by Steve Richer
“Yeah, that’s me,” the Canadian confirmed. “Nice meeting you.”
The newcomer sat down. “Have you started discussions without me?”
“No, we were waiting for you.” Ledoux’s impatience transpired through his voice.
“I’m gonna go directly to the point,” the Canadian started. “Do you have a buyer on the line?”
“Yes, I know of someone who would be willing to pay our asking price.”
Ledoux looked excited for the first time. “Then we can sell it.”
“Yeah, all the pieces seem in place.”
“My buyer is tied up until the fifteenth though. Can we wait until then?”
Ledoux’s eyebrows shot up, like a dog had just snatched up his last cookie. “But…”
“Not buts, that’s fine. We can’t rush things, we have to let things cool down. The first thing we need to do is get ready to receive the money. I propose we open a joint bank account, three signatures needed to make withdrawals. That way, nobody gets screwed.”
“Splendid idea,” the Hispanic man approved. “My bank…”
“No,” the Canadian interrupted. “It has to be completely independent from us. I already made arrangements for us to fly to the Bahamas this afternoon. Of course,” he told Ledoux, “you’re paying.”
Chapter 22
The meeting had ended shortly after. Ledoux had left first but Jeff had decided not to follow him. He knew who he was and where he stayed. It wasn’t the case with the two others. It might have been easier to justify tailing the Canadian, but Ottawa was looking into his identity.
That left the third man, the Latino. Jeff felt it was his duty to discover who he was.
Glad he had paid his bill early, Jeff had been able to leave at the same time as him. It would have been more practical to rent a car to follow him, but it was illegal for foreigners to rent cars in Bermuda. Something about roads being too narrow, Jeff had been told at the airport.
He hailed a taxi and trying his best to avoid clichés he told the driver, “Follow that cab!”
Jeff listened to the taped conversation as he rode west to Warwick Parish, to get a better grasp of the situation. He listened to the latter part first.
“I already made arrangements for us to fly to the Bahamas this afternoon,” Jeff heard through his earphone.
For a moment Jeff didn’t know what to do. No coherent thought was forming in his brain. He needed to make a decision but was silently panicking. He wondered if he would know how to operate a fork if one was presented to him.
“Prioritize,” Jeff whispered to himself. What was more important at this particular instant?
He noticed the other man’s taxi entering the driveway of a cottage – a housekeeping unit as the locals called them.
“Vot now?” the driver asked in his musical local accent.
“Slow down, I wanna catch in which bungalow he stays.”
“Sweets me.”
It was number three. Jeff saw the wealthy Latino enter the third unit. Now he had to move.
“Get me to the airport.”
Jeff bought a disposable camera and then rushed to the different airline counters asking about flights to the Bahamas. Delta offered him a connecting flight in Atlanta in the evening. How could they reach the Bahamas this afternoon then? A boat ride was out of the question. This left a chartered aircraft. Jeff hurried to find a local charter service.
“I need a plane this afternoon.” He had his credit card in his hand, on the counter.
“We are sorry sir, we have only one plane and it is hired for this afternoon.”
“Could you tell me who reserved it?”
“I’m sorry, this is confidential information.”
With all the security personnel in the airport, Jeff didn’t want to cause a scene and left it at that. He picked a seat near the entrance and waited. He had shoved the shotgun microphone into the back of his pants when he had left the Elbow and now it was beginning to get on his nerves.
The wait lasted half an hour.
Ledoux first showed up followed by the Canadian five minutes later. Once again, Hispanic man was the last to appear, arriving another five minutes later. Jeff inconspicuously snapped pictures of the group and of the South American in particular.
He hoped the Hawaiian shirt he loved wearing so much would help disguise him as just another dumb tourist with nothing on his mind other than rum and bikinis. He observed them walk across the tarmac and take off in an IAI Westwind II business jet.
He took a taxi back to his hotel and dropped off his camera to a one-hour photo shop, handing the attendant an extra fifty dollars to make sure he knew how long an hour was. As the kid contemplated his newfound wealth, Jeff went out back to use the payphone.
He had an urgent call to make.
Didier Ledoux had never been particularly afraid of flying. He had been in the largest airliners and the smallest propeller planes. But today was different.
He was flying through an area that had claimed countless lives over the years. Until now, he had never thought twice about the Bermuda Triangle. Today he was shaking in his shoes.
He didn’t believe in most of the rubbish he’d heard about the region, but the fact was that thousands of boats and planes had entered the triangle, never to be heard of again. The Devil’s Triangle, as it was sometimes referred to, stretched from Bermuda to Miami to Puerto Rico, but wasn’t recognized by any geographic organization. It had first been mapped by a Vincent Gaddis article in the February 1964 issue of Argosy.
Pleasure boats littered the whole ocean floor in the area. In 1945, an entire squadron of TBM Avengers from the US Navy disappeared after leaving Fort Lauderdale. A PBM Mariner was sent out to locate the missing planes and it too never returned. A total of twenty-seven men were lost.
