Espionage Games

by J. S. Chapman

  Jack should have been more vigilant. He should have been looking behind his back. He should have expected a trap. In his cockiness, he hadn’t thought anyone could be that clever, that mischievous, or that all-knowing.

  And Maddie, in her eagerness to get away from the daily grind, ignored the fates whispering in her ear and telling her to run as far and as fast as her legs could carry her. She could have been communicating with someone for days, even weeks or months. Messages exchanged. Information shared. Timetables synchronized. Video conferences. She expected Jack and knew exactly who he was the moment he stepped into the shack. She knew his real name. Understood his purpose for being there. Then played out her hand and threw down her cards. She had seduced him with her charm, her wit, and her frankness, but outsmarted herself. Goddamn the woman! Goddamn her for being so cocky, so sure of herself, so foolhardy. And goddamn her for romancing a man who brought the angel of death to her door.

  A rustling of air ushered in a stranger. “Mr. Harrier?”

  Jack took a shallow breath and peered forward.

  “My name is Abuna. Sam Abuna. I’m following up on the murder of Ms. Gibbons.”

  “Your people already questioned me.”

  “I’m aware.” The multiracial mix in Sam Abuna took the best features of his Caucasian fathers and Melanesian mothers and spun them into a handsome tapestry of golden hair, athletic build, mahogany skin, and indecipherable facial features. Somewhere in his youth, a rival broke his nose with a right hook. It should have marred his good looks. Instead, it enhanced them, made him seem tougher. “She’s an employee with NBT? Am I correct?”

  “Was is the operative word.”

  “I didn’t want to be indelicate.”

  “Your position again?”

  “Didn’t I say?”

  When the Annabel Lee anchored offshore, a contingent of Nauruan police boarded her in a flurry of white-shirted activity and stone-faced expressions. Captain Ken recounted the events of the afternoon while a medic attended to his head wound. His account of the incident was coherent and direct. No, he did not see who killed poor Ms. Gibbons since he had already been shot and left for dead. No, he didn’t recognize the stranger. Yes, he could give a full description of the fisherman. Yes, he recognized the boat. It belonged to his friend Harold Batsuya, who probably would have a story of his own to tell.

  Jack was hustled below decks in handcuffs while the investigative team collected evidence topside. In the waning hours of a hot afternoon, he became unaccountably cold. Shivers racked his body, teeth chattering and shock taking over. Someone mustered up a blanket. Eventually the handcuffs were removed. Someone else brought him hot coffee and pressed his unsteady hands around the steaming cup. He sipped. The heat scoured his tongue and the insides of his cheeks. He must have bitten himself during the attack. He ran the tip of his tongue over a chipped molar. He set down the coffee cup and hunkered beneath the thin layer of wool. A medic gingerly checked him over and applied minimal first aid. He had already examined the lifeless corpse of Madelyn Gibbons and declared her beyond help. Jack could see it in his eyes, the lingering suspicion along with questions that would run through anyone’s mind after witnessing a gory crime scene such as the one aboard the Annabel Lee. Everyone was a suspect, including the savagely beaten tourist.

  Another policeman climbed below, a giant figure of a man with brooding eyes who arrived after everybody else. He stood menacingly over Jack, pencil propped above a spiral notebook. He was direct but insolent. It was clear from his stern expression that he didn’t trust this eratequò, this outsider. His questions came fast, leaving little room for lies or exaggerations. Even in a state of shock, Jack was cogent enough to not defend himself too vigorously. The evidence spoke for itself. His injuries were brutal enough that it was unlikely the girl could have inflicted them or he could have inflicted them on himself.

  The investigator held up an evidence bag, the weapon inside weighting it down. “Yours?”

  “The killer.”

  “Which isn’t you.”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Lucky for you, Captain Ken’s says the same.”

  “Then you’re letting me go?”

  “Not until Abuna decides.”

  “Who’s Abuna?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  He was transported ashore, once again in handcuffs. An officer removed one of the cuffs at the hospital, locked it around one of the siderails, and stationed himself just outside the privacy curtain.

