“No,” Hanna answered.
“You may bring with you up to five hundred dollars-worth of household items into the country, duty-free,” the female agent said. She looked at the second agent, still holding the storage device. He nodded and slipped it back into its carrying case.
The female agent stamped their passports and smiled. “Welcome to the Bay Islands. Please enjoy your stay.”
They collected their things and made their way through the metal detectors.
On the other side, William fell in step with Hanna. “Mission supplies . . .?”
“We’re non-denominational evangelical Christians. Act the part.”
There was someone standing down the long corridor, holding up a sign with the names Chase and Becket.
* * *
Their driver was named Mateo and was taking them to meet Cohen at the Grand Roatán Resort. Mateo was an older man, white-haired, starkly contrasting with his dark skin.
The road from the airport wound down towards the water, where the massive cruise ship had berthed.
William sat up straighter when he saw the police lights flashing, the commotion near the docks. Hanna leaned over him to get a better look.
They watched as two men in black masks, wearing bulletproof vests labeled “DNIC,” escorted a man in a matching yellow shirt and baseball cap toward a waiting police car. His hands were cuffed behind his back. The men had him by an elbow each, assault rifles in their free hands. They stuffed him in the back of the car.
“National police,” the driver said.
William stared out until the vegetation blocked his view. “Drug bust?”
“Probably a galley worker.” Mateo sounded remorseful. “Nicaraguan. Last month, five NCL crew members were arrested in Tampa when the cruise ship returned from Roatán. The crew had picked up the cocaine here — seven kilos. Someone tipped off the police. I watch it on Teledifusora Insular.”
“A TV station?” Hanna asked.
“Yes, TV.” Mateo’s eyes shone at them in the rear view mirror. “I see you people on TV, too. You are Samaritan’s Purse?”
It was their new cover. Missionaries there to do good works — bring proper attention to diseases, extend their ministry to bring local prisoners closer to Christ, and to help youth awareness about human trafficking — how to recognize and avoid it. Reznikov and Cohen had cooked up the cover; it had seemed quite natural to them, like they’d done this sort of work together before. Reznikov said it helped to stick close to the truth. And nobody bothered the evangelical missionaries in Honduras.
“Yes,” Hanna answered the driver. “We’re with SP. We also like to dive.”
“Oh — scuba?” Mateo seemed to loosen up. William couldn’t stop thinking about the men in black masks with the assault rifles. Honduras was tied with Ecuador for the most violent country on Earth. But the mainland was where the violence was, not the eco-tourist paradise of the beautiful, unspoiled Roatán. At least, that was the general idea.
“The Belizean Reef is a diver’s paradise,” Mateo said, sounding happier. “Best pillar coral in the Caribbean.”
They reached the resort, a group of brown and beige buildings in a boxy architectural style. Pools and palm trees everywhere. As Mateo unloaded the luggage, William glimpsed the beach through the giant fronds. There was a large inflatable floating in the topaz water and pale tourists strolled along the water’s edge. A catamaran zipped through the water, its small sails billowing.
William picked his duffel bag up and slung it over his shoulder. His long pants clung to his legs in the heat. They followed Mateo along the edge of a curving pool, which had its own island — a Palapa Bar with a grassy canopy. The sun dazzled down from the unbroken blue sky.
“No need for the front desk check in,” Mateo said. He acted in a hurry as he led them up a staircase alongside one of the stucco buildings. On the third and top floor, he keyed the lock to a set of sliding glass doors and brought them inside. “Your room.”
Even William was impressed. Understated but elegant, the space was enclosed by the glass doors, but beyond them lay an unobstructed view of the ocean. The tops of the palm trees danced in warm breeze that gusted into the room, the trees almost close enough to touch. He set his bag down on a rustic-looking table and watched as Hanna feathered a hand over the teal pillows and then sat down on one of the couches. He caught her gaze.
Not bad, she seemed to say.
Mateo still acted rushed. He glanced at the big diver’s watch on his wrist. “So. Mr. Cohen wants to see you right away.” Then he looked at them expectantly.
They took the hint. So much for settling in.
The tour took them along the inside of the cluster of buildings, past a second pool, teeming with kids. Mateo hustled them to the edge of the complex, where a rocky path led down through the grass to the water and beach unoccupied by resort-goers.
Up another flight of stairs, along a catwalk with more stunning views. To a door where Mateo paused and knocked.
“Come in,” someone bellowed.
Mateo smiled wanly and ushered William and Hanna inside.
The room was huge, furnished with several couches and a long jury-type table in the center.
A portly man in a billowing white tunic greeted them, his skin orange from the sun. “Marshal Cohen,” he said.
William shook his hand, unable to keep his eyes from wandering to the other person in the room.
She was in a wheelchair in the corner near the open doors where the breeze rustled in. Her legs were gone from the knees down.
“Thank you for coming,” Cohen said. He moved quickly, like Mateo, who had already vanished. “Please. Sit down. Let’s begin.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The woman in the wheelchair said her name was Isabella, from the Central American Peace and Justice Project.
