“They’re jamming. Isn’t it great?” Oz said. “But the volumes are all off.”
“I like the guitar player. Who did they bring in?”
“Ian Porter. He’s primarily a studio musician; one of the best in the business. He’s a cult figure to guitar players the world over, and half the rock bands have tried to woo him to join them. He’s always refused. Says he loves music but not the circus that is stardom. Carrow must be paying him well to fill in like this. Especially when he knows that Porter won’t tour.”
“Well, Martin might be recovered by the time the tour begins.”
They reached the stone pillars situated at the beginning of Carrow’s driveway and Emma slowly finished the final climb to the front door. She pulled the Jeep next to Carrow’s Aston Martin and killed the engine just as the song ended. The sudden silence was startling. They walked along the path on the side of the house, headed to the pool area.
Over thirty people sat on reclining chairs, floated on inflated pool loungers, or milled around the area. The band was set up on a small stage, only one foot off the ground, on the lawn to the right. A second, low platform stabilized the additional equipment. Carrow stood front and center, wearing faded jeans and a black tee shirt emblazoned with the flag of England. His feet were bare and his skin glistened with sweat. His curls were spectacular, wild in the humid air, with ringlets hanging down to his shoulders. He looked a little bit like an untamed Medusa. He reached out to a high stool where a bottle of whiskey sat. He grabbed it and downed a mouthful, holding it out to the bass player, who took a swallow and then passed it back. Carrow offered it to the guitar player, presumably Porter, who shook his head.
Porter’s hair was as dark as Carrow’s was fair. It curled around his ears but was no longer than that, and he had a soul patch beard on his chin. A diamond stud earring was in his left ear and a small silver peace sign hung from a braided black leather cord around his neck. He wore dark jeans and a white tee shirt that looked like it came from a three-pack in the underwear department. He was taller than Carrow but almost as thin. Emma wondered if all rock stars were genetically programmed to be thin or if their lifestyle didn’t leave a lot of room for adequate nutrition. Where Carrow’s personality shone from the stage and one could see his lighter side, Porter seemed to be much more serious and introspective.
Two three-foot-high square speakers on a pallet with wheels sat on either side of the stage, and three small, low rise monitors lined the front. Cables ran almost twelve feet from the speakers to a sound station set up on a folding card table.
Oz put down his duffel and walked to the audio equipment. He took in the flat sound board lined with black dials that looked like a series of eraser tips in perfect rows. He started adjusting several, keeping his head down, his concentration focused. His hair hung in front of his face, blotting out his profile. Carrow spotted Emma and smiled. He leaned into the microphone.
“I see that my favorite chemist is here. Or should I say my favorite legitimate chemist.” A few people in the audience twittered in laughter. “Let’s sing a song about chemicals, shall we?”
Carrow said something to Porter, and a pleased look came over the guitarist’s face. He started into the introduction of the next song. It took Emma only a few seconds to recognize the song. It was “Siren,” a song about a woman who pulls a man into her orbit and offers him drugs.
Oz glanced up from the sound board long enough to throw her an amused look. Emma lowered herself into a nearby chaise, knocked her shoes off, pulled her feet up and leaned back. The stars glittered in the sky, and the bluesy, bass song echoed in the night. The warm evening breeze blew across her bare arms. The bold scent of night-blooming jasmine perfumed the air.
After a moment a man Emma didn’t know walked over and handed her a small glass. He held up a bottle of red wine as if to ask her if she wanted some and she nodded. He filled it, smiled, and strolled away without having said a word. Moments later the woman in the chair next to her passed her a joint. Emma passed it on without taking a hit. As a chemist, she had access to every type of drug imaginable and at pharmaceutical-grade quality. She knew the physical mechanisms in the body that the different drugs affected. She was well aware that the world’s scientists had created wildly effective chemicals that played havoc with the human system. The easy access made her afraid that once she started, she’d spiral down a drain and wouldn’t be able to stop. She didn’t use any.
