“Delicate?”
Lester drew a long breath, his eyes roaming his office. At last he fixed his gaze on the glass jar of foil-wrapped chocolates before him. He reached out and tapped the lid.
“Are you familiar with these, Adrian? Marburg chocolates?”
“I don’t eat many sweets, sir.”
Lester removed the lid and scooped up a handful of the miniatures and rattled them in his hand like dice, then scattered them on his desktop.
“Marburg has been around for two centuries. British company, very big in India, Pakistan, throughout South Asia. Long before anyone else in the industry, they saw the possibilities of emerging markets and set up excellent supply lines and customer service. All of which makes them a perfect target for acquisition.”
“You’re buying Marburg?”
“In five days the deal should be complete. A few last-minute holdouts on their board that need convincing.”
He thumped a finger against one of the miniature bars.
“You know, the first instant one of these melted on my tongue, I knew exactly what I wanted in life. I wanted to own the factory that made these delights. I was seven years old, didn’t know a damn thing about business. But I knew what I wanted. It just appeared like a dream, a vivid dream. Did you ever have that experience as a boy? A vivid dream that pointed the way forward.”
“No, sir. I’m still waiting for that dream.”
He nodded in sympathy. “So on the business side, the Marburg deal offers us a chance to expand our footprint in India and emerging markets around Asia, and not just chocolate but in higher-growth sectors like gum and candy. The deal broadens our portfolio, and it should accelerate long-term growth and deliver some highly desirable returns. For Marburg, the deal gives them a chance to piggyback on our production apparatus. Faster delivery, greater scale. Just what they need in order to grow.
“But you know what, Adrian? That’s just the horse manure I sling to sell stockholders on the consolidation in order to take over a company I’ve been dreaming of since I was a seven-year-old lad.”
He stirred the miniatures with a finger.
“The one problem is that the Marburgs are Quakers.”
“How’s that a problem?”
“Very religious people, very moral. Any hint of scandal and they’ll back away in an instant. No matter how it might benefit them financially, they’ll refuse to sign. Like that, poof, it’s all gone.”
“A scandal like Albion using child slaves to harvest cacao beans.”
“Yes, exactly,” he said. “When I first learned of the issue two years ago, I addressed the problem head-on, ordered sweeping changes to our vetting procedures so local farmers who used children in the fields would no longer be associated with Albion. We made structural adjustments, tightened our oversight to eradicate any child-welfare abuses. When I was certain that chapter was closed, I invited United Nations human rights workers and independent inspectors out there to certify that there was no longer an issue with child workers.
“We started schools for local children, we’ve educated the adult workers, made it very clear we will not stand for such contemptible behavior again. And we’ve provided thorough documentation of all of these efforts to the Marburgs to once and for all put that disgraceful episode behind us. So you can imagine my dismay to hear any whisper of further scandal in the Ivory Coast.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Who told you about this problem? Was it Bixel?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It would violate confidentiality. I would lose my source. It’s better if I investigate this on my own. I’ll keep you informed, but I can’t share anything till I’m finished.”
“Is that’s how it’s done in your world, Adrian? Your commander gives you a direct order and you refuse?”
“Are you giving me a direct order?”
Albion’s hands pressed flat against the desktop. “All right,” he said. “But complete your investigation with great haste and bring your results to me and me alone, then we’ll find a way to make that problem vanish. And that is a direct order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here, take some of these, see what the fuss is about.”
Albion scooped up a few candies and held them out.
Adrian left Lester Albion’s office with a handful of chocolates and a direct order from the boss to use any means necessary to make the Ivory Coast problem disappear.
TWENTY-THREE
Early March, en route to Zurich, Switzerland
“Who do we know in Zurich?”
Harper was calling Nick from Port Bouet International Airport in Abidjan. She’d worked her way past passport control, the two security checks, and a long, chaotic line to check her bag. Ahead of her was another tedious day of flying, ten hours, with one stop in Brussels on the way to Zurich. She was waiting in the general lounge at her gate, trying to ignore the two military guards with machine pistols who kept eyeing her.
“I’m still working on it,” Nick said. “Got calls out to finance friends in Zurich who are plugged in.”
“Good. We need everything they can dig up on Albion.”
“You’ve got a plan?”
“Not yet. I need more information. I’ll wait to see what your finance friends come up with.”
“What do you want them to look for?”
“Anything with Albion and chocolate in the same paragraph.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“And the third guy on Ross’s list, Adrian Naff, anything on him?”
“Nothing new. Head of security for Albion. That’s all I have. His life before that is something of a blank.”
“Nobody’s a blank, Nick. Ross knew something about the guy. If Ross was going all the way to Zurich to interview him, the guy matters.”
“I’ll keep digging. Sal volunteered to dig around in some databases.”
“He knows a hacker?”
“Does it himself.”
“You’re kidding.”
“News to me too. Something he picked up in his retirement. His next-door neighbor is tutoring him.”
“He any good? Sal, I mean.”
