The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series)

by Michael Siemsen

  “Well, that was bloody brilliant!” Rheese shouted.

  “Shut up, Doctor!” Garza yelled. “Fando! Outside, now!”

  Garza climbed past Matt and slid open the door while Fando got out on the driver’s side. Both men closed their doors and walked around in front of the car. Matt and Rheese watched them, trying to read their lips, but they were speaking Spanish. Fando’s face twisted in horror as Garza appeared to speak soothing words and reached out consolingly. Fando swatted his hands away and screamed an expletive that Matt recognized. Then he reached into his waistband and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol. He yelled in Garza’s face while pointing the gun at the van. Rheese yelped and took cover behind the dash. Matt ducked a little, too, but he quickly saw that Fando wasn’t pointing the pistol, just gesturing angrily with it. His finger wasn’t even inside the trigger guard. Garza motioned for him to put the gun away and glanced around worriedly, afraid someone would see.

  Fando screamed some more and began to pace. He was shaking his head and shouting, “No . . . no . . . no,” over and over. Matt tried to guess what was happening. He had somehow heard them shouting while he was reading the imprint; the voices had worked their way into the reading. This had never happened before that he could recall, but then, things had always been relatively calm and quiet around him while he read.

  Garza had been on the phone with someone, and that someone had told him something he didn’t want to tell Fando while he was driving. He wanted Fando to pull over before he told him. And he had been clearly right to worry. Fando was rolling around in the gravel and dirt in front of the van.

  Someone died.

  Matt looked around the van. In all the violent veering and braking, things had been tossed about. He looked behind him at Garza’s bench seat. Nothing. Another glance out the windshield. Garza was still consoling Fando.

  “Is he coming?” Rheese whimpered.

  “Yeah,” Matt hissed. “Stay down!”

  Ducking down, Matt looked to the floor at his feet, then under the seat. Yes! Garza’s cell phone lay on the floor beneath him. Matt slid it to the space between his feet and ticked his timer to one minute. I gotta get a new one that can do seconds, he thought as he risked one more look outside. Fando was up now, wiping his eyes. Garza was patting him on the back. The gun was still in his hand, but it looked as though the blind fury was gone and only sorrow remained.

  Hurry up!

  Matt put his hand on the phone’s screen.

  I am a thirty-one-year-old male. My name is Danny Garza. I was born in Amarillo, Texas. I’m in a van, on the phone with Tessa. She tells me that one of our men, Raúl Solorzano, is dead—shot in a hotel room. Police everywhere. She can’t get to the room to see if the woman is there, too, but she’s watched a long time and hasn’t seen her. I grew up with both Raúl and Fando. I see Raúl as a young teenager when we’d pass a football back and forth across our street. Fando is going to flip. He’ll forget he’s driving.

  Fando yells from the front, “What is it, man? Who is that? Tessa? What’s she saying?”

  I can’t say everything is fine—it isn’t.

  Everything has gone to shit. I just wanted to pay off my upside-down mortgage and be able to get my wife and daughter the things they want. Never to have to say, “Not this time, baby.” I remember telling Fando, “No mortgage, bro—can you imagine that shit?”

  “Find out who did this,” I say to Tessa.

  “Will do,” she says. “I’ll call you back.”

  I put the phone down and say, “Pull over, Fando.”

  Tzzzzz . . . tzzzzz . . . tzzzzz . . .

  “Get up, Doctor,” Garza said from the open side door. “And keep your mouth shut for the next couple hours.”

  “I beg your pardon? What happened?” Rheese sputtered. “You will not tell me—”

  “I am telling you, and it’s for your own good.” He peered out at the roadside weeds, where Fando was walking randomly, shaking his head. “He’s calming himself down, but anything could set him off, especially if you start bitching about his driving. Just keep your mouth shut.”

  “Get up, Turner,” Garza said. “No one’s going to shoot you—at least not right now.”

  Matt pulled on his glove and did one more thing, knowing that Garza couldn’t see his hands or the phone between his shoes. Then he slid the phone back under his seat and slowly sat up, blinking nervously.

