by Vince Milam
“We’re merely curious,” she said. “The little incident with the Suriname president’s son. Allowing a terrorist group sanctuary—well, none of us want that, do we?”
“Lots of we’s, Nika.”
“Let’s just say we—you and I—may have common cause.”
Misdirection and fog. She’d move through the clandestine mist, and I’d fulfill my contract. Two different animals. There were overlaps, sure, but I’d move on after this assignment, without a scorecard. She played a different game. Zero-sum. A winner and a loser. Whatever her assignment here, the intent was to win. It made her a dangerous player.
A brief weariness descended over me. My jaundiced view of this, and all the geopolitical chess games, originated from not giving a damn anymore. These global endeavors ended, always, with uncertainty and trauma and death.
“From a strictly personal perspective, the whole regime-change strategy has given us some damn poor outcomes around the world,” I said, marker placed. I took a sip and watched the seated bartender nod in time to unheard music. “Your bosses may want to consider that.”
“An observer of affairs,” she said. “That’s my role. A precaution and little more. Regime change and all that would entail is, to use an American expression, above my pay grade.”
She chuckled, low and sultry. It didn’t cover her lie. The possibilities loomed large and sure. The Monroe Doctrine—US foreign policy since 1823—made it clear that any outside efforts to colonize land or interfere with states in North or South America would be viewed as acts of aggression, requiring US intervention. Cuba had been the key example, and damn near triggered a nuclear war during the sixties. When the USSR collapsed, so did Cuba, and the United States’ rapprochement with that Caribbean island brought the Western Hemisphere back under some semblance of US control. Other power players, using the guise of commercial interests, encroached—China and its commercial control of the Panama Canal, the most glaring example. But nothing on a military level—a major no-no for the DC crowd.
The appearance of Nika might have been a simple fact-finding mission, similar to mine. Or she could be supporting the insurgency right under the nose of the current Suriname power brokers. If the latter proved correct, then Russia would establish a new Western Hemisphere foothold. Shit would hit the fan, big-time. Saber rattles from the DC crowd, emergency meetings called, hands-on-hips posturing. Harrumph, harrumph.
I just didn’t give a damn. The power-player games had screwed up more people, killed more innocents, and resolved jack shit more times than I could count. This was a bit-player third-world country filled with former Africans, Javanese, and Hindi Indians—all brought by their former colonial masters, the Dutch. It defined messed-up. But they went about their days, lived life as best they knew how, and deserved better than the role of pawns on a chessboard. So screw it. I’d find answers, do my job, file a report with Global Resolutions in Switzerland, and return to the Ace of Spades.
I downed the last of my drink and stood. “Above my pay grade, too. I’ll be here a few days, talk with folks, report back, and head home. Nice chatting with you.” Her arena, her game, and hanging around raised the odds of a slip, a mistake on my part.
She let me take a few steps toward the bar’s exit before replying.
“There’s another option, John.”
I turned and captured a view that would make any strong man weak. The Nika train roared through the tunnel, and once again I stopped, stood, and considered. She perched on the barstool, legs crossed. The slit of her skirt exposed a high-jumper’s leg. Long hair fell across perfect shoulders. Her high, defined cheekbones accompanied a torrid-possibilities smile.
“While we may not be working together,” Nika said, pausing to stub out her smoke, “our situation doesn’t preclude recreating together.”
“What’d you have in mind? Golf?”
She laughed, deep, low. “I was thinking of a more horizontal activity.”
I stared at a black-widow spider, albeit a beautiful one. “Let me sleep on it. Have a good evening.”
The polished wood floor echoed my footsteps toward the hotel elevator.
Chapter 12
Automatic gunfire woke me. A semiregular third-world occurrence, and the appropriate response mechanism kicked in. Slide out of bed, crawl to the wall beneath the room window, safe from stray bullets. Bring a pillow. Stretch on the floor, wait it out. Stare at the ceiling. Ponder whether revolution was under way or a trigger-happy soldier had gotten drunk or the national soccer team had just won a major game, eliciting gunshots of celebration.