Carrow’s voice was full and emphatic and he sang with a slight rasp that might have come from a combination of whiskey, cigarettes, and days on the road. As he sang, Emma felt herself being drawn in. She was mesmerized by his face. He was an attractive man, not handsome in a conventional way but when he sang it was as if conventionally attractive men paled in comparison. It was as if he was the only man alive and worth listening to.
He kept his lips close to the microphone and his eyes half closed. His body swayed slightly from side to side and he had a hand on the microphone even though it was on a stand. Emma felt a peace flowing through her that she rarely seemed to have these days. Between the pressure of her ongoing business, the dangerous situations that were often the outcome of working for Banner, and the recent string of events, she’d had precious little time to just relax and be. She felt safe, both because Oz was there, and she knew he would help her if she asked, and because Sumner had called and offered his assistance. It allowed her to lower her guard and enjoy the music as the island’s tropical temperatures and ocean breezes served to calm her. She placed the glass on a nearby end table and settled deeper into the chaise. Her lids lowered and she drifted off while Carrow started another quiet ballad.
She woke with a start. The moon was straight overhead, as was a man. He hovered over her with his hands on either arm of the chaise. His face was so close to hers that it took a moment to adjust her vision to identify him. It was Carrow.
“It’s late. You fell asleep.” He spoke low and soft, as if to avoid startling her. “I was just considering picking you up and carrying you to bed.” His mouth cricked a bit at the edge as he waited to see her reaction. Emma raised an eyebrow.
“How kind of you to be concerned that I get enough rest,” she said in equally soft and low tones. She smiled into his eyes and his own smile grew wider.
“Would you like me to sweep you off your feet?” he said. She held his gaze.
“That sounds very nice. But I should warn you, I rarely get swept away.”
“That’s a shame, because it’s a lovely feeling.”
“So I’ve been told,” Emma said.
“By your girlfriends?”
“By the men whose feet I have swept off the ground.” Carrow raised his eyebrows and then laughed in a low, whiskey-laden tone.
“I do like your style, Ms. Caldridge.”
“And I do love your singing, Mr. Carrow.”
Carrow moved his head closer to hers and Emma remained still, waiting.
“Are we headed to the beach?” Warner’s voice came from somewhere behind Carrow. He stayed where he was, moving no closer.
“We’re all going swimming. Care to join?” he said after a moment.
“I should go home,” Emma said. “I have to work tomorrow.”
Carrow nodded. He straightened and held a hand out to Emma. She reached out and a beach towel fell off her shoulders. She looked down at it in surprise.
“Oz covered you while you slept,” Carrow said. She moved the towel to the side and clasped his hand. He pulled her to a standing position. Warner was nearby, patiently waiting for Carrow, and Emma felt a pang of remorse, though for what, she wasn’t sure.
“Thanks for the concert,” Emma said.
“You’re welcome. Oz told me that you two know each other well. Please feel free to join us at the studio. But first, we’ll head to the blue holes.”
“What time?” Emma asked.
“Ten. That’s practically dawn by my standards. I’ve already had Marwell outfit the boat
with everything we need. Meet me at the dock?”
“I’ll be there,” Emma said.
Chapter 17
Stromeyer huddled in the corner of the alley watching the casino’s back door. Dumpsters lined the wall and the occasional rat ran back and forth along the edge. The smell of rotting garbage wafted to her every few minutes, carried on the night air, but she thought it was surprisingly contained considering the amount of waste the casino produced.
She’d driven the boat back to St. Martin the day after she’d spoken to Banner. Now she was dressed in her usual dark clothes and covered her hair with a hood from a zip up sweatshirt. She had her thin ski mask in her pocket, which she would put on in an instant if she needed to apprehend anyone.
