by K. T. Tomb
“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 during this assignment could mean only one thing, and he had no countenance that MI6 were aware of the activities on the island.
The Englishman smiled. It was the well-practiced, political smile 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 clear on the matter. 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 smokescreen 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 multi-racial man, still a little green from the bumpy turboprop 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 felt could 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 had made sure to select a driver who perhaps would know what the initials E.I.C had stood for. The man had considered for a long time, until Manny slipped him a few dollar bills, which seemed to have a rejuvenating effect on the taxi driver’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.
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 drew 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 them 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.
“Man, that’s the poh-lice station. Dem guys in green are the volunteer army, y’know. They don’t do much, just ceremonial things when the Governor is in town yeah? See here,” he gestured at the men alighting from the military vehicle. “Dat white man is the governor, and that big fella there is Eze. He’s a good man; he’s usually a farmer up by Central Hills.”
Manny observed the men as they came out of the SUV. He didn’t like the look of the Governor much, he looked like he’d fit in quite well with the more rabid members of Congress and Manny did not like politicians.
“Who’s the Asian guy?”
“Don’t know, man. I nevah seen him before, he not from aroun’ ‘ere den. We don’t get too much of di Chinese dem or di Japanese dem here.”
The green-clad volunteers were frog-marching the Asian guy who seemed cool as a cucumber about the whole affair, into the police station.
“Is funny you ask ‘bout di station,” the driver added. “Dat place was di office for the E.I.C. long time ago before they close up and move to Plymouth.”
Manny paid the driver, took his bag from the back seat of the beaten-up cab, and decided to check out the old building. If it was a police station, he should be able to just walk in and have a look around. The front of the building still bore a slightly gray tinge from the huge quantities of ash thrown into the sky nearly twenty years before, but it was clear at one time that it had been the sturdiest and most expensive building on the island. The flagpole on the roof was flying the same insignia as was painted on the SUV, rippling in the warm breeze of the Caribbean Sea. Manny nearly whooped for joy as the flag was whipped around the pole, revealing the top of the building where, carved in stone, the foot high letters, still read:
EAST INDIA CO. EST. 1749
Taking the front steps two at a time, he reached the door where a burly man holding a rifle and standing at attention, blocked his path to the door of the building.
“Oh…er…” Manny fumbled for his words, and the soldier spoke as he ruminated.
“You can’t come in here. If you have a crime to report, use the telephone in your hotel,” he said.
There was a hint of disdain in his voice as he said the words, denoting Manny’s status as a tourist. He decided now would not be the right time to discuss discrimination in the Caribbean Islands and went with playing dumb instead.
“Oh no, I’m just interested in the building. It looks old, I’m a big fan of old buildings, can’t get enough of them, what with the States not having many, could I just…take a look around?”
He finished with what he hoped was a tourist’s dopey expression between innocence and pleasure at being on holiday.
“No, please leave,” the policeman insisted. “This police station is currently occupied by the Governor of Montserrat, and is off limits to the general public. There are other police stations in other towns you can look at, but not this one.”
Manny thanked the man and went back down the stone steps. He needed a way to get past this guy and get into the building behind him. Trying to force his way past an armed guard wasn’t an option, that was for sure. He was going to need a plan, and a really smart one, if he was going to find any clue as to the location of Captain Marlowe’s treasure.
He walked around the police station twice and found that there was no rear exit, no open windows he might slip through. The walk had not helped him come up with any ideas, and the soldier was still watching him, squinting his eyes against the sun.
Manny was getting thirsty.
He walked back to the road, and looked up and down the street, where there were a few shops, most of which had living accommodations right on top of them. There was also a dental practice, a supermarket and a bar. Manny had an idea; maybe even a plan. It probably wasn’t a good plan, but it was the best he had.
First, he needed a place to prepare.
Chapter Five
Perfect.
Well, maybe not perfect, but as close to it as he was going to get with the resources that he had.
He looked ridiculous, like a henchman from a John Shaft movie. As far as Manny could tell, the combination of his giant 1970s afro wig, the mustache that came with it, and an overly liberal application of theatrical glue, Manny no longer looked like himself. Back in New York, whilst considering the task at hand, he had not seriously anticipated having to use a disguise to go anywhere. Especially not one that was quite so conspicuous, but he had gone with instinct and packed the costume he’d worn to his sister’s Halloween party the previous year.
The truth was that Manny’s plan was not a result of any higher cognitive functions or planning skills, but more from turning his bag out on the table behind the bar and seeing what he had that might be useful. He was smart enough to discount any possibility of fighting his way in. He didn’t want to go home with a bullet wound after being in Montserrat for only one afternoon.
His possessions comprised of his wallet, a couple of changes of clothes, some assorted practical joke supplies, the wig, the mustache and a can of pepper spray that he had bought after being mugged a couple of years back. He had never used it and was not even sure if it would still work.
Manny looked at himself. His olive-toned skin was barely pulling off the getup.
“Yeah, I’m a bad mother, shut yo’ mouth!”
He looked ridiculous.
Manny loaded his pockets with the scant non-lethal arsenal and swaggered into the bar, looking to be arrested. The bar was named The Wide Awake Club. At four in the afternoon, the first thing that Manny noticed about the place was that it was deserted, and the bartender was asleep. Manny rapped on the bar.
“Hey, my fine Nubian brother. What’s a soul man gotta do to get a drink around here?”
