Island of Thieves

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  Anders did his best to block out his surroundings, focusing instead on a multiyear agreement with a Mexico City venture firm, clearing it for review by Droma’s Legal & Regulatory department. This sort of appraisal, making sure a contract lived up to the spirit of what had been stated between CEOs around the negotiating table, was a task Sebastien usually preferred to do himself. But Sebastien had been distracted lately. So had Anders, but as the Americans said with their national penchant for vulgarity, shit rolled downhill.

  He took his attention from his computer screen just long enough to tap the phone’s speaker button. “Yes, Sofia?”

  “No Sofia,” said Shaw.

  Anders looked again at the phone display. Sofia’s name and number, as he’d first thought.

  “An interesting trick,” Anders said, “or do you actually possess her telephone somehow?”

  “What I have is an offer. Take a look.”

  The phone beeped. An SMS message. No, a photograph. Of a clear container with a black screw cap, inside of which was a thick golden-brown liquid. As Anders looked, a second photo arrived. He had to expand the image to read the opening lines of the page. The Droma employment contract for