  “Did he . . . did he put that gun away?” Matt said.

  “Yes. Now, sit back and shut up. He’s coming back.”

  In the front passenger seat, Rheese huffed and puffed and muttered under his breath. Fando walked past the hood. His sunglasses were back on, and he acted as if everything were normal. He opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Garza slid the side door shut and made his way to the backseat as Fando shifted into drive.

  Rheese didn’t keep his mouth shut. Apparently, he couldn’t help himself. “If you ever point a gun at me again, or so much as—”

  Without warning, Fando’s fist shot across the cab and caught Rheese in the jaw. It was a powerful blow from a monstrously big and strong arm, and it knocked him into his door. He spat a gout of blood and a couple of teeth onto the floor.

  “I said to keep your goddamn mouth shut!” Garza barked. “Don’t say one more thing!”

  Fando hit the gas, and the van bounced back onto the road. Matt heard the phone beneath him slide backward. Garza’s seat springs creaked, and Matt could feel him lean over behind him. He wanted to glance back, to see if Garza was giving him any odd looks. He could feel an accusing stare. He heard thumbs tapping the glass screen, then silence. To look back would look suspicious. He just hoped that the person on the other end of the message he sent would be smart enough not to reply.

  SIXTEEN

  “I don’t have anything definitive,” Tessa said. Garza watched the waves crash on shore as Fando drove the highway.

  Garza pretended the call was unrelated to Raúl to keep Fando focused on the road. “Yeah, sounds good. What else is going on?”

  Tessa rolled with it, “Well, the FBI has had a lot of chatter around a flagged guy they think came to the U.S. We’re talking about a major worldwide player, and he apparently did business with Dr. Rheese in the past couple years.”

  “Mm-hmm . . .”

  “His name’s Jivu Absko. Nicknamed ‘the Gray.’ Birthplace unknown to authorities, as is current base of operations. Alleged criminal activities run the gamut from arms dealing to political assassinations, providing mercenaries for civil wars, fixing elections. They’ve got a list of more than three thousand people who’ve disappeared entirely or been found dead; law in numerous nations believe him involved, though no firm links have been made to his organization. He’s been known to operate in Nigeria, South Africa, Kenya, Spain, Oman, Egypt, and Jordan. Both FBI and CIA have large files, his name is apparently found alongside certain dictators and organized-crime heads.”

  “Right, well, maybe it’s something for us to look into at some point down the road. Let’s get some pics and whatever else is out there.”

  “There’re actually three photos associated with him . . . I’ve got them right in front of me. Each is clearly of a different man. One’s older, maybe in his fifties when the shot was taken. Shaved head, prominent cheekbones, dark skin tone of central Africa.” Garza heard papers shift on the other end of the line. “Second one looks like maybe North African or Middle Eastern. Mid-thirties to forties, eyes almost Asian, long neck, square jaw, smiling. The third shows a younger man, also dark skin but with a medium-length Afro, long face, impressive build, wearing aviator sunglasses. That last one looks like it was taken from afar . . . telephoto lens, for sure.”

  “Yeah, yeah, what else? I gotta go.”

  “Let’s see . . . guy runs some high-profile charities.” Tessa spoke faster. “Have you heard of VEC? Value Every Child? Employs some twenty-three hundred people in eighteen countries. Website says their intervention in numerous
humanitarian crises has saved a hundred and eighty thousand children . . . blah blah blah . . . more numbers . . . says VEC’s latest endeavor has been the establishment of Protect the Women, a subsidiary that builds fortified safe havens in war-torn areas where women and girls are targeted by militias . . . They house medical, education, food service staff.”

  “Got it. So the Feds want him, but he’s probably got some powerful friends.”

  “Yeah, the file says his charities have made investigations difficult and accusations politically imprudent. Last year, it was suspected that millions in currency looted from African nations by their political elites was being funneled through VEC. But VEC and Absko have been unofficially deemed untouchable by the United Nations. The message to the world’s law enforcement community: ‘Return with proof of criminal activities when said activities’ detriments outweigh VEC’s ongoing benefits to humanity.’”

