The Trade

by Chris Thrall

  “This is true, but you must understand their new life can be even harder there. Do you know what I am saying?”

  “Senhor!” Umchima glared into his strange flitting eyes. “I watched my parents dragged into the street and mutilated, screaming as they burned to death wrapped in gas-soaked car tires. I know hardship, and I know life is not fair. But if one or two children sacrifice themselves so we can prosper, how can that not be worth it?”

  “Exactamente!” The man beamed, but then his demeanor changed abruptly. “Just one last thing.”

  The brute Fernando stepped forward with the woman’s cell phone.

  “Call up your orphanage and say hi.” A reptilian blink appeared to flicker across the man’s cagey green eyes. “And use the loudspeaker so we all can listen.”

  “Okay,” she replied, thumbing the phone’s keypad and then placing it on the desktop.

  It rang . . . and rang and rang.

  The man’s face twisted into a sneer. “So, there is no—”

  “Kairabe, Kankaba Dindinoly Dimbaayaa,” the voice of the secretary came over the speaker, greeting the caller with the name of the orphanage.

  “Isatou! How many times have I told you to answer the phone in English?” Umchima reprimanded the woman for speaking Mandinka and not the national language.

  “Miss Brenda!” the secretary replied, giggling in delight. “How is the life in Banjul?”

  “The capital is busy, Isatou, and smelly,” Umchima replied, having lied to the staff about the destination and purpose of her trip.

  “And did you manage to raise more funding for us?” the secretary shouted above the noise of the children running around yelling in the background.

  “I am working on it, Isatou.” Umchima gripped a fold in her pant leg with her free hand. “I have a meeting with the Red Cross this afternoon. And how are the children?”

  “Musa ran away.”

  “Don’t worry. Musa is a street child. He will always run away.”

  “Nyima has the fever, and a man arrived saying he was Llana’s uncle and removed her. Shall I call the police?”

  “The police will only want a bribe and then do nothing to find her. Has Nyima seen the doctor?”

  “Yes. Sister Ungjina took her this morning. She is with me now. I will pass the telephone.”

  “Hello, Brenda,” the nun greeted her, and then screamed at the children to keep the noise down.

  “Sister Unjina, how is Nyima?”

  “Ah, the doctor says she will live! How is the big city?”

  “The city is fine, Sister, but I must go now and meet another charity. Will you be okay until I get back?”

  “Yeeess . . . of course we will be okay! Take care in Banjul. It is a very dangerous place. And may God walk with you.”

  “And with you too, Sister – oh!”

  “What is it?”

  “Please tell Isatou she must answer the telephone in English.”

  - 71 -

  While Penny fired up the gas-assisted barbecue, Hans stripped to his boxers and dove off the patio wall into the Atlantic’s inviting aquamarine water. A passionate reader of all things adventure since childhood, he’d long followed the practice of the South Pacific Islanders, who believe in going for a swim when faced with hardship or crisis. His powerful front crawl saw him half a mile offshore in eight minutes, where he floated on his back, emptying his mind and feeling the movement of the sea and the sun’s warmth on his skin.

  When Hans experienced complete relaxation, he turned his thoughts back to the investigation. Sherlock Holmes once said when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, so rather than cluttering his mind going over old ground, such as Logan’s boat and bank accounts, he focused on the discrepancies in the case – the missing links between all the events. If only he could work out the connection, it would expose those lurking in the shadows, revealing the kingpin and leading to his daughter’s return.

  Everything pointed to someone who knew the Fulani, someone she would invite willingly into her home, someone who knew Alvarez and had the means to blow his boat to kingdom come. Someone who knew Logan – at least well enough to have his cell phone number – to warn him Hans was breaking into his boat. Someone who had spoken to Silvestre and learned of the plan to dive on the wreck of the Rosa Negra . . .

  The problem was these people were all so unconnected that any theory Hans came up with was instantly doubtful, any suspect immediately expunged by the sheer implausibility of it all.

