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

by J. P. Lane

  Smith made a dash for the plane. The pilot opened the door, “Smeeth?”

  “Si,” Smith confirmed.

  “He aquí la entrega para usted.”

  Smith knew enough Spanish to understand that meant there was a delivery for him. He took the bag from the man and stepped back from the plane. After watching it take off, he hurried to his car.

  Martin placed his passport and driver’s license on the Avis check-in counter and waited until the representative prepared his contract and at last handed him his copy. He then followed the man outside to the parking lot where he went through the mandatory check for scratches and dings. Martin checked the cubby and pulled out a map as he got into the car. The route to his hotel was simple enough, and he had two choices. He decided to take the main thoroughfare through town rather than the coastal highway. Adjusting the AC, he drove cautiously out of the airport, gradually accustoming himself to driving on the left of the road.

  The main thoroughfare was what Martin would have expected – a restaurant here and there and store after store with window displays of souvenirs and duty-free merchandise. At one intersection, people spilled into the street at a point where the sidewalk had become too narrow to accommodate them. Martin nervously put his foot on the brake as a group of middle-aged jaywalkers, who appeared to be cruise passengers, meandered aimlessly across the street bringing traffic to a halt. Martin took a quick look at his map. The coastal highway that would take him directly to his hotel was only about a mile ahead.

  The bustle of the main drag soon gave way to hotels lining the shore. Martin occasionally caught a glimpse of their private beaches. Out on the water, a sailboat cruising along a reef, jet skis zooming across the surface. On the other side of the road, homes clinging to the hills and on the flat, the little that remained of what must have been a sugarcane plantation at one time. A street vendor standing near a rickety stall waved a wood carving at him as he drove by. Martin lowered his window and took a whiff of the breeze coming off the sea. After New York, the warmth felt good on his face. He looked at his watch. It was time to call Smith.

  “When are you planning on getting over here?” Smith asked.

  “Some time around noon tomorrow.”

  “Mid-afternoon sound good for us to meet?”

  “That will work. Where are we meeting?”

  “I’ll pick you up out front of your hotel at three.”

  “How will I recognize you?”

  “Loud print shirt, white hair, tan.” Smith laughed. “Sad to say that sums me up.”

  Martin disconnected. He could see the sign for his hotel not far away. He turned into the palm-lined drive and avoiding valet parking, went directly to the parking lot. The less anyone saw of the car the better. Suitcase in hand, he walked the short distance to the lobby and checked in. It had begun.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Martin watched keenly as the blue Toyota Camry pulled up in front of his hotel in New Towne, the financial hub of the capital city. He had no difficulty recognizing the driver from the description Smith had given of himself – skin tanned to a leathery brown, white hair, right down to the detail of a short sleeved shirt in the kind of tropical print favored by tourists who had abandoned their good taste for a flamboyant day or two. He hopped into the passenger seat beside Smith, surreptitiously sizing the big man up while he fastened his seat belt. “There’s a bar not too far from here where we can talk. Let’s go,” Smith said without preamble.

  “Got my piece?” Martin asked as they took off.

  “It’s in the trunk.”

  “There was no problem with the delivery then.”

  “Went without a hitch. Those guys are impressive. Never fails to amaze me how they can land in pitch black like that.”

  “What did they use for the delivery?”

  “Cessna.”

  Martin gazed out the car window, remarking, “Considering this is the capital city, there aren’t that many people out on the street.”

  “True, it’s not exactly New York. But they sure make up for lack of pedestrian traffic with cars.” Smith indicated the bumper-to-bumper traffic with a resigned wave of his hand. “The bar’s less than a mile away, but it will probably take at least ten minutes to get there. Wasn’t this crowded when I lived here.”

  “When was that?” Martin was interested to know.

  “’Bout eight years ago. Guess that’s long enough for things to change – and not for the better from all I’ve seen in the few days I’ve been here.”

  Smith slammed his foot down on the brake and honked irritably as a car dove in front of them almost causing him to hit the rear bumper.

  “Darn, and I thought the drivers in New York were crazy,” Martin flinched.

  Smith laughed. “New York is like driving in the country compared to this place.”

  It took, not ten minutes, but a nerve-wracking half hour of fighting through traffic to get to the bar. Smith parked under a tree at the far end of the paved parking lot, which did as much to soak up the heat as accommodate the vehicles. “I’m leaving the windows open a crack,” he told Martin. “Otherwise we’ll roast when we get back in the car.”

  “Sure it’s safe to do that?” Martin asked apprehensively.

  “Don’t worry,” Smith said putting Martin’s concern to rest. “The weapon will be safe. With people coming in and out of here nobody would stand a chance of getting into the car.”

  It was like night inside the bar, but welcomingly cool after the heat outside. His eyes gradually adjusting to the dimness, Martin studied the sprinkling of customers. There weren’t that many. But that was hardly surprising. The workday was not yet over.

  Smith pointed to a table in an empty corner. “Let’s sit over there,” he suggested.

  A bartender sauntered over to them as they sat.

  Smith ordered a local beer. On his recommendation, Martin ordered the same.

