by Vince Milam
“You have an appointment?”
“Nope.”
We shared stares. The water feature gurgled outside the front doors. I tugged again at my light jacket and continued. “I’m an American businessman. I’m here to discuss business opportunities with Mr. Hoebeek.”
He returned a cold stare and stone-statue silence.
“Mr. Hoebeek will be very upset if he misses this opportunity. Upset with you, my friend. Not a good thing.”
The large man picked up the phone, pushed a quick-dial button, and glared at me while he spoke Dutch. His short conversation with Hoebeek provided access.
“Elevator. Third floor.”
We wouldn’t become bosom buddies anytime soon.
“Thanks, bud. Been a hoot chatting with you.”
Hoebeek occupied a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows, decorated with hand-carved furniture of local wood that would land you a jail sentence stateside. Jungle ebony, exotic mahogany—dark, rich, impressive. Native throw rugs adorned the polished wood floor. The largest rug had several golf balls scattered on it. A putter leaned against a chair.
The man himself stood and extended a hand. Tall, thin, with well-coifed sandy hair. The reading glasses perched on his nose lent an air of affability. And why not? He owned a trading company.
“John Bolen, Mr. Hoebeek. I appreciate you taking the time to see me without an appointment.”
Polished, suave, he gestured toward a large chair across from his desk. “I’m certain it’s my pleasure, Mr. Bolen. What may I do for you?”
His English was impeccable, the Dutch accent guttural. I’d bet good money he spoke a half dozen languages. That’s what trading companies do.
“Well, again, thanks. You must travel a lot, so I’m lucky to catch you in.” I didn’t have a clue whether he traveled a lot, but time to collect information.
“A part of my job, I’m afraid. All the travel.”
“I’m sure.”
I waited for elaboration. None came.
“I represent interests in Switzerland, Mr. Hoebeek.”
True enough, and a potent declaration. Whatever Hoebeek thought of the Swiss, he damn sure respected their handling of money.
“Yet it would appear you are American.”
Fair enough. He would do some collecting of his own.
“California. However, like you, our organization has interests worldwide.”
“I see.” His smile was pleasant, noncommittal.
“I don’t want to give any false impressions. Nor deal in hyperbole.”
“I appreciate that.” He adjusted some perceived flaw in the crease of his pants.
“My job is to investigate opportunities. Rather mundane, I’m afraid.”
“Due diligence is never mundane, Mr. Bolen.”
We nodded together—two businesspeople with respect for both opportunities and risk. Global citizens. Comrades in commerce. He asked if I’d like to remove my jacket. I declined.
“It’s a matter of stability, sir.”
Bona fides semi-established, we now entered the opaque world of feeling each other out. Hoebeek offered me something to drink. I politely declined and continued.
“We tend to focus on stability.”
“Your Swiss client.”
“Yes, sir. Clearly, we prefer engagement with a local partner of integrity and standing within Suriname’s business community. But prior to that, the issue—the due diligence—regards political stability.”
Trading company negotiations. Open-ended, cautionary, carrot-dangling.
“We’ve been through many changes, and regardless of the regime, business continues unaffected. I can assure you.” He removed his reading glasses for effect. “As for a trading partner, your client should know our experience in Suriname goes back fifty years, beginning with my father.”
Here sat a man as apolitical as they came. He’d play one side against the other, or play both sides concurrently with allegiances spread among the current power brokers and potential power brokers to come. I didn’t begrudge him this approach. It took strategic thinking and a set of balls. It also pitted him against anyone who might disrupt his personal apple cart.
Hoebeek sat back, crossed a leg above Italian shoes, and emanated benign confidence and stability. Calm, cool, collected.
“I’m sure the Eerlijk Trading Company has navigated rough waters in its time, sir. Which is why I’m here. Can you tell me anything about the current, um, troubles?”
“Ah, yes. The current troubles.” Spoken and presented as an afterthought. He’d salve my client’s Swiss angst. Troubles. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
“I have an obligation to my client.”
