The Sienna Sand

by Jeff Siebold

  “This is the place?” asked Julia Conners, quickly scanning the area around them and nodding to Abdel, Ferman’s bodyguard.

  “It is,” said Ferman Khoury. “My contact works here.”

  As they entered the building they were met by two uniformed officers, who led them through the public area and down a hallway. They stopped in front of a door marked Minister of Justice, and one of the officers knocked quietly.

  “Hallo?” came a deep voice from inside the office. The first officer opened the door and ushered them in. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

  The voice belonged to a tall, cadaverous man with a large head. He had a European look about him. Ferman Khoury walked directly to the man and shook his hand.

  “Minister, how good to see you again,” Ferman said. “Thank you for inviting us.”

  Always gracious, thought Julia Conners. She scanned the room, noting two uniformed men, their backs to the wall, one holding an automatic weapon.

  She touched the butt of her pistol lightly, reassuring herself that it was ready and available if needed. Then she stepped back to a position that gave her a clear view of the room and its occupants.

  “Ferman, it is always a pleasure to see you,” said the man. His words were seasoned with a Dutch accent. “I trust you had a good journey.”

  Julia noticed that the uniformed policeman holding the machine gun hadn’t taken his eyes off of Abdel since they entered the room. He thinks Abdel is the greater potential threat, she thought. Boy, is he wrong.

  As the men talked, Julia moved a few steps away from Abdel, taking a position closer to the uniformed officers and out of the potential line of fire. Ferman retreated to an office chair and the Minister of Justice sat behind his desk. The ranking uniformed officer also sat, while the rest stood looking on.

  “Where are you staying?” the man asked.

  “Simpson Bay Lagoon,” said Ferman Khoury. “Aboard the Gun Runner.”

  “Yes, what a marvelous name. So please forgive me for not wanting to discuss this over the phone…”

  “Certainly,” said Ferman, settling into the chair.

  “I have a buyer who is in need of some of your stock,” the Minister started. “As we talked about. He would like to take delivery as soon as possible. This month, even.”

  Ferman pursed his lips and made a face that indicated this could probably be accomplished. He said, “What part of my stock do you want?”

  “My buyer is interested in explosives and rifles. Semi-automatic weapons. And ammunition for the rifles.”

  Ferman nodded. “I assume you mean C-4 plastic explosives.”

  “Yes, that would be fine.”

  “I’ll give you what I have. And the rifles. I assume AK-47’s will do. How many?” asked Ferman.

  “My buyer will need four thousand. So, 400 crates.”

  Ferman nodded. “And delivery?”

  “Ah, that is the tricky part. My buyer would like this merchandise delivered to the Port of Guanta in Venezuela.”

  “We can arrange for a container with these weapons disguised as, say, furniture from China.”

  “That should be acceptable,” said the Minister. “We will wire the money to your account. Direct from Grand Cayman.”

  “I haven’t quoted a price,” said Ferman.

  “It doesn’t matter. The President of Venezuela is in great need of this equipment.”

  Ferman Khoury nodded. He took a sticky note from the Minister’s desk and jotted a number on it.

  “U.S. dollars?”

  “Yes,” said Khoury.

  “Good. How soon can they be delivered?”

  * * *

  “That seemed to go smoothly,” said Julia Conners, once they were aboard the Gun Runner.

  “Yes, great need makes for excellent cooperation,” said Ferman Khoury with a smile. Then he said, “But it could have gone very badly.”

  Abdel stood nearby.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s the going price for an AK-47 rifle?”

  “That’s a tricky question,” said Ferman as he found a seat in the aft salon. “In Syria they sell for twenty-one hundred US dollars each. But in Afghanistan, they sell for about six hundred. On the U.S.-Mexican border they sell for twice that, about twelve-hundred each. There is a geographic consideration.”

  “What did you quote the Minister?” asked Julia, curious.

