by J. P. Lane
“We’ll take care of everything – flights, hotel, rental car.”
“Who do I get my documents from?”
“Check with Miguel. He’ll have them ready. He’ll have a credit card for you too. How soon can you leave?”
“Guess Friday. Just understand I’ll probably need to be there for at least two weeks before,” Martin cautioned.
“Your ticket will be open so you can leave and return anytime you want. Know a guy named Smith, a gringo from Miami?”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell. What’s his deal?”
“He used to live on the island. Knows the place well. He’s figured out all the possible scenarios, so that’s some help. Your weapon will be flown in by special delivery.”
“How the hell would they know what I’m comfortable using?” Martin asked irritably.
“Tell me what you want, Tony. Anything you want.”
“There’s a little sniper pistol that will probably do the job – the Thompson-Center Arms Contender. Should be okay, as long as the target isn’t too far away. Know it?”
“You know guns aren’t my thing, Tony. I’m just a management guy.”
“This thing can take down anything from a rabbit to an elephant, depending on the stock configuration,” Martin said, ignoring him. “It’s nice and discreet, but it’s got a three hundred yard range. I figure a pistol is best, in case I have to dump the weapon and run. Don’t want to be scrambling around trying to figure out how to get rid of a weapon when the shit hits the fan. How am I getting the weapon? You expecting me to make the pick up?”
“Smith will get it to you.” Alfonso pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Martin. “Here’s Smith’s cell number. I’ve written down the name of the hotel where he’ll be staying, just in case you need it. He’ll know where you are. I’ll need to get a cell number where he can reach you while you’re there.”
Martin shoved the paper into his shirt pocket. “Alfonso, come clean with me. What the hell is going on? A head of a country is pretty serious stuff, island or no. Every law enforcement agency will be all over this.”
Alfonso wiped his mouth with his napkin. He gave Martin a mirthless smile. “Antonio, want to know what I think? It’s better you don’t know nothing. Trust me when I say that. If you get caught, and pray God that doesn’t happen, you’ll have nothing to tell. Because if you ever talk, hell is better than what you’ll have to face.” He took another bite of his croqueta. “I wish you luck from the bottom of my heart, amigo. Let’s hope this is the last time you pay the piper. You’re right, we’re getting too old for this crap.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The house with the beautiful terraced garden seemed unusually quiet for that time of evening as Lauren arrived, entering by way of the unlocked front door. “Is anybody home?” she called as, following the aroma of cooking, she crossed the living area and made straight for the kitchen. She found Sylvia, Margaret Thomas’ culinary genius, cutting up vegetables at the counter.
“Hi, Sylvia, where’s my aunt?” Lauren asked walking over to the stove and quickly removing the lid from a pot that was on the verge of boiling over.
“I’m not sure, Miss Lauren, but I know she’s expecting you for dinner.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” Sylvia replied with a quick glance at Lauren.”
Lauren raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? I didn’t know you knew how to make Yorkshire pudding, Sylvia.”
“Just give me a recipe and I can cook anything,” Sylvia chopped away.
“Let me go find my aunt,” Lauren smiled and went in search of Margaret.
She wandered down the passage leading to the bedrooms, wondering where on earth everybody was. As she passed the master bedroom, she heard a shower going. She was about to open the door when, not knowing whether it was Margaret or Rich taking a shower, she decided against it.
Lauren frowned in puzzlement. Strange that neither of them was around when they were expecting her for dinner. Margaret was a stickler for punctuality. Perhaps Margaret was working in her office, Lauren mused as she headed toward the closed door at the end of the passage. She had gone but a few feet when the sound of Margaret’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
“I agree it’s becoming too dangerous. But I trust our mobiles are safe, at least until tomorrow,” Margaret was telling someone.
Quietly, Lauren drew closer to the door.
“He called from New York today then?” Margaret went on to ask after a long pause.
Lauren now realized Margaret was on the phone. With bated breath, she waited through another lull until Margaret spoke again.
“I know this has nothing to do with anything, but does he happen to know about that suspicion surrounding his brother-in-law’s shipping company?”
Her curiosity now fully piqued, Lauren drew as close as she dared.
This time Margaret said, “That he came from New York for our meeting says a lot about his commitment. I know he’s a very busy man.”
Lauren’s knees weakened. It was Logan Margaret had made reference to. Logan was involved in the very thing Margaret had kept so close to her chest! But no, it was not possible, Lauren argued in disbelief. They did not even know each other. But who else could it be? The person Margaret was talking about lived in New York, had a brother-in-law with a shipping company, and had just been on the island. If a shadow of doubt remained, it was quickly dispelled by her aunt’s next words.
“Yes, I’ll be hearing how London went shortly. I have no reason to believe all didn’t run smoothly at that end, so we can assume we’re set to go. Please communicate that to New York. And give him my best regards, would you?”
Margaret said nothing further. Except for the faint scraping of a chair against the wood floor, there was silence.
