal down the curved steps. It was a little past seven in the morning, and the rising sun was in their eyes. This time yesterday, he had been on a bench waiting for Gibson Vaughn, wondering how badly he’d trapped himself. Hard to believe how much had happened in only twenty-four hours.
Hard to believe how close he was to turning piss to gold.
The finish line was almost in sight. This meeting would decide how he crossed it—in the lead or on a stretcher. It would decide his future, the future of the entire Algarve. That made it imperative that Fernando be there to hear firsthand what George Abe had to say and to spin it in his favor. Anticipating that his father would reject the idea, Fernando had prepped for an argument, even going so far as to enlist Anibal to press his case. But in the end, none of that had proved necessary. His father had personally asked him to attend. “It’s important that you see how things work,” he had told his son with an intimate confidentiality. Something had changed between them. After Fernando had brought Sebastião to Baltasar and told him what he had in mind, his father had looked at him differently. With respect. Fernando could feel it. George Abe couldn’t be allowed to jeopardize that either.
While they descended to the beach, Fernando listened to his father and Anibal review the security arrangements for what seemed the hundredth time. That George had proposed the beach for the meeting had spooked his father. The Americans couldn’t have made a more foolish choice. Hemmed in to the west by cliffs and the ocean to the south, the beach had only one escape route: into town. That concerned Baltasar. George Abe wasn’t the kind of man to leave himself no outs. So the question of the morning had been what they were missing.
They’d been over it from every angle. The Hotel Mariana presided over one end of the beach and offered a commanding vantage. Spotters on the roof would see George coming, and more importantly, they would see him go. This early in the morning, he wouldn’t even be able to disappear into the crowd, and Anibal’s men lurked at all the choke points leading off the beach. A speedboat prowled a hundred meters offshore, on the off chance that George Abe had himself a submarine. Fernando had told his father that the only way George was getting off that beach was by spaceship. Baltasar did not share his optimism. He had too much respect for George’s abilities.
Fernando thought his father was allowing his fury to affect his judgment. After all that Baltasar had done for George, he was taking his betrayal personally. It had been festering all night. Almost as soon as his father had begun to calm down, he would discover some new way that George was the Antichrist and begin to rant all over again. It had been incredibly irritating to listen to, but Fernando couldn’t help but smile at the irony. This was what kindness brought you—betrayal and ruin. He was, after all, exhibit A. Still, there was time for Fernando to make it up to his father. He wouldn’t let George Abe take the Algarve from them.
“Any word from Luisa?” Baltasar asked, interrupting Anibal’s recitation. No one had heard from her in hours, and that was also weighing heavily on him.
“No, but they will let us know the moment she checks in,” Anibal said.
The Romanians had also gone radio silent, but Fernando didn’t share that piece of information. Whatever was happening in Quarteira must be heavy.
Anibal stopped and cupped a hand over his ear. The observation post on the roof of the hotel was reporting in—the Americans had arrived.
“How many?” Baltasar asked.
Only two had been identified so far: George and Jenn Charles.
“The others will be nearby. Find them,” Baltasar said.
Clever. Of course the ones who’d broken into Fresco Mar hadn’t shown up. Their knowledge was the bargaining chip.
At the bottom of the cliff, Anibal readjusted the straps on Baltasar’s lightweight Kevlar until he was satisfied. For once, his father’s ugly, billowing shirts served a purpose. The vest was virtually undetectable.
“The men are in place at Fresco Mar?” Baltasar asked.
“Ready to go, the moment we free the shipment,” Anibal confirmed.
“They work around the clock. There will be bonuses if it departs on schedule.”
“Very generous, I’ll tell them.”
“Tell them also that their lives depend on it,” Baltasar said, his voice weighing down with emotion. “Tell them the Algarve depends on it. We will not go back to the way it was before. Nothing else matters.”
“Nothing else matters,” Anibal echoed.
“We might survive this yet. With luck, the cartel will never know what happened,” Baltasar said.
Anibal went to adjust Fernando’s Kevlar, but Baltasar stopped him and did it himself.
“You know your part?” Baltasar asked his son.
“Of course.” Fernando powered up the tablet and showed his father the screen. “I know what to do.”
“Good boy,” his father said and clapped his shoulders warmly. “After this is over, you and I will talk.”
“I’m ready,” Fernando said, catching Anibal’s eye to make sure he understood the implications.
“All right, then, good. Let us see what George wants.”
The three set out, Anibal leading the way across the wooden walkway that bisected the wide beach. Down by the water, an older couple strolled past in the other direction. Fernando waved, but the couple, sensing something amiss about three men in suits on a beach at dawn, hurried away. What must they think? Fernando felt a vague thrill that they’d been frightened of him. His phone buzzed. Not the default vibration but the one he’d assigned to Constantin Funar. Word from Quarteira, at last. Fernando slipped it out of his pocket and read the message against his thigh:
Done.