Eighteen years later, SS Marine Sulphur Queen, a tanker, vanished upon entering the triangle. But it was the disappearance of USS Cyclops in March 1918 that really got the ball rolling. The ship was reported to have an eccentric captain at its helm, a man who would pace along the quarterdeck in his underwear.
There were as many theories as to the causes as there were wrecks at the bottom of the sea. The triangle was the home of the lost civilization of Atlantis and crafts were being swiped through their magical power ray. UFOs were using the magnetic field to allow humans to travel to their dimension, a theory that was sponsored by Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind in which the lost Avengers reappeared and the pilots of Flight 19 returned. Giant octopuses were mentioned.
There had always been more romance in believing in myths and legends than in the seriousness of science. The Bermuda Triangle, at the 80th meridian, is one of two spots on Earth where compass variation is unnecessary. At this agonic line where true north and magnetic north are aligned, sailors must compensate. The region is also host to a high magnetic activity. Compasses could be disturbed by magnetic fields.
Meso-meteorological storms must share the blame too. These weather systems are composed of thunderstorms, miniature cyclones, and tornadoes. Methane is often released from the planet’s core which diminishes the water’s density and can sink or capsize a vessel in an instant.
It is what is believed to have happened to USS Cyclops; it inspired Paul Gallico to write The Poseidon Adventure. But most boats or crafts to have been lost had suffered from human error. There was an explanation for everything.
Ledoux didn’t care if it could be explained or not, boats and planes still disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle. His fear only left him when the wheels touched the ground. He knew that it would return when they would board the plane again for the trip back.
The three men left the Nassau airport in a Jaguar that had been reserved in their name. It wasn’t long until they reached Bay Street and walked into Barclays Bank.
“This account is only temporary. It’s gonna be here that we put the money when we make the sale. I suggest you guys open yourselves a privacy account in a Latvian bank to trans
fer your shares when this is over.”
Hingle was totally confident as he spoke although he was uncomfortable in his suit.
“Don’t we need papers of some kind?” Ledoux asked.
Morales also pondered the question. He knew Bahamian banks had looser rules, but they would still need papers.
“You have your passports?”
“Yes,” Ledoux snapped back.
“What about you, Julio?”
Morales hadn’t yet formed an opinion of Hingle, but now he did. The less time he would spend in his company the better it would be. “I have my passport, yes.”
“Good. We’re opening a corporate account; to transfer money out they’ll need the three signatures. Nobody gets fucked. I got all the documents covered. Remind me to make you guys sign the charter when we wait for the guy.”
It wasn’t in his job description, but Reginald Gill still waited outside Barclays. As honorary vice-consul, he was one of the only two Canadian representatives to the Bahamas. The rest of the staff mostly worked out of Jamaica. He had received a call from his roommate of his old college days.
As a favor to Bellamy, he had agreed to follow the three men from the airport to the bank and to report whatever else they were going to do. There was no denying anything to Bellamy; the man knew how to win an argument.
Chapter 23
Armed with his case, Jeff took another taxi and asked to be dropped off a few blocks away from the rented villa.
He hurried to the cottage while making sure not to run. People understood why some walked quickly, but no one liked runners. He slowed his pace as he walked up the driveway of the efficiency unit. He climbed the steps to the third apartment.
He kneeled in front of the door. The first thing he needed was outside the room, on the doorknob. He opened his case and unzipped a small inner pouch where he pulled out a two-ounce jar of black fingerprint powder and a brush.
Using his index finger, Jeff tapped powder out of the jar. He spread it all around the doorknob with the brush. He returned to the pouch and retrieved a roll of lifting tape and a couple of backing cards.
For a moment, he wondered if he had even made sure that he was alone, that no one was observing him. If anyone saw him, they would surely think he was a cop. But would they still think that when he broke inside? After putting away his instruments, he placed the prints on the cards and inserted them in his shirt pocket.
What came next made him sweat, especially since he had never tried it before. He knew the manual by heart, but had never practiced it.
He reached into another pouch and looked for a pick set. It had to be there, it just had to. Jeff’s heart picked up the pace and the sweat ran down his back. He didn’t want to be stuck with the option of breaking a window; that guy didn’t need to know he had been here.
Then he saw something better.
It resembled an electric toothbrush, but he instinctively knew what it was. It was a Cobra. He had read about it in his handbook, but hadn’t thought it would be in his case. Hell, they hadn’t even included a photo camera. There was already a pick screwed into the electronic device and Jeff decided to try it before contemplating changing it.
This was a group one lock, the easiest one to pick. Jeff prayed the two nine-volt batteries would still work. He inserted it into the doorknob lock and switched the Cobra on. It whirred as the pick vibrated, essentially jimmying the lock. It took five seconds for the tumbler pins to align and the lock clicked. Jeff turned the knob and the door opened without resistance.
He wanted prints from inside the room as well. The maid might have dropped by and it might be her prints in Jeff’s pocket. He went to the closet door and again lifted the prints from the knob.
He did the same with the underside of the toilet seat, where a man would put his fingers to lift it, and he also dusted the flusher. When he was satisfied with his collection, he grabbed a tissue from the bathroom and proceeded to wipe every trace of powder.
