by Jeff Siebold
“The rifle and some ammo included?” asked Zeke.
“Sure, I can give you a couple of boxes of shells with that,” said Martin, unlocking the rifle from a security cable, checking the chamber and handing the empty weapon to Zeke.
Zeke held it and felt its heft. He lifted it in one hand and felt its balance. He slid his thumb through the hole in the stock and put his right index finger on the trigger. He sighted the gun upward, at a spot on the far wall.
“OK, I’ll take one,” said Zeke, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Do you take credit cards?”
“You almost have to, anymore, if you want to sell anything,” said Martin, picking up a clipboard with sales receipts attached. From under the table, Martin also took out an iPad with a credit card swipe reader attached and set it on the table. After he had completed the transaction, he handed Zeke a receipt with a duplicate credit card slip attached. Martin then reached for the open, empty rifle box on the table behind him.
“No, I’d like one of those in the boxes on the floor,” said Zeke, looking at the two rifle boxes at Martin’s feet. “They’re marked ‘H&K SL8’, and they’re already boxed up. I don’t want the display model.”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid these boxes are empty,” said Martin.
Zeke stepped around the table and lifted a box by the handle.
“Hey…” said Martin, “hey…”
“Sure feels like there’s something in here,” said Zeke. He set the box on the table, quickly snapped the two latches back and opened it. Inside was an H&K G36. He could tell immediately because the G36 has a heavier thumbhole stock and double stacked magazines, while the SL8 has a light pistol grip and a smaller magazine. This one was the fully automatic version. Zeke had handled enough H&K rifles to know.
Martin hesitated, uncertain of what to do in this crowded arena. Then he started to reach for the Glock pistol on the back of his hip.
Seeing the movement, Zeke dropped the rifle on it’s box and immediately turned into the man, facing him, stepping up close and hooking his arm high and pulling it into the crook of Zeke’s bent left elbow while stepping behind him, applying enough pressure on Martin’s elbow with his right hand to hear ligaments popping. Martin, now bent over, exhaled and grit his teeth together in pain. He fell to his knees and grunted as the pressure on his elbow increased.
“Just stay still,” said Zeke. “An elbow break is a horrible thing. You don’t want the rehab that goes with it.”
The man grunted again.
Moments later, he was surrounded by four undercover ATF agents dressed in windbreakers that read ‘Security’. Two of them handcuffed Martin and walked him out of the arena, while the other two took charge of the remaining G36’s.
* * *
“No, you don’t understand,” he said again. “I worked for the company, the manufacturer of the weapons. I’m not a terrorist.”
“No, we think you’re a bank robber, actually, partner,” said Dan Wheeler, head of the ATF in Texas. “Federal charges.” Zeke and Dan were interrogating Martin in the Texas Rangers Austin Headquarters.
“I’m not a terrorist,” Martin repeated. He was sitting in a metal chair that was attached to the floor of the small, concrete room. His hands were attached to the table with a pair of handcuffs fed through a metal ring welded to the surface of the table.
“Are you an honest man, Martin?” asked Zeke.
Martin blinked. “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”
“Then I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this and work something out with the Attorney General,” said Zeke.
“It’s a Federal offense to have automatic weapons,” continued Dan, acting as the bad cop, “let alone to sell them. And, I’m sure with the guns we can easily connect you to a half dozen bank robberies in this area...all Federal offenses.”
“Look,” said Martin, sitting back and cowering, “look, I’m a gun seller. I worked for Heckler and Koch in Germany for years, and then, a few years ago, they sent me to the United States to oversee sales to the military. It was a promotion for me.”
“So, it was H&K’s fault that you sold the guns to criminals?” asked Dan. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well, it wasn’t my fault,” he continued. “Last year, the company lost a very large contract to sell G36’s to the German Government for their military. It was a very lucrative contract that we’d had for years and years.”
“Did someone else underbid them?” asked Zeke, curious.