  “Not sure if that helps or hurts us,” Garza said, chewing a fingernail. “Keep on it. Find out how this might . . . relate to things.”

  * * *

  Jivu Absko rolled around a balled-up gum wrapper between his fingers and thumb as he held the telephone receiver between his shoulder and ear. He chewed slowly as he listened and made affirmative “Mmm-hmm” noises every few seconds.

  “They need to be waiting there one hour after signaled,” he said in a thick Kenyan accent. “But don’t let them congregate like idiots—they will stand out too much. Tell one of them to bring a football or the like. Understand? And to leave any armaments at home . . . mmm-hmm, good. Yes. Oh, and tell them to dress like soldiers, as best they can. Good . . . Have you ever been? . . . Ah, no, me, either. I would love to sometime, though. Their cigars are magnificent . . . Very well, I’ll let you get to that. Good-b—oh, no, please don’t call me that . . . No, no, it’s okay, you didn’t know . . . It is okay, really. Stop talking about it now. Thank you again. Good-bye.”

  He hung up the phone and looked at the small paper ball between his fingers. She was new. Sounded as though she was going to have a heart attack or kill herself. Someone should have told her. No one called him “the Gray”—not to his face, anyway. It had begun as a child. They’d call him “kijivu“—the Swahili word for the color gray—as a nickname. As he rose in eminence, it became a title of reverence, like “the King.” He had enjoyed it for a while, but then it began to feel self-righteous and pretentious, so he told people to stop calling him that. That act had made him seem more humble and, therefore, an even greater man. Let them say it amongst themselves, and in the news.

  But now he had other things on his plate: loose ends to clean up and funds to recover. He had seen the early profit and loss statements for the second quarter, and on paper it would look like a first-time dip in revenues. Accounting said it wouldn’t be a significant issue, but he wasn’t going to accept it. Though Dr. Rheese’s expedition was unlikely to assist with that, Absko maintained optimism that he could potentially kill two birds with one stone. At least one, of that he would make certain. The second, this thinly-veiled mercenary company, SecureElite, with whom Rheese now worked, had crossed paths with Absko before without conflict. But now their interests and his were at odds, and he had no qualms about making an example of them.

  SEVENTEEN

  Tuni stuffed her face with a premade deli sandwich. It was airport food and revolting, but she just wanted something in her stomach. The two men with her, Isaiah and Oliver, ate enormous single slices of cheese pizza. Isaiah had pronounced cheekbones and ever-lazy eyelids that made him look like a stoner. Oliver, the silent one, had a round, cherubic face. Both were tallish, with dark brown skin and short-cropped hair. Abel Turay reappeared from the newsstand with a newspaper under his arm and a plastic bag dangling from his hand.

  He held out his hand to her. “Gum?”

  She nodded gratefully as she balled up the paper sandwich wrapper and threw it in the trash beside them before pulling out a stick. “Thank you. Were you able to get hold of anyone? The pay phones wouldn’t accept any of my credit cards to make an international call.”

  “Ah, yes,” Abel said. “I spoke with my superiors to give them an update, and they told me some things as well. More importantly, I reached my contact at the FBI and they have been in contact with Matthew’s parents. They know you are okay now and that we have people working on his situation.”

  Tuni sighed with relief and sat down on the food court bench seat behind her. “Thank God. Roger was a policeman, too. He can probably help.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure. Now, we must get to our next plane, miss.”

  “Hold on,” Tuni said. “Before I go any further with you, I want more answers. I know you’re not telling me everything.”

  Abel took a deep breath, and his eyelids fell.

  “Sit with me,” she said, and he complied. “Tell me again what your department’s interest is in all this. And where are you even from? And why are you taking me to Cuba, which I appreciate, don’t get me wrong, I want to, but typically I would imagine the police sending me home while they went on with their business. Aren’t you endangering me by bringing me to where these kidnappers are?”

  Abel smiled thinly and raised his eyebrows. “Is that all?”

  “For the moment, yes. Start with those.”

  “Very well, Ms. St. James.” He flashed a blank look up to Isaiah and Oliver, who immediately turned and walked away. “You are too smart for me. As I’m sure you suspect, we are not with Interpol.”