He had been here only a half hour and he knew he still had time left. He decided to search the room.
He looked under the bed, went through the drawers. He briefly considered that the room might’ve been booby-trapped – a hair running across two drawers could tell if someone had opened it, as every Nancy Drew fan knew – but he figured that if there wasn’t anything worth spying on that there wouldn’t be any need for it.
Then it hit him.
Jeff rushed to the closet and reached for the suitcase on the top shelf. He pulled on it and it fell on his head. It was empty and if anything it made a bit of wind that cooled Jeff’s body. He reached for the shoulder strap and felt the thickness of the cushioning to see if anything was concealed inside.
He followed the nylon belt to its base and grabbed the ID tag. The sole inscription was G.M. Caracas. Jeff swore and wrote it down on a notepad which he then left in the case. He replaced the suitcase in the closet.
There was nothing else to be learned from this room and Jeff decided it was time to leave. It might have been useful to check out how the villa had been leased, but this housekeeping unit had no front desk and tracking down the management team might prove time consuming. He closed his case and walked to the door.
Just as he shut the door, he saw the maid climb up the steps. What would she do? Would she scream? Call the police? She wouldn’t if he justified his presence, he thought.
“Cheerio,” he said in a thick British accent he hadn’t practiced since college. “Got the pipes all cleaned up, everything’s smashing!”
He smiled at her and nodded goodbye as he walked down the steps past her. Jeff considered that she might be wary of his sighting and call her boss. It wouldn’t go any further however. They wouldn’t admit to their tenant that their security measures hadn’t been quite up to par. If G.M. complained that something was missing, the maid would be blamed and the poor girl would be fired on the spot. Jeff was certain he had nothing to fear.
Why was he still sweating then?
The Canadian diplomatic corps to Bermuda extended to the honorary consul. All the important work was done from an office in Manhattan. It puzzled Jeff; if the Bermuda staff was in New York City, why not just save money and have them work straight out of Ottawa?
Nonsecure telephone calls were not what brought him to the Reid House however. He needed to use the diplomatic pouch. He had flashed his CSE ID and everything was granted to him. Jeff was in the consul’s office, using his telephone.
“This third guy is from Venezuela. Caracas. I got G as in groovy and M as in muffin as his initials. I made a voiceprint which I emailed.”
“You said you have pictures, right?” Bellamy said.
“Yeah, I just picked them up. I got pictures of the three guys, a nice Kodak moment.”
“All right, send them over, along with the negatives.”
“That’s why I’m here. What do I do now?”
“Well, we know who Ledoux is. The second guy, you say he’s Canadian? We’re still looking into it. If he’s from around these parts, then we can handle it from here. You stay on General Motors, find out what you can on him.”
“I got a question,” Jeff said after clearing his throat.
“Shoot.”
“The frequent flier miles I get on every trip, are they mine to keep or do they revert to the agency?”
Chapter 24
It was a shy beep that brought the search to a halt.
The powerful computers of the Communications Security Establishment had been programmed to explore the government databases for a pattern that would match the voiceprint Jeff had emailed. While there weren’t that many people that had been printed specifically for their voice, the CSE sound lab made it their business to augment their collection by means that bordered on the illegal.
It wasn’t uncommon for a technician to drive to a prison and record voices they could attribute a name to. It was covert and contravened to just about every clause in the Charter of Rights, but it made crime fighting t
hat much easier.
The beep put a smile on the technician’s face, not only because the search was over, but also because he could use the computer again. He called the head of his division to let him know and the latter then called up to the Deputy Director of G Group’s office.
Bellamy was just out the door to go home when the call came through. He had stayed in the office all weekend and now his fatigue was making its presence felt. Although he planned on getting home early, the call was paramount.
He stormed out of his office and jogged to the elevator. He was about to use the stairs when the door finally opened. He sprinted to the lab.
“What have you got?” Bellamy inquired.
“Not here, in my office.”
They left the lab, climbed a couple of steps and entered the glass-enclosed office of the supervisor. The man went behind his desk and swiveled his screen so Bellamy could see it from where he stood.
“The voiceprint matched this man.”
Bellamy’s eyes widened as he saw the picture. “Holy Jesus.”
“I thought you’d know him.”
“Ross Hingle. The guy used to work for us, he was in my division. Who else knows about this?”
“This guy,” he said pointing through the glass at the technician who had run the search.
“Can you guarantee he’ll keep his mouth shut? This information cannot leave this building. I want this search labeled top secret, it has to leave your records in the next five minutes.”
Bellamy left the lab and headed back to his office. As he rode the elevator back up, he regretted not having thanked the man for his fine work and cooperation. He made a note to write a letter to his boss to praise his merits.
The situation was no longer a wild goose chase. They had concrete evidence that a Canadian citizen was involved in an international conspiracy and that made it CSE business. Well, maybe not technically, but he would now have no problems justifying Riley’s expenses.
The first thing he had to do was set up some kind of surveillance on Hingle. No crime had been committed that Hingle had been a part of and that would put a dimple in their efforts to get a warrant.