Lauren stood frozen to the floor. She knew she must go before her aunt opened the door and found her eavesdropping, but she could not find her feet. Time seemed to stand still and when it began to move forward again she found herself walking toward the living area in a daze. Logan and her aunt in cahoots? It didn’t seem possible. But it all added up – Logan’s presence on the island at the exact time she went to London, the check she delivered at Margaret’s request, the one she picked up. It was obvious arrangements had been made for him to be notified when the money had changed hands. What were they involved in? And did Logan know of her involvement? There was no way to find out.
Sickened, she went into the den and through herself on the sofa. Her aunt had used her. Margaret had played upon her affection to involve her in something that was most likely subversive. And Logan. Lauren winced at the thought he knew all along about the suspicion surrounding Indies Shipping. Now, she had strong doubts his interest in the McGuire case had been genuine. He had been toying with her, stringing her along, but to what purpose? She buried her head in her hands, wondering how on earth she would get through dinner and her meeting with Margaret to report on her London trip.
“So there you are!”
Lauren raised her head. Margaret was standing in the doorway smiling at her affectionately.
“Sylvia told me you were here. Sorry I kept you waiting. I was just finishing off something urgent. Hungry?”
Lauren’s voice stuck in her throat.
Margaret’s smile faded into a troubled look. She went over to Lauren and took her hands in hers. They were as cold as ice. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look if you’ve seen a ghost.”
TWENTY-SIX
Following on the heels of the Prime Minister’s personal assistant, the Minister of National Security and Defense made his way to Erick Freeman’s private office on the first floor of the official residence of the Prime Minister. In what had become somewhat of a ritual during his visits to the residence, Sterling ranted inwardly about the demise of the old plantation great house. The meticulously laid black and white Victorian era tiles on the verandah
were long gone, having been replaced with run of the mill Italian marble. The old brass doorknocker with an early Victoriana head had vanished, probably into some garbage heap when the place was renovated. What had been touted as vast improvements to the property when the government took it over after the island became independent, were to Sterling’s mind nothing short of an unforgivable crime against classic period architecture. The house, first built in 1694, had been among the island’s grandest in the late eighteen hundreds. At that time, it had sat enthroned on an estate of one hundred and thirty acres. Walking briskly behind the Prime Minister’s assistant as her heels clicked across a spotless floor, Sterling set his irritation aside and addressed the business at hand. He knew his news would not be well received, no matter how delicately it was couched.
Erick Freeman, yet to be apprised of the disappointing tidings, nodded pleasantly as Sterling entered his office. “Have a seat, Frank.” Before Sterling had a chance to sit Freeman asked, “So tell me what’s so urgent?”
Sterling decided to get straight to the point. “It’s a no go,” he said flatly.
“A no go? What exactly are you saying?”
“Fifty percent isn’t going to cut it. Rojas said the lady went ballistic when she heard that’s what we want.”
The Prime Minister exploded. “She went ballistic, uh? That ungrateful bitch should be kissing my ass. Where else does she think she’s going to get such a sweet deal? Let her sweat moving one hundred tons of cocaine across the Mexican border if she thinks fifty percent is unacceptable! Besides, why is she balking at this stage of the game? Two shipments – half the bloody deal – have already gone through! I’m not budging. Tell her she can take it or leave it.”
“Erick, I think it would be wise to negotiate. Give her a little wiggle room. She may find even ten percent less more acceptable. “Besides, I have a bad feeling about that Echevarría woman. From what I’ve heard about her, she’s not a lady to be crossed.”
“You have a feeling?” the Prime Minister snorted disparagingly. “You know, Frank, you’re beginning to sound like my wife. What’s the basis for your feeling?”
Sterling gave Freeman a long stare. “Just sharing my opinion, Erick,” he said coldly. “As you just said, take it or leave it.” He waited for the Prime Minister to simmer down before moving on to the next subject. “There’s something else we need to discuss.”
“What? More bad news?” Freeman snapped sarcastically.
Ignoring him, Sterling went on to say, “I had a talk with Matthews about that unfortunate incident with the detective.”
“You better believe that was unfortunate. The media have been on it like vultures on a carcass. Who did you talk with, Gordon?”
“No, Dan. As I’ve explained before, Gordon has no hands-on involvement in this.”
“What did Dan have to say for himself?”
“Some goon at the dock took it upon himself to kill the C.I.D. man. Dan was informed he was snooping around and gave instructions for his man on the dock to take care of it. No explicit order was made by Dan.”
Freeman laced his fingers under his chin. His eyes became deadly. “Our Matthews partners better tighten up their operation. We can’t afford to have the country littered with dead bodies.”
Sterling repressed the urge to laugh at the ludicrousness of the statement considering everything. At Freeman’s order, several people had been disposed of, for no other reason than they had not toed Freeman’s difficult to define line. Noticing Sterling’s expression of disdain, Freeman became defensive. “I know you think I sometimes go too far, but it’s the only way to ensure business is carried out efficiently. As I’ve said time and time again, we can’t have the operation put at risk by a careless slip. I have a personal relationship with the Matthews brothers, so I’ll let the matter of the detective slide. But there won’t be another time, friendship or no friendship. Which brings me to another subject. Something needs to be done about Allan Harvey and company. I want them out of the way. They’re crazy enough to launch an investigation if anybody catches wind of The Board. It won’t be long before that happens. We’re living on borrowed time.”