I contemplated my means of escape, preplanned. Standard operating procedure upon any arrival. I always kept it simple. Here, head to the docks, steal a boat, and get salty. French Guiana was a short distance to the east. The firing tapered off, and sleep returned, the hardwood floor cool.
Dawn and street silence greeted me outside the hotel. Paramaribo had the feel of a town on edge, awaiting an outcome. Murmurs of collected soldiers at street corners, sharing smokes. A nod in their direction as I passed brought no response other than cold stares.
The contact Jules had given me for acquisition of a weapon owned a ship chandlery—a store for anything marine. Rope, welding supplies, paint, fishing nets, turnbuckles, maps, pipe, electrical conduit—you name it. De Groot Marine occupied a spot at the end of Keizerstraat, on the dilapidated wharf above the roiled-coffee Suriname River. Wooden creosote piers jutted, occupied by fishing vessels and tramp steamers. Life on the docks began early, and several people were out and about on their vessels or meandered along the wharf. Smatterings of languages—Sranan, Dutch, English, Spanish—floated over the water. It had the look of a movie set, unorganized, the director not yet ready to film. It had the feel of a place where you’d best keep your back against the wall.
The bell over the door of De Groot Marine announced my entry. The sound prompted hurried activity far down one of the material-laden aisles. A wiry man wrestled with a chain-and-tarp-wrapped lump near an open trapdoor, far back in the bowels of the chandlery. With a final grunt, he shoved the substantial package through the opening. A muted splash returned from the deep river. The place smelled of weathered wood, mold, and cigarette smoke.
The man dropped the trapdoor with a bang, hitched his pants, and turned. He acknowledged me with a hooded focus. I returned the universal “I didn’t see anything” motion—a lift of my chin and tight smile. He nodded back, moved toward me, and wiped his hands on the seat of his pants. I’d come to the right place.
He was of indeterminate old age, bald except for random stubbles of white hair. His dark leathery skin indicated years of sun and salt. A plain white cotton T-shirt in need of a wash tucked into pants belted far too high. The cuffs, rolled up, exposed thin ankles above rubber tire sandals. His hands were large, powerful, and his eyes focused with intensity, returning no emotion.
“I need a special tool.”
My statement could have meant anything in the world of boats and ships, but the rubber-banded roll of Benjamins I laid on the counter specified, unspoken, the type of tool.
The door rang behind me, and a seaman of Javanese extraction wandered in holding a broken shackle. The proprietor of De Groot Marine scooped the roll of bills and pocketed them. He would provision my request; another tight nod my way. I studied marine charts pinned on the walls while the shackle transaction took place.
The Suriname River was over a mile wide at this location. Five miles from the Atlantic. It would make a fine naval base for any interested parties, protected from storms and deep enough to accommodate warships.
New shackle in hand, the seaman left. The proprietor followed him and locked the door. He didn’t bother glancing in my direction and disappeared into the long warehouse-like shop, accompanied by the shuffling of treaded sandals. A few minutes later, he returned and dropped a cheap plastic grocery bag on the counter with a clunk.
I removed the semiautomatic pistol—a small high-end Kimber .4
5—and checked the action, dry-fired it several times, confirmed functionality. All good. The bag also held twenty loose rounds of ammunition, and I inspected each one. Again, all good. The magazine held eight of the rounds. I pocketed the remaining bullets and chambered a round so it was ready for action. I tucked the weapon into the back of my jeans, hidden under the lightweight rain jacket. I was good to go.
I gave a final nod, he nodded back, and I left. Other than my initial request for a special tool, we had not exchanged a word.
Government functionaries require a waiting period before accepting an appointment. So I strode several blocks toward the Ministry of Economic Development, low clouds overhead. Dutch colonial architecture displayed across this section of Paramaribo. Clapboard two- and three-story buildings, painted bright white and topped with steep-pitched roofs of green or red. Each with rows of perfectly spaced small windows. Several had a series of ascending large porches across the front facade, the upper-story balconies supported with precise round columns. Tight, wooden, well architected. Very Dutch.