She launched right into her spiel, poised and confident. “All over the globe, political and economic violence have led to more migrants searching for safer environments and better opportunities in other countries. Many become victims of human trafficking; captured, transported, bought, sold, subjected to sexual abuse, forced marriage, exploitative labor, organ removal.”
William wondered what her story was. How she’d lost her legs. Her dark eyes were captivating.
“We have helped launch a campaign to educate Hondurans on the potential signs of human trafficking. We partner with different anti-trafficking groups, we work directly with schools and in areas frequented by tourists, like Roatán, we use English to spread the word to outsiders.” Her own English was flawless.
“But it’s not enough,” she said. She shifted her gaze to Cohen, who took over.
He paced the room, circling the table as he spoke. “We’ve worked with other governments and signed international treaties. We’ve created these laws and institutions. Yet in the past two years, seventy-four cases of human trafficking were investigated and only sixteen went to trial. Four cases resulted in conviction. Four.” He held up four fingers.
“Men, selling the virginities of young girls. The buyers? Prominent businessmen. Professionals. Politicians. These traffickers enjoy such high impunity rates that of those four convictions, a total of ten years was handed out in sentencing. That’s it. The US State Department gets involved, nothing changes. These criminal groups are winning the war. And no one can stop them.”
“We’re here to help,” Hanna said. William agreed, though it still wasn’t clear what Cohen specifically wanted.
Cohen stopped and sat down at the table, his shoulders sagging. He folded his hands and looked over William and Hanna. “The culmination of our campaign was last week,” he said, arriving to the point. “International Day against Sexual Exploitation and Human Trafficking. Events all over the country from Puerto Cortes to San Pedro Sula. And right here. Benefit dinners, a parade, awards, lots of information. Good turnout. In the middle of it, we had an incident.”
“That’s one way to put it.” A new man w
as in the doorway.
“Sorry for the timing,” Mateo said over the newcomer’s shoulder.
Cohen rose from the table. “No, the timing is perfect. I was just getting to you. I wanted to give them some background. Mr. Chase, Ms. Becket, this is Arnold Sterling.”
The man was well-dressed, American-looking, about sixty. His face was flushed rather than tanned. Cohen led him to the table, thanking Mateo, who nodded politely and left again. Sterling sat down opposite William and Hanna.
“I’ll get right to it.” Sterling’s eyes were sad, but there were traces of fire in them. “My daughter, Rene, is missing.” He snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a colored photo. He slid it across the smooth table.
She had the same eyes as her father. She looked like a teenager. The photograph showed her in full scuba gear, sitting with several other young people in a boat. Sterling passed a few more pictures. In one, Rene was posing by a motor-scooter with a handsome young man. In another, she was with several people wearing large packs.
“How long?” William asked.
“It’s now been ten days.”
William traded looks with Cohen. “I thought you said there was an incident last week?”
Sterling answered. “Yes . . . I was the incident.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow.”
“I tend to be an emotional man, Mr. Chase. Especially when it comes to my children. When Rene was not answering my calls, or emails, I flew down here. I worried, as a father would. She’s a seventeen-year-old girl. And Rene . . . she’s a free spirit. But she wouldn’t go so long without answering. So I came down, and it was in the middle of this . . .”
“Our benefit dinner,” Cohen said.
“Right. In the middle of the dinner, I . . . caused a scene. I was upset. I alleged that the people at the dinner weren’t doing enough.”
Hanna was looking over the pictures and her eyes flicked up to Sterling. “You believe Rene is a victim of human trafficking?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
Sterling pulled something else from his briefcase. “Rene’s last email to me.” He handed it over.
“Can I get a copy of this?” William looked from Cohen to Sterling.
“Take that one,” Sterling said.
William briefly scanned it, planning to digest it later when people weren’t watching him, the air filled with tension.
Isabella, who’d been sitting quietly this whole time, spoke up. “Honduras is very poor. Utila and Roatán — the Bay Islands — are one of the cheapest places to get a diving license in the world. Many young people doing the Central American backpacking trips, they stop here to get their diving license. It’s a very bohemian place, it’s cheaper than most resorts.”
“So that’s what Rene was doing?”
“Yes,” Sterling answered.
But William didn’t think that was all. He got the impression, however subtle, that there was some unremarked friction between Sterling and his daughter.
“Where are the other people in this scuba diving photo? And with the back packs?”
“Left,” Cohen said.
It was a bit like watching a sport, how the answers and conversation kept bouncing around between the aggrieved father, the resort owner, and the mysterious woman in the wheelchair. Obviously they all had something at stake.
“The other backpackers have gone back home,” Cohen continued.
“Are you sure? Do you know everyone in this picture on the boat?”
“Well, some,” Sterling said, coming around the table and leaning over the photo. He smelled of cologne and sweat. He pointed to the scuba picture. “I spoke with Tommy. And we emailed. I have those, too, here.” He produced more documents and added them to the pile. “He told me when he left, Rene was in good spirits. She didn’t just run away, I know it.”
“How about this guy?” William pointed to another young man with dark curls and a struggling goatee.
“No I don’t know him.”
“And in this picture?” William indicated the shot with Rene and the handsome man posing next to a scooter.
“That’s Frederick. They were sort of on-again, off-again. Just friends, really. He’s dead.”
