Death Roe

by Joseph Heywood

  Rogers had been calling in every few days with updates on the Fagan-Vandeal trial. The new guess for completion was sometime in late August. He suspected his own management, New York, and the feds would not be happy with his continued interest in the Piscova case, but he was beyond caring what others thought.

  He ordered half an avocado on a piece of full-grain dark Swedish rye toast, salted and peppered, and added a glass of orange juice to wash down his medications as he waited for his Miami flight to be called.

  73

  Thursday, June 16, 2005

  PUERTO LIMON, COSTA RICA

  Service flew into Juan Santamaria Airport, only a few miles north of the capital’s downtown, slogged through customs and immigration, and caught an orange cab to Pavas Domestic Airport, also called Tobias Bolanos, a one-hour ride, to cover what he estimated to be no more than four or five miles as the crow flew. At Pavas he caught a flight on a twin-engine aircraft operated by Nature Air, the name in English on the pointed nose. One pilot, no other crew. The skies were lumpy, gray, threatening, the ride fairly wild with a lot of up and down and skidding through the air. His fellow passengers carried on as if this were normal.

  Fischer was close to six foot, with silver tips to his thick black hair, and a pencil mustache; all in all, a distinguished-looking man with an almost regal bearing and intense, gray eyes.“Your trip was without incident?”

  “Flying,” Service said with a shrug, feeling Fischer examining the fresh scars around his eye and jaw.

  “Come,” the man said. “We are at the beginning of the rainy season, and when the rain comes, it is often like a lover’s temper: quiet, then there, right in your face, without warning.”

  The man drove a beat-up Ford Explorer with azul-verde aventura painted in bright red script along the side. “I have arranged for a place for you to stay, but this will not be until later. If you wish, I can arrange for a room here until you’re rested.”

  “I slept all the way down.”

  “A good habit,” Fischer said.

  Service patted his pocket to rattle his pain pills. “Drugs.”

  “You are not well?”

  “I’m fine. Where are we going?”

  Fischer smiled, did not answer, and concentrated on driving. The traffic seemed totally disorganized, with potholed streets and suicidal drivers following no observable traffic laws.

  They drove up the coast to a small restaurant and went inside. The waiter was haughty and attentive to Fischer, who ordered in rapid-fire Spanish. The waiter brought a glass of rum.

  “From sugarcane,” Fischer said, “a local specialty.” Too syrupy for Service’s taste, but he drank it out of politeness. The waiter brought them four eggs about the size of Ping-Pong balls.

  Service could smell the pickling and waited for Fischer to eat. The man salted and peppered an egg, raised his eyes to the ceiling, said, “God forgive me,” and popped the whole egg into his mouth.

  Service did as his host had done. The flavor was impossible to describe—sweet, tart, smooth. “Huevos tortuga,” Fischer said. “Turtle eggs; specifically, green sea turtle eggs, of the endangered species, Chelonia mydas. Our government allows for a modest harvest of the creatures by licensed fishermen, but there is poaching at unknown and presumed high levels. These eggs could be legal or illegal. If illegal, the fines are extremely high, but the government lacks the resources to track poachers with either enthusiasm or effectiveness.”

  Eggs, Service thought. What had Tas Andriaitis said? Fagan was never far from eggs. “Is there a point to this, or are we just breaking the law for sport?”

  “The point at this moment is that neither you nor I know if we are breaking the law. So we may eat in good conscience—and good health, God willing.”

  Meal complete, they got back into the vehicle and drove into a village, the buildings all one story and painted bright colors. Fischer stopped the Explorer and got out. Service joined him.

  “You see,” the retired FBI agent said, pointing. “The yellow wooden steps leading up the side of the cliff? The blue house on top belongs to your Mr. Fagan, and the two blue buildings directly below the stairs are part of it—one is a grocery, one is a fish house.”

  “All Fagan’s?”

