The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance

by J. P. Lane

  “That’s a lot for a piano,” Peter conceded. “It does leave you wondering, doesn’t it? I agree when you say Matthews’ income from his business holdings would not likely support that kind of lavish spending – unless they’re deep in debt.”

  Lauren reflected for a minute. Debt didn’t ring true somehow.

  “What about her? Didn’t Virginia Matthews inherit a ton of money?” she suddenly remembered.

  “Yes, from what I understand. Even at that, she would have probably chewed it all up with a couple grand pianos like that. In any case, her father may have been wealthy, but he was hardly Bill Gates.”

  “What about Logan Armstrong?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s not exactly hurting himself.”

  “No, but there’s no reason to believe he’s involved in anything that’s not above board. How he amassed his fortune is pretty much public record.” Peter frowned worriedly. “I would drop it if I were you, Lauren. If there’s involvement at the government level as you suspect, this goes deep. I don’t want you sticking your neck out for a good story. Let’s talk about this another time, I have to run.”

  Lauren swiveled her chair back around to face the window as Peter left. The sudden storm had eased up, the remnants now a swirling mist cloaking the mountains. Lauren stared at them unseeingly. Something was going on. She could almost feel it tangibly. Something dark and insidious, rushing down from the mansion-clad hills like sewerage to be deposited in filthy puddles on tenement streets before finally making its way to the sea, taking all hope with it. It was everywhere, covering the island with its stench. And, even if he were above reproach, where did Logan Armstrong stand in all of this, she wondered. How much did he know of these things that, blatant as they were, were always kept hush-hush, the pretense of not knowing kept up in a whirlwind of social events where handshakes, insincere smiles and good old boy pats on the back denied the ugly reality. How could he not know from where he stood, or did a life led somewhere else insulate him from the truth about his own country? And if he knew, did he even care?

  On an impulse she picked up the phone. Just as quickly she put it down. She had no valid reason to call him. And even if he had shown any interest in her, she could not bring herself to be so bold. But she could, she decided after some thought, call and ask if he had seen the article, find out if he wanted a few complimentary copies. She didn’t have his mailing address, so she had an excuse.

  Butterflies began fluttering madly in her stomach as the phone up at the cottage began ringing.

  “Mr. Armstrong’s residence,” Ivy answered on the fourth ring.

  All the courage Lauren had summoned for the call fled out the window. Somehow, she had expected Logan to pick up.

  “Hello, can I help you?” Ivy said on hearing nothing on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, Ivy. May I speak with Mr. Armstrong please?” Lauren asked awkwardly.

  “Who is this calling?”

  “It’s Lauren Anderson.”

  “Oh hello, Miss Anderson!” Ivy exclaimed exuberantly.

  Lauren chewed a fingernail, waiting anxiously for Ivy to put Logan on. Instead Ivy said, “Mr. Armstrong isn’t here, Miss Anderson.”

  “Will he be home later?” Lauren asked.

  “No, he went back to New York.”

  Lauren’s heart plunged.

  “Can I take a message, Miss Anderson?”

  “No…no, thank you, Ivy. That’s all right.”

  Slowly, Lauren put down the phone. She wanted to kick herself for being such a fool.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jorgé studied Maria sitting opposite him. The trip to Europe had obviously done her a world of good. She seemed more relaxed than she’d been for some time. Appearing oblivious to his scrutiny, she glanced around his office as if seeing it for the first time – the blatantly masculine furnishings – photographs of the soccer team he owned, the art on the walls, the pièce de resistance being a Botero, which would have made any museum proud. Her dark eyes finally settled on him. “Tienes alguna noticia?” she asked, not unexpectedly.

  “News of what?” Jorgé toyed.

  “You know perfectly well what I mean, Jorgé.

  “Ha sido arreglado, it’s been arranged. But it’s not too late to cancel the whole thing, which I strongly advise. Killing the man will serve absolutely no purpose, except to throw suspicion on us if it is discovered we were doing business with him. And as I said before, this goes far beyond enforcement. I don’t believe in using violence as a tool for gaining control.”