“No, the German Minister of Defense reviewed the performance of the weapons and decided that they overheat, that they’re not accurate, and that they freeze up when being fired. They made a strong statement, saying that accuracy of the rifle dropped to 7% at 100 meters, when the temperature of the gun had risen by 30 degrees Celsius. And so the German military stopped the remaining orders in the pipeline. We believe the official was bribed by a competitor.”
“Graft and corruption in the United States is often ‘business as usual’ in other countries,” said Zeke, adopting a more sympathetic tone. The good cop was emerging.
“Ja, er, yes, I know,” said Martin. “But in response to that, the company decided to downsize. Unfortunately, the first to go were some of the overseas sales representatives, including me. After seventeen years with the company, they let me go.”
“Not fair,” said Zeke. “They moved you here, and then they left you high and dry.”
“High and dry?” asked Martin.
“Alone and without resources,” said Zeke.
“Yes, to that.” Martin looked at him. “So, I had a number of automatic weapons that we’d used as demos in the past, you know, sales demonstrations, and when I ran out of money I decided to sell them.”
“At gun shows?” asked Dan.
“Yes, and within the law that allows gun sales with no background checks at gun shows.”
“But that’s from private collectors to private collectors,” said Dan.
“They said that they were collectors. I didn’t know what they were going to do with the rifles,” said Martin.
“You’re involved in selling guns that were used in the commission of felony offenses, not once but four times in four different states. This is Federal. You’re involved in selling automatic weapons. You’re involved in abusing the use of your Federal Gun License. You’ll be charged with conspiracy in the bank robberies, at the least,” said Dan.
“I had no part in the robberies,” said Martin, stoically. “I only sold those guys a few guns.”
“How many have you sold them?” asked Zeke.
Martin paused and looked at him.
“I think I would like a lawyer, now,” said Martin.
Chapter 5
“Are you sure you’ll be alright, Roger?” asked Ann, his wife. He knew that she feared his seasickness would ruin the trip, a family cruise aboard the Venture of the Seas that had been planned for over six months. Winters were cold in DC, and an early spring break like this, even if it was just to the Bahamas, was a welcome respite.
“I just feel lousy, hon,” he said, “I’ll be OK. It could have been something that I ate, I guess. I don’t usually get seasick.”
“Do you think you can rest on the ship?” she asked. “Or will that make it worse?”
“No, I’ll be OK. We’re tied up in port, and there’s no rocking or anything. I probably need to sleep, and I’ll be fine,” said Roger.
Roger Taylor was in his mid-thirties, a good-looking man with light brown hair and an affable attitude. His gentle, amiable personality belied his keen intelligence. Roger had a tall frame and long arms. He was presently wearing a white bathrobe, sitting with his wife on their stateroom balcony.
“Do you want us to stay aboard with you?” Ann asked. “Amy and I don’t mind.” Roger thought about their daughter for a moment.
“No, you girls go ashore,” he said, bravely. He actually felt pretty lousy. “I’ll try to sleep a for a bit, and when you get back, I’ll feel g
reat.”
“OK, if you’re sure. I hate that you’ll miss Freeport,” she continued. Ann had a kind face, insightful blue eyes and a heart of gold. She was taller than average, and it was obvious that she worked hard to maintain her slim figure. They had met in college and had been married for fourteen years.
I sure love her, he thought. And Amy. Amy, a twelve year old, was their only child.
“Take lots of pictures for me. What excursion are you going on?” asked Roger, changing the subject.
“Amy wants to swim with the dolphins, so we’re going over to UNEXSO and do that,” she said. It was clear to him that Ann was feeling guilty that Roger wouldn’t be going. “Guest Services says that it’s pretty much an all morning excursion, but it looks like a lot of fun.”
“Oh, good,” said Roger. “Have fun, take your sunblock, and don’t worry about me. I’ll be here, getting better.”
After his wife and daughter had made their way off the ship, Roger hung the “Snoozing” sign on the cabin door, and lay down on the bed in his robe to get some rest.
