by J. P. Lane
E.F. Twenty tons is a joke. Even with a fifty percent cut.
F.S. It’s not bad for starters.
E.F. I thought the deal was one hundred.
F.S. They just want to make sure there are no snags.
E.F. What kind of snags? That’s bullshit! How long is that going to take to sort out?
F.S. The shipping line is holding up the show. They want a bigger cut.
E.F. I stand firm on ten percent. Not a dime more.
F.S. That’s hardly going to make it worth their while.
E.F. They’ll take what we give them! There will soon come a day when everybody including those fat bastards will be happy to take what they can get. Fidel was right in that respect. Nothing more tedious than a consensus of opinion.
F.S. (laughs): Nothing like a coup to set everybody straight.
E.F. A person doesn’t overthrow themselves, Frank. I’m talking about peaceful change, constitutional changes.
Allan’s expression was grim as he removed the CDs from the player and handed them back to Margaret. “Well, there’s no doubt that was Erick Freeman and Frank Sterling having a little chat. Erick must have gone mad. I’ve never heard such insanity in my life!”
An astonished John Boyd asked, “How does he propose to change the constitution? Our system of government is based on the Westminster model.”
“I suppose it would be possible if he could swing a huge majority vote in both houses,” Margaret said handing Robert Palmer’s report to Allan as they followed him back to his study.
Allan read the report, carefully digesting and analyzing its contents. “It’s saying there’s a suspicion Indies Shipping is involved,” he noted with huge surprise. “I find that very hard to believe.” He read on. “The C.I.D. chief’s life has been threatened?” Stunned, Allan handed the report to John Boyd.
The Minister of Tourism rifled through the pages, his face darkening as he read. “Now we know why nothing is being done to control drug-related crime,” he commented cynically. “Aside from concrete evidence our Prime Minister and Minister of National Security and Defense are involved, there’s suspicion surrounding the Minister of the Interior! And look at this list of suspects! The island wouldn’t have enough jails to accommodate the whole lot of them! This is, as Margaret quite rightly says, a national crisis.”
Margaret waited patiently for them to digest the information before venturing further on her path. “We have to get rid of them,” she said.
“Well of course something has to be done about them, but what are you proposing?” Allan asked.
“I’m proposing we eliminate them.”
Allan stared at her questioningly. “What exactly do you mean when you say eliminate them?”
“Assassinate them,” Margaret clarified with chilling calm.
John Boyd looked at her aghast. “Are you suggesting we assassinate ministers of government? Margaret, with all due respect, that is complete madness. I can’t believe you’re serious. If you are, it’s a monstrous idea.”
“No more monstrous than the alternative we would be forced to face,” she retorted vehemently. “This island will be reduced to nothing more than a drug state if things are allowed to continue the way they are going. Our entire infrastructure, our entire social fabric is going to pot. No pun intended, gentlemen.”
Allan rose from his chair and paced the floor. “I think that may be a bit of an emotional response on your part, Margaret,” he said with a smile intended to soften the remark. “Let’s look at our real options, starting with a Commission of Inquiry. If you both recall there was a similar problem in the Bahamas back in the nineties. That was resolved for the most part. The cabinet members were indicted. The only one who got away was Pindling who they were never able to pin anything on.”
“There’s something you’re not taking into consideration,” Margaret reminded Allan. “Erick Freeman is not above murder. And how do we find support in setting up an inquiry? At this point, we don’t know who is who. My guess is an inquiry would be squelched as quickly as our lives. I fear making our intentions public would be as good as writing our own death sentences.”
“Whatever course of action we decide on, I’m not sure we have much time before the worst happens,” John Boyd interjected with concern.
“And the worse will happen if we don’t act swiftly,” Margaret warned.
The meeting had shaken the Deputy Prime Minister to the core and he slept fitfully that night. What they were looking at was of enormous magnitude. There were huge implications at every level. As to the solution, it was something that had to be carefully considered. Erick was a monster, Allan would concede that much. He was a dangerous man, about to lead his party and his country into chaos. And his allusion to murder, clearly stated in the wiretaps was frightening. But that did not give them the license to kill him. For the first time in a very long time, Allan Harvey decided he needed someone to talk to. He checked his clock. It was after midnight, but he knew his friend burned the candle at both ends. He got out of bed and went to his study. Quietly, he made the call that would change his life.