“Of course. Due diligence.”
“And you’re the best source in town, from what I understand. Certainly, the most respected.”
A massaged ego never hurt.
“Who can point to the reason for such actions? Disgruntlement over a perceived failure of the current regime? A grab for power, perhaps? The reasons and rationales are endless.”
“And this Joseph Hoff? The rebel leader. Can you tell me about him?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. Former military. As you Americans would say, a small fish.”
Luuk Hoebeek profited from stable times, but the big money came during change. It was the same the world over for those tapped into a fluid power structure. Not always a wholesale government change, but change in the culture, the business community. Change fostered opportunity. This guy would avoid and resist geopolitical change that led to total chaos. But he’d embrace a shift toward acquiring more power and money. A challenge, balanced on a razor’s edge, but Hoebeek clearly had the ability.
“Is someone pulling his strings?” I asked. “Sorry for the colloquialism. Is someone, or some foreign power, directing him? Funding him?”
Hoebeek chuckled and shifted his chair, viewed the panorama of Paramaribo through glass walls. “This is Suriname, Mr. Bolen. One seriously doubts this is a location for international intrigue.”
He’d had enough probing of local current events and began an inquiry regarding my business focus. A conversational quid pro quo. I lied about “infrastructure investments” and “natural resource extraction.” Hoebeek nodded and probed. We did the dance, polite and professional.
Then I spotted it. Of the several golf balls splayed near the man’s putter, one insignia was plainly visible. The other golf balls’ positions showed partial insignias, but one faced me, clear as day. It didn’t say Titleist or Nike or Calloway. IDEX was stamped on it, black, with a small red flag underneath. I could make out a larger gold star and four smaller stars alongside. The flag of the People’s Republic of China.
IDEX. The International Defence Exposition and Conference, held annually in Abu Dhabi. State-sponsored and private arms dealers from around the world descend on that Gulf State each year to ply their wares. Everything from fighter jets to troop carriers to field cannons were splayed across the cavernous exhibit hall. I’d been there twice—once as a member of Delta Force and once as a private contractor. IDEX offered the opportunity to see and inspect what I might face in the field. Solid research, needed more often than I’d like.
Mr. Luuk Hoebeek had gone shopping. The golf balls indicated he’d, at a minimum, chatted with a Chinese government arms dealer and collected swag in the form of golf balls. Interesting. The question was whether he’d popped over to IDEX for the current regime or for the “small fish” occupying the western part of Suriname.
“I’ve always found the Swiss excellent business partners, Mr. Bolen. If you have any questions—any at all—please don’t hesitate to communicate with me. Do you have a business card?”
“I’m afraid my client prohibits contact information during these preliminary stages. That said, I appreciate your openness to engage any of their concerns.”
A semi-legitimate response. Swiss investment firms seldom opened a channel of communication until lay of the land
had been established. We chatted on. Hoebeek assured me that whatever the outcome of the current strife, Eerlijk Trading Company would be around to facilitate business.
I stood and wandered over to his wall of windows, complimented the view, and passed by the scattered golf balls. From this new position, two more IDEX/China insignias became visible.
A cordial goodbye as he walked me out, his handshake firm, sincere. The front desk guard glared as I exited and made my way toward the café across from the US embassy. Hoebeek had held his cards close, but conversation intimated a willingness to play either side of the current situation.
I stopped at a tiny coffee shop and loitered at the entrance for thirty minutes, sipping from a heavy porcelain cup and killing time until the lunch meeting with the CIA. The coffee was fresh and strong and just right.
Luuk Hoebeek. A player in all this mess, although how deep and for whom was a big TBD. But a player, no doubt, and of a type well versed in calculating tide changes. And a potential danger. He’d play for keeps.
The profile and walk and turned heads among a cluster of soldiers alerted me to Nika’s presence. She was headed in the direction of Hoebeek’s building, confident and tight. The overcast clouds remained, and the lightest of drizzles started again. Oppressive weather; hot and wet and filled with uncertainty.
