by Moulton, CD
Clint nodded. “Have you found anyone they spent time with here?”
“The Thomases. From Australia. They said they’d been on the same flight from Sydney to Panamá. Had been surfing in Australia. Some kind of deal where they surf in all the better places or something. Those two at the table by the bar.”
Clint went over to introduce himself and ask about the victims. They didn’t know much. The Germans didn’t seem to know enough about surfing to be in the world tour part. They were more like recent learners who had big delusions about being great at the sport. They weren’t.
“Did you notice what’s been said about their accents?” Clint asked.
“Their English or Spanish accents?” Harold asked.
“English.”
“They didn’t seem to have much of an accent at all,” Millie answered. “We complemented them on it. They said they’d spent some time in Hawaii and in the Bahamas and had always tried to speak as much like the natives as possible.”
They chatted a few minutes. Clint checked the register and noted two other couples from Germany. He looked up the Moltkes to ask if they knew their deceased countrymen. Did they seem afraid of anyone?
“We spoke once,” Karl replied. “They were raised in Asia so didn’t have a good command of German. Spoke more like an Englishman. Accent was ... odd. His was better than hers.”
“They weren’t related?”
“I couldn’t say,” he replied, then looked thoughtful. “Raised together from a very early age. Very early. Then travel the world together? Odd, I’d suggest.”
“A bit too,” Clint agreed.
The other couple didn’t know them. They did note that the two seemed rather amateurish on the boards. Like wannabes. Maybe on sand beaches or whatever. Definitely not reef surfers. Wonder they hadn’t ended up in casts like so many of the type here. The man seemed to have been a bartender or something at some time. Told the hotel girl how to make several fancy drinks.
Clint looked around the pool. The only way in or out was the lobby except for the maintenance room with its gate to the outside. He checked the area and went through the maintenance room. He found some strange things – like a towel that smelled like chloroform. Like damp lines where someone carried something dripping through to the gate.
The hotel van was just outside. The floormat was wet in the cargo compartment behind the seats.
Basilio said they’d checked his ATM account and found he had more than six hundred thousand Euros in it, plus another account with more than a million dollars. Also, their rooms had been searched. Semi-professionally. Their gear was in the storage and would be taken to the station. Just boards and some snorkeling equipment and a little bit of scuba gear, though they weren’t certified.
He told Basilio what he’d found, then took the regular bus back to Bocas Town. Wil would be watched. He’d seen Clint checking the van and would know he was as good as caught. He’d run.
“He’s staying at the San Francisco in Almirante and is trying to blend,” Basilio reported. “He’s dyed his hair dark and is wearing a phony moustache and sideburns. He’s got some ID in the name of George Williams from Puerto Armuelles. I had the locals check on him when he used it to check in.
“What’s it about? The passports are being checked through the computers. They’re pretty much in order.”
“What places besides Germany, Australia and here are stamped?” Clint asked.
“France, the US – through Chicago – Australia, Holland, Japan, Hong Kong, Costa Rica and here.”
“They have surfing in Holland and Chicago?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So. Are they from Australia or the states? They’re not from Germany. Their German stinks.
“What were they into? Why were they on some kind of witness protection plan?”
“I see we think much alike.”
“I don’t think ... not with the plastic surgery. You know something? I don’t think they were on any protection plan. It’s something else. We have to ... can you use the net to check on fingerprints in local areas without going through the passport?”
“Yes. We can check all the major cities’ individual data-bases. What things will be there that the passport offices wouldn’t check?”
“Something was said about ... bar help has to be printed in most states. Maybe try that area first, then things like various misdemeanor charges when the information wouldn’t go on the larger databases until conviction of felonies.”
Basilio agreed and went to contact Panamá City to have the search done. It would take a day or two. Clint said to find out just who Wil was and where he was from – and how long he had worked at the hotel.
“Only about two and a half weeks – just after Graf made the reservations and before he arrived.”
Clint went home and went fishing. He and Judi went to Bastimentos to a party the next night. He lazed around most of the next day.
“Wil or whatever is a hanger-on around those kinds of places for several years. He’s from Brazil,” Basilio reported. “There’s a suspicion he’s been tied up with the Ruskies in Panamá – but unconfirmed – which means he is. If he wasn’t it would be he isn’t, not unconfirmed. Gretta was Dana Burts from New York, six years in DC, then a year in San Francisco, then disappeared, believed dead. Went out on a boat that never came back. She was working in some kind of CIA office as a general secretary or clerk. She’d worked in a bar in DC until she landed the CIA job so her prints were on file in the alcohol control bureau.
“Hans simply doesn’t exist before six months ago. His passport seems to have a number code that it was issued then, but it could be a renewal. Yeah, right.”
“Russian. Can you check anything in Russia? Maybe he was in Germany at some time or other. His German was better than hers, according to the Thomases. Maybe the odd flavor was because of a Russian accent added to the German/English thing.”
“I thought of that. Wil being tied to Ruskies made me consider it. It’s being checked through old KGB records. We can get some information from them.”
Clint nodded and asked if Wil had been arrested yet.
“Not unless he tries to leave Almirante, but he thinks we don’t know about him being there. We want something solid.”