He had just fallen asleep when there was a knock on the cabin door. Roger woke suddenly, annoyed that the cabin steward was ignoring the “Snoozing” sign. Then there was a second loud knock. Roger got up to answer the door.
“Who’s there?” he asked through the door.
“Cabin Steward,” said the voice. It sounded high and melodic, with sort of a sing-song quality. It sounded maybe Indonesian. Many of the crew on this ship were from Indonesia.
Roger pulled his bathrobe tight and tied it before he opened the cabin door. “I was sleeping…” he started.
The man at the door pushed in with a small flashlight-looking device in his gloved hand. He quickly pointed it and shot Roger in the chest from about four feet.
“Hey, hey,” said Roger, stepping back and trying to turn away from the man. The cabin door closed with the man inside. The C2 model Taser had discharged two small barbed electrodes and, once attached to Roger’s bathrobe, shocked him with 25,000 volts of electrical energy. The pulsing charge resulted in an instant loss of neuromuscular control and any ability to perform coordinated actions. Roger pitched forward, landing on the bed, and then slid to the floor, stunned.
The intruder, who looked to be of Mediterranean lineage judging by his olive skin and thick brown hair, dropped the Taser, still attached to Roger and cycling electrical shocks, stepped by him carefully and took a pillow off the bed. He knelt to one knee, pulled Roger flat on the floor, put the pillow over Rogers face and pushed hard. He held the pillow tightly in place.
After a full five minutes were up, the man lifted Roger’s body up onto the bed, laid him flat and removed the two barbs from his bathrobe. He then covered Roger’s body with a blanket, took off his gloves and quietly exited the room, wiping the door handles as he left.
* * *
“Debarkation is ongoing and you can exit the ship from Deck One, aft,” the Cruise Director said over the sound system. “Plan to be back aboard the ship no later than 4:00 PM. We’ll be leaving Freeport at 4:30.”
It was 10:20 in the morning now, and the initial rush to exit the ship was over. A man dressed in shorts and a flowered shirt appeared on the upper deck. He was wearing open-toed leather sandals and a snap brim straw hat. He had a slight frame, wore his hair over his ears and sported a small moustache. The walk down to Deck One was quick, and then he was standing in a short line. He handed his plastic card to the steward, who inserted it into a machine, which showed his picture.
“Thank you, Mr. Hansen,” said the steward. After the card was returned, he exited the ship, carrying a small duffle with him, a daypack that he’d slung over one shoulder.
There was a taxi stand near the base of the pier, with a dozen or so older, local vehicles parked at various angles around it. The surface was gravel and dirt, and the cars and vans had seen better days. The man glanced around, looking for one that might have working air conditioning. Again, he waited in line patiently, and at his turn, he slid into the back seat of the cab. No air conditioning, he noted.
“Where to, sir?” asked the cabbie.
“I’ve heard good things about West End,” the man with the moustache said. “It’s supposed to be a nice place to spend a day.”
“Yes, sir,” said the cabbie, “out there by Dead Man’s Reef. It’s a great snorkeling spot, or you can just enjoy the Red Bar.”
“Let’s try that, then,” said the man. He looked to be about thirty, maybe slightly younger, and he had a thoughtful air about him, like that of an academic, perhaps.
The cabbie slid the car out of his parking space and into traffic. In a moment he was exiting the harbor on Queen’s Highway.
“Say,” said the passenger, a while later, “let’s go on to the end of the island.”
“OK, sure,” said the cabbie. “You want to go to the Old Bahama Bay Resort? Good restaurant there. And free Wi-Fi.”
“A good restaurant. That sounds nice,” said the man.
Fifteen minutes later, the cab driver stopped in front of a yellow pastel building, surrounded by several other buildings of complimentary pastel colors. “Should I wait for you?” asked the cab driver.
“No, I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” the man said, as he handed the cabbie a $20 bill.
“OK, and remember, boarding time for the ship is by 4:00,” said the cabbie, making change. “Here’s my card. Call me if you need a ride.”