TWENTY
Logan stopped to tell his executive assistant the briefest possible hello before fleeing to his office situated at a safe distance from hers. He’d hardly had time to sit before his phone shrilled. Knowing it had to be her, Logan picked up without bothering to check the caller I.D. “Yes, Jenny?” he answered curtly.
Without preamble, Jenny of the large-frame glasses and face habitually minus makeup began firing off the list of Logan to-dos without pausing for breath. Logan grimaced, desperate for coffee before the onslaught. “There are some things that need your immediate attention, Mr. Armstrong,” Jenny barreled on, “That meeting with Mainstream Radio is scheduled for four this afternoon…I left the final contract for the acquisition on your desk…I know you’ll want to look it over. One other thing…Jim Fernandez at the L.A. studio called…he says it’s urgent…I don’t want to throw everything at you the minute you step in the door, but Bob needs you to look at that quarterly report for the studio A.S.A.P.”
An exhale of long suffering escaped Logan’s lips. In all the years Jenny had worked for him, she had never got it, never been sensitive to his need to ease into his day after working late into the night, which was more often than not the case. On this of all mornings, when he was frazzled after a trip that had taken everything out of him, he found her rapid-fire style particularly jarring. “Get Jim on the phone the minute it’s dawn in California,” he said facetiously. “Not a second sooner mind you. Jim may not be as forgiving of abrupt awakenings as I am.” Jenny didn’t catch on however. She arrived at his door armed with the mountain of to-dos almost before he’d had a chance to put down the phone.
“While the cat’s been away, the mice have been busy as bees,” Jenny announced briskly as she relieved herself of the paperwork and placed it before Logan. Crossing her legs primly, she shoved the first item for his signature closer to him. She adjusted her glasses and seemed poised to launch into detail when she noticed Logan didn’t look himself. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a bit pale, Mr. Armstrong. I thought you were on vacation on the island. You don’t look as if you’ve seen the sun in months.”
“Jenny, your powers of observation never fail to amaze me,” Logan retorted dryly. “What else have you heaped on my plate today?”
Wordlessly, Jenny pointed to another item for him to sign.
With one eye on the signature line and the other discreetly on Jenny, Logan couldn’t help thinking what a dichotomy it was that this prudish right hand of his worked in the media and entertainment business. She was bright enough to have done well at any career. Her efficiency was almost daunting. However Jenny seemed to him to be a complete misfit in a world that was historically laissez-faire. He glanced at her, betting she had never smoked pot a day in her life. Though she wasn’t half bad looking, now he thought about it, his eyes cruising downward from her face.
&nbs
p; Jenny caught the look and blushed furiously. “I’ll be back when you’re done with those,” she said hurriedly getting up to leave. “By the way, Bella needs five minutes when you have a chance.” Amused by her hasty retreat, Logan called after her, “Tell Bella now’s as good a time as any.” He shook his head. How old was Jenny? Nearing forty he guessed, and in his estimation, probably never been laid.
Not five minutes later, Bella, Logan’s twenty-something year old P.A. breezed in with an infectious smile and spiked purple hair. “So, you’re back, boss. How’s it going?” she said plopping herself down in front of him.
Startled, Logan exclaimed, “Purple hair? Last time I saw you it was blond or something.”
“Color of the week,” Bella grinned cheekily, dumping a pile of invitations in front of him.
“What are those?” Logan asked with mistrust.
“You know perfectly well what they are. Don’t be such a fuddy duddy. You need to get out and be seen sometimes. It’s called networking. Besides, there’s a lot of good stuff in there – including two tickets so some special evening at the Met,” she added with a devilish grin.
Logan rolled his eyes.
“Don’t like opera uh? Would a charity do starring Madonna be more to your liking?”