William glanced up, and Sterling explained. “He took his backpacking to the Himalayas. He had an accident.”
“Okay. So, Rene stayed behind.”
Isabella spoke again. “Like Antigua, some people sort of get taken with Roatán. The beaches, the people, the diving. They might work in a bar while they train to be PADI instructors. It’s a very attractive place.”
“Did Rene work at a bar?” William looked over their faces.
Sterling shook his head. “No.”
William wanted to ask about money, but it would keep for a moment. Instead, he referred to the email and asked Sterling, “And you think this person she alludes to here, Deon, is connected to trafficking? Then that’s where we start.”
“Okay,” Hanna said. “Hold on. Can we all just take a minute?”
Sterling gave her a long look and then sat down again. “Of course,” said Cohen.
Hanna put on a smile. William could sense her pragmatic mind working. Once everyone had settled, she gave the photos another look and then folded her hands together.
“Let’s just start at the beginning. You’ve contacted local law enforcement?”
Sterling looked a little offended. “Of course; every day. Worthless. Most of them are on foot. If you want to press charges for something, you have to pay them to get you to the mainland. A young woman took a taxi from Oak Ridge heading toward French Harbor. Not far past Punta Gorda, the driver pulled onto a dirt road and raped her, threw some of her belongings into the bush, and left her there.”
Hanna looked mortified, as though she were biting her tongue.
“The woman walked to a nearby village for help,” Sterling continued. He seemed to think the anecdote was proof of all his claims. “She tried to get the police involved. You think there are forensics here? Anyone equipped to handle actual crime, or a missing girl?”
“What about the mainland?”
Sterling threw up his hands. He left the table and walked to the window muttering to himself. Then he spun around and glared at Cohen. “Marshal, maybe we should talk. I thought you said—”
Marshal Cohen put his hands up to calm Sterling down. Sterling was a hothead. William considered the man’s red face, imagined him barging into a benefit dinner, wildly distraught over his missing daughter.
Cohen faced William and Hanna. “The police here . . . think of them in layers. Some are local, some are national . . .”
William recalled the men in black masks at the docks. They were the national police. Surely they had a division that was less paramilitary, one that worked on missing person’s cases.
“Wealthier people hire private police — guards — to protect their homes,” Cohen said. “Our police force here are primarily tasked with keeping things safe for tourists. They do road stops, for instance; there’s one major artery that runs through the island, and that’s about what they can handle. But as Mr. Sterling points out, they’re not really equipped for this sort of thing. The national police, though, do have a missing person’s division . . .”
“Oh, they’ve got someone on it,” Sterling said, dismissive. “His name is Catarino. You want his number?” He came fished around in his briefcase, still clearly worked up. He tossed a business card onto the pile of photographs. “There you go. Maybe you can get somewhere further than I have with him. Because he’s got nothing.”
William picked up the card. The address was for San Pedro Sula, on the mainland.
“And you’ve obviously searched all of her social media,” William said. “Her Facebook, Instagram, twitter, whatever she may use.”
“Rene doesn’t use any of that. Not Facebook, not since she was fourteen. She’s doesn’t do that stuff. She boycotts it.”
“You’re sure.”
“Well, someone like Catarino could subpoena her cell phone carrier, potentially get her call and text logs, even her locations.”
Sterling snorted and threw up his hands. “You didn’t hear me? Catarino has gotten nowhere!”
Hanna interrupted. “Mr. Sterling, I understand your frustration and urgency. If you all will please excuse Mr. Chase and myself for a few minutes?”
Sterling glared at her. Maybe he was bumptious, used to getting his way, but he seemed genuinely fearful. Cohen stood up from the table and whispered something into Sterling’s ear, while Isabella stared out at the ruffling palm trees. The only sound was of buzzing insects outside and the distant calls of children.
Finished soothing Sterling, Cohen smiled at William and Hanna. “Please, take a moment. I know this is a lot.” His eyes danced between them. “But not too long. We’re worried that with each passing moment, Rene is . . .”
“I completely understand,” Hanna said. She tapped William on the shoulder. He rose from the table and followed her out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“That felt like an ambush,” Hanna said. They’d taken their sidebar back in their room.
She got a bottle of water from the fridge. The heat would take some getting used to. It was smothering, like wearing a rug. William’s shirt was plastered to his skin. At the same time, he didn’t feel like closing the doors and windows and turning on the air conditioning. This was what it was like here, he needed to experience it.
“I researched Cohen during the flight,” he said. “Cohen is from Ivanovo, same as Reznikov.”
“He’s not American? He sounds American.”
“He was born in New Jersey. But his family is Polish-Jewish and his father worked for Severstal. They moved to Ivanovo when he was still in grade school, and he went to the University in Cherepovets. That’s the connection; that’s where he met Reznikov, I bet.”
“Where did you find all of this?”
“Partly on the resort website, and I tapped into the box.” He meant their storage drive. “Cohen moved here in ’92 with his degree in hotel management. He worked for other resorts first — St. John’s, Bermuda — but this is where he stayed. Now, he’s co-owner of the resort. Basically, he checks out clean.”
Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul Page 5