“Says he is.”
“Sure, go on, use him. We need anything we can get on Naff.”
“Will do.”
“And the apartment on Edgewater. Did Sal’s CSI guys turn up anything?”
“Got a ballistics report back. The Ruger you knocked out of the guy’s hand was the same weapon Jackson Sharp was killed with.”
“Is that all?”
“Sal’s tech guy found fingerprints. Jackson Sharp’s and one other set. The second prints match the ones on the Ruger. But the Ruger guy’s prints didn’t ring any bells in Interpol’s database. Which means Ruger Guy’s never been arrested, he’s not military, not a fugitive, no government job. A clean background.”
“The guy I threw over the railing wasn’t clean.”
“There’s a pattern here. Naff is a blank. Ruger Guy is clean.”
“Not clean. More like scrubbed.”
Nick was silent.
“And Alvarez? He been around?”
“Called twice, wanted to talk to you. I said you were out of town.”
“He know about the Edgewater scene?”
“No,” Nick said. “It’s all cleaned up, wiped down. Sal’s people disposed of the body. Like it never happened.”
“You and Sal have been playing me, haven’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“That story about some outsider tampering with Alvarez’s investigation, that was horseshit, wasn’t it? Just to peel us away from the cops.”
The line was empty for a long moment.
Then Nick said, “It was Sal’s idea. I didn’t like lying to you, but I went along. I’m sorry, Harper. Can you forgive me?”
“It’s okay,” she said, then went silent, still debating how much to reveal to Nick about her visit to Soko
, the massacre, the chocolate people. Nick was already worried about her. If she told him what she’d discovered and what she’d done, he and Sal and a dozen of Sal’s goons would be waiting for her in Zurich, ready to storm Albion headquarters.
“You’re not going to tell me anything about Africa.”
“In due time.”
“Was Ross’s guy helpful? Moussa Kouacou?”
“He was, yes. Very helpful.”
The two soldiers were making a slow orbit around her chair. One of them was speaking on a handheld radio.
The Jetway door was open, and a Swiss Air attendant was making the preflight announcements.
She told Nick she had to go.
“Call me when you land.”
“Thanks. I will.”
“You sure you’re all right? You sound a little, I don’t know, faraway.”
“I am,” she said. “Five thousand miles and counting.”
The two military guys were closing in.
“Got to run.”
She clicked off, gathered her carry-ons, and headed toward the line forming at the door to the Jetway. Her heart had lost traction. The nasty knot on her temple where one of the guerillas had clubbed her began to throb in time with her elevated pulse.
One of the soldiers stepped in front of her and spoke her name.
“Yes?”
“You will come with us.”
“My plane’s leaving.”
“You will come with us, answer questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
The other soldier gripped her right biceps and tugged her out of the line. She wrenched her arm free, and after taking a look at her scowl, the soldier didn’t try to touch her again. They led her down the concourse, one in front, one behind, a forced march past a security checkpoint, then the man in the lead directed her into a small, windowless room.
A tall white man in his late sixties sat at the head of a gleaming conference table. When Harper entered, he rose and bowed his head and waved her to a seat.
“I’m about to miss my plane.”
“Sit, sit. Planes come and go. We need to talk.”
His hair was thick and white and combed stiffly back. His eyes were green with an eerie shine, as if backed by silver foil.
She settled into a hard, straight-back chair at the far end of the table. The two soldiers melted away, shutting the door softly behind her.
She lightly brushed her hair over the lump. Earlier that morning at the hotel, she’d used concealer and powder to cover the spreading bruise.
“I am Roger Bellerose, deputy minister of defense and maritime affairs. Among my duties, I oversee the paramilitary forces spread throughout our country. It falls to me to monitor the advances of the guerilla forces, their comings and goings, their threats to the nation’s stability. By that means I have acquired certain information concerning your visit to our nation.”
Harper held his steady gaze.
“I understand that you’ve been quite active during your stay with us. I would like to recount the tally if I may.”
“What tally?”
“You began your sojourn by brawling with a street gang and breaking a man’s wrist very badly. That young man will never sign his name again or write a love letter. Then there are the events in the jungle near the border with Burkina Faso. It seems there were two casualties, both killed with automatic rifle fire.
“These men were rebels, yes, and therefore enemies of the state, but still, murder is considered a most heinous crime in our land, you see. Another man in that same location is now in critical condition, also from gunfire, and if he survives, he will walk with a limp. Still one other in the same group has suffered a severe concussion. Then there is Moussa Kouacou, a minister in our government. He is recovering from a nasty knife wound to the shoulder. That is the tally I have. There may be more I do not know of. But in such a short stay, you have created much havoc in our quiet land.”
“What do you want from me?”
“You deny nothing I have said?”
“Would it do me any good?”
The man formed a narrow smile, lifted his hands, and applauded her sarcasm with a few dry pats.
