Island of Thieves

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  “No. I had to do the legwork my own way.” He tapped the bandage on his ribs. “Item two: Rohner was going to cheat you of your prize, Mr. Chen. He hired me as a distraction. Once your tests proved that the sample molecule was complete, Rohner would make the final product disappear. And me along with it. While you were chasing me, he’d be selling the goods elsewhere.”

  Chen watched the people passing as he seemed to think. “Not completely unexpected. You appeared to me to be . . . an odd choice to manage the island’s estate.”

  “Your turn. Why did you tell Rohner and Hargreaves that your chemical had been stolen?”

  A slight shrug. “Why not? I would have to spend the time to acquire another chemist from China. Perhaps their reactions might reveal something.”

  “Did they?”

  “That is a different question. It is your turn again.”

  Shaw held up the black-capped sample vial that Professor Mills had given him the evening before. The vial was filled with brown syrupy liquid. A white label with tiny print made a stripe on one side of the vial, like the pale underbelly of a fish.

  “You’re not the only one holding the chemical now,” said Shaw.

  Chen frowned. “No. I do not believe that is real.”

  “A bridging molecule with one part to bond to polypropylene and another intended for polyethylene, to allow pure separation while recycling? In a suspension that smells like chlorine? Yeah, I got that.”

  Zhang said something that Shaw assumed was highly derogatory.

  “How?” said Chen.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of driving this past week. Across the country and back, with a few stops.”

  “You went to Dallas?”

  “Dallas. Armbruster Road. Test Lab 146. Avizda’s security is decent, but nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  Chen exhaled slowly. Almost a deflation.

  Shaw could sympathize. The Chinese operative had been working on this for months, maybe years.

  If his deception worked, it might hang on Chen’s own fears that all his efforts were coming to naught.

  “Are you wanting payment?” said Chen.

  “We haven’t finished our game yet. Last question: Who’s your guess for killing Nelson Bao?”

  Chen hummed thoughtfully. “You asked what I learned from claiming that I no longer had the sample. Sebastien Rohner told me that he would attempt to buy your loyalty and the chemical from you. Did he do so?”

  “He tried.”

  The older man nodded. “Money is Sebastien’s only tool and only measure of success. I did not have to ask James Hargreaves what he intended.”

  Shaw stared poker-faced at Chen for a moment, until his admiring grin could no longer be suppressed.

  “You knew that Flynn was James Hargreaves all along,” he said.

  “Mr. Hargreaves, and his guise of Bridgetrust Group, yes. Violence and coercion are his way. Sebastien had offered Hargreaves a substantial fee to obtain the missing portion of the molecular structure. I had already guessed that Hargreaves might demand more. Or even that he might attempt to take the completed solution by force from us.”

  “Sounds like Big Jim.”

  “He has been my leading suspect for Nelson’s murder from the beginning, although I do not have a reason as to why he would risk a very profitable deal on such a clumsy attempt at acquiring the chemical sample. When the attorney Linda Edgemont was murdered, I became certain that it was on Hargreaves’s order. And”—Chen tilted his head at Shaw—“that you were most likely innocent.”

  “Thanks for the vote.”

  Chen nodded to Shaw’s pocket. “What is your intention with the chemical?”

  “I’m going to squeeze Rohner and Hargreaves until they pop.”

  “It would be simpler, and safer, to accept a sum from me to stay out of the proceedings.”

  “Like you said, money’s not the only measure of success.”

  “You wish revenge?”

  “I wish to see their guts spilled on the floor. But I’ll settle for prison time.”

  “Sebastien Rohner is too wealthy for America to convict. If they detain him at all.”

  “One fight at a time. And yours is done. You’re out, Mr. Chen. Time for you and Zhang to go home.”

  “No,” said Zhang. “You will give us the chemical.”

  “Or you’ll draw your gun and shoot me? There’s a security camera ten feet from your head, friend. Not to mention all the tourists taking pictures and walking around with GoPros. And then”—Shaw inclined his head northward, to the riot of flowers in the market stalls—“there are the cops.”