  “The house on top is his; the places below are under the brokerage of Refugio Seguro. The one place buys fish from local fishermen and ships them around the country, as well as to destinations outside the country.”

  “How far outside?”

  “I’ve been told as far as Japan.”

  “Tuna?”

  “Some, to be sure.”

  “You’re trying to make a point here, and I may be a bit too thick to get it.”

  “The man who manages the fish house is called Yaya da Costa. Senor da Costa is an extremely interesting man who was called Marvy Block when he lived in New York. He was part of a mob operation that used to beat the shit out of the airport in Newark, trafficking animal parts, but neither U.S. Fish and Wildlife or the Bureau could get anything on him. Curious that he ends up here, working for Refugio Seguro.”

  Fischer took out a cigarette case, opened it, and offered it to Service, who shook his head while the retired agent lit up. “It is said there are turtle eggs in the fish store,” Fischer said, exhaling. “I called an associate, Juan Carlos Nevar—the chief enforcement ranger at Tortuguero National Park—and talked to him about Senor da Costa. I’ve put one of my employees on this, and he has observed a boat going north every two days. It leaves late in the afternoon, too late for sightseeing, and there is no commercial activity of note to the north of Limon. This is not a licensed fishing boat. It could be that local poachers are selling turtle eggs to Senor da Costa, or that he is harvesting them himself. He travels with a crew of three, the ideal turtle unit,” Fischer said. “Juan Carlos has an informant who claims a group is taking nesting turtles and eggs on a beach called Green Moon, which is in an exceptionally isolated part of the national park—one never visited by tourists, and only rarely by scientists.”

  “You have university scientists studying green sea turtles?”

  “Our academics study all fauna and flora, and especially green sea turtles, because they are endangered and therefore sexy, which means mucho grant money for their work and institutes.”

  “Does Refugio Seguro have a license to catch fish?”

  “Not that I have been able to ascertain.”

  “What about a license to collect eggs for the academics who study the turtles?”

  Fischer gave him a funny look. “Such a possibility never occurred to me, but I shall make inquiries. My colleague Juan Carlos Nevar is preparing to interdict the activities on Green Moon Beach.”

  “Possible for me to go along?”

  “This is a most strenuous undertaking, and you have no law enforcement authority here.”

  “I can be an interested observer.”

  “This is possible, I think.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “You fly to Tortuguero. It is a beach village of perhaps three hundred people. It lives off tourism and the nearby national park. Juan Carlos will fetch you.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “Let us return to the airport,” Fischer said. “I will arrange a flight, and talk to my colleague. While you are gone I will check on Senor Fagan and licenses.”

  74

  Friday, June 17, 2005

  GREEN MOON BAY, TORTUGUERO NATIONAL PARK, LIMON PROVINCE, COSTA RICA

  Juan Carlos Nevar was barely five feet tall, with missing teeth and enormous hands. He met Service at the small airport next to the village of Tortuguero and drove him to his quarters on the edge of the massive park. The small frame house sat on a channel looking acr
oss at a towering dark green rainforest, which looked more forbidding than any cedar swamp Service had ever faced in the Upper Peninsula.

  Nevar spoke halting English, but talked slowly and listened to make sure Service understood his plan. “We go by boat in the morning. Then we climb a mountain and go down other side. One of my men placed ropes, which we been using. When rains, she come, the mud turns to helado, ice—yes?”

  “Ice, slippery.”

  “Si, mucho-mucho. We lower ourselves to beach and stay edge of forest. I have a man above, up high, like God? We have marked where this boat is coming. This time we will be close, and if they come ashore for turtles, we will be waiting.” Nevar picked up a piece of carved wood with a long handle and a knot on the end. “No guns; only this. Comprende?” Nevar popped his hand with the club for emphasis.

  “No guns.”

  “You watch only,” Nevar said. “Observer.”

  “Understood.”