“And what do you think might be an appropriate punishment for such crimes? What would the police officials in your home country do with a foreigner who committed such acts in, say, Ohio?”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“I have been asked by certain parties to take you into custody.”
“What parties?”
“I’m still debating if that is the proper course or not.”
Harper was silent.
“You are fortunate the Ivory Coast has abolished the death penalty. A life sentence in the House of Detention and Correction of Dimbokro, which is two hundred kilometers north of the city . . . that is what one might reasonably expect for the crimes you have committed. The Dimbokro prison has not been updated since its construction in 1960, so you can easily imagine spending your days and nights in tin-roofed dormitories in the tropical heat. With these conditions, many convicts do not survive a single month in Dimbokro.”
“Maybe I should speak to someone at the American embassy.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “No one at the embassy wants to speak to you.”
“I have rights.”
“Miss, you have only the rights I decide upon. Is that clear?”
She kept quiet.
“Do you understand that the cacao industry accounts for sixty percent of our export trade? Every year, our farmers produce well over a million tons of beans, which supplies over a third of the world’s needs. It is a crucial industry both here and throughout the global marketplace.”
“And all that makes child slavery acceptable?”
“Yes, yes, you Americans are very righteous. And you are also quite ill-informed. Apparently you are not aware of the great poverty that afflicts our land. A dollar a day is what our cacao farmers earn, and that is considered a very fine wage. To stay competitive against other nations with greater wealth and resources, our farmers employ every cost-saving measure they can.
“So, yes, what you say is true, some family farmers do indeed use their children to accomplish light work on the cacao plantations. Just as farmers in your own homeland, I believe, engage their children and family members for chores in the field. In our country, children who are fortunate enough to work on the cacao bean plantations have an opportunity for a better life. Sadly, it is one of the only pathways open to them. Using children for such work has been our custom for generations.”
“Abducting children and enslaving them, that’s your custom too?”
He smiled away the insult. “Oh, your American principles are very laudable. You can afford to be that way, I suppose. But in my country such a luxury is out of our reach. We know we must make moral sacrifices if we are to progress. You and your people have your own dark history, yet you come to our shores and preach to us as if you are free of all guilt.”
“The village of Soko, have you heard of it?”
He drew an exasperated breath. “The community you mention, I believe it is across the border in Burkina Faso. Our government exerts no power over our neighbors.”
“The residents of Soko were massacred because they fought back against men who repeatedly abducted and enslaved their children. And this moral sacrifice is acceptable to you, Mr. Deputy Minister?”
He continued to smile at her. Eyes cold and empty.
“All right, young woman, here is what I’m telling you. My verdict on your misconduct is the following. Henceforth, from this day forward, you will be denied access to cross our borders. You will be permitted to leave, but you can never return. Second, if it comes to our attention that you continue to make false claims against industries which are critical to our national interests, we will notify immigration authorities in your homeland that the Ivory Coast has found you to be a dangerous security threat, indeed, a terrorist wanted for murder, and our interna
tional partners should apprehend you immediately upon your arrival in their country. Your ability to travel internationally will cease, and that will be the least of your worries. Is that clear?”
Harper digested that for several moments. “You think I killed two people, but you’re letting me go with a slap on the wrist.”
“I don’t think anything, my good lady. What you did is an incontestable fact. I have ironclad proof of it. And I will use the full force of that information against you if you continue to make outrageous claims against the business practices of our most valued industry.”
“You know what I’m saying is true. Soko was destroyed, its residents massacred. Their killers were acting on behalf of Albion.”
He fixed his gaze on her, his cold smile had vanished, and he was making no further attempt at cordiality.
“I am not a man who makes casual threats. I am warning you with all seriousness that if you continue to present spurious and damaging claims about business entities within the Ivory Coast, you will be dealt with most harshly. Now your plane is waiting, you may go.”
Roger Bellerose gave her a curt nod, finished with her. He drew out his cell phone, made a call, ducked his head, and spoke quietly to someone in a language Harper had never heard.
She walked from the conference room back down the concourse. At the security checkpoint, the guards waved her through, and the gate attendant led her down the Jetway and to her seat. When the plane finally lifted off, Harper drew a long breath. It felt like the first she’d taken in days.
TWENTY-FOUR
Early March, en route to Zurich, Switzerland
Changing planes in Brussels with two hours to kill, she wandered the Pier A concourse. Jewelry shops, bars, restaurants, Victoria’s Secret, Hugo Boss, Massimo Dutti, several luggage stores. She came to a halt at the window of Epicure, a fine-food emporium. An array of wines, flavored oils, hundreds of varieties of cookies, Scottish salmon, cheese, duck and goose foie gras. And chocolates.
Trays and trays, displaying a vast variety of rich Belgian treats.
She went inside, prowled the aisles till she located the glass cases where the collection of chocolates was laid out. The air was overpowering with the competing scents of chocolate and the buttery additives. On top of the counter, trays were on display, samples of every delicacy with hand-lettered cards describing every item in the poetry of indulgence.
When They Come for You Page 13