  Zhang and Chen glanced subtly where Shaw had indicated. Not broadcasting their sudden interest. They were professionals.

  “See the guy with the overly shaped chin stubble hiding behind the carnations? That’s Kanellis. Seattle detective. He’ll have backup.”

  “Here to arrest you,” said Chen.

  “Yes. They’re waiting until we split up. I’m considered armed and extremely dangerous.” Shaw shrugged with false modesty. “Regulations tell them not to close in until I’m away from the crowd or unless I offer some sort of threat.”

  Shaw tapped the pocket holding his phone. “I texted Kanellis before you arrived. The cops will have questions. You won’t answer them, I know. Maybe you’ve got some sort of diplomatic shield to hide behind. But sure as shit the attention can’t be good for you. SPD will have to tell the FBI, and the Feds will probably have to tell the CIA or whoever. I don’t know a ton about spies, but I have to figure your mission here is as fried as crispy bacon. They’ll be watching you every minute now.”

  “I can offer you more than remuneration,” Chen said. “You face a life in prison in America. In China you might be free.”

  Shaw smiled apologetically. “That’s a thorny topic. Patriotism.”

  “You will not?”

  “I will not. Aiding a foreign power is a step over the line, even for me. But I appreciate the offer.”

  Chen nodded. “One loyalist to another, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Have a good flight home, Mr. Chen.”

  Shaw turned and walked down the short corridor. He removed the makeshift key he had taped in its keyhole a few minutes before to hold the elevator in place, and stepped into the car as the door automatically began to close. Behind him, from the street, he heard a shout.

  There were only two buttons inside the elevator. Shaw pressed the button marked 1, and the elevator began to descend. He took off his light blue coat and Hawks cap and bandanna and left them on the floor.

  Below the Triangle building was a rabbit warren of storage lockers and cages where Market vendors kept their goods overnight. Shaw had first seen the subterranean passages as a teen, when one of his schoolmates was working at her family’s stall selling ceramic flutes and ocarinas. She’d brought him along as she locked up the bins of instruments one evening, showing him the loop of cages made of plywood and chain-link. Vendors had decorated the gloomy maze, drawing and writing jokes in ballpoint pen all over the plywood walls. Shaw and the girl had paused halfway through the tour for a quick make-out session. If not for that, he wasn’t sure he would have remembered the hidden labyrinth.

  The plywood was gone now, replaced by sturdier metal fencing. But the layout was the same. He pulled a loading cart to block the elevator door from closing again, in case Kanellis found someone with a key to call the car back.

  From an unused storage locker, Shaw removed a motorcycle helmet. He put it on as he hurried down the underground hall and up two flights of stairs to emerge onto Pine Street by the corner of Post Alley. Vaulting the railing, he strolled up the hill to the dinged-up Yamaha MT-03 he’d left parked sideways between cars at the curb. A Craigslist purchase from a dude in Renton the evening before.

  A pair of bike cops sped past him, heading for Pike Place. The Yamaha started on the first attempt. Five seconds later Shaw was gone.

  SIXTY-THREE

  That afternoo
n Shaw called the main line for Seattle PD and claimed to be a detective from the North Precinct calling on his mobile. The operator put him through.

  “John Guerin.”

  “It’s Shaw.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Let’s skip the recriminations. Did you and Kanellis talk to our friend from China?”

  “About three sentences before he referred us to the chief consulate. He claimed he’d never seen you before today and that you accosted him while he and his junior associate were shopping.”

  “Which we knew he would.”

  “Sure. I asked the consulate for information on Chen’s visit to Seattle, and they directed me to the State Department. I expect I’ll get answers about the time that Chen Li’s grandchildren die of old age.”

  “The asking is enough.”

  “For you, maybe. For me it’s zero. I put a request in to a contact at the FBI—they have a watch on Chen’s passport. We can’t stop him from traveling, but we’ll know if he does.”

  “Bet you a penny he’s out of the country by end of the week.”