Fernando felt the news in his spine. His cousin was dead. One step closer to his destiny. He and Luisa might not have been on the same side anymore, but he didn’t revel in her downfall. If he blamed anyone, it was his father for pitting them against each other since they were children. He would give her a heartfelt eulogy at the funeral. She deserved no less.
At the outcrop that divided the two beaches, they saw George limping in their direction. Jenn trailed behind, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. As they neared, she moved laterally. A subtle thing, adjusting her position to keep a clear line of sight with Baltasar. It unnerved Fernando for some reason. He had always thought of Jenn Charles as a frivolous party girl, but now he wasn’t so sure. If the shooting started, he suddenly felt quite sure that he wouldn’t want any part of her.
“Hello, George,” Baltasar said, as if they’d bumped into each other by chance.
George came to a halt, five slim meters separating them. “Thank you for meeting with us,” George said. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”
“That makes two of us. I must say, I’m surprised at you choosing this for a meeting place.”
“I wanted you to have the high ground, as it were.”
“You’re giving up a lot to put me at ease.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“It’s a public beach, so you’re most likely safe here. But how will you get out? I’ve looked and looked, but I don’t see it.”
“Perhaps I’ve lost my touch,” George said. “Is that what you think?”
“I know your woman is very good, but I have snipers on the rooftops. She’ll be dead before she clears her holster. If I don’t get what I want, you’ll never make it off this beach alive.”
“Then Gibson will detonate your shipment, and I will miss the cartel carving your family into steaks.”
<
br /> What little blood remained in Baltasar’s worn-out body drained from his face. Fernando had to give George points. That was cold-blooded. Two or three sharp retorts came to mind—there was little Fernando enjoyed more than trading insults—but he kept them to himself. It was still his father’s show. At least for a little while yet.
“Is that supposed to intimidate me?” Baltasar asked.
“No, the Mexicans don’t need me for that.”
Damn.
Baltasar said, “You asked for my help, and I gave it gladly. I asked for your help, and you betrayed me, George. Let’s not forget that.”
“Is that the way you see it?”
“There’s no other way to see it. You sent your people back to Fresco Mar after I told you to leave Portugal.”
“I did,” George said.
“Why?”
“To finish what we started.”
“Were there ever really hijackers?” Baltasar asked.
“Not to get philosophical, but you can’t have a hijacking without hijackers. The good news is that they no longer control your shipment.”
“And you do?” Baltasar said.
“Yes.”
“So, you’re here to profit, is that the idea? How much do you want?”
For a moment, Fernando allowed himself to get his hopes up that Gibson hadn’t found his secret after all. He’d only disarmed the booby-trapped shipment; the Americans were simply looking for traveling money before leaving Portugal. If so, Fernando was home free. The Algarve would be his.
“We don’t want your money,” George said.
Fernando’s body stiffened. He held his breath.
“Then what is it you do want?” Baltasar asked.
“We want the children.”
Fernando sighed. There it was.
Baltasar tried to hide it, but Jenn thought the old gangster looked genuinely surprised. As if he really had no idea what George was talking about. It was a strange play. What did Baltasar think he had to gain by bluffing now? He had to know Gibson had him dead to rights.
“I give up,” he said. “What children?”
“Haven’t we known each other long enough not to lie to each other?” George asked.
Outrage flashed across Baltasar’s face. “You lived in my home for six months. I paid for your surgeries. Your recovery. Everything. Don’t lecture me about integrity.”
“I know you did. That’s why this is so hard.” George held out a phone to Baltasar.
“I’m sure it is,” Baltasar said. He took the phone and looked at the screen, falling silent while the video played. Fernando couldn’t see the video, but judging from his father’s expression, he could guess easily enough.
“What is this supposed to be?” Baltasar asked.
“Exactly what it appears to be. My only question is whether you are in business with the Romanians, or whether you stole their idea and cut them out?”
Baltasar exploded. “You think this is me?”
“It was on your servers,” George fired back. “This and much, much more.”
“Then why didn’t you bring it to me?” Baltasar asked.
“Because it was on your servers.”
Jenn winced. This meeting depended on a rational Baltasar Alves. That was how they would get off this beach alive. On paper, trading the shipment for the children was the only choice. Especially with the threat of the Mexicans hanging over his head. But this was personal for Baltasar. Jenn could see that. This was about loyalty and trust and the history between these two men. There was nothing so ugly as the loss of trust between friends. She hoped George saw that too. But it was personal for him as well; she hadn’t fully grasped that until now. The two old friends looked ready to take a swing at each other. Then where would they be?
Baltasar turned on Anibal, holding up the phone. “What do you know about this?”
His lieutenant had turned seasick pale.
“What?” Baltasar demanded. “Speak up, goddamn you.”
“Luisa,” Anibal said like a wounded man on a lonely battlefield making his last confession to God.
“Impossible!”
“She has a warehouse in Olhão. I didn’t know what it was for.”
“How could you not have known?”