“Thanks, I will,” said the man. He turned and walked into the hotel, through the lobby and out a side door that led to the boat docks. There were about thirty boats in slips around the docks, and most were fishing vessels. Parked in one of the boat slips was a forty-foot Hatteras GT60 with outriggers and a flying bridge. Its engines were running. The man wandered toward the boat casually, and once adjacent to it, he tossed his daypack aboard and stepped into the stern of the boat. The captain, checking his instruments on the flying bridge, felt the small motion of the boat and turned around.
“Ready, then?” he asked the man.
“Yep,” said the man.
“I’ll cast off, then, and you go below deck,” said the captain, as he made his way down an aluminum ladder.
“Did you get the money?” asked the man.
“Yep. Wire transfer, like you said,” said the captain.
The man paused and asked, “How long?”
“It’s about sixty miles,” said the captain, “and we’ll run at a reasonable speed. No need to attract attention. I came over this morning and went through customs. We’re cleared to go. It’ll take us three hours or so to reach Palm Beach, then some more time to go up the coast.”
As the man went below deck, the captain went about the business of untying the stern line and the spring line, and then at the wheel he maneuvered the vessel smoothly from the slip and toward the mouth of the harbor.
Once they were clear of the harbor, he pointed the Hatteras west toward Florida.
Chapter 6
The v-shaped hull of the Hatteras cut a smooth line in the sea. It was a sunny day, bright and clear, with a few fluffy white clouds on the horizon. Heading due west, the sun was almost directly overhead when they sighted Florida’s populated coast. As the land grew larger, the captain turned the boat north, and ran parallel to it for about five miles. He arrived at the Palm Beach Inlet and turned west again, circling Peanut Island and docking at Slip 14 of the Rivera Beach Marina, his permanent berth.
His passenger, now dressed in a Columbia fishing shirt and khaki shorts, Sperry Top Siders and sunglasses, but without the moustache and hat, climbed ashore and said to the captain in a loud voice, “I’ll check on that and be right back.” Then he walked through the gate to the parking area, unlocked a dark blue Ford Expedition and drove away.
* * *
At five minutes after 4:00 in the afternoon, the staff manning the embarkation gangplank realized that they were one passenger short. The computer quickly alerted them that Mr. Titus Hansen
of cabin 6647 was not on board the ship. The stewards alerted security, who sent staff to drive around the harbor area in golf carts, looking for Mr. Hansen. At 4:15 PM security informed the captain and the first mate of the situation. Local police, stationed in the harbor area, helped with the search.
This wasn’t the first time that a passenger, or a family, was late returning to the ship. Often, passengers who booked shore excursions would show up back at the embarkation point late due to poor planning, heavy drinking or transportation issues. By 4:20 though, the ship’s officers had a decision to make.
“First a death on board, and now this,” said Captain Trillo, in command of the Venture of the Seas. He was on the Bridge, talking to his first mate. “Bad luck indeed.”
But, with 2,367 passengers and 1,644 crew aboard the cruise ship, the officers were committed to their schedule and their guests. They informed the local police and the customs agents of the missing passenger, provided what details they knew about Mr. Hansen, and at 4:30 PM the cruise ship cast off from Freeport Harbor on schedule, without Mr. Titus Hansen aboard. When he surfaced, he could meet the ship at its next destination port.
Chapter 7
“Initially, they were pretty sure that it was a heart attack,” said Clive. “But it was not.” He was walking along Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC, returning to The Agency offices after a quick lunch. Zeke Traynor was walking with him. Clive was wearing a dark blue suit with subtle black pin stripes under a London Fog wool-blended overcoat. His hair looked freshly cut. His brown shoes were shined to a high polish, and his regimental tie contrasted nicely with his crisp white shirt. As always, he was immaculate in his appearance.
“Why’s that?” asked Zeke, who was wearing a brown sports jacket with elbow patches over his dress shirt and slacks. His look was much more casual, and his tanned face looked out of place in D.C. in the early spring.