  And now, his body put back together with gauze and bandages and coagulating blood, Jack gazed at Sam Abuna. Though his teary eye was an impediment, he could still see well enough. This official, whoever he was, was the man in charge, even if he wasn’t with the police force.

  “They tell me your injuries aren’t serious.”

  “Tell that to my body.”

  “The doctor wants to keep you overnight. I think she’s trying to protect you. I think she sees you as a tragic figure. As do I, but for different reasons. I told her you had a previous engagement.”

  Jack managed to open both eyes.

  “You have a plane to catch, Mr. Harrier.”

  “Not until Friday.”

  “This afternoon, actually.”

  “I have unfinished business.”

  “The plane leaves at midnight. You should be in Brisbane around dinnertime tomorrow. It’s an island hopper. Lucky for you, a seat is available on standby. Otherwise, you would have had to spend a few uncomfortable days in jail.”

  “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

  “I’m sure I said.” Whatever his title, Abuna was sent to sweep up a public relations mess. “The man you say did this to you and Ms. Gibbons? He’s from around here?”

  Jack lied. “I never saw him before in my life.”

  “Did he steal anything?”

  “A life.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Ms. Gibbons had a purse. A shoulder bag. He seemed to want it. Or what was inside it.”

  “Money?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Did you conduct business with Ms. Gibbons?”

  “We were on a pleasure cruise.”

  “Did you previously conduct business with her? Yesterday, perhaps. At her office? Or later, at your hotel?”

  “You’re well informed.”

  “It is my business to be well informed. And your line of business?”

  “I’m a tourist.”

  “Nauru is well known in certain quarters, but not for pleasure. Sometimes smuggling. Sometimes drug running.” He paused for effect, his eyes narrowing with wry humor. “And sometimes banking.”

  “Do you intend to charge me?”

  “Who was the man?”

  “I told you before. I never saw him before. I don’t know who he is. And I don’t know what he wanted.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Jack did so with the greatest of care and the minutest of detail, from his cruel smiles to his dark features to his laughable disguise and finally to his masochistic tendencies.

  “And all he wanted was the purse?”

  “And a life.” They stared at each other through different prisms, Abuna’s of suspicion and Jack’s of evasion. “Could be he held a grudge against her. She seemed to recognize him. He didn’t introduce himself.”

  Abuna inhaled a steady breath, his eyes saying very little. “I’m going to see you safely on the plane. We have your baggage. You travel light. This man? He was Nauruan?”

  “French.”

  “This you know how?”

  “I just do. Your name again?”

  “Abuna.”

  “Your president’s name is Abuna.”

  “Bernard Abuna is my great-uncle.” Then he was here for damage control and political practicality, irrespective of an inexplicable incident at sea and the pointless death of a captivating woman. “I’m afraid, Mr. Harrier, we’ve checked every airline and s
hip manifest, incoming and outgoing. A man fitting your description was not booked on any of them.”

  “Then he was smuggled in.”

  From Abuna’s expression, it must have been the right answer. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

  “I have to be.” Jack swung his legs over the examining table. He was slightly woozy and a little wobbly but managed to steady himself before lowering his feet to the cool linoleum floor. Abuna lent him a strong hand, his face close, his focus direct. Jack glanced around. “My clothes?” Abuna brought them over. They were bloodied, not just with Jack’s blood but also with Maddie’s. Abuna left the examining room and spoke to the guard outside.

  Very soon, Jack’s backpack was hustled inside. “We took the liberty of searching it, so if you find anything amiss, it was our doing.” Abuna swept out an arm of invitation. “My driver is just outside.”

  “I can catch a cab.”

  “We took the liberty of checking you out of the hotel. Your debit card has been charged for all incidentals.”

  “You’re very thorough.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Except I left something in the hotel room.”