I followed, a full block behind. She crossed a street and made her way into the entrance of Eerlijk Trading Company. Hoebeek had a relationship with the Russians. No uncertainty there. Enough time had passed since my meeting with Hoebeek for him to have contacted her and to suggest she drop by for a chat about John Bolen.
A failure on my part. Hoebeek hadn’t bought the Swiss investor story. I had left enough doubt, made an errant move, and set off Hoebeek’s personal alarms. It happens. Part and parcel when you moved fast, assessed, probed.
I’d gathered good intel from the meeting. IDEX. China. His style and demeanor. A better than decent trade-off for him questioning my cover. And now a checked box in the Russian relationship column. I’d watch my back with Mr. Trading Company.
Chapter 14
A smattering of locals occupied the roti shop across from the US embassy. A handful of cats wandered beneath the tables, the aroma of curried meats permeated the place, and cheap posters of happy people from around the world plastered the walls. The eatery was open-air, the patrons displaying a sheen of sweat. The rain jacket came off. In a practiced move, I removed the .45 from my back waist and hid it during the process. Two folds of the jacket, then laid on my lap, the pistol accessible.
I’d been exposed to roti shops in the Caribbean and had passed half a dozen during my morning walk in Paramaribo. Roti was a curry stew of chicken or goat or shrimp served with Indian flatbread. I waited for my lunch guest.
Fletcher Hines—the CIA station chief—exited the embassy compound and crossed the street. Average height, fit, coiled, with an athletic walk. Khakis, white button-down shirt, close-cropped black hair, and the ubiquitous Ray-Bans screamed “Company.” An easy man to spot.
A lifted chin drew him over. He sat without shaking hands or introductions.
“Let’s start with the basics,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?” Hines removed his sunglasses and hung them from his front pocket—Company-style.
“Pleasure to meet you, too, Hines.”
We exchanged stares.
“And it’s John Bolen. Feel free to call me John.”
I smiled. He didn’t.
“Global Resolutions,” Hines said. “Tell me.”
He’d done his homework.
“I’m not discussing my client engagements. Just know it’s plain vanilla. Information only. No action.”
I owed him my operational framework. He’d weigh my assertion of simple information collection as a potential lie. He sat and stared, waited.
“What I’d like to discuss is the current mess in your backyard,” I said.
No response.
“Share with me, Hines. Let’s bond.”
Hail fellow, well met failed to appear. I didn’t expect it. I’d worked with the CIA—the Company—numerous times as an active member of Delta Force. Committed professionals, they held a skeptical view of the world, considered it nuanced, angled. I considered them wrapped too tight around the intrigue and analysis axle. Occam’s razor, baby. The answer with the fewest assumptions—the simplest possibility—was usually the right one.
Plus, the Company viewed Delta as muscle. A hammer. They categorized our less violent abilities as encroachment on their special skill sets. Rivalry wasn’t an appropriate description—wariness and not-of-my-tribe more apt.
A young man approached and took our order. We each ordered a Parbo beer, and Hines ordered the chicken roti.
“Why don’t you try the special, Mr. John Bolen?” He delivered the suggestion with a smirk.
“It is most excellent,” the waiter added.
A cat rubbed against my leg. I glanced at the cat, then Hines, and settled on the waiter.
“Chicken for me as well,” I said. Hines chuckled.
I understood and empathized with Hines’s attitude. This was his show. I’d arrived uninvited. But we would play our private version of the Clubhouse, trading information, cautious.
When the waiter left, I said, “I was thinking of a western tour. Past the Coppename River. Any recommendations regarding sights and areas of interest?”
The Coppename River separated Paramaribo and government-held territory from rebel turf.
“From an agricultural perspective?” Hines asked, poking me over his ostensible role as agricultural liaison.
“From a tourist perspective.”
The beers arrived, bottles sweating.