Sterling’s face darkened. “And I’ve told you time and time again, that’s insanity. I refuse to be part of such madness. What is it you’re really after, Erick? If it’s money, we’re making millions. So is it power you want? If it is, power can be bought. Certainly that’s less messy than murder. Is there anything else you want to discuss before I leave?”
Freeman stared at the minister in shock. “Yes, there’s one other thing,” he replied haltingly. “Has the C.I.D. got to the bottom of that McGuire thing yet?”
“Last thing I heard there were no suspects,” Sterling said getting up to leave. “But it should keep Palmer busy for a while. Anything that keeps him away from the port is a blessing, because threats don’t seem to have any effect on the man.” He looked back at Freeman before closing the door behind him, “If there’s one thing I abhor, it’s a good Samaritan.”
Sterling saw himself out and hurried down the wide marble steps to his waiting car with one thought in mind. Freeman had to be eliminated immediately. But how, Sterling wondered as he mulled over the unpalatable arrangement he found himself trapped in. He had become no better than the lackey of a complete sociopath, a megalomaniac who was about to take the operation, not to mention his partners, down the tubes. The whole business had become an unholy mess.
Hardly conscious of his driver opening the door for him, he got into his car, his mind working a mile a minute. Perhaps he could make a tentative approach to the Cali people, he decided; put out feelers and see how receptive they were to him taking over. He felt reasonably confident that with Maria Echevarría seething with rage over Freeman’s demands, the time was ripe for a shift in power.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Barely audible above the sound of the landing gears, the captain’s voice drifted through the aircraft cabin in recitation of the standard drill on arrival. “It is now 1:40 p.m. local time and the temperature is a beautiful eighty degrees with clear skies and a mild westerly wind of five miles per hour. Enjoy your stay on the island and thank you for flying American Airlines.”
Tony Martin gazed out the window of the Boeing 737 at a shoreline washed by shades of brilliant turquoise as the Caribbean lapped lazily up to the green land rising into hills. Eyes fixed on a hairline of white he at once recognized as a beach, Martin went through his carefully choreographed plan again. He would pick up a rental at the airport under the name shown in one of the two passports he carried. Next he would check into an all-inclusive resort where he had a reservation for two weeks. He would sleep there that night. The following morning he would drive into the capital and check into a hotel there under another name. In the unlikely event the authorities ever had reason to check, from all appearances Martin would be another tourist spending two weeks at a beach resort one hundred miles from the scene of the assassination. Martin snapped open his briefcase and pulled out one of two the passports in the pocket. The driver’s license he would need immediately was already safely in his wallet. As far as his travel plans went, all bases were covered. He was prepared. He shut the briefcase as the Boeing 737 engines screamed in reverse thrust and the plane glided down the runway.
It was the night before Martin’s arrival when Smith, checking his rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t being followed, turned onto a narrow dirt road in a remote part of the countryside not far from the international airport where the American Boeing 737 now taxied toward the terminal on a runway shimmering in the early afternoon heat. Smith followed the road to its end and turned right, driving for a few more miles until he pulled into the rutted road leading to where the landing strip was located. Smith extinguished his headlights and waited a few minutes to be on the safe side. There was nothing but sugarcane fields for miles around, but it was better to err on the side of caution.
Sure the coast was clear, Smith got out of the car and started
searching for the entrance to the strip. He knew it was risky to turn on his torch, though it was so dark visibility was near zero. He made his way cautiously along the perimeter of the field, peering into the thick darkness until he found the drive and followed it to the strip. The strip was well hidden, the only hint of its presence being the telltale flat area surrounded by sugarcane now at harvest height. Smith walked to the top of the strip and waited.
A mosquito whined nearby then landed on its mark. Smith swatted it from his neck and continued to wait. He started thinking again. Special delivery of a weapon by plane. A request for information on the comings and goings of the head of state. To Smith’s mind, that added up to one thing only. If it was what he thought it was, this was no ordinary drug war going down. Something big was about to shake up this island. He laughed to himself. What was the saying? Ignorance is bliss? He thought about the visitors sheltered in all-inclusive havens, splashing in the swimming-pool clear sea before showering and changing for a cocktail at sunset. Smith knew the routine. A few drinks on the house followed by a visit to buffet tables laden with more than anyone could hope to consume at one go. A mile down the road there were people going hungry. Not that a visitor had to make that their business. There was no need to bust your ass to earn enough for a week of lazing on a beach and end up getting depressed. That aside, one thing he knew, this was no revolution about to take place.
A sound coming from the north jerked him back to the present. He looked up. There it was, though it was still only a shadow of a dot against the ink-black sky. Smith watched as it approached. He felt nothing but admiration for those guys who landed in the middle of nowhere without runway lights to guide them in. He switched on his torch and began to signal. The Cessna swooped down towards him and landed on the grass strip, bumping along for a few yards before it stopped feet from him.