Kemmer was in the casino playing craps. His driver and car idled at the alley’s entrance waiting for him to reappear. Weeks of surveillance had revealed that he generally held a monthly meeting behind the casino. Most of the local authorities believed Kemmer to be a low level, fairly benign criminal. Though wanted in the Netherlands for tax evasion, his usual activities involved a modest gun-running operation and an equally modest escort service. The escort service was an offshoot of his legal prostitution business in Amsterdam, and was well run and unremarkable. He took credit cards for payment, and the Antilles pocketed a portion of the sales in tax. Though the local island tax officials suspected that he didn’t pay all the tax he should have, what he did pay was substantial enough to mollify them. Paying companies on small islands usually were given some deference, because they had many options to choose from in the Caribbean and no island wanted to lose a business to their neighbor.
The door swung open and Kemmer stepped out. Stromeyer sat up straighter and pressed her back against the wall. She was hidden in a small space between two Dumpsters. She could see Kemmer from her position and was hidden from anyone who entered the alley.
A man walked past the Dumpster, heading toward Kemmer. He held a dark green duffel in his left hand and kept his right in his pocket, an ominous sign. Stromeyer took out her own gun. Kemmer and the man met in the middle of the alley.
“Did you bring a sample?” Kemmer asked.
The man nodded and held up the bag. He had his back to Stromeyer, which was a shame because she would have liked to see his face. The man put the duffel on the ground and crouched next to it as he unzipped it. He removed an Uzi submachine gun and held it out to Kemmer.
“No, no, I want to see the bullets. Can you show them to me?”
“Yes.” The man reached into the duffel and removed a small bag that resembled a case for a laptop computer. “Here they are.” He held something out in his palm. Stromeyer leaned forward as well but couldn’t see what the man was holding. She felt excitement bubbling up in her. She’d observed several of Kemmer’s weapon purchases in this alley and all were unremarkable. The usual crate of assault weapons and rocket propelled grenades changed hands with a wad of cash. She would pass on the information to the interested local authorities and they would move in, or not, as the case might be. This transaction, though, looked as though it would be different. Kemmer leaned forward to see whatever was in the man’s palm.
“Do they fit into any gun?” he asked. The man nodded.
“Any gun that can fire their size, yes.”
“What’s the misfire rate? I’ve heard it’s significant.”
The man shrugged. “About thirty percent.”
Kemmer’s mouth fell open. Stromeyer could relate, because her own mouth was open. A thirty percent misfire rate was totally unacceptable. She certainly hoped Kemmer wasn’t fool enough to buy a bullet that failed as often as that.
“That’s outrageous. Awful, actually,” Kemmer said. “I don’t think any of my clients would accept such a huge failure rate.”
The man shrugged. “They have to understand that they’re buying an entirely new, cutting-edge product. Some kinks are to be expected. It’s like buying the first model year of a new car.”
Stromeyer’s bent left knee felt tight, but she ignored it. The man’s statement was exactly what she wanted to hear. The months of careful surveillance were finally yielding a meeting that might be what she’d been hoping for. She watched Kemmer frown at the man’s analogy.
“Kinks, yes. Massive misfire, no. My clients need their weapons to work in all sorts of situations. They’re often under fire themselves. That their gun won’t work thirty times out of every hundred trigger pulls is like playing Russian roulette with their lives. You need to give me a discount.”
The man shook his head. “Not a chance. These are extremely expensive to make. They’re designed for unique situations where complete anonymity is required. I have several customers lined up to buy them, and if you don’t want to pay full freight there are others who will. It makes no difference to me.” He bent down and replaced what Stromeyer presumed was ammunition back in the duffel, zipped it, and picked it up off the ground. “Maybe next time, when I have something a bit more average, I’ll call you.” The man turned and started walking away. Stromeyer saw his profile only. A strong, hooked nose and pointed chin.
“Wait,” Kemmer said. The man paused and looked back.
“Maybe you let me buy a few samples that I can take to my clients. Let them work with them. See if they like them. If they do, then perhaps we can arrange to buy some more.” Stromeyer thought Kemmer’s suggestion sounded reasonable, given the product’s defect rate. She was surprised to see the man once again shake his head.