The bartender remained asleep. Manny repeated himself, very loudly. The bartender’s eyes opened. He did not seem perturbed by the sight of Manny in the slightest.
“Wha’ you want, boy?” he slurred.
Manny didn’t think he was drunk, just half asleep, but he couldn’t be sure. Manny tried to make his exaggerated New York City accent even more pronounced.
“Hey man, I just come in this fine establishment to see if anyone was wide awake enough to serve a baller some gin and juice. This island is hotter than a cast iron skillet at grandma’s house.”
Manny had no idea where that had come from, so he threw his arms out in an exaggerated ‘gangsta’ pose. The bartender, with all the alacrity of a particularly motivated sloth, said nothing. He reached into an ice bucket under the bar counter. His hand returned with a beer, popped the cap, one-handed, which Manny found particularly impressive, and after an eon, during which Manny was still posing, slid it on to the bar.
“I’ve got beer, and water, also mango juice; pay when you leave.” The bartender went back to his seat, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and immediately began to snore.
This was not going to be as easy as he thought. He sat down at one of the small plastic tables, near a barely functional air conditioning machine that was easily twice his age.
Manny was about to resort to plan ‘B’, or rather, he was about to invent plan ‘B’; when his luck changed. A group of tourists entered the bar. The four of them, two guys and two girls, all very blond, were excited and chattering to each other about the turtles they had seen on a scuba diving trip that had taken place earlier that day.
Not that he was an expert on accents, but Manny thought they sounded Scandinavian, possibly Swedish, based on the language they spoke and of course their pale coloration. He realized he had been staring at them too long when their conversation died out. The four turtle watchers eyed him warily as they passed his table. Normally, he would give them back a look that said, ‘What’s your problem?’, but he knew that he was wearing a preposterous disguise that belonged in a 1960’s Richard Pryor movie.
The tourists made their way to the bar and were greeted in good time by the bartender. That crazy bastard had been faking the whole time, Manny knew it. Probably because they look like they have money. A particularly cruel idea crossed his mind; he would find the treasure and come back here, buy the bar and kick this guy out on the curb. But it was only a passing moment of aggravation.
Manny wasn’t that kind of person.
The four Swedes, or whatever they were, collected their drinks and moved over to the antiquated pool table that sat in the dappled shade on the veranda. Racking up the balls, one of the men set his drink down. Manny swiftly walked over, swept up the glass, ignoring the protests of its former owner, and sipped, ensuring that he maintained eye contact with the now drinkless pool player.
“Was ist los, mein freund?” the larger of the two blond men asked.
Manny privately congratulated himself; totally Swedish. He knew it.
“What is the what-what?” he replied, dropping the glass so it fell to the floor, and smashed.
One of the girls gave a startled yelp. Manny didn’t like being this obnoxious, but it was all part of his master plan.
“I tell you what, you Viking bastards, that bartender only served me beer, but you guys get gin and juice! Does that sound like some racist bullshit to you or what?”
Manny was always good at making things up on the spot, and he could feel his flow coming along.
“I come here, all the way to my motherland from New York City, and my own kin is treating me like a field slave! And then you,” he wildly gesticulated at the Swedes, “Walk in here, into my house, and get served like you’re royalty! That’s some bullshit!”
The bartender was on his feet now.
“Why are you saying this stuff, man? I didn’t serve you any spirits because you look like a crazy person. I’m not a racist, I’m one twentieth-Irish and a colored Montserrat man, how can I be racist against you?”
Manny countered quickly, “Because you want to be white like them, you want to be their friend, when these Swedes hate people like you! Don’t you see the struggle?”
The blond girls started talking together in their language, a
nd one spoke to Manny in reasonable English.
“We’re not Swedish, we are from Germany, and we don’t want any trouble here, we’ll just go, okay?”
Manny felt unstoppable, and he wouldn’t give up the ruse, unstoppable even if he had wanted to.
“Oh, of course!” exaggerating his actions to show sarcasm, “The nice little Germans are just coming in to stay for a while, and then they’ll leave. Where have we heard that one before? Hmm…”
Manny spun on his heel and goose-stepped around the bar, throwing his right arm out in a high roman salute and clamping it back to his chest. The German tourists gasped in shock. No one of any decency would impersonate him, at least not in front of actual Germans. Both of the men in the party began to shout at him angrily, it was clear that Manny’s actions translated very well across the boundaries of language.
Manny stopped goose-stepping and leaped onto the pool table, scattering the balls. He kicked a drink that rested on the lip of the table, showering everyone in fruity alcohol. One of the men tried to grab his legs, but he jumped down on the far side of the table, and threw a beer over their heads and onto the bar, where it smashed.
“Hey! Stop this at once!” cried the bartender, furious. “Or I’ll call the police! My brother is a policeman, and he’ll beat you!”
The Germans were also bellowing furiously, and chasing Manny around the pool table trying to catch him as he continued to add to the din by singing an anti-German song of his own devising. He wouldn’t remember entirely how it went when he tried to recount the story, but it had something to do with Hitler, a goat, and a compromising position involving a bratwurst sausage and lederhosen. These were just about the only things about Germany that Manny knew.
One of the German men finally caught him, and all six of them, the bartender, the four Germans, and Manny were still throwing punches at each other on the floor when the police arrived and decided to make things simple.
They decided to arrest everybody and sort out whose fault it was later.