  “I found out something interesting,” Smith said after the bartender had left. “This could turn out to be easier than anybody thought. There’s a meeting of Parliament next week.”

  “Parliament?”

  “Well, it’s not Parliament per se. But the way it works is kind of like the British system.”

  Martin wasn’t sure he was up for a lecture in civics, but he heard Smith out as he went on to explain, “They call it the Houses of Legislature or something like that. Instead of the Houses of Lords and Commons like they have in England, they have a Senate and a Lower House of Representatives. There are two political parties. Your target is the head of the ruling party.”

  Impatient for Smith to get to the point, Martin cut in, “When’s this big meeting supposed to take place?”

  “Thought you would have wanted some background, man,” Smith complained with an injured look. “But to answer your question, Thursday, two o’ clock, right after lunch is when the meeting is.” He was about to say something more when their order arrived.

  “You’re not Irish,” Smith resumed as the bartender took off again, “But I would call this the luck of Riley.” He downed a thirsty gulp of his beer. “You couldn’t get a better shot if you said ten Our Fathers and twenty Hail Mary’s every day of your life. Only problem is there’s tight security around that building during those legislative sessions. Otherwise, anyone can just walk into the capital building and look around without any problem.”

  Martin mentally discarded the unnecessary information and addressed the pending issue, “Next Thursday doesn’t give me much time to scope the place out and get organized. Any way to bribe myself in there?” he asked.

  “Bribery is par for the course under normal circumstances. But in this case? Not a chance. Too risky. Something big like this goes down, you can’t risk creating a trail back to you.”

  “In case this doesn’t pan out, what are my other options?”

  “I’ve been scoping out his residence, but that’s out. No way to get past the security gate. The property is flanked on three sides by n
eighboring homes. It’s on a tree-lined avenue, mind you. Big Poinciana trees. But how you would get up in one of those trees without being seen is another story. A white man climbing a tree along the side of the road would definitely draw attention in this country.”

  “Sounds like a dead deal to me,” Martin muttered. “Though I would still like to see it for myself. What’s your schedule like today?”

  “I’m all yours. I can take you there any time.”

  They paid the bill and left. The interior of the car was like a furnace despite the windows having been left open a crack. Smith turned the AC up full blast and pulled a map from the cubby. He unfolded the map and placed it on the console between Martin and himself. Martin followed Smith’s fingers as they roved across the city pointing out key locations. “Here’s where your hotel is. Here is the subject’s residence. The big government building where his office is located is right here – not too far from the harbor. And here’s the capital building.” Martin studied the map for a minute before they took off.

  “What are his movements like?” Martin asked as Smith pulled up in front of a traffic light.

  “Same as any other head of state, I guess. Predictable, but at the same time unpredictable. You never know what these guys are doing from day to day. You’d have to have access to their calendars. It’s not like at home where the press gives the entire world the heads-up on every move of the President before he’s even had a chance to move. If the poor bastard gets a cold, that’s TV news for days.” Smith shook his head. “Sad state of affairs if you ask me.”

  They had now left the high-rises of New Towne behind and were entering what Martin quickly ascertained to be an upscale residential neighborhood. “Well, whoever lives around here isn’t hurting,” he observed.

  “That’s for sure. There are some filthy rich folks in this country let me tell you. And they live good. They have privileges only people in such a small place enjoy. Everybody in the high echelons knows everybody else, so all they have to do is say abracadabra and doors fly open for them like magic.”

  Martin’s mind quickly moved on to the matter which was of foremost concern to him. Smith may have thought he had the luck of the Irish, but it would take a lot more than luck to pull this off. He remembered when one time the Cali cartel had contracted with two British mercenaries to kill Pablo Escobar at his estate. Escobar’s estate had been virtually impenetrable, so they had mounted a sophisticated helicopter raid. As it turned out, that effort had turned into a disaster. One of the helicopters had crashed into a mountain. He, Antonio Martinez, had no intention of making any such stupid blunder. There could be no mistakes if his suspicion about where his order had come from was correct. He wondered if Smith knew anything.

  “You have any idea who’s behind this?” he asked Smith.

  Smith became uneasy. “I doubt I know any more than you,” he answered evasively.

  “Come, man, you have to have some thoughts.”

  “I don’t think it takes a rocket scientist to figure this one out,” Smith confided cagily. “You’re going after a head of state. That means your order had to have come from the top.”

  “I’ve been thinking it had to be her,” Martin admitted.

  “Has to be. From what I’ve heard of Rojas, he wouldn’t be part of something like this. They say he shies away from violence. They call Rojas the gentleman banker though I would guess he ain’t that much of a gentleman at heart. They say a few big honchos left the planet back when her daddy died and Rojas took it upon himself to be her protector.” Smith shrugged. “Maybe he got soft with age.”

  “Maybe so,” Martin said absently. The mountains had caught his attention. They were higher than any he had seen during his drive across the island earlier that day. “How high are those mountains?” he asked.

  “Probably as high or higher than the North Carolina Blue Ridge mountains. Over seven thousand feet for sure.”

  At that moment, Smith turned on to a long tree-lined avenue. At the end was an ornate wrought iron gate with a guardhouse. “This is it,” he said.