  Maria laughed, the low throaty laugh that always seemed to enter him by way of his heart then surge swiftly downward. He checked himself and looked at her steadily, his eyes inscrutable blue-green.

  “Aside from that, there’s some messy stuff going on down there on the island,” he mentioned casually. “You may have been right in your assessment of Prime Minister Freeman. He may not have the situation under control.”

  Maria’s eyes became alert. “Qué me quieres decir?”

  “Some supposed Customs official attempted to inspect our cargo.”

  “Como pudo haber sucedido eso? How could that have happened? I thought their Customs was taken care of!”

  “If it wasn’t before, it is now. But that’s not our concern. What concerns me is the man was an undercover agent for their Criminal Investigation Department. It’s obvious law enforcement hasn’t been taken care of. I don’t understand what the problem could be. Even in Miami, we’ve been able to get law enforcement to look the other way. It’s not that difficult.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. But there’s no point dwelling on that now. When’s the job going to be done?”

  “Any time now.”

  “Someone on our payroll?”

  “Yes.”

  A mere trace of a frown shadowed Maria’s brow. Despite what Jorgé seemed to think, she believed in manipulation rather than bullets. Unlike some of her country’s criminal elite, she preferred to maintain a low profile, exercising power covertly, though she was not above using strong-handed methods to ensure the cartel’s interests were met. In cases like that she had no option but to be ruthless when overseas players threatened their interests. As to the problem on the island, the man – what was his name, Sterling? Yes, Sterling. He was a possible alternative. When all was said and done, he was the one with whom they did business. The other man was merely a power-hungry figurehead, too greedy for his own good.

  “You do realize we’ll have to close the operation down until the dust settles,” Maria sighed heavily. “I’ve been giving some thought to what happens after. That man Sterling may be a possible candidate for the future.”

  “I’ve been thinking along those lines,” Jorgé concurred.

  “Should we begin setting the stage now?” Maria wondered.

  “No,” Jorgé answered firmly. “There can be absolutely no suspicion we’re involved. We’ll have to wait and see how things unfold.”

  “Would you like to have lunch somewhere?” Maria asked unexpectedly.

  Unable to believe his ears, Jorgé stared at her. Maria seldom chose to be seen in public. She had become a virtual recluse, her paranoia over being harmed increasing while her hobnobbing with Colombia’s social set decreased. Jorgé couldn’t remember the last time her picture, or her name for that matter, had appeared in a social column. More and more, Maria seemed to find her amusement in short treks to Europe.

  “We could drive over to Granada,” she suggested.

  “Vamos,” Jorgé said rising from his desk before she had a chance to argue herself out of it.

  The black custom Mercedes with the darkly tinted bulletproof windows and panel separating the driver from the two passengers cruised through Cali towards the fashionable Granada district. Following closely on its tail, a Mercedes of similar appearance kept pace with the leading car. Maria fidgeted restlessly as she looked out the window at the hub of upscale boutiques and restauran
ts. Understanding the reason for her agitation, Jorgé tried to assuage her fears. “There’s no reason to be uptight, Maria,” he said quietly. “You’re perfectly safe. The bodyguards are right behind us. Dejar de preocuparse.”

  “Si, si, Lo sé, pero todavía, I know, but still.”

  Jorgé took her hand. She withdrew it, continuing to stare out the window. “I know it’s silly, but I have these recurring dreams that someone murders me. It’s always the same dream. I believe in those things, Jorgé. I don’t believe we dream for no reason. I think my dreams are a warning. I think Papa is trying to tell me something.”

  Maria’s belief that dreams held meaning was nothing knew to Jorgé. Although he wasn’t superstitious himself, so he couldn’t begin to relate. However, he knew it was pointless trying to talk her out of her paranoia. In any case, be believed Maria had every reason to be cautious. There was no imminent threat that he knew of, but she had stepped on too many toes for him to believe her fear of enemies was completely unfounded.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I was admiring your ability to micromanage everything,” he replied diverting her away from the subject.