It began to sprinkle. I turned a corner and stepped back to the protection of a building when gunfire rang out. One or several of the soldiers stationed at a road intersection had clearly seen something they didn’t like. A perceived rebel soldier or wandering dog or old family enemy—it didn’t matter. Revolution was under way, and soldiers were on edge. An occasional potshot was to be expected. Chalk it up to nerves or the settling of old feuds.
I retreated to the front porch of the building, out of the rain, and waited for the weather and street corner soldiers to calm down. A nice lady opened the front door to ask me if I’d like coffee. She chose to speak English. Americans have a look, a countenance, an attitude identifiable for most folks around the world. The way we wear our jeans, our physical stance, the quick smile. My current cover showed a tourist or businessman or wayfarer, benign, with none of the macho Ray-Bans or strut. A nice guy, albeit a nice guy armed with special skills.
“Thanks. That would be great.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Just black, please.”
Minutes later, she joined me on the porch with two cups of coffee. She was middle-aged and of Asian Indian lineage, her ancestors likely brought by one of the Dutch East India Company outposts. She commented on the current situation.
“Bad times.”
“Seems like it. Thanks again for the coffee. And the roof.” The drizzle had turned into a tropical downpour and hammered the tin roof of the front porch.
“American?”
“Yes, ma’am. Here on business.” The flooding rain brought a thick, junglelike smell.
“I believe business may be poor for a while.” She sipped coffee and used her other hand to indicate the streets of Paramaribo. “We have troubles at the moment.”
“I may leave tomorrow and come back at a later date. How long do you think this will go on?”
Collecting information. A nice lady, a resident, would provide another perspective. Information shoved into the data bank and distilled.
“His Excellency, the president,” she said, smiling, “seldom allows such things to continue longer than a few weeks.” The tired mirth in her eyes indicated the lack of respect she had for the current president for life.
“What’s the deal with this Joseph Hoff?” Hoff, the rebel leader, controlled areas west of the Coppename River, sixty miles from Paramaribo. Little was known of the man other than a short stint in the Suriname army.
“Who can say? We all wonder who is supporting him and his efforts. Your country is on the top of the list.” She smiled again, offering no critique of the possibility that the United States backed the rebel insurgency.
Her statement came as no surprise. Large swaths of the world attributed any calamitous event, including inclement weather, to US efforts. Specifically, the CIA. It made for a good catchall boogeyman and fed conspiracies.
“I hope not. This stuff never ends well.”
Maybe we were behind Suriname’s troubles. His Excellency’s son, with his Hezbollah antics, had kicked the clandestine anthill. The current rebel insurgency brought out the big dogs. Enter the Russian connection. Nika. Maybe a fishing mission, similar to mine. It was hard to say. My job was to find answers. Global Resolutions of Switzerland expected no less.
“I would agree. Do you have family?” she asked.
One of the great divides between developed countries and the third world was personal interest. In the States or Europe, conversation swirled around jobs, economies, current events. In poorer portions of the world, family status was inquired of early. It always struck me as a nice touch, grounded.
“I do. Back in California. They’re doing well.” I lied about the location out of habit. “And you? Your family?”
She informed me of a son recently married to a girl that may not have lived up to her expectations. And two daughters who consumed a great deal of her time searching for acceptable spouses. And a husband who lacked the appropriate verve in this husband-finding endeavor, a major bone of contention. I loved it—real, personal, here and now.
The rain abated, became a drizzle, and no other shots had sounded during the coffee interlude. I thanked her again, we wished each other well, and I started again toward the Ministry of Economic Development to arrange a meeting with the minister, His Excellency Ravindu Tjon. Jules had identified him as a conduit of information. A conduit with a serious cocaine habit.
The small ministry building—three stories of white clapboard—was quiet. A young lady at the entrance counter greeted me with a smile.