  “I’m sure we packed everything.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Ah,” Abuna said. “I see. We’ll swing by the hotel and see what can be done. We try to be very accommodating on our tiny island in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Especially when you want to get me off it.”

  “You and Ms. Gibbons, did you conclude your ... business ... such as it was?” His words were chosen with care, each carrying a connotation other than the obvious one.

  “You’re being delicate again.”

  “Ah, you have caught me out, I fear. It’s been reported you had a midnight rendezvous with her and she stayed in your guest room overnight.”

  “As far as I know, the attacker, whoever he was, wasn’t a jealous lover, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He added another lie. “Besides, she didn’t seem to know him. The killer, I mean.”

  “Didn’t she? Captain Ken thought she might have.” He let the statement hang in midair before saying, “Why did he want her bag?”

  “I couldn’t say, but as you said, she was with an agency whose business is money.”

  From the sourness on Abuna’s face, the agency was a forbidden subject, officially unofficial but allowed to exist without interference. Money corrupted everyone everywhere, even on an isolated tropical island. “You can be assured we will put every effort into searching for this German of yours.”

  “Frenchman. But you won’t find him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  Jack hobbled out of the hospital on his own steam, accompanied by Abuna and his one-man security guard, a broad-chested, sour-faced hulk of man with arms like cleavers, fists like mallets, and the head of an anvil.

  “Something else I wanted to bring to your attention.” Abuna rummaged in the back seat of his auto and brought out Maddie’s beach bag. “Captain Ken says he found this in the galley. Yours?”

  They gazed at each other, a duel of sorts, each wondering what the other would say.

  After several moments of hesitation, Jack said, “I’ll be straight with you, Abuna. Maddie and I concluded personal business aboard the yacht. Whatever the killer wanted is in that beach bag.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “The contents might prove embarrassing,” Jack said. “To me. And to her.”

  “Ah, I see,” Abuna said again before taking a moment to peer into the bag. “It will surprise you to know that I only care about her murder and have no interest in her business affairs.” He handed it over.

  Among her beach things, and plainly visible inside the bag’s depths, were two file folders and a netbook. In addition to stealing a life, the Frenchman stole the wrong bag, a shoulder purse that held nothing but a woman’s incidentals, and left behind damning evidence.

  “You will see it gets to her family.”

  Jack gave him an enquiring look. His couldn’t have been a serious request. It had to be throwaway line to protect the innocent as well as the guilty.

  “I believe they live in Sydney,” Abuna said. He wasn’t just washing his hands of the affair. He was protecting someone, and it wasn’t Madelyn Gibbons.

  At the hotel, the desk clerk was surprised to see Jack and equally horrified by his physical condition, but he had the good graces to ask only one question. “You are leaving us so soon, Mr. Harrier?”

  “Left something in my room.”

  “I don’t believe so. I personally oversaw the packing.” He glanced at Abuna before quickly shifting his eyes back toward Jack. “Yes, of course.” He snapped a finger. A bellboy came running to the fore.

  Abuna stayed just outside the open door of the vacated guest room while Jack went inside and pulled open the center drawer of a desk. From beneath the bottom panel, he peeled away a manila envelope taped to the underside. He folded it into the backpack. Then he changed into a spare shirt and slacks, and tossed his bloodied clothes into the wastebasket.

  When Jack stepped into the hallway, Abuna said, “If you wouldn’t mind. Merely as a precaution. To make sure you’re not carrying anything prohibited, such as a firearm.”

  Standing back, he nodded towards his man, who patted Jack down and rummaged in the backpack.

  “Just one more thing I forgot to mention,” Abuna said, walking with Jack down the corridor. “A small detail, really. NBT Limited is no more. An explosion, the fire marshal says. The building was leveled to the ground. Wood, you understand, burns fast. Everything inside is gone. The agency is officially closed for business. The employees managed to evacuate in time and suffered only a few cases of smoke inhalation and shock. Coincidentally, the inferno occurred just as you and Ms. Gibbons boarded the Annabel Lee. A piece of advice, Mr. Harrier, if I may be so bold. Don’t ever come back to our shores.”