  The man made them a dish of beans and rice with tomatoes, gave him a hammock, and showed him how to hang it. Grady Service went to sleep staring at geckos moving around the ceiling, defying gravity, thinking that whatever kept them up there might be a good thing to have on his own feet in a muddy jungle. Nevar hadn’t needed to warn him about the mud in the rainforest. He and Treebone had been in jungle mud beyond description for an endless, bloody year. It was something sane men weren’t eager to go back to.

  The boat they took was a twenty-foot-long dugout with a fifteen-horse Yamaha engine that ran almost without sound. Nevar steered and two other men sat forward with Service in the middle as they slid quietly through an unending series of canals filled with black water. On occasion Service could hear surf crashing to their east, but he never saw the big water. Mid-afternoon they beached and hid the boat and made their way into the rainforest. Nevar moved with ease and kept a hard pace. Service found himself puffing, but keeping up. Two hours later they started up a ridge, got to a knotted rope, took hold, and began to climb. There was no talking. Sweat poured off him and he congratulated himself on being smart enough to bring waterproof boots and nylon clothes that were light and would dry out quickly.

  From the apex of the ridge they took a new set of ropes downward. The ground was slippery, but manageable. Nevar and his men did not use flashlights, which suited Service. He rarely used lights at night either.

  By 2 a.m. they were in a small clearing, and Nevar left them for a few minutes, came back, sent his men one way and took Service in another. They moved out into high grass, overlooking a dark beach against a black sky and dark water.

  “Sleep,” Nevar said. “They come in two hours, no sooner.”

  Service was too geeked to sleep. Behind him he heard a strange grunting, barking sound like nothing he’d ever heard before. “Mono Congo,” Nevar said quietly. “Howling . . . monkey. No danger. Only noise, much noise.”

  Despite himself, Service fell asleep, and was awakened later by Nevar. “Come, come.”

  They moved through the grass, and Nevar slid off his pack and took out infrared night-vision binoculars. He set them on a small tripod, looked through the viewfinder, and said, “You look, quick.”

  Service slid over. The scene was green. He could see a lot of boulders on the sand, and less than fifty feet away one of the boulders moved. There was a quiet thump and he saw a flurry of blurred movement and something dashing back into the grass to their right. “Jaguar,” Nevar said. “She eats the head of the turtle.” The cat was red and yellow in the thermal imager.

  “Doesn’t she smell us?”

  “Like big bears in Alaska, yes? When salmon come, they eat salmon, not people. Turtles taste better, I think.”

  The scene finally clarified. “Those boulders are turtles?” They looked to be three to four feet around.

  “Ochenta kilos,” Nevar said. “Not so big.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Small girl turtles lay eggs. They come from sea toward forest, dig hole, lay ciento huevos. Poachers come by boat, catch turtle early, turn on back, drag to boat, lift in. When enough, they leave. Get close to water, tracks gone, yes. Ondular; you say wave, yes? Wave?”

  Ondular. Wave. Service nodded. No wonder the poachers were difficult to catch. It was an in-and-out deal, like walleye poachers in the U.P., who would descend on a stream, hurriedly spear some fish, throw them in a bag, and be gone—in ten minutes, max.

  A jaguar had eaten a turtle’s head so close to him it was hard to believe.

  At 4 a.m. Nevar nudged Service. “We go.”

  Nevar took off at a full run, brandishing his club.

  Service struggled to keep up, despite his much longer legs. He saw two silhouettes and heard the sounds of men struggling and the flat whomp of the club striking flesh, or sand, or both; and then Nevar was up and running toward another man and it happened again. Near the water’s edge Service heard a motor fire up, but he couldn’t see a boat.

  Nevar had handcuffs on the second man and when he struggled, struck him once on the head and added a kick. The second man stopped resisting.

  At creeping dawn there was fair light, and Service went to the dead turtle and saw where the head had been severed. Blood was faint in the black sand, hard to distinguish. Had the cat been out there watching them as well?