  Larsson, stop!

  Hans had let his mind go into overdrive. Instead, he went back to the beginning, starting with the car tailing him on Mindelo the night the Fulani was murdered. The yellow tag on the license plate had to be a Hertz logo. It couldn’t have been a car leased out without the rental agency logging it on the database, because they only had two E-Class Mercedes, and Jonah accounted for both hirers at the time.

  Impossible . . . impossible. Floating on his back with the midday sun directly overhead, he crossed off hypotheses in his head. Impossible . . . impossible . . . impossible . . . Yes!

  The answer stared him in the face – the midday sun!

  Improbable, but not impossible!

  He rolled onto his front and began hauling himself through the water to reach the shore.

  Penny waited on the rocks with a towel.

  “What is it?” she asked, having seen this look on Hans’ face before.

  “I need to call Jonah,” he panted, rushing up the steps to the villa.

  “Won’t he be asleep?” she called after him.

  “That’s the problem!” he yelled back. “He’s nocturnal!”

  Hans picked his pants off the patio wall and took out his cell phone. He hit Jonah’s number, praying the night owl would still be awake. Midday on Cape Verde meant it was 5:00 a.m. in Los Angeles.

  “Orion, dude!” Jonah’s Aspergic monotone made him sound the least likely candidate for a surf bum, his condition allowing Hans to cut to the chase without fear of offense.

  “Odysseus, the info you gave me from the rental agency’s database.”

  “Hertz – both the E-Class Mercedes were rented out on the night in question. One to a French lady and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. But what night was it?”

  “Orion, it was around midnight here when you called – er, you asked for last night’s records, so the twenty-fifth I think.”

  “Odysseus, did you pull info for the twenty-sixth?”

  “No, dude, only what you asked me for.”

  “Listen, I need you to get me the names of whoever hired the Mercs on the twenty-sixth.”

  “Okay, but if their administrator’s found the backdoor I programmed into their software, it might take a bit of time to hack into the database.”

  “Just get back to me as soon as you can, huh? Code Zero. It’s really important.”

  “Your wish is my job, Orion,” Jonah replied, knowing Code Zero meant urgent, like yesterday.

  As Hans ended the call, he could have kicked himself for such an amateurish error – Damn!

  “What’s wrong, hon?” Penny placed a hand on his arm.

  “I messed up. Do you remember when I called Jonah from the airport the morning after the Mercedes followed me, asking him to hack the records from Hertz?”

  “How could I forget – the day after the Fulani woman was murdered and a fishing boat exploded in my face!”

  “I asked him for the records for last night. I was forgetting LA is six hours behind – seven with daylight saving.”

  “So he would have thought you meant the previous evening.”

  “Exactly! His Asperger’s means he takes everything literally and wouldn’t have questioned it.”

  “Hans, you really are quite some detective.”

  “Yeah, I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

  - 72 -

  Satisfied with the background checks and reassured by the phone call to
the orphanage in Gambia, the man invited Umchima to spend the day with him. He led her out of the dingy underground office and up a flight of stairs into one of his castle’s many hallways.

  “Wow! Are you the King of Cape Verde?” she joked, gazing at the ye-olde artwork and historical paraphernalia adorning the impressive stone corridor.

  “I am the mayor of Praia,” he announced with an air of self-importance. “Would you like to walk around the grounds, Senhorita Umchima?”

  “I would love to, er . . . ?”

  “Videl . . . Videl Gonzales, but call me Videl please.”

  “Thank you, Videl, and call me Brenda.”

  She tilted her head flirtatiously and for a brief moment looked deep into his eyes.

  A pair of yapping Jack Russells joined them on the tour, during which Gonzales showed her the former servant’s quarters, still recognizable but now renovated and lived in by Fernando. They passed through what would once have been the soldiers’ barracks and entered the great hall, which was too large to suit any modern domestic purpose and empty of furnishings, bar an aging maroon carpet. Gonzales then showed Umchima the antique cannons lining the courtyard out front.