  “I quoted him $1,300 each, delivered,” said Ferman Khoury. “A bit over five million dollars for the guns.”

  “Delivered,” she said to herself. “How does that happen?”

  “Well, it depends,” said Ferman. “The size of the order is a large consideration.”

  “This one is for four thousand rifles,” said Julia.

  “Yes. As I told the minister, we’ll arrange for them to arrive on a container ship.”

  “But they could be discovered by the Venezuelan Border Patrol,” said Julia.

  “Ah, but it will not be. The recipient is in charge of the Port and the Customs Police in Venezuela,” said Ferman Khoury. “After all, he is the President.”

  “I see,” said Julia.

  “It is not always simple to deliver the weapons,” said Ferman. “Sometimes they are hijacked en route. Or there is a shortage, and no source of the guns.”

  “Supply and demand,” said Julia with a smile.

  “Very much so,” said Ferman Khoury. “So, Julia, how did you feel about working with us, at the meeting and all.”

  After a moment, she said, “I felt like I was back in the game. It was exhilarating.”

  “You’d do it again, then?” he asked.

  “Without hesitation,” she said. “I used to live for those moments.”

  “Perhaps you would consider something more permanent,” he said.

  Abdel looked in surprise at Ferman Khoury, who pretended not to notice his glance.

  “I’ve checked. Your reputation is impressive,” he continued. “For me, it would be good to have someone who can manage some of the more physical aspects of the business. Particularly security and perhaps transportation. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Ferman, that would be a dream job for me,” she said. “I would pay you to do it.”

  Ferman laughed lightly. “No, Julia, there is value to me to have these things taken care of.”

  “There is one issue, though,” Julia continued.

  “Yes?” asked Ferman.

  She looked at Abdel and said, “It’s rather private.”

  “Well, then let’s stretch our legs.”

  * * *

  “Yes, Julia?” Ferman Khoury said, as they walked around the outside deck of the Gun Runner.

  “I don’t want to alarm you, or offend you,” she started, “and I hesitate to say anything. But it could become a problem. And I’ve always taken care of problems up front.”

  “Good,” he said, listening.

  The breeze blew their hair lightly in random patterns and felt good in the Caribbean sun. Julia and Ferman walked ahead and spoke softly.

  “Your son, Ghafran. He’s, ah, well, he’s come on to me. He’s rather insistent, Ferman.”

  “Yes, he does that, I know,” said Ferman. “I keep waiting for him to outgrow it.”

  “I could handle it myself,” said Julia, “but he is your son. It’s a fine balance.”

  “Yes,” said Ferman Khoury. “Well, let me talk with him again, then.”

  * * *

  “I don’t see why you’ve been avoiding me,” said Ghafran Khoury, suddenly close behind her, his breath on her neck. “You haven’t spent much time on deck since we left St. Martin.”

  She turned and smiled a winning smile. He was sipping a before-dinner martini with a large green olive. Julia smelled the garlic cloves that had been pushed into the holes where the olive pit had been.

  Crap, she thought to herself. Julia had been avoiding the son of her employer since he had approached her after they left Hilton Head Is
land over a week ago. Better to stay out of sight and avoid trouble, she’d told herself.

  “I haven’t been feeling my best,” she said quickly. “So I’ve been resting and reading.”

  Ghafran said, “You sure you’re not avoiding me?”

  That’s it exactly, she thought. But she said, “No, no…”

  “…because from here, it seems like you are,” he continued.

  “You see, I have a boyfriend,” Julia fabricated. “Back home.”

  “Back home in Ireland?” he asked. “That’s a long way from here. You know what they say about long distance relationships.”

  “Doomed to failure. Worse than one night stands. But we persevere.”

  Julia stepped back a half step. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I can’t stand the smell of garlic. Nothing personal.” She turned as if to walk away.

  Ghafran flared. He said, “Don’t walk away from me, bitch,” and he grabbed at Julia’s wrist.