  “We climb out?” he asked Nevar.

  “No, a boat will come. We eat now.”

  The man dug up some green sea turtle eggs, broke them into a small pan, and fried them over the fire with some sort of thin red meat. The man who defended the turtles also poached them. It was a disconcerting moment, but Service ate and relished the taste.

  The boat came at 7 a.m. and took them south toward the village, two hours away. Nevar kept the men belowdecks. Service could hear the club working, an occasional scream, a lot of whimpers, Nevar talking emphatically but never shouting.

  At the village, they loaded the two prisoners in a plane and took off for Limon. Halfway there, Nevar opened a hatch and began pushing one of the men toward it. The man screamed and clawed with his feet to resist, but Nevar stopped only at the last second and let the man collapse to the flight deck. “Yaya da Costa,” the man said. “Yaya, Yaya, Yaya!” the man whimpered.

  Policemen met the plane in Limon and Nevar walked with Service to meet Fischer, who looked him over. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He turned to Nevar. “You were going to push that man out of the plane?” He made shoving motions with his hands.

  Fischer translated into Spanish, but there was no need. “Law says tortugas matter. Man is not so important. Others make law; I keep it. You understand?”

  “Si,” Service said. It had been that way once in Michigan, but now people got lawyers and fought everything, like it was their right to do whatever they wanted in the woods. He understood Nevar, but didn’t like him threatening to turn the prisoner into a flyer.

  “Your Mr. Fagan, I am still unable to determine his precise involvement in Refugio Seguro,” said Fischer. The fish house, I am told, has no license to collect eggs from universities and professors, but it is said perhaps such a request is in the works.”

  “Fagan?”

  Fischer shook his head. “Who knows?”

  “Would it be possible for me to talk to Ms. del Rio?”

  “She is very busy, but I will tell her of what you have done with Nevar and we shall see.”

  Two days later they flew to San José and went to a sky-blue stucco building that looked more like a church than a government building. After going through security, they were taken to a small office filled with paperwork and showing no apparent signs of organization. A woman stepped out from behind a pile of papers and exchanged kisses with Fischer. She turned to Service, pushed a chair toward him with her foot, and said, “Please be seated. I am not much for formality. Coff
ee?”

  Service said yes. The woman didn’t call a secretary; instead, she stepped into an anteroom and came back with two cups, one for each of the men. She lit a cigarette and said, “I’m listening.”

  Grady Service took her through the Quint Fagan–Piscova case, from finding Blinky Baranov selling eggs, to the visit to Brooklyn and his encounter with Krapahkin. When he had finished, the woman asked, “Fagan was convicted of tax violations in Florida?”

  “Illegal cash transactions. I don’t know all the details.”

  “But this other thing in New York—the trial goes on as we speak?”

  “Yes.”

  “According to your constitution, I believe Senor Fagan is an innocent man at this time.”

  “Innocent until proven guilty,” Service said. “But he’s also purchased property here, and it’s my understanding that in order to do that legally, your law requires the purchaser to be a resident of Costa Rica.”

  “What you say is true,” she said.

  Service looked at Fischer. “Has he filed for residency?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. In time we will know.”

  “Why do you tell us this story?” del Rio asked.

  “Because I’m guessing that if he gets off the charges in New York, he’s going to come here and do the same thing with green sea turtle eggs. I don’t know that he will mix them with contaminated eggs, but he will find a way to harvest illegally and add to his profit. If he’s found guilty, I believe he will flee to your country.”

  “Perhaps you harbor a personal grudge against this man?”

  “No, ma’am, I just want to uphold the laws.”

  “I see. You are very kind to come so far to share this with us,” del Rio said, turning back to some papers on her desk as she bid them farewell.

  On the way to a hotel Fischer said, “You will seek extradition for Fagan?”

  “Not me, but the feds probably will.”

  “Very difficult,” Fischer said, “very difficult, but perhaps there will be a miracle.”