  “Micromanage? Are you being facetious?”

  “Not at all.”

  Maria gave his statement close consideration. The only person in the world she trusted, she left the overseeing of her complex illicit, and legal business holdings to him. But when it came to actual trading, she preferred to keep an account of every dollar and kilo herself. It was the only way to avoid cheating on the part of the traffickers.

  “Since you’re accusing me of micromanaging,” she smiled thinly, “I’d like to know the status of our bid to buy the casino in San Andres.”

  “So far we haven’t got anywhere. I’ve upped the offer several times, but they won’t budge.”

  “I’m sure you’ll come up with a persuasive method of changing their minds,” she said checking her makeup as the cars pulled up in front of the restaurant. At the same time their driver opened their door, the car following theirs pulled up immediately behind them. Two men jumped out swiftly, straightening their jackets as they followed Jorgé and Maria to the entrance. Maria leaned toward Jorgé. “I’m a prisoner of my own making. Isn’t it ironic that all the money in the world can’t buy freedom?” she said in a hushed voice.

  They entered the restaurant, Jorgé brushing her waist as his eyes scanned the tables and the owner rushed over to them gushing solicitously, “Senora Echevarría, Senor Rojas, what a great pleasure to see you! Come this way please, I have a table for you.” The two men standing at a respectful distance caught his eye. “And I have a table for the señores also,” the manager said with immediate understanding. “Venga, please follow me.”

  Maria still created a stir wherever she went, as was happening now as she and Jorgé were escorted to their table with barely hidden deference by the owner of the fashionable establishment. Although the source of Maria’s vast fortune was widely known throughout Colombia, her wealth bought her a degree of tolerance, if not complete acceptance. It was rumored Jorgé Caicedo Rojas, her right hand man and business partner was her lover, though no one knew with certainty if there was any truth in it – except for their household staffs whose generous salaries, mixed with an element of fear, made discretion more than worth their while.

  Cali’s gossip mill was being treated to a feast as Maria and Jorgé studied their menus, Jorgé leaning close to her to whisper something they could only imagine, she smiling faintly and saying something in return. The two men at a table not too far from theirs, less relaxed in posture, watchful of the comings and goings of the patrons and staff. Maria finally looked up from her menu and with a twisted smile whispered, “Our esteemed island associate will soon be enjoying his last meal.” She clinked her glass against Jorgé’s. “Let’s wish him a final bon appetit.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  With summer finally gone and fall already in full swing, the air had a nip to it as Tony Martin, born Antonio Martinez in Bogota, Colombia, headed down 22nd Street in New York City to the tapas place nearby on 10th Avenue. He entered the small Spanish restaurant and took a quick look at the lunch menu scribbled on a blackboard before going in search of the person he was meeting.

  Alfonso was already seated, savoring a glass of good Spanish white. Martin pulled out a chair and sat. “Hola, Alfonso. Cómo estás? It’s been a while.”

  “Si, been a few years,” Alfonso acknowledged with an impassive face.

  A server appeared with two menus and placed them on the table. Before she had a chance to ask, Martin said, “Bring me whatever he’s drinking.” He was anxious to hear what the urgent meeting was about.

  “So, what’s going down Alfonso?” Martin asked as she disappeared.

  “We need you Tony. We need somebody good.”

  The answer came as no surprise. Martin knew Alfonso would only have flown in from Cali for one reason, a big job. The last time Martin had laid eyes on Alfonso, Martin had ended up in Mexico on a mission near to impossible. But he’d got the job done. He knew it was unrealistic, but he had hoped that that was the last of it.

  “I was kinda hoping I was off the hook after all these years,” he confided. “I’m getting old for this kind of thing. Just thought I could run my little business in peace until retirement, if you know what I mean.”

