The Trade

by Chris Thrall

  “I also got a bunch of stuff on Logan,” his fellow operative continued. “Guy’s a regular Al Capone. I’ve hacked his personal and business bank accounts and uncovered an investment portfolio totaling one point seven million US structured by an offshore bank in Panama. Every three months between twenty and thirty thousand euros get deposited in the fund’s holding account, as well as random smaller sums. The entries have the identifiers Criancas and Tapas on the bank statement. I’m guessing Criancas, ‘Children,’ is profit from trafficking, and Tapas, the smaller amounts, is money skimmed off Chico’s to avoid the tax man. I’ve put all his online banking details, including usernames and passwords, in the file I’m emailing you.”

  “You breached his computer?”

  “Yeah, I called Chico’s pretending I was organizing a vacation for a football team. Said we wanted to hire the whole venue for a night and would pay whatever so long as they decorated it in our team colors. Emailed him a zip file containing photos of the football kit—”

  “Which I’m guessing cloaked some kinda computer wizardry.” Hans chuckled.

  “Yes.” Jonah replied deadpan, the compliment lost on his literal mind. “An SUI – stealth upload installer. Basically, a few lines of script bundled inside an innocent media file and delivered as an email attachment. When the recipient clicks the link to open the file, they’re unwittingly installing a malware application that modifies the PC’s operating system – to stay hidden and wipe all traces of its activity from the log files. At the same time it backs up the user’s personal data to a remote server over an encrypted connection before uninstalling and erasing all traces of itself a week or so later.”

  “That doesn’t explain how you hacked into his bank accounts.”

  “And phone records and Facebook and email,” Jonah stated matter-of-factly, pausing to take a drag of his spliff. “The program also records and uploads a log of browsed websites and a chronological transcript of every character typed on the keyboard. You cross-reference the two to pinpoint the security protocols.”

  “So if the log says Logan visited his online banking webpage at, say, 4:00 p.m. yesterday, I check the corresponding keyboard entries to see what username and password he typed.”

  “Yes.”

  “What if he were to copy and paste his details in from, say, a Word document?”

  “You’ve got a backup of his personal data, remember. You just have to trawl through his folders to find the Word document.”

  “Of course.” Hans kicked himself. “And how can I access this data?”

  “It’s stored on my server. You can preview the documents and files online via a secure interface I’ve set up and download the stuff you need. The web address and your security details are in the info pack.”

  - 45 -

  Penny awoke the next morning to find Hans hunched over his notebook computer, set up on an antique writing desk with a spectacular sea view from the bedroom.

  “Honey, did you sleep?”

  “I got a few hours,” Hans lied. “I’ve been finding out a lot about Logan, and none of it’s good.”

  “Let me make some coffee, then I’m all ears.”

  Penny put on one of Karen’s brand-new bathrobes and went into the kitchen, returning minutes later with two double espressos.

  “Go for it.”

  “Jonah’s done a first-class job. He’s set up a secure online site where I can access the info he’s hacked from Logan – a bit like Dropbox, only it doesn’t show up in search engines. I haven’t had time to sieve through all of it, but this is what I’ve got so far.” Hans stretched and downed his coffee. “Every three months or so Logan makes a debit card payment for the equivalent of four thousand US dollars to Enaport, the company that manages the island’s harbors.”

  “Charges for mooring fees?” Penny suggested, squeezing beside him on a green-leather-upholstered piano stool.

  “That’s what I thought, but looking at Logan’s Facebook page it appears he lives in a luxury cliff-side villa with its own dock. So I figure the money must be outlay to fuel his speedboat, and he’s paying Enaport because they own the diesel pump at the harbor.”

  “If it’s not for a berth, then it has to be for fuel,” Penny agreed.

  “But here’s the thing – four thousand dollars would completely fill the tanks on a speedboat that size, and every skipper knows for performance and economy you never carry more diesel than necessary. In fact, he often buys far smaller quantities of gas. It’s just this big three-monthly purchase that doesn’t change.”