“She’s the boss.”
“I am the boss,” Baltasar snarled.
Anibal took a step back and made more stuttering excuses, his mouth backfiring like an old car engine.
Fernando stared intently at Anibal. “Could Luisa have had Dani Coelho killed?”
Baltasar had the look of a man working a complex math problem that had too many variables and not enough constants. It was clear he didn’t like the answer he kept reaching.
“What a day this has been,” Baltasar said. “It appears I am surrounded by snakes.” He turned back to George. “Give me my shipment. I will deal with Luisa and get to the bottom of what is happening here. I will put a stop to this.” He shook the phone in disgust. “You have my word.”
“I’m sorry,” George said. “We’re long past that. Release the children, then I’ll release your shipment.”
“I need my shipment now. It takes time for my people to divide it up, pack it, and transport it to the cartel’s customers. Time I can’t spare. If you won’t give it to me now, then you may as well destroy it. The outcome will be the same for me. I will take care of the children, I promise you this, but give me my shipment now. If not for me, then for the Algarve,” he said, appealing to what they had built together.
George wasn’t having it. “The youngest of those children is maybe fourteen. Boys and girls. There are dozens and dozens of them. Kept and sold like animals.”
“Please, George. I had nothing to do with it. You must know that.”
“For your sake, I hope that’s true. But it changes nothing. As you said, you’re the boss here. You allowed this to happen. You want your shipment, set those children free.”
A dark look passed across Baltasar’s face. It made Jenn swallow hard. She’d made that expression herself once or twice. It only came when you stopped giving a damn about the consequences of your actions. The breaking point when the delicate seesaw between rational and animal tilted too far the wrong way. That was where atrocity lived. Afterward, people always said that they’d been out of their minds, but in the moment, Jenn knew how sane it felt. Baltasar had that look now. She understood that George didn’t dare give up their only leverage, not yet, but he’d pushed Baltasar too far. When the bullets came, there wouldn’t be a damn thing to stop it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jenn was wrong. The bullets didn’t come. It was so much worse than that.
To Jenn, laughter had always been an expression of happiness. Probably because it didn’t come easily to her people. Her grandmother had rarely smiled and had laughed like she’d owe heavy interest on it. It had always taken something joyous to coax laughter out of her grandmother—Jenn could count the times on one hand. Hearing that laugh had always made Jenn feel hopeful. Even as she knew that the next few weeks would be that much harder while her grandmother settled up with the universe.
There was no joy in Baltasar’s laugh, only low resignation. He turned to her now. “I make you the same offer, Jenn. Return my shipment now, and I will take care of these children. I will make things right and punish those responsible.”
She glanced at George. “He speaks for me,” she said with far less assurance than she’d intended.
“Yes, but I’m giving you the chance to think for yourself. We all want the same thing here. It’s only the sequence that we don’t agree on, and I’m telling you seriously that I cannot wait any longer.”
“George speaks for me,” she repeated. It didn’t sound any more confident with practice.
“And your position is nonnegotiable?”
She shrugged, tired of being asked the same question like a child.
“That is a shame,” he said. “So is mine.”
Baltasar
gestured at Fernando, who came forward and held out a tablet to Jenn. She took it but didn’t like that he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Not one bit.
“What’s that?” George asked.
“You have videos. I have a video of my own,” Baltasar said. He dialed a number and put the phone to his ear.
With the sun to her back, Jenn had to shade the screen to see what was on the tablet. Gradually she made out a man in an upright wooden chair. As her eyes adjusted to the glare, she saw his arms were tied behind his back. His head was not in frame, but a taut rope tied around his right ankle pulled the leg outstretched. Jenn felt a hand reach into her chest and twist her heart cruelly in its fist. She knew those scars.
A golf club came into frame. A driver. It lowered slowly until the oversized titanium head kissed Sebastião’s knee. The club drew back and repeated the motion three or four times as though preparing to tee off at the Masters. She saw Sebastião strain against his ropes. There was no sound, but imagining the anguish in his voice made her sick.
“What do you want?” she said.
“I’ve told you,” Baltasar said. “But it’s too late now. Hand Anibal your gun.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Gibson will detonate,” George said, trying to regain control of the negotiation. He raised his right hand—his signal to Dan, who watched from a building behind them.
“Then get on with it. I am done enduring threats,” Baltasar said. “But make your peace with God before you do.”
When things got down to life or death, most people panicked. Jenn did something more akin to a brownout—all nonessential parts of her brain went dark. The world went quiet and syrup slow. Everything shone with painful clarity, as if the beach had just gone high definition: Fernando’s downturned eyes, the subtle shame at the corners of Anibal’s mouth, Baltasar seizing the initiative, George losing the page. The range from here to the roof of the Hotel Mariana, calculating how long a bullet would take to travel from the barrel to the bridge of her nose. The three seagulls dancing with the surf by the water’s edge.
Debris Line (Gibson Vaughn) Page 21