General Miller interrupts him: "Did you get Columbian diplomatic immunity for cooperating with the government?"
"Yes," Stice responds. "I supplied weapons to help them destroy each other. I want them to eradicate themselves. This is the only way to get the problem under control. And when there’s only one big drug cartel left, we can deliberately smash this and nip the small uprising cartels in the bud."
"I see. And the money from the drug trade?"
"I have kept a bit for myself and Andrews, but with the majority, I finance a task force whose mission it is to find and kill drug lords."
"A private army," Miller says.
"David, I didn’t do this to get rich."
"No, you wanted to exact revenge for your son. But, Robert, good God, this is going too far!"
"I know, but the government is letting us down completely in the fight against drugs, and someone had to do something. May I ask you something?"
"Yes," says Miller.
"How’s it possible you believed this stupid Greenall just like that? After all these years, the word of any Tom, Dick or Harry is enough to stab me in the back?"
"No," answers Miller and throws an enlarged photograph on the table.
"This was made by Tom, Dick or Harry in S&C’s rented villa on Maui right before Andrews caught him."
The enlarged photograph shows the desk in the office, particularly a picture frame with a photo. The photo is of Robert Stice and Mrs. Evans. The two are definitely lovers.
"Over the years, you get to know your business partners very well," Stice sarcastically comments on the image. "We have been going out since last year."
"Take him away," commands Miller. Two soldiers help Stice up and leave the room with him.
I’m still staring at the photo.
"You’ve known all along and didn’t say anything?" I ask.
"What would it have mattered to you? Nothing. For me, the photo was the proof that you were right in your suspicions; otherwise I would never have supplied you and Steve with weapons! Come on, let’s fly over to Bob’s; a helicopter is waiting for us on the roof."
We climb the stairs to the roof and take a seat in the helicopter. General David Miller spends the whole time speaking on the radio with various agencies and providing instructions. A meadow next to Bob's house serves as a landing area.
Unfortunately, I had failed to send Steve a message, and he welcomes me accordingly. First, it looks as if he’s going to slap me in the face, but then he hesitantly greets me and decides to wait for our explanation before hitting me.
Miller realizes the seriousness of the situation and, as a precaution, positions himself between us.
He gives Steve a brief overview of what happened. Steve shakes his head in disbelief and says:
"It would have been nice if you idiots had given us the heads up! So it was Stice... Andrews always seemed too sympathetic, but I didn’t give it another thought. Well, the nightmare is finally over. Champagne for everyone!"
After also updating Kiara and Bob, we pop the cork. We have reason enough to celebrate since Miller also informs us about the Army’s generosity. Bob gets a virtually brand-new aircraft from the Air Force.
The next day, I can’t really remember everything from the night before. I have an odd feeling that Kiara and I got a little closer, but I wake up alone. Good. You don’t end up drunk in bed with the people you like.
Epilogue
In the evening after Stice’s arrest, a raid takes place at Mrs. Evans’ place in Shanghai and in all Golden State Shipping offices worldwide. All their cargo ships are also decommissioned and searched.
Over time, it turns out that Stice and Andrews got significantly more drugs than they could sell in Hawaii. Therefore, they distributed it on several freighters. One cruised along the West Coast of the US. In front of any big city, drugs were loaded onto speedboats and sold on the streets. The excess drugs on the vessel from Colombia to Shanghai were loaded at sea onto other freighters with destinations in New Zealand and Indonesia. The principle was always the same: At any bigger island or city, speedboats came along to load enough to sell at each location.
Thanks to Steve's and my work, the army takes down the gigantic drug smuggling organization over the next few weeks.
Stice told the truth. Over the years, he earned almost three billion dollars, but built up a comparatively small personal fortune of 50 million dollars. The rest he actually invested in his private war on drugs. But he also killed, cold-blooded, anyone that got dangerous for him or his organization. Even some of General Miller’s employees were on Stice's payroll. That’s why he always knew who was investigating him. Stice personally killed the last person who got close to him. It was a young agent named Lieutenant Rogers. The crew explained in detail how he shot Rogers and his Asian partner on board and cast them into the sea. It must have happened shortly before Steve's kidnapping; Lieutenant Rogers reported directly to General Miller.
We spend the last week of our vacation the way we had originally planned our entire stay, before the fatal party: surfing in the morning, windsurfing in the afternoon and eating a nice piece of meat off the barbecue in the evening.
My return flight turns out to be decidedly less comfortable than my previous few flights; without Steve's pilot’s license, I get seated in the sardine can again.
Back in Hamburg, I get off the plane, grab my luggage and make my way to the “Kielius,” a bus that shuttles people between Kiel’s central station and the Hamburg airport.
I pass through customs and am astonished to see a young American soldier motioning to me. He introduces himself as Luke Brown, and says he has been instructed to bring me home.
In front of the terminal, sits a cool, used army-style Jeep Cherokee. We stow the luggage in the trunk and Brown asks: "Do you want to drive?"
I probably look pretty bewildered and don’t answer.
He holds out the keys.
"With compliments from the US Army. This car is yours! I don’t know what you have done, my friend, but someone must be pretty grateful to you."
Holy cow! I reach for the keys and thank the young soldier, as well as my puzzled state of mind allows. I send the young man home, quite capable of beating the four-liter engine back to Kiel by myself.
Around noon, I enter my apartment; the time change confuses my biorhythms, so I get into bed.
It‘s Thursday, so in the early evening I find my way to my local pub. In Kiel, the “who’s who” meets in the "Café do Sul" every Thursday; at least the who’s who of the surfing microcosm. For almost every windsurfer or surfer between the ages of 20 and 40, “Crazy Thursday" is a fixed date in the week.
Since my fridge is empty and my stomach is growling, I make a detour and walk down to the harbor. There’s a little fish-bar where you can get the best fish sandwich in town.
This is actually not difficult since, tragically, there are virtually no other fish sandwiches available in the state’s capital city on the Baltic Sea. But the fish snack doesn’t only stand out due to its lack of competition; no, the food is extremely good.
Well fed, I walk further and enter the Café do Sul a little later. I’m early and, except for the bartender, hardly anyone is here yet. Just when I order my first draft beer, my phone rings.
Kiara is on the line. I want to talk with her alone, so I grab my beer and go out onto the sidewalk. We have a stimulating conversation. When my glass is empty, I go over to the gas station across the street and refill it with a can of Beck’s. While shopping, I don’t take the phone away from my ear.
After the call, I feel happy and reenter the Café do Sul with a satisfied grin on my face. The bar is now packed.
At the counter, I meet my first acquaintance. While I wait for a new beer, we start to talk.
"Oh, weren’t you just in Hawaii again?" he asks.
"Yeah."
“And how was it?”
"Wicked," I reply. "As always."
No one would believe me
anyways.
Half way to Hawaii Page 29