  They sat on a bench, looking out over the rock and scrub on the hillside to the cobalt-blue sea beyond, discussing the logistical and financial aspects of their newfound partnership. Gonzales, despite a penchant for prostitutes and young boys, felt a stirring at the thought of the “other” partnership occupying his mind, his lust heightened by the power he held over this beautiful woman.

  The plan they came up with was simple. Every couple of months a handler would collect a child from the orphanage to transit down the River Gambia by passenger boat. Because of the system of extended family in Africa, it would be unlikely to raise suspicion. Besides, few people carried any form of checkable ID, and corruption ran rife amongst police and officials. The handler would have more than enough cash to grease greedy palms should the need arise.

  In Banjul, Gonzales’ connections would traffic the kids by speedboat via the Canaries to Europe, or bring them to Praia while a sham adoption and the relevant documentation were organized.

  “What if a speedboat gets intercepted by the coastguard?” Umchima wrung her hands.

  “The kids are shackled to a concrete block, and at the first sign of trouble they follow the block to the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Good.” Umchima gave a slow and satisfied nod. “And what if a trade falls through for any reason?”

  “There is still good money to be made selling children here on the islands – begging syndicates and factory labor – and some of our curb crawlers and sex tourists like them young.” Gonzales’ lips curled into a slight but heinous smile.

  “So I have seen.” Umchima returned it.

  “Anyway, enough business talk for one day. Are you hungry?”

  The mayor stood up and offered his hand.

  “I’ve had nothing since breakfast.” Umchima grasped it without hesitation.

  “Then we must go and see what Fernando has prepared for us. He is a little dumb, but his food is the finest.”

  The mayor led Umchima to the dining room, where Fernando had laid two settings at one end of the long polished table and stood waiting to pour drinks.

  “Cordornìu.” The mayor held up the cork to display a black four-pointed star, the symbol of a true Spanish cava. “So much crisper than champagne, don’t you think?”

  “I will have to take your word for it, Videl.” Umchima flushed a little, too embarrassed to make eye contact. “I can’t say I’ve ever drunk cava, and I doubt the bubbly served at government functions in Mali is of the quality you are used too.”

  “Well, we must rectify that, mustn’t we?” Gonzales ran a finger up Umchima’s cheek, his smile still indistinguishable from a sneer.

  She took his finger gently in her hands and kissed it, adding a playful wink, since this was a man who could get her results, and she wasn’t about to upset him.

  Fernando entered carrying a tray of traditional Cape Verdean starters. “Pastel com o Diablo dentro,” he announced, setting down plates of pastries filled with devil-hot chilies, tomato paste, onion and garlic.

  “Please enjoy,” Gonzales urged. “But tell me, how did you end up managing an orphanage in the Gambia?”

  “My parents lived in a small town in the north of Mali near Timbuktu. After they were murdered, I fled west. There were thousands on the road, all heading for a refugee camp in Mauritania, but word came back the camp was overflowing and many were dying of malnourishment and disease, so I headed for Senegal. It was a long, tough journey. I joined a family, and we had to avoid the main roads for fear of rebel checkpoints. We walked for many days, stopping in the villages and begging for water and food. Finally, I crossed into Gambia. I knew former Malian officials who now lived in the capital, but when I got as far as Kankaba, the nuns at the orphanage took me in and insisted I stay until I got my strength back. It was a good life – living by the river, getting over the loss of my parents, helping out with the kids, free from the stress of government.”

  The mayor opened a bottle of Tinta Roriz 1978 as he listened.

  “The nuns were kind but they knew nothing of funding, promotion or social media. When I helped out, they begged me to stay and suggested I become manager, so I applied for a residential permit.”

  “And you haven’t gone back?” Gonzales began filling Umchima’s glass.