  “So it’s obviously for one hell of a long trip. We’re talking fifteen hundred miles or more.”

  “Exactly! Enough to deliver a kidnapped child to the African mainland or further.”

  “Hmm.” Penny frowned, nodding in agreement.

  “Let me show you something else.” Hans opened a PDF file in which Jonah had saved screenshots of Logan’s offshore bank statements dating back monthly for three years to when the account was opened. “You see this deposit?”

  “Twenty-seven thousand US.” Penny eyed the sum.

  “Converted from euros and transferred to the Panama account through a partner bank here in Praia. They’ve listed the exchange rate and the local bank’s eleven-digit identifier. BANA stands for Banco Nationale.”

  “Didn’t Jonah say a similar amount has been paid in every three months?”

  “Yeah, I’ve highlighted them all. But get this: the transfer always takes place within three to four days of Logan’s big fuel payment.”

  “Whoa. That can’t be coincidence.”

  “My guess is that Logan delivers these kids to the next handler in the chain – somewhere in a seven-hundred-mile radius – and earns his blood money for doing it.”

  “Do you think he traffics more than one child at a time? I mean, twenty thousand euros seems a lot of money, especially if they’re being sold in Africa.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case,” Hans said quietly. “The Canary Islands lie seven hundred miles away. It’s the ideal location to transit kids onwards to the adoption market in Europe.”

  “And that’s big money.”

  “Sure, and there’s something I haven’t shown you.”

  Hans opened a web browser and signed in to Logan’s Facebook account.

  Penny fought back tears. She could see how much this nightmare had taken out of the man she had met less than a year ago. He still hadn’t regained his regular bodyweight, his skin had lost its healthy tanned sheen, and his hair was noticeably graying. Yet still he persisted, unemotional and focused, on the job of getting his daughter back, putting her welfare above his own. She felt the urge to tell Hans how much she loved him but instead placed her hand on his thigh and studied the computer screen.

  “It’s a photo I found.” Hans’ features strained as he scrolled down the page. “He hasn’t uploaded many, but this one’s the smoking gun.” He turned the notebook toward her.

  “No!” Penny’s mouth fell open.

  It was a shot of Logan and a blond woman surrounded by grinning local children in front of a ramshackle building. A faded sign nailed to the shack’s weathered wooden planking had one word written on it: Orphanage.

  - 46 -

  “Right, we need a plan of attack.” Hans slapped down the laptop’s screen. “Here’s how I see it. I have to get into Logan’s speedboat and download the data from his onboard computer.”

  “To find out where he goes on these long trips?”

  “Yeah. I figure if he’s making them on a regular basis, then the coordinates must be programmed into the GPS. It’ll be a big part of the puzzle, and if he skips town with Jessica, at least we’ll know his waypoints and can organize an intercept.”

  “Would that be possible?”

  “There’s always a US or British warship on exercise in the area, plus coastguards looking for a piece of action, and Muttley never has a problem pulling a few strings.”

  Penny let out a sma
ll gasp, leaving her mouth ajar as if about to speak.

  “What is it?” Hans pressed.

  “You just reminded me of something Muttley said when he was here with Phipps organizing the search when Future went missing.” Penny stared into nothing for a moment. “He said someone was putting pressure on the Pentagon to block his request for US military intervention. Said they’d issued a Code . . . Purple?”

  “Really?” Hans grimaced.

  “Something about the Pentagon can refuse to provide support, and Code Purple means in the interest of national security they don’t have to give a reason why.”

  “Baxter,” Hans spat under his breath. “Do you remember I told you what happened to my team in West Africa?”