“You know I dislike those affairs. Do me a favor and just throw the whole lot in the trash.”
“You’ll be sorry if I do that,” Bella advised in a you’ll be really sorry tone. “Anyway, would you mind if I steal the Madonna invitation?” She took quick note of Logan’s quizzical stare. “I could pass my boyfriend off as you,” she suggested. “It would be cool to meet Madonna. She may be ancient, but she’s still hot.”
Logan gave a noncommittal grunt.
“I’ve done your calendar, well what I could fill in anyway. You can check it when you have a chance. Speaking of which, Miss Stephanie Adams of Broadway fame called three times while you were away.” Bella punctuated the delivery of the message with a suggestive smirk.
“What did she want?” Logan muttered ignoring the insinuation.
Bella arched her plucked to pencil-thin eyebrows knowingly. “If you don’t know, I certainly wouldn’t have a clue. Anything you need before I leave?”
“Coffee, please, Bella. And by the way, feel free to steal that Madonna invitation. Just don’t try passing your boyfriend off as me. There are limits.”
Bella breezed off leaving Logan to wonder for the umpteenth time how she and Jenny got along. They couldn’t have been more different. However, Jenny had hired Bella, so he supposed they managed to find some common ground. What that was, was beyond him. He stretched and cracked his knuckles, staring at the contract waiting for his attention. Women were a perpetual mystery to him. The more he learned about them, the less he understood, and Lord knew he’d had his fair share of relationships. Then there was Lauren; Lauren with a sudden gust of wind blowing her hair, whipping up her skirt just long enough to allow him a fleeting peek at a thigh. That morning at Vale Verde, he had wanted take her in his arms, to make love to her by the secluded pond, the midday sun bearing witness as he entered her. He had wanted to ravage her until she became his. He had wanted her. He still wanted her, he knew, as he felt the ache in his groin and the hardening in his pants in the middle of an impossibly busy New York morning.
He had not been able to get Lauren out of his mind despite his resolve to do so. The pity of it, he thought, was her being a reporter. The last thing he needed was being in close proximity to a member of the press. That aside, Lauren was good at what she did. Logan had to give her that. He’d read a few of her articles, including the recent one she had written about him. He thought it was pretty good as far as that kind of thing went. Should he call to tell her that, he wondered. He deliberated, weighing the odds. He picked up the phone and paused. He was still indecisive. Then, throwing caution to the wind, Logan dialed her number. After four rings, he was greeted by a message. Hello, this is Lauren Anderson. I’ll be out of the office until Friday, October 20th. If this is urgent, please contact Brian Mills at extension 240. Wondering vaguely where Lauren could be, Logan hung up.
Deciding fate had rescued him from his weakness, Logan reached for the report on the art movies studio in Los Angeles. Browsing through it, he remembered he had been unsure about purchasing the floundering business enterprise at the start. But it had seemed worth the risk at the time. All that had been needed were a few strategic changes. The problem was there had never been anyone of any strength at the helm. Jim Fernandez had turned out to be a dead loss. Logan decided someone needed to be put in place as soon as possible or he’d have to watch the whole ship sink. He finished reading the report and was just getting started on the Mainstream contract when someone entered his office. He looked up. “Hi, Bob, you’re just the man I want to see. I was wondering if you got those funds squared away.”
Bob Hunter’s nondescript uniform of Levi jeans and a brand-less tee shirt belied his importance to International Media and Entertainment. Bob was Logan’s finance man, the genius with the financial savvy that had helped Logan grow his business from a small UHF television station into a media and entertainment conglomerate. Today, Bob Hunter was a bemused and not entirely happy man. He seated himself in front of Logan and took a swig from his can of Sprite.
“Let me see if I got this straight, Logan,” he said looking Logan squarely in the eye. “You want two accounts set up in Zurich and twenty million transferred into them, ten million a pop. That’s in addition to the other funds you’ve requested. What’s going on? You buying and furnishing a castle? Aside from that, the London check concerns me. We’re writing a banker’s check for cash to someone name unknown? Anybody can walk away with that money.”