“John Bolen. American businessman. I was wondering if it would be possible to set an appointment with His Excellency the minister for this afternoon.”
She asked me to wait while she “checked his calendar,” which consisted of gliding upstairs and presenting my request to Tjon. Several minutes later, she returned and said the minister would not be available.
“Tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid not.”
All righty, then. The minister of economic development, His Excellency Ravindu Tjon, wasn’t prepared for any dialogue with an American businessman. Easy to interpret the larger picture: Tjon hiding, aligned with somebody, told to keep his mouth shut. The details—who, what, how, where, when—I’d have to dig for.
I thanked the young lady and moved through the light rain, halting at each street corner. Pressed against the nearest wall, I glanced down the intersections to confirm no new gunfights. At several corners, members of the Suriname army watched my precautions, pointed, and laughed. All the better. A frightened American making his way somewhere. Not a threat and damn good cover. I smiled wanly at the clusters of soldiers after checking both streets, played the church mouse role to the hilt, and took solace knowing they wouldn’t be laughing if I meant them harm.
The US embassy stood a few blocks away, on Dr. Sophie Redmond Straat—one of Paramaribo’s main drags. The building was large and impressive, the ubiquitous high walls surrounding well-maintained grounds. Construction was under way for a new embassy several miles away. Why the hell we needed a new embassy here would remain one of life’s mysteries. The current one appeared functional, safe, and well situated. Odds were the State Department had excess funds a year or two ago. To protect their budget, they allocated money for a Suriname boondoggle.
A young man, local, occupied the entrance lobby. A marine guard stood nearby. I tossed a quiet “Oorah” his way. He cracked a return smile and nodded. I had come through the army before Delta Force but admired the tenacity and in-your-face attitude of our Marine Corps.
“May I leave a note for the agricultural liaison? Mr. Fletcher Hines?” I asked the local.
“Certainly, sir.”
The written request was short and sweet. Meet across the street. Café. Noon. Case Lee, Esq.
The Esquire bit signaled clandestine operations when used between American operators. Hines would search his CIA database and ascertain my backgroun
d and current world role. Then he’d shove aside any meetings he had scheduled and accommodate me. I asked the young man for an envelope, dropped the note inside, and sealed it. For the eyes of the agricultural liaison only.
Hines would be pissed. When someone of my ilk showed, unannounced, in his backyard, it wouldn’t foster a warm relationship. So be it.
The tropical drizzle continued as I made my way north for the next meeting with a prominent Dutch businessman. After handshakes and niceties, the two of us would lie to each other, glean information, two-step the dance floor. There was one large difference. He would seek an advantage, based on economic leverage. Money. I wasn’t burdened with that perspective.
Chapter 13
Luuk Hoebeek, owner and president of the Eerlijk Trading Company. Eerlijk—Dutch for honest, fair, aboveboard. We would see.
Jules had sold me his name and contact information. The best-connected Dutch businessman in Suriname. Owner of a trading company. You can’t get away from trading companies. Sprinkled around the world, the name is used as a catchall for activities too varied for a specific category of business. The Dutch, Chinese, and Lebanese tended to dominate the trade. The Dutch from the days of the Dutch East India Company. The Chinese from the days of the Silk Road. The Lebanese—spread everywhere—had been at it since the days of the Phoenicians. Hell, I wanted a trading company. Case Lee, Esq. President. Home office: the Ace of Spades.
Lush landscape surrounded Hoebeek’s understated office building. Bougainvillea, tropical foliage, manicured lawns. A large water feature—boulders and more tropical foliage—marked the entrance. The light rain had stopped, replaced with low clouds and a steam bath. I tugged at the rain jacket, avoided outlining the pistol. The thick air carried the scent of tropical blooms, bright and sweet.
The glass doors opened and hit me with cool AC, a welcome relief. A circular reception desk dominated the entrance rotunda, manned by a large and dour Creole receptionist-slash-guard. He registered zero emotion as I approached and asked to see Mr. Hoebeek.