  “You already owe me a hell of a lot more than you can afford. You need to turn yourself in, Shaw. Now’s the time. Our witness on Edgemont’s murder turned out to be a false lead.”

  “They recanted?”

  “Ghosted. The name and contact information she gave Officer Beatts were fake. Said she lived just down the street. That was horseshit, too.”

  Shaw was silent for half a beat. “This woman a redhead?”

  “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Hold on.” The line went quiet for a second, and then a recorded message about SPD’s commitment to community involvement began playing. After a long-winded sentence and a half, Guerin returned. “No, not a ginger, Beatts says. Brunette. Athleisure type. Said she was out running when she supposedly saw you. Why’d you think our slippery witness might be a redhead?”

  “Healthy paranoia. Forget it. Sorry you’re stuck working the holiday weekend.”

  “You’re the cause of it. You and these pages you wrote of what’s probably ninety percent fiction.”

  “Only ninety? Sounds like you’re starting to believe me, Lieutenant.”

  “Let’s talk about that in person. I can’t do anything to help until you meet us halfway.”

  “There’s somebody else you need to meet first. One of Hargreaves’s lead operatives.”

  “Christ, Shaw.”

  “She’ll talk. In exchange for immunity.”

  “Immunity from what?”

  “Accessory after the fact on the corporate theft from Avizda. Probably some other minor charges. Nothing with real weight. She’s white-collar, not a thug.”

  “Not like you, you mean. What’s her name?”

  “There’s more I need done.”

  “You’re dreaming. Give me her name.”

  “Rohner has to incriminate himself for you to have any hope of charging him. I’ve got an idea to make that happen. But it’ll take her help, and yours, and some official pressure. She’ll lay it out for you.”

  “Start with your witness and we’ll see.”

  “Karla Haiden. New York resident. PI license. I’ve got her stashed away. Hargreaves’s men already tried to kill her once.” Shaw gave Guerin the number of Hollis’s burner. “Get her to a safe house and she’ll cooperate.”

  “You better be sure on this.”

  Shaw had been thinking much the same thing. He was taking a big risk on where Karla Haiden’s loyalties would land when the wheel stopped spinning.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Shaw dropped anchor fifty yards off the shore of Briar Bay Island. The blunt western tip of its crescent formed a misshapen half circle topped by thick forest. Completely black in the night, with only the stars and the almost tangible presence of the landmass to distinguish it from the sky. To Shaw the island looked like the shaggy head of some vengeful giant, a colossus emerging step by league-spanning step from the deep sea.

  From the cabin of the speedboat, Shaw removed an inflatable Zodiac dinghy he’d borrowed from Hollis’s dock locker. Its rubbery skin was empty of air, its PVC hull wrapped neatly around the only rigid piece of the craft, a two-foot aluminum transom to allow for mounting a small outboard engine. Shaw spread the Zodiac out on the speedboat’s bow. He plugged a battery-powered pump into the inflatable’s socket and switched it on. Compared to the soft lapping of the waves on the speedboat’s hull, the pump’s motor sounded as loud as a referee’s whistle, though Shaw knew that the high-pitched whine would scarcely carry as far as the shore.

  The pump worked fast. By the time Shaw had gotten his wet suit over his legs, the boat was fully inflated. He switched off the pump and finished wrestling his upper body into the neoprene suit.

  Once filled, the inflatable was eight feet long with rounded sides and a blunt wedge of a bow. He fastened the little three-horse Evinrude onto its transom before pushing the boat’s bow over the side, holding on to the engine to lower the craft into the chill water.

  Shaw set a small rucksack of gear in the dinghy, along with a life vest, two oars, and a pair of swim fins. He made a last check of the anchor—it would be a long night if the speedboat drifted out to sea while he was gone—before untying the inflatable’s line and stepping down to its yielding floor.

  The outboard engine was for later. The oars would bring him silently to shore tonight. It had been years since Shaw had rowed, but the motion came back to him easily. A twist of the wrists to dip the oars below the surface, a smooth pull and twist again to skim their blades over the water. The flesh over his ribs finally felt whole after three days without reinjury.