  Back in 2000 Hans’ SEAL team joined a squadron from the British Royal Marines’ Special Boat Service, the SBS, for a mission to take out a rebel force, the West Side Boys, in Sierra Leone. Headed by a charismatic psychopath, Fodim Kassay, the rebels modeled themselves on Tupac Shakur, the gangster rapper, and were always high on drugs. They’d taken a group of American and European medical workers hostage in an old hospital on the coast and were using the building as their headquarters. The SEALs and Marines were on standby on an aircraft carrier out in the Atlantic when their orders came through. They were to drop into the sea from choppers a mile offshore and swim in under the cover of darkness, then put in a dawn attack and conduct a rescue mission.

  Only it didn’t go to plan. Blood diamonds fueled the conflict, a dirty trade that went all the way to Washington. Protecting their own interests, someone in DC made sure the Pentagon delayed the patrol’s clearance to disembark the aircraft carrier. What should have been an easy swim for the men turned into a battle for survival. The tide was on the move, a swell kicked up and waves as big as apartment blocks smashed down on them. The one mile the special ops team had to cover became the equivalent of four. Thirty-two men went into the water, six got out. Hans lost thirteen of his closest buddies that day, their bodies mutilated by the rebels when they washed up on shore. The six remaining troops continued the mission, linking up with a detachment of Special Air Service troopers at first light to take out the West Side Boys and rescue the hostages, one of them being Kerry, an American nurse, who later became Hans’ wife.

  “I remember you telling me about the mission,” said Penny. “Are you saying Baxter was the one putting pressure on the Pentagon?”

  “Let’s just say the Concern has had its sights on him awhile. Guy’s a real-life Patrick Bateman, Ivy League psycho. Spent time in the CIA in the nineties orchestrating all kinda atrocities to overthrow governments down in Central America. Torture was always his MO – that and cocaine smuggling. Guy’s floated around the Republican cause for years. He’s been a strategist and policy advisor on foreign affairs to both Bush administrations. It’s given him the cover and contacts to leech money from all kinda ill doings around the globe. He’s a total sociopath, knows how to cover his back, and him and his neocon cronies are puppets for some serious men behind closed doors. Hence why the Concern has held off.”

  “And . . .” Penny hesitated. “You said he had something to do with Kerry’s and JJ’s murders.”

  “When this is over, I’ll tell you all I know. But for now I need to focus on getting Jessica back.”

  “Will he be brought to justice?”

  “He’ll get justice all right . . . at the first chance I get.”

  Hans was lost in thought for a while, before bringing the conversation back to the present.

  “We need to get Logan’s cell phone number. Jonah couldn’t find any phone bills, only the ones for Logan’s bars, and there’s nothing out of the ordinary there. He must be using pay-as-you-go. We have to find out who he’s been calling.”

  “I think I can help,” said Penny, an idea forming in her mind.

  - 47 -

  Over the next couple of weeks Jessica did her best to keep Holly’s mood up, but her fellow captee was always tired and distant and spent a good part of the day asleep. Jessica reckoned she must have been swallowing the pills, probably too scared or not understanding the importance of spitting them out. She hoped nothing bad would happen to Holly and, not wanting to alarm her, didn’t mention the new identity and trip to Europe business. Besides, her papa – her real papa – would be here soon to kick up hell and put things right.

  “Jessica,” Holly whispered through the grate one afternoon.

  “Yes, I’m here.” Jessie crouched down on the floor.

  “I feel sick.”

  “It’s because you’ve been eating the pills. I told you not to.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, it’s okay, you’re just a kid. Hey, you wanna play a game?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s called I Went to the Store.”

  “What’s a store?”

  “It’s like a place where you buy things.”

  “That’s called a shop.”

  “Oh well, we’ll call it . . . I Went to the Shop-Store, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, I have to say, I went to the store – the shop-store – and I bought some . . . cat food. And you have to say, I went to the shop-store and I bought some cat food and something else.”

  “I went to the shop-store and I bought some cat food and something else.”

  “No! You have to buy cat food and you have to buy something for yourself!”

  “But we haven’t got a cat. We’ve got a dog and he’s in the kennels while we’re on holiday.”

  “O-kay.” Jessica drew a deep breath. “Then you say, I went to the shop-store and I bought some dog food and something else.”