“No. These are a limited edition. The materials to make them aren’t readily available and are very expensive to obtain. That’s another reason they’re so costly. I can only sell them in specially prepared batches. This is only one batch. There are others at a different location. Once this batch is gone it will take almost three years to manufacture another.”
Kemmer seemed frustrated at the man’s intransigence.
“Then give me twenty-four hours. Just long enough to get in touch with my clients and see what they’re willing to pay given everything you’ve told me.”
“No. You buy them now. Immediate and verifiable wire transfer, or I go elsewhere.” Kemmer sighed.
“Then I’m sorry to say that we have no deal.” Kemmer looked dejected. Something about his reaction made her think that the objections he’d raised to the buy were only based in part on the defect rate. She wondered if he had the funds to complete an immediate wire transfer.
The man nodded once and continued walking away. Kemmer spun in the other direction, opened the door to his waiting car and climbed into the rear seat. The car made a three-point turn and drove away.
Stromeyer rose, straightening her stiff left knee, and worked her way down the alley as quietly as she could. At the end, she peered around the corner in time to see the arms dealer closing the trunk of a new, dark-colored sedan. He entered the driver’s side and put the car in motion, turning right onto the main road that ringed St. Martin.
Stromeyer’s own motorcycle was parked in the same lot but farther from the overhead light. She jogged to it, put on her helmet with the full face mask, and kicked the cycle into life. A minute after the man’s car had disappeared into the darkness she was on the road and speeding along.
She caught up with him at the second light. She didn’t bother to memorize the plate, because the car appeared to be a standard, midsize rental. She doubted that the man had either paid for it or registered it in his real name. He took off again and she followed. It seemed he was headed to the area with both a dock and the airport, where she had been with Sumner just the night before.
Indeed, the car turned into the airport parking lot. She hung back as he maneuvered into a premium spot close to the main entrance. Then he got out, retrieved the laptop bag and slammed the trunk closed, leaving the duffel. Cycling into the lot, Stromeyer stopped at the front row of cars, to the far left of the parked vehicle. She watched the man stroll to the airport entrance and wasn’t surprised to see him hand off the car keys in
a brush-by technique to another man heading toward him. She locked the cycle and walked rapidly toward the entrance, keeping her face turned slightly away as the accomplice with the car keys opened the sedan’s door and got in.
The Princess Juliana Airport in St. Martin had two levels of security. The first required visitors to show a passport and boarding pass to a customs agent before heading to the main security line. Stromeyer strained to see the man among the crowd.
Three minutes later she was in the terminal watching the arms dealer walk through the security line. He placed the laptop bag on the conveyor belt and it sailed through the metal detecting machine. The man sailed through as well. Five minutes after putting his shoes back on he was strolling toward the gates with the bag in his hand.
Stromeyer jogged back out of the terminal and ran to the motorcycle. She kicked it into gear and headed along the frontage road to a place on a slight rise where she could see the runways. She pulled out her binoculars and waited, sitting on the cycle, scanning the runway.
Forty-five minutes later her patience was rewarded when she saw the man with the laptop strolling toward a small plane. She noted the number and called Banner.
“Does Sumner have access to an ATD plane? Fast?”
“I think so, why?”
“I need him to intercept a flight.” She rattled off the plane’s identifiers.
“He’s in St. Barths. I’ll call him now. Any idea which way the plane is headed?”
“No, but I’m right here. I can head back and talk to the airport authorities.”
“Don’t bother. The ATD guys probably have access to all of that information online. Let me call Sumner. Hold tight.”
Stromeyer waited. She kept her binoculars on the small plane and the phone to her ear. The plane’s props started. It spun in a slow circle and headed toward a runway. Banner’s voice came back as it lifted off.
“It’s headed to Terra Cay,” he said.
Chapter 18
Dead Asleep Page 10