  Alfonso regarded Martin soberly. “I know what you mean. But guys like us are never off the hook. That will be the day. Besides, they need somebody who knows what they’re doing. These young pups today aren’t the same as pros like you.”

  He halted as he saw the server coming with Martin’s drink. When she had taken their orders and disappeared again, he continued in a lowered voice. “This one’s big, Antonio, some chief honcho.”

  “Chief honcho of what, a big set-up?”

  “Chief honcho of a whole country, my friend.”

  It took a few seconds for it to sink in. “Are you shitting me?” Martin said striving to keep his voice low. He gave a disbelieving half laugh. “Come on, man, is this some kind of joke? You can’t be serious!”

  “Es cierto.”

  “Where is this supposed to go down?” Martin asked incredulously.

  “Some island in the Caribbean.”

  “Listen amigo,” Martin said after a moment of stunned silence, “Enforcement I can deal with, but this is way beyond enforcement. Taking out presidents is not exactly my line of business.”

  “Think you need to consider making it your line of business, Tony. Face it, you owe them too much to say no. Nice brownstone in the city, your boy at Princeton, your girl at a private school, cash in the bank. They saved your ass when you were groveling in the gutter. They’re never going to forget that, even if you have.”

  It was a barely hidden threat. A pulse throbbed in Martin’s jaw. It was no secret the cartel kept close tabs on the next of kin of certain employees.

  “Look at it this way,” Alfonso said leaning forward. “You’ll have your girl’s college tuition paid for and then some. Not that I’m saying it’s going to happen, but if anything goes wrong, you know they’ll take care of your family. As for the contract, it’s the same as any other job, maybe even easier. Things in the islands aren’t like they are here. They’re kinda laid back. It’s just a matter of scoping out the turf and going from there. It’s not like they’re asking you go after the man in the White House, my friend.” He paused to take a sip of wine. “The target’s called the prime minister by the way, not the president.

  Martin glowered at him.

  “Just so you have your facts straight, Tony.”

  “President, prime minister, same thing,” Martin growled. “What time frame are we talking about?”

  “Two weeks, three at the outside.”

  “That’s not much time to prepare for something that big. What’s the rush?”

  “My guess is as good as yours. But a contract like this? I’ll say no more.”

&nbs
p; They broke off their conversation as the server came back with their orders. Martin waited until she was again out of earshot to say what was on his mind. “They’re asking me to operate in unknown territory – in an impossible time frame. I have to do my homework if I’m to be effective. Esto es una locura.”

  Alfonso dug into his croqueta. “Maybe so, but if anybody can swing it, it’s you, Tony.”

  Martin swirled a sip of wine around his tongue thinking. He didn’t like being unprepared. He always made sure to be prepared. Even at that, things could go wrong. He remembered a time in Miami when he’d taken out a mid-level trafficker walking from his front door to get the morning paper. The guy had been a relative nothing, yet Martin had to scope out his house for weeks, keeping track of his daily movements. Morning turned out to be the best shot, except it also turned out to be a near disaster. The kid on the bicycle came out of nowhere. Martin had timed it for when the elementary school in the neighborhood had already started, so the kid must have been late for school or something. He’d used a silencer, so the kid didn’t hear anything. But the kid saw the guy fall. He kept on riding as if he was being chased by the devil himself. Martin had fled the scene before anyone discovered the body, but it was a close call. He just hoped the kid hadn’t realized he had witnessed a murder. That would have been bad. Martin’s kid was around the same age at that time. He wouldn’t have wanted his son seeing something like that.

  “Try one of these,” Alfonso offered, taking Martin away from his thoughts.

  Martin put down his tapa and helped himself to a croqueta. “Got anything I can use?” he asked through a full mouth.

  Alfonso shoved a newspaper clipping across the table. “Only this.”

  Martin studied the photograph of Erick Freeman and took note of his name. “It’s not much, but guess it’s better than nothing. I’ll check him out on the Net. Got to be stuff about him on the Net. What are the arrangements?”