  “There’s nothing here for me now.”

  They arrived in the lobby. Abuna waved Jack ahead of him, his man leading the way toward the car.

  Killing is the nature of man. Anger, jealousy, insult, fear, profit, and war are the usual motives. Sometimes killing can be justified, sometimes calculated, but almost always done in reaction to a perceived threat, after which the perpetrator sometimes repents his rashness, though by then it’s much too late for the victim. There are many ways to kill. Fists, knives, arrows, poison, bullets, and convenient accidents. Except for the psychopathic freaks of nature who kill for the thrill of it, murdering a man isn’t an easy act to perform, though in the rush of adrenalin, it’s easy to pull off. Jack had never killed a man. The possibility never entered his mind. It was one of those ageless taboos.

  Jack wanted to kill now. He wanted to do it with his bare hands. He wanted to see terror in the eyes of his victim and feel the last breath leave his body. He had only one man in mind for vengeance. The Frenchman.

  Two hours later, John Harrier was airborne on a private jet containing six passenger seats. Aside from the pilot, co-pilot, and a flight attendant, he was the only other person onboard. He asked for some water, popped a handful of painkillers into his mouth, pushed the seat all the way back, and closed his bloodshot eyes.

  24

  Tucson, Arizona

  Wednesday, August 20

  CORDELIA CAUGHT THE red-eye to Tucson, connecting through Dallas. A hot searing morning greeted her upon landing. She immediately rented a car and drove due south, the iconic saguaro cacti of Arizona lining the sides of the road like fence posts. In slightly less than an hour, she reached an exurbia town tucked into a valley between the Sonoran and Chihuahuan deserts.

  La Cienega was picturesque and quaint, and welcomed tourists with open arms. Sadly, none of those tourists would find the authentic Old West there, only an artificial version. The days of singing cowboys, shootouts at the O.K. Corral, and Indian wars belonged to a bygone era.

  Cordelia cruised down the ubi
quitous Main Street of most small towns and pulled into a combination service station, post office, and convenience store. After topping off the tank, she went inside to top off her coffee cup, pick up some plastic-wrapped snacks and bottled water, and ask for directions.

  The proprietor was a well-seasoned gentleman: short, balding, and folksy. He wore a cowboy hat, bolo tie, and gingham shirt tucked neatly into his jeans, beer belly protruding. The backs of his hands were sun-damaged, gnarled, and arthritic. He looked the part of the Old West, a homegrown variant of the men and women who came before him, but less tattered and more modern. “How do you know the Coyotes?” he asked

  “I don’t really.” Cordelia tried to look sweet and harmless. “Jacci Coyote is a friend of my mom from school. Just happened to be in town and thought I’d look her up.”

  He rang up her order while chawing on a chocolate bar instead of chewing tobacco. “You heard about her son Jack? Killed a girl. No? Had to. Been all over the news.”

  “Don’t pay much attention to the news.”

  “She’s a piece of work, is Jacci. Can’t pull the wool over that woman’s eyes, no siree. Spouts Jack’s innocence every chance she gets. Now he’s flown the coop. Some think he’s dead. Others think he’s living high off the hog in some tropical paradise. Known him since he was this high. Smart-alecky kid. But Jacci, she’s a tough bird. Takes no guff.”

  Cordelia appreciated the color commentary. And the warning.

  “Just so you won’t get lost, let me show you personal how to get to the ranch.” He took her outside and pointed south. “See the water tower? At the end of Main Street? Once you pass it, veer left onto the 212. Drive two miles. No more, no less. Then turn right at the billboard. We’ve been trying to get that thing torn down for years. Billboards are a scourge on the landscape. I’m the mayor of La Cienega, and let me tell you, it’s been a dogfight, but we’re getting close.” He looked down at the meager purchases clutched in her hands. “We have a special on hotdogs. Two for the price of one. Pickles and chips included.”

  “The Coyote ranch?”