  “How can I go back? The Mali military overthrew the government, and at the same time the rebels joined forces with the Islamists to take control of the North. In the meantime al-Qaeda and other extremist networks have established themselves in the country. What was initially a straightforward issue of land rights has turned into a civil and religious war.”

  “You have every right to feel bitter.”

  “I’ve lost my parents, my roots and everything I worked hard for.”

  “Then” – Gonzales raised his glass – “we must drink to you getting it back.”

  Umchima lifted her wine and, with a dreamy smile, gazed around at the palatial setting. “We must, Videl. I think I could get used to this life.”

  Fernando removed the plates from their starters and returned with a large silver tureen. He peeled off the lid and began ladling a delicious-looking yellow stew on their plates.

  “Hmm, what is it?” Umchima looked at the butler and smiled.

  “Rondon, senhorita,” Fernando grunted, and disappeared.

  “Rondon?” Umchima turned to the mayor.

  “A Nicaraguan recipe, one of my and Fernando’s favorites.” He ladled a huge helping onto her plate. “Breadfruit, sweet potato, banana, yucca, coconut, onion and lobster.”

  “And the sauce?”

  “Chicken stock flavored with garlic, green herbs and lime juice.”

  “It looks amazing.”

  “I will drink to that.” Gonzales raised his glass.

  By the time they finished dessert – sweet papaya cooked with cloves, cinnamon and lemon – Umchima felt on the drunken side of tipsy. This didn’t stop Gonzales opening a bottle of port and pouring glass after glass while flattering her in true Hispanic style.

  “Videl, a girl might think you were trying to get her drunk.” Umchima gave a cheeky flutter of her eyebrows.

  “It is a long time since I had such a fine woman’s company to get drunk in. I hope you are not planning to eat and leave.” He placed a hand on top of hers on the white satin tablecloth.

  “Is that an invitation to stay the night?” She put on a churlish look.

  “I feel it would be more comfortable for you than a run-down guesthouse.”

  “Then how could I say no?” She giggled and leant forward for the kiss.

  - 73 -

  Hans and Penny spent the rest of day at the villa, soaking up the sun, barbecuing mackerel kebabs and going over the missing pieces in the jigsaw in search of a smoking gun. Late afternoon, Hans received a call from Innes Edridge, his
handler in Boston.

  “Orion, dear boy, just to let you know the glasses you sent for fingerprinting finally turned up and I’ve sent them to ForTech, overnight delivery, with an instruction we need the results Code Zero.”

  Based in a state-of-the-art building in Phoenix, ForTech was a forensics laboratory under contract with the Arizona Department of Public Safety. However, unbeknown to the many law enforcement divisions under the DPS’s umbrella, the Concern owned ForTech, and many of its staff were operatives.

  “Muttley, this is great news.”

  “Don’t raise your hopes, Orion. Even if they can raise a decent print, there’s no guarantee anything comes back from AFIS.”

  He referred to the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, an electronic gateway allowing law enforcement agencies in member countries to submit search requests to an international fingerprint database managed by Interpol. Naturally, ForTech had end-user access.

  “Muttley,” said Hans, “following the Logan debacle, one thing I won’t be doing is raising my hopes.”

  “Good chap. I’ve also spoken with our ballistics man about the detonator cap.”

  “And?”

  “Confirmed what he told us before – US military grade, but available to commercial operations worldwide. He says the salt mines in Cape Verde order thousands of the bloody things.”

  “Gotcha.” Hans hid his disappointment. “On a positive note I had an error in comms with Odysseus over the rental of the hire car. He’s gonna get back to me with a fresh set of data. It’s possible another name turns up.”

  “Bear in mind they could have used a fake driving license and credit card,” his handler warned.

  “I don’t think so. That would have taken time to organize, and whoever this person was they were onto me right away.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Any news on Triton and Achelous?” Hans mentally crossed his fingers.