“I think we’ll have that soon,” Clint promised.
“Hans is Harklo Grudinev from Minsk. Born there and worked in a secret lab of some sort,” Basilio reported next day. “The new government wants to ask him a question or two about a thing or ten. I told them he’s dead. They said it might have been the easy way out for him.
“What’s your take on it now?”
“Just speculation, but I’d say she worked at the CIA and got her hands on some stuff for him – maybe just seeing how hot the water was getting. It started getting really hot so they took off. He had a lot of cash. Do the surf bum bit, get surgery and hope he could survive to a ripe old age.
“Now I have to wonder what he knew or had that they wanted back REAALLLYYY bad! I have to wonder if they got it.
“Basilio! Do you still have their surf gear? Wasn’t there something there that didn’t quite seem to fit?”
“It’s here. We can go to property and check it out. What?”
“Scuba gear and no certification. What kind did they have?”
“Two oxygen tanks, some flippers, a speargun, masks, weights. There were no mouth.... So!”
They headed for the property room.
“There’s nothing here!” Basilio declared after a search. “It’s just scuba gear.”
“What? No regulator? No mouthpiece?” Clint argued. He turned the valve on a tank and got the hiss of escaping gas. On the other he got nothing.
He checked the tank carefully and shrugged. It was just an empty tank.
“So it’s in the other,” Basilio agreed before Clint could say it. “Anyone would logically look for the stuff in an empty tank.”
Clint grinned. “It’s just an oxygen tank.” He pic
ked up a weight band.
“Little heavy for lead, wouldn’t you say?”
Basilio hefted the band and shrugged.
Clint unsnapped the weights and hefted each one. They were all the same. “Get a geiger counter in here. I think we’ve found some pretty dangerous stuff!” he ordered.
They had to have one sent from Panamá City. Clint said, “Crap!” and took the box of weights to the desk to check them out. Basilio looked questioning at him, but didn’t say anything. He said to get the weights to the doctor. His x-ray equipment had detectors.
He didn’t have an x-ray machine there. Neither did the hospital. Clint swore, then grinned and headed for the dentist – who did have one in his Almirante office. They took the water taxi to Almirante and to the office where there was some excess radiation detected, but not too dangerously high.
Clint took his pocket knife and began to cut into the lead. The detector got stronger and stronger as he peeled the lead off a small spot until the dentist said to stop. It was getting to dangerous levels. Clint had peeled only a little of the lead.
“God! I’ll bet it’s plutonium!” Basilio cried.
“I ain’t taking THAT bet!” Clint returned. “Let’s get this stuff on the way to Panamá City and go arrest friend Wil for murder most foul.”
They did.
“I don’t understand this! I didn’t do anything!” Wil protested.
“I see. So you use a second false ID and change your appearance to hide here in Almirante?” Basilio asked.
“I knew you would think I had something to do with it so I came here!”
“With false ID and a disguise,” Clint pointed out. “Also, you were the only one in the pool area at night. There was the towel with chloroform on it and the van you used to carry the bodies with only your prints on the steering wheel and the rear door. It will be easier if you tell us who hired you to hit them.
“By the way, the radioactives were in the lead scuba weights. They would have been detected anywhere else.”
Wil groaned and said they couldn’t do anything half as bad to him as the ones who sent him could.
“I’ll make a deal,” Clint suggested. “Give me a name and I’ll get you off the rap.”
“You’ll what?!” Basilio cried.
“They were foreign agents carrying deadly weapons of mass destruction illegally into this country. I can make it seem he should get a medal! Supposing something happened that broke one of those weights and there were people around? Not to mention the contamination of the close area. There was an inch of lead around the stuff and it still got into the dangerous range!
“Or I can say you were in a conspiracy to get the stuff to threaten this and other countries.”
“They’ll know!” Wil insisted.
“We can make it look like we’re going after you, no bars, because you knew about it and were almost certainly going to sell it to terrorists, but you are in bad shape and won’t break. After we know something you’ll end up dying on us and we’ll dump your slimy ass somewhere where it will sicken the crabs and fish. Somebody who looks like you will move to San Jose, Costa Rica (he nodded at the shadow on the blinds into the room). Somebody a lot like Pedro Gonzales from Mexico. Your choice.”
He thought for a couple of minutes, then said, “If ... I can ... if you ... okay. You give me your word. Faraday, not the cop. Everybody says your word is your life.”
“You got it!” Clint promised.
“Miklo Sarnoff.”
“WHO?!?” Basilio cried.
“I’d figured about that. He’s the only one with the connections. He’s got a good front with all the pawn shops and loan companies to explain a few million here and there. I also have a friend or two who keep tabs on that bunch.”
“Ah! Marko!” Basilio agreed.
“He mentioned that Sarnoff was into a lot more than the semi-legit crap months ago. Okay. There ‘s a watcher here almost certainly (he nodded at the window that didn’t have a shadow anymore). You’re going out of here a bit worse for wear. Ham it up a bit, but not too much.”