“I’d advise against it.” He took a deep swig of beer, eyes hard. Chatter volume increased as more patrons meandered in and took seats. The rain continued. Road traffic was minimal.
“Yeah. Understood. But I have a strong curiosity regarding Mr. Joseph Hoff.” The rebel leader was an enigma and required clarity. The street corner collections of soldiers and random gunshots confirmed urban rebel guerrilla activity. Hoff’s capital-city influence indicated strength, commitment. “And why does his reach extend to the streets of Paramaribo?”
“Hoff is run-of-the-mill,” Hines said. “Former Suriname army. Popular with a segment of the population. The Paramaribo activity is a nuisance. Small scale. A few sympathizers. Not a danger for the current regime.”
“Current?”
Hines had made a simple designation or a slip, indicating regime change in the works. Or it was purposeful misdirection. Hard to say. Dealing with spooks—Hines, Nika, or any of the others—was a pain in the ass.
“His Excellency is aligned with us now,” Hines said. “A bumpy past, admittedly.”
Well, yeah. His Excellency’s son offering the Lebanese terrorist outfit Hezbollah a foothold would qualify as “bumpy.” The food arrived, steam rising from the plates. Curry filled the air. The chicken was excellent.
“Hoff’s ideology?” I asked.
Hines took a bite of roti and reset the conversation. “We should talk about Case Lee, Esquire, and his current activities.”
“I’m happy to oblige, Hines. Really. And I have information—good, salient information—that would interest you. I’m only asking for background.”
My playing card was laid, facedown. Hines eased open the kimono and showed a bit of skin.
“Hoff’s ideology is collectivist.”
It made sense. A catalyst—the strong-arm tactics of the current president—would provide a coalescing of angry citizens, but an ideology glued a rebel force together. Collectivism had a strong pull in this part of the world.
But there were three revolutionary components—catalyst, ideology, and funding. The last one held the most interest. At the moment, I would place the bankers as the United States, Russia, or China. The CIA agent across from me wouldn’t share intimate knowledge, but he’d dance around the ed
ges for a look at my facedown card.
“Who’s bankrolling the effort?” I asked.
“We have our suspicions.”
“So do I. And one of them is you.”
He shook his head and squinted. “No. Not this time.”
I bought it, to a 70 percent confidence level. His admission of “not this time” was a truth pill, and acknowledgment the United States wouldn’t hesitate to back regime change.
“Middle East?” The Hezbollah connection.
Hines gave a tight shake of his head, rejected the possibility. Dismissive, he didn’t verbalize his statement. Okay, then.
“Leaving the Russians or Chinese,” I said.
Hines declined to respond, so I turned over my table card.
“There’s a Russian in town. Either GRU or SVR.”
Hines stopped midbite. He lowered his fork, took a swig of beer, and stared, unblinking.
“She’s at my hotel.”
“I haven’t received word of any such individual,” Hines said. “And the hotel staff is amenable.”
He meant on the payroll.
“Yeah, well, she’s here. You’ve had your ‘amenable’ staff outbid.” Informants flipped, flopped, and double-dipped. Old story.
A potent card had been delivered. Now I’d test the waters for a bit of quid pro quo. “What can you tell me about Luuk Hoebeek?”
Hines stared at the street and digested the Nika information, formulating plans and activities. I let him digest. Eventually, he responded.
“Hoebeek. Respected businessman. Maybe the most respected businessman in Suriname. He has a cut of the new embassy contract. Organizes the building materials.”
Damn, I needed a trading company. Meanwhile, I kept Nika’s Hoebeek visit under wraps.
“What about equipment? Small arms, personnel carriers?” I asked. If this whole revolution thing was going to work, it required men, firearms, and armored vehicles. Hoebeek’s little Abu Dhabi shopping trip was off the table as a discussion point. For all I knew, Hines may have sent him there.
Hines ignored me.
“I’ll drop a dime on our Russian friend. Tell me about military equipment.”