  Tuni nodded and glanced around. There was an airport security station within forty feet of her, if she needed them.

  “But our mission is the truth. We will free Matthew and send him home with you, capture Garrett Rheese, and return with him to our superiors.”

  “And who are your superiors?”

  “The government of Kenya.”

  “Did you break my phone so I couldn’t call anyone? Cancel my credit cards?”

  Abel sighed, scratched the back of his neck, and smiled like a child caught stealing candy.

  “As I said, we have no jurisdiction. This could turn into some sort of public—”

  “I want to talk to my mother,” Tuni said firmly. “Myself. On the phone. Now.”

  “Will you still accompany us to Cuba? Help us to recover Matthew and Rheese?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will she keep quiet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes. Use my phone.”

  “No international plan, huh?” She glared at him and he shrugged innocently. Phone in hand, she punched in the number.

  Four rings. “I’m not home now. Leave a message after the beeping.”

  “Mom, it’s me. Matthew’s been kidnapped by Dr. Rheese and taken to Cuba to help him find something. I am with three men from the Kenyan government, Abel Turay and two others named Oliver and Isaiah, who want to arrest Rheese. They broke my phone so I can’t get calls or messages, but I will call you again. This is Abel’s phone I’m calling from. Note the number. Don’t tell anyone about this for now. I’ll be in Cuba in a few hours. Love you.”

  She handed the phone back to him.

  “You didn’t mention the part about us saving you from kidnappers.”

  Tuni smiled. “I didn’t want to worry her.”

  Abel blinked and sighed. “Can we go?”

  “Let’s.” She stood up and strode toward the gate.

  Abel’s eyes lingered on her long legs and shapely figure as he shook his head. “Beautiful women,” he murmured to himself, and grabbed his bags.

  EIGHTEEN

  The van pulled into the parking lot, and Fando shifted into park.

  “This doesn’t look like it, either,” Matt said cautiously, scanning the terrain. It was their third stop along the coast and Garza was on edge since his last phone call. He seemed distracted and more irritable than usual.

  Garza climbed forward and opened the door. “Giant bay with a cliff on west side—that’s what you said! Those same mountains w
e saw before should be at about the same angle as that other inlet. Look over there.”

  Garza was pointing to a hill rising over a palm tree-lined resort. Atop the hill was a beige structure.

  “Well, is this it or not?” Rheese demanded. He winced when he spoke. His left cheek was purple and red, though the bleeding in his two empty tooth sockets seemed finally to have clotted.

  Garza said, “I mean, we can drive up and down looking at all hundred bays along the northern coastline, but this is the most well-known. Big tourist area.”

  “‘Most well-known’ is now meaningless,” Rheese snarled as he walked around the van, nursing his tender cheek. “We’re talking about a thousand years ago. I say we get on to the mountains. I’m dubious of this entire notion.”

  Matt did his best to ignore him. Slowly circling, he took in all the shapes of the distant landscape. The mountains seemed to look like the ones he had seen from Haeming’s ship, but the angle still didn’t seem right. He wished he were on an actual boat.

  Fando stood away from them, leaning on the hood of the van and staring off at nothing.

  “Well, should we go up that hill, or what?” Garza asked. “If you don’t think it’s it, then let’s not waste any more fucking time.”

  Matt shrugged. “Yeah, let’s check it out.” He could see that Rheese was about to protest. Best to stroke his ego. “Doctor, in terms of land change and erosion, is a thousand years enough time for a whole landscape to change? You’re the expert on this stuff.”

  It worked almost comically. Rheese’s posture stiffened, and he walked with one hand behind his back, gesturing with the other. “Indeed. There are several factors to watch for, and an equal number to ignore. Ignore trees, shrubs, roads, footpaths, and even the absence of lesser terrain features . . “

  He went on as they walked. Garza noticed Fando still at the van and whistled for him to come. He turned, looking almost startled, and jogged to catch up. They walked the bike path along the shore. Seagulls swarmed around a pelican with a full bill pouch.