Wil nodded. Clint took some mascara pencil and made a few bruises on his face and neck while Basilio knocked some furniture around and swore. Wil screamed once and yelled a few times. Clint thumped Wil’s nose with his thumb and made it bleed enough to smear a bit around his face and onto his shirt. He and Basilio drug him out and to a cell, swearing at him and threatening to make today look like a beach party if he didn’t “cooperate” with them. Think about it! They left him for awhile, then came back to “transport” him to Bocas Town. They headed out in the police boat, dropped him off on Isla San Cristóbal where Manny (Marko) would get him away with phony ID to Medelin, Colombia, not San Jose, Costa Rica. If the watcher heard anything they “accidentally” said about San Jose they would wait for him there on the off-chance it was what it was.
Now Clint had to go back to Panamá City to talk with Sarnoff. Bummer!
Well, that’s part of being a hotshot detective from the states. Grin and bear it.
“Grudinev was a very dangerous person,” Sarnoff said, fixing Clint with a hard icy st
are. “I am aware of the reputation of many Russians here – and some part is true. You should learn all of the facts before you make accusations, though you may have ample reason for your assumptions in this case.
“I assure you, Mr. Faraday, that what happened was for the better of all. I, despite what you may think, love this country. People like Grudinev would make it the hell of the far east here. My intention was to eliminate him – I did that and will freely boast of it – and return his stolen weapons to the facility in Minsk to have it properly disposed of.
“Mr. Faraday, I have any number of what you call ‘scams’ in operation here. I make a very lot of money from them and apologize to no one for it. It is what I know. I try honestly to not see harm to those not involved with open eyes. My scams work because people are greedy and dishonest. It is like the things on the internet where they are told they can get a lot of money by cooperating with a dishonest scheme. I think you will check and find I also do many good things with this ill-earned gains. I have many students in the universities who could never hope to be able to have an education without help. I have imported much modern medical equipment. It is not for or from the drug cartels for use of their families who cannot go to hospitals in Colombia for fear of the ... many things. It is for the people here. They are mostly-in-all very good people of excellent character here.
“Yes, Panamá City is corrupt and ridden with too much crime. That is true of big cities anywhere in the world today, much to my sadness.
“We are all not bad Russians. It is from a different standard and there are too many who are bad. The old KGB people know nothing but fear and intimidation to the point they seem crazy to others. Some to even me, who knows why they are as they are.
“I promise you, I was only to send the product back to Minsk and to eliminate the dangerous person.”
Clint nodded. “A friend said he was somewhat puzzled by you. You seemed a good person in a bad guise. You had to use the reputation of your countrymen here to hope to accomplish anything with real meaning. He looked at his past life and decided it was wasted and for nothing. Greed is never satisfied.
“Panamá seems to have that effect on quite a few of us.”
“Ah! ‘Us!’ You are one who asked what it is for to get things and money and power to hoard and found there is no satisfying answer in that,” he said, smiling broadly. “And yes, this country will do that to some.
“When you are back in Bocas you may tell Marko that perhaps I am not all bad, yes?”
“Marko? In Bocas? It’s probably a good thing some people believe he’s there. It makes him and his family safer.”
“So I tried!” he replied, laughing. “It is true. The family thing also makes one think. I have a family I want to be proud to say what their old dad did. What I ... was, they must never be. They must be able to hold
high their heads in pride for what the old dad was able to do.
“Clint, if I may, I like you. You are a what you call hardass private dick who is actually a good person inside. You cannot hide that from me!”
“Of course. Try as I might, I can’t help but like you, too, Miklo.”
“Ah! So call me Mick, like all my American friends do. Would you like some vodka and orange juice? Or whatever. It is real vodka, made from potatoes, not this grain garbage everyone calls vodka today.”
“That sounds great! Do you get in any fishing?”
“Would that I could! I can’t go anywhere without so many trying to be there so ... well. I just wish!”
“You have to come to Bocas. Sneak away and bring the family. I have a friend you would like to meet who has a nice boat. We can go after lobster and fish or just lay around doing nothing.”
“I just might do that!” he replied. “It would be what you call a real hoot!”
“A ‘real hoot?’ Nobody’s said that for decades!”
Mike gave him the finger and another broad smile – And the most delicious vodka and orange juice he’d ever tasted.
Paradise Is That Way
“Hi, Judi-kins! Want to go down to the Zapatillas this morning?” Clint Faraday, retired PI, called from his deck over the water on Saigon Bay.
“Hah! Not if you’re going like that!” she called back and wagged a finger at him. He hadn’t put anything on yet. He laughed and said he was running down for the day to get in some lazing around. He’d probably run over to Dolfin Point to see Gaita, the local “Mad Madrilleno” and maybe his writer friend, Dave, who had a lot there or something, would be around. He wasn’t in Bocas last night.
“Sounds good! I’ll throw something in a bag for snacks. If Gaita’s entertaining we can con him into fixing something. He’s got to make the best paiella I’ve ever tasted – and I’ve tasted it in a lot of places. I’ll bring my snorkle and some tackle.”
Ben, the close gay friend of them both, was just coming to Judi’s front door, so Clint called to him to ask if he wanted to go. He did, and called back, “If you’re going like that I don’t think I can stand it. We can leave the bitch here!”