  They continued up the avenue, slowing to a crawl as they approached the gate and rounded a sharp right hand bend. Martin’s steel grey eyes swept past the guardhouse, across the treed grounds and up the drive to the wide marble steps ascending to a white two-story house. “Nice place. Pity our man won’t get to live there much longer.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Got five minutes, Peter?”

  “Sure, sure, what have you got there?” the editor mumbled distractedly as he switched his attention from the piece he was reading to Lauren who was standing at his door dangling a sheet of paper.

  Lauren handed him the brief news report despondently. “Thought you might want to take a look at this before the newsroom meeting.”

  Peter breezed through the two paragraphs on the page and looked up. “So they finally have a suspect. No arrest has been made I notice.”

  “I would assume they don’t have enough evidence,” Lauren said sitting wearily. “Though I can’t see one man killing five people on his own, can you? There has to have been others.”

  Peter looked at her thoughtfully. “You have a point. That would be hard to do by yourself on a boat that size with people all over the place.” He glanced at the report again. “I notice you don’t have the name of the suspect here.”

  “Unfortunately not. A name would have made a nice headline.”

  “No need to look as if the world has come to an end, Lauren. With the amount of public interest in this case, you’ve got a front page story anyway.”

  Lauren seemed on the verge of leaving when she hesitated. “Can I run something by you?” she asked.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “I’ve been giving this McGuire case a lot of thought. My guess is the C.I.D. isn’t releasing more than they have because they’re after bigger fish.”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed on her. “Okay, and?”

  “Let’s walk through this step by step. Cigarette boats, a seaplane – all seen near Fisherman’s Key around the same time. A boatload of innocent people slaughtered for no apparent reason. That equals drug drop. You agree?”

  “Go on,” Peter said in a noncommittal voice.

  “The question is where was the seaplane coming from? It had to be coming from somewhere else, or something out at sea. A ship transporting cocaine perhaps?”

  Lauren gave her theory time to sink in before continuing. “Obviously a seaplane wouldn’t have been in the picture if the cigarette boats were doing a short run from another island, or even Florida. My guess is part of a shipment was being loaded onto that seaplane. Which would tie right in with what Detective Wallace told me. I’m willing to bet my bottom dollar that whoever killed the people on the McGuire boat were in the process of looting a cocaine shipment coming in. If that’s correct, those looters were taking a huge risk. They couldn’t afford to be caught – by anyone.”

  Now, even Peter began to show signs of excitement. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes and lit one. “What you’re saying makes sense – except for one thing. Why wouldn’t the cigarette boats have made the pick-up directly from the ship? Why would a seaplane have been needed? Seems a bit complicated to me.”

  “Who knows?” Lauren shrugged. “The fact is a seaplane was around that day. I don’t think it was a coincidence.”

  “So what you’re basically saying is the McGuire boat caught a bunch of pirates red handed.”

  “Exactly. That’s why everyone on the Bertram was murdered. Dead people can’t talk.”

  “Did you ever get anything from the C.I.D. on the seaplane?” Peter asked handing the report back to her. “I notice there was nothing about it in your previous reports.”

  “Not a word about the seaplane,” Lauren frowned. “That’s why I believe they’re holding on to something they don’t want made public, at least not at this time.” “Peter,” she said carefully, “I understand your position, but I’m asking you to support m
e on this one. I know I can crack this. I just need to find out who the big fish are and cast my net.”

  “This is a newspaper, Lauren, not the Criminal Investigation Department,” Peter reminded her crushing out his cigarette. “No need for my top journalist to put her life on the line, as tempting as nailing a story this big may be.”

  The phone was ringing when Lauren got back to her desk. Hurriedly, she picked it up.

  “Hello, Lauren, it’s Logan. I’m glad I caught you.”

  Lauren’s heart stopped. Before she could catch her breath, he went on to say, “I called to let you know I read that article you did on me.”

  Lauren’s first thought was to tell him to go to hell, but she could not give the slightest hint that she knew anything of what was taking place. With great restraint, she said, “I’m glad you had a chance to read it. I hope it did you justice.”

  Oblivious to the chill in her voice, he replied, “It certainly did, I’m flattered.”

  There was an awkward pause. What followed would have forced Lauren to sit if she wasn’t already firmly planted in her chair.

  “I was wondering,” Logan ventured tentatively, “I was wondering how you would feel about coming and spending a few days in New York. I would come back to see you, but I’m strapped for time right now.”

  “Come to New York for a few days?” she sputtered in disbelief. Come to New York, just like that? In addition to being a deceitful jerk, he expects me to run off to New York at his beck and call? What does he take me for? He didn’t even have the courtesy to call and say goodbye before he left. But, reason argued, why should he have called? A few hours of scintillating conversation does not necessarily add up to friendship. But here he was calling, calling to invite her to New York at that. It could be for no other reason than he was genuinely interested in her. She had not misread the look in his eyes that morning at Vale Verde after all. Or maybe he mistook her for some trollop who would open her legs for him at the snap of his fingers! Where did he get off, she fumed as outrage at his presumptuousness won the inward battle.