“Just get in touch with the bank and tell them whoever picks it up is authorized to do so. It’s not as if hoards of people are going to be storming a private bank in Mayfair for a ten thousand pound check.”
Bob wasn’t particularly satisfied with that answer. “I already handled that, but the whole thing seems crazy. I’m not going to pry, but I just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”
Logan folded his hands behind his head and gazed at Bob steadily. “You know me well enough to understand I wouldn’t make a request like that lightly.”
“I’m not questioning how you spend your own money, Logan,” Bob answered in exasperation. “I’m here to look out for you. Those are sizable requests. We’re not talking about peanuts here. I don’t like the idea of touching those deposits in Cayman, and that’s where the money’s going to have to come from. The London money is no biggy. There’s no problem there.” He stopped and took another swig of his Sprite. “The other thing is there’s no way to write any of this off. It’s not like you’re contributing to some charity.”
If it were not so grave a matter, Logan would have found some twisted humor in the irony of Bob’s remark. Contributing to some charity was in essence the truth, if you boiled helping to stave off a national disaster down to that. However Logan made no remark. He silently stood his ground until Bob finally raised his hands in defeat. “Look, I know there’s no convincing you once you’ve made up your mind. I just thought I’d voice my concerns. This isn’t like you is all I’m saying. By the way, had a chance to look at that report yet?”
“Yes, I just saw it.”
“Any thoughts?”
“A few, but give me more time to mull it over.”
“No problem. See you later at the Mainstream meeting.”
A heavy weight settled on Logan’s shoulders as Bob took off. Perhaps there was some truth to the saying money was power. But it was how money was used that defined the man; good or evil. He prayed what he was doing was not the latter. Just the morning before, he had sat on the cottage porch looking down at the valley: the banana and coffee growing up the slopes, a little church beckoning worshipers, its walls proudly new-painted white. It had struck him as ironic how serene the island seemed in the light of what was to come. It
was like the calm before a storm; a kind of innocence born of the absence of any tragedy that had taken root in the psyche of the people. Admittedly, there had been natural disasters, but those were few and far between and, as they invariably did, the people had risen to the challenge of reconstructing their lives with characteristic stoicism. In other parts of the world, there were those who had lived through the hell of war and those that were doing so now as he, spared any such calamity, enjoyed the accoutrements of a comfortable life. War had not been waged on the island of his birth for three and a half centuries and, except by some unimaginable twist of fate, it would never occur again. Be that as it may, Logan knew what was looming in the very near future would come as swiftly and unexpectedly as an earthquake, bringing the devastation necessary for rebirth. As it stood, decadence at every level had become a culture, a cancer that had invaded the body of the nation, killing solid values slowly but surely. He didn’t think he was a paragon of virtue by any means, but the senseless slaughter of his country by men motivated by greed was something difficult to watch. Too much had been invested by men like his father, and generations before them, to see it all go to hell. Still, now the time was drawing near, it took every bit of fortitude to hang on to his resolve.
TWENTY-ONE
Lauren pulled up her window shade and looked out as the British Air Boeing 747 taxied towards Heathrow’s Terminal Five moving slowly past mist-shrouded buildings and the flashing lights of runway traffic. She waited for the fasten seat belt sign to go off, then unbuckled and reached for her things in the overhead compartment. Following the passengers ahead of her though the breezeway into the terminal, she walked briskly towards her destination, every fiber of her being tensing as she trekked through the spanking new terminal towards the first stop on a journey she faced with trepidation. Connecting Flights, Border Control, Baggage Reclaim signs pointed passengers in the right direction. All were bright yellow Lauren noticed. Everywhere she turned was glass, glass and more glass, revealing an almost three hundred and sixty degree view of a misty English morning at its worst. As brightly lit as the terminal was, its architecture intended to be easy on a weary traveler’s eyes, everything seemed grey, dismal and foreboding. Lauren walked on, the tote holding the package slung over her shoulder, her carry-on following closely behind on wheels. She rounded a corner and there it was – Border Control, the first stop on her journey.