  Although she was several inches shorter than him, and twice his age, Julia clamped her free hand on top of Ghafran’s and quickly twisted it under her arm, bringing his arm up between his shoulder blades.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought, and reached between his legs and grabbed his balls and squeezed. Hard.

  Ghafran’s knees buckled and his drink splashed across the mahogany deck. His glass shattered when it fell, along with his pride.

  “Let go,” he screamed, shrill like a stray cat. “Let go of me!”

  Julia held the position for a minute, just long enough for the man to realize that she had total control. Then she let him go and walked away.

  * * *

  “You’d better hear it from me, then,” Julia said to Ferman Khoury. She’d found him in the formal galley, sitting and snacking on fruit dipped in hummus.

  Ferman nodded, his mouth occupied with a slice of apple. He grunted his agreement.

  “It’s Ghafran, ya know,” her Irish accent becoming more noticeable with the stress.

  Ferman looked at his plate, then back at Julia. He stood up.

  “He is a rambunctious one,” said Ferman carefully. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, no, he was drinking and he made an advance. When I turned him down, he became very angry and agitated.”

  “I told him to leave you alone,” said the older man. “I specifically warned him.”

  “I’ve been staying out of sight,” said Julia. “After his first attempts, it just seemed better to avoid the situation. But this time, I couldn’t.”

  Ferman said, “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  * * *

  “This is not one of your floozy girls,” Ferman Khoury shouted. His face was red and his breath short. He was alone in one of the yacht’s salons with Ghafran.

  “The bitch almost broke my arm,” whined Ghafran.

  “You are to leave her alone, that’s all,” said Ferman. “She is a contractor. She works for us.”

  Ghafran looked away, sullen.

  “I won’t tolerate it if anything like this happens again.”

  The younger man looked back, sullen. “It won’t,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  “Doctor Hinken, I’m investigating the four recent prison deaths. I understand that you’re the coroner of Allegany County, Maryland,” said Zeke.

  The older man looked up. He was sitting in a wooden swivel chair behind a blonde wood desk that looked as if it was from the last century. His white hair ringed his narrow bald head and crowded his ears.

  “How’d you get in here?” he asked, looking at Zeke and then at the door.

  Zeke shrugged. “I noticed you were in, so…”

  “What did my secretary say?” asked Hinken, blinking and looking at the door again.

  “Oh, well, I guess she’s on break or something. Nobody’s out there.”

  Hinken said, “Can I see your ID?”

  Zeke showed him.

  Hinken said, “Just a second.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “There’s a Zeke Traynor here in my office. He’s asking about the inmate deaths over at Cumberland.”

  He listened for a minute, then nodded.

  “Un-huh. OK, well, I wanted to check,” he said. He hung up and said to Zeke, “That was my boss. He got a call from the FBI about you. Sit down.” He waved his arm absently at the two chairs across the desk.

  “Thanks,” said Zeke.

  “You have a suspect? Or suspects?” asked Dr. Hinken.

  Zeke said, “Not yet. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. You’ve worked on all four bodies, right?”

  “That’s right. As coroner, prisoner deaths are routed through us,” said Hinken. “Since they were obvious murders, I autopsied all four of them.”

  “I’ve seen your reports. But I often find that there’s more information available than goes in the blank lines on the forms.”

  “That’s the truth,” said Hinken. “What do you wanna talk about?” He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the top of his desk, looking directly at Zeke.

  “Let’s start with the first victim. Tell me what you saw.”

  “The first vic. That was Ernest Gleason. Black male, about forty. Died from blood loss after a serrated knife blade was dragged across his throat.”

  Zeke nodded. “He was found in the janitor’s closet,” he said.

  “I don’t know much about that,” said Hinken. “But he’d been dead for a while. Liver temp…”

  “I saw that in the report,” said Zeke. “Anything strange about the body?”

  “Not really. He was diabetic. Had type-two diabetes, and he was on insulin. Two injections a day.”