  In the shadow of the island’s bulk, the waves were gentle. Still, the current carried him south between every stroke of the oars as he closed the distance. When the inflatable’s bow touched shore, he was fifty yards downstream of the speedboat. He reminded himself, not for the first time, to account for the current when swimming back. Even with the fins boosting his speed, missing the boat on the first try would be bad news. His next stop might be Vancouver Island, fifteen nautical miles away. Or Japan, if he were swept out of the straits entirely.

  Shaw stepped out to pull the inflatable farther up the beach. High tide had reduced the shore at the tip of the island to a strip of weathered stone. The smells of algae and eons of dried seawater filled his nose. Barely thirty feet separated the water from the vertical bluff that marked the inland boundary. He looked up at the wall of rock. Grasses and two or three small trees grew from its crags, high enough and hardy enough to survive the winds and salt spray. It was difficult to discern the height of the bluff in the dark. It seemed to go straight up for a few yards before its slope gradually leveled out nearer the top. Shaw could see the upper reaches of the forest atop the cliff nearest him.

  He walked in each direction, gauging where the cliff’s irregular face might be scaled or where someone might be able to jump partway down and land without snapping an ankle on the pitted beach. He expected to be climbing down the cliff at night. He wanted every element in his favor.

  On his walk to the east, he found a cleft in the sheer face of the bluff. Only a yard from edge to edge and no more than twice that much deep. But on the barren shore, the closest thing to a hiding place.

  Shaw returned to the boat and set the rucksack and the oars and fins aside to carry the inflatable to the narrow cleft. It was awkward work, hefting fifty pounds of balloonlike boat with another fifty of gas-filled outboard weighing down one end. He took his time, not wanting to risk rupturing the boat’s PVC skin on a jagged bit of shore.

  With the inflatable tilted on one side, most of its length fit into the cleft. The stern and engine stuck out three feet. It couldn’t be seen from above, not over the long incline of the bluff. But anyone passing within a quarter mile offshore during the day might easily spot the dark gray boat.

  Shaw looked up the cliff once agai
n. A stunted tree, thick with the leaves of early summer, grew from a split twenty feet up and to his right. He began to climb. The cliff’s protrusions made easy handholds. His wet suit’s boots provided protection and traction.

  Within two minutes he had reached the tree. Its trunk was no thicker than his wrist and curved upward toward the sky. He placed a hand on the spiny bark and pulled. It bent easily, its roots tearing within the split in the rock. Another yank snapped more of the plentiful but slim fibers and the tree came loose. He dropped it to the beach and carefully made his way back down.

  The trunk and its green branches were long enough to cover the stern of the inflatable. Shaw draped it over the outboard. Moderate camouflage at best. Once the leaves dried and curled, the tree would barely disguise the boat at all. But it needed to serve for only a day or two. After that, Shaw would either have sailed away, be in jail, or be in the morgue.

  He placed the ruck and the other gear inside the upturned boat. The ruck contained all the essentials for a brief voyage. Clothes and rain gear and food and water bottles and his SIG pistol with a spare clip. So long as the weather held, the Zodiac could carry him to any of the nearby islands or the mainland.

  The breeze had shifted. The anchored speedboat’s bow pointed northwest now. Shaw walked a hundred yards upwind and sat to pull on the swim fins. He hadn’t bothered to bring a mask. This would be a quick sprint on the surface. A mask and snorkel would only slow him down.

  He waded in. The water hadn’t gotten any warmer since he’d come ashore. Rather than dwell on the cold seeping between the wet suit and his skin, Shaw dove into the sea and began to swim.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  When his phone rang, Olen Anders was at his desk on the Droma campus, in the executive office allocated to him while he was in the United States. An open-ended duration of time. Its desk and cabinets were what he assumed passed for quality in this country, an artificial dark walnut shell glued over some sort of resin core, and a chair that had more adjustable functions than actual comfort.