  Holly’s gentle snores came through the grate.

  - 48 -

  As the cab drove along Praia’s seafront, Penny looked out of the window to see the lush green fig trees sprouting from the beach’s gray volcanic sand fading into the growing darkness, leaving only a thin line of frothy white surf visible.

  “Aqui,” said the driver, pulling up outside Chico’s Bar.

  Penny was impressed. Somehow she’d expected Logan’s place to be a spit-and-sawdust affair, like an old-school London pub, but Chico’s was far from it. Stretching along the bar’s frontage was an elevated deck the length of a tennis court, with a bamboo transom overhead creeping with vines and interlaced with tiny yellow fairy lights, giving the impression of fireflies. On the deck were smart dark-wood dining tables with pristine white cloths and napkins, sparkling cutlery and crystal-cut wineglasses set out neatly on them. Dotted around were hanging-basket chairs and swing seats, allowing drinkers to relax while taking in the sea view.

  Hans had tried to talk Penny out of this, arguing that the Concern could fly an operative in, but she’d held firm, saying that would take time. Hans worried Logan might recognize Penny from the night the fishing boat exploded, but she pointed out it was dark and whoever blew the Rosa Negra out of the water had done so remotely and likely from a distance. Nonetheless, Hans insisted on waiting around the corner in the jeep with the M9 locked and loaded and that Penny took a walkie-talkie in the event Logan compromised her.

  Penny had the story straight in her head. She was a tourist named Jenny staying in the Pestana Trópico hotel whose middle-aged female traveling companion was having a quiet night in. Jenny, an English scuba instructor living in Cannes in the South of France, fancied a few drinks out on the town, and the Pestana Trópico’s concierge had recommended Chico’s.

  She approached the restaurant’s smoked-glass doors and pulled on a long gold handle to find the place equally as impressive inside, a glitzy affair with its restaurant and bar area doused in subtle lighting and decorated with modern sea-themed art in vivid pastels. Uplifting samba played in the background, the progressive drumbeats, shrills and whistles complementing the perfect harmony of a black female choir.

  Stepping through the door, Penny spotted Logan’s bald head in her peripheral vision but headed straight to the mock-ivory
bar and sat on one of its faux-zebra-skin, chrome-legged stools. The musclehead sat drinking half-liter glasses of lager with a loud group of Englishmen, who, unlike Logan, in his smart black trousers and a white dress shirt, wore shorts, flip-flops and sleeveless vests, showing off the mismatched tattoos on their lobster-red skin. Penny could see they were tourists and that Logan was throwing himself into the role of playboy host. She ordered a rum and coke from the young mestizo bartender and pretended to peruse the tourist leaflets stacked in a display holder, glancing at Logan every few seconds until they finally locked eyes. She produced a shy smile and went back to picking out and scanning the brochures.

  Hans and Penny assumed the blond woman in the Facebook photos was Logan’s partner, but other than her name, Krystal Cavenele, neither they nor Jonah could come up with any more intel. Banking on fidelity not being the flash merchant’s strongest point, Penny planned to lure him into conversation and, if all went well, come away with his cell phone number. Playing the part of a carefree tourist, she wore a denim miniskirt, emerald singlet and leather flip-flops and, unusually, a trace of makeup. A whalebone pendant in the shape of a fluke hung on a leather thong around her neck, a piece she had crafted herself.

  “I can highly recommend the 4x4 jeep tour, me darling,” came a voice, making Penny jump.

  “Oh,” she recovered, turning to see the man himself. “You live here I take it.”

  “Been on the island a few years now,” Logan replied, immediately hooked by Penny’s smiling eyes and self-assuredness. “This is my bar. I’m Eddy. Can I get you another drink?”

  Penny accepted the offer and made small talk, choosing the appropriate moment to ask, “So, do you run this place alone or . . . ?”

  “If you mean do I have a girlfriend, yes.” Logan chuckled. “But we’re going through what you might call a patch.”