  “Physically, was he fit?”

  “Not really. He was overweight and his post-mortem blood sugar was high, around 220. Not exactly under control,” said Hinken. “And,” he said, “Ernest smoked.”

  “There’s a deadly combination,” Zeke reflected.

  “Sure is. But, as I said, Ernest died by a serrated blade.”

  “To the throat, you said.”

  “Yes. Not much question about that,” said the doctor.

  “Tell me how you envisioned it happening,” asked Zeke. “Based on what you saw.”

  “Well, we don’t get a huge number of throat slashings in here,” said the doctor. “But I’d guess that someone got behind old Ernest when he wasn’t looking and took out the knife and reached around and pulled it across the man’s throat. His left to right.”

  “So it was probably a right-handed assailant?” asked Zeke.

  “Seems like it.”

  “Doctor, can you estimate the height of the assailant? From the angle of the knife wounds?” asked Zeke.

  “I can guess. It seemed that the neck was cut downward, on a downward angle, front to back…”

  “Starting higher on the neck, and getting lower the deeper the cut? That would imply an assailant that was shorter than Gleason, wouldn’t it?” asked Zeke.

  The doctor nodded. “Very possible,” he said.

  “How much shorter?” asked Zeke.

  “Oh, maybe five or six inches,” said Hinken, thinking. “A fairly substantial difference.”

  Zeke nodded. “What else? Could you tell anything about the assailant from the victim’s body?”

  ”Not really. The knife left a gaping wound. Gleason bled out in a few minutes.”

  “Was the murder committed in the janitor’s closet?” asked Zeke.

  Hinken nodded slowly. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “I know what’s in the report, Doctor. I’m looking for your impressions.”

  “Well, there would certainly be a lot of blood, and arterial spatter, of course. So if he were killed elsewhere, and taken to the closet, there would almost certainly be a blood trail. Lots of blood spatter.”

  “Even if he were already dead?” asked Zeke.

  “There would be blood all over him, the victim,” said Hinken, thinking, “and on the walls and the
floor around him. Wherever he died, there would be a flood of red. The human body holds a lot of blood. And he was a big man.”

  “A big man like that would have, what, maybe six and a half quarts?” Zeke asked.

  Hinken nodded. “That’s not too far off.”

  “And if he were dragged into the closet post mortem…”

  “There wouldn’t be nearly as much blood in the closet. But there would have been a lot more blood on the floor outside the closet. From his clothing and from the wound. Even post mortem. And the police report said there was blood in the hallway.”

  “But there wasn’t high pressure blood spatter on the walls and ceiling of the janitor’s closet,” said Zeke, thinking aloud. “And there wasn’t anywhere close to six quarts on the floor of the closet.”

  “So he was killed somewhere else and taken to the closet,” said Hinken. “Where? They would have found all that blood by now.”

  “Maybe in the shower? The blood washed down the drain?”

  “Were there any other wounds on Gleason? Stab wounds or sharp instruments, an ice pick maybe?”

  Hinken thought about that. “You mean they may have killed him first, and then cut his throat post mortem? That would be odd.”

  “That depends,” said Zeke. “Did someone identify Gleason’s body?”

  “His grandmother did, as I recall. I happened to be on duty when she came in. She had some questions about his death, and I told her what I could.”

  Just then, the phone on Dr. Hinken’s desk rang. He said, “Forgive me,” and answered. After a moment, his eyes narrowed and he said, “Alright,” and hung up.

  “I’m needed at a crash site. Out on the highway, a truck and a passenger vehicle mixed it up. Sounds like the truck won…two casualties.”

  “Go ahead,” said Zeke. “I’ll visit the grandmother. I’ll be back tomorrow to talk about the other three victims.”

  * * *

  Kimmy and Zeke climbed the four steps to the front door and rang the bell.

  “I don’t hear anything inside,” said Zeke. He knocked loudly on the solid wooden door. A few moments later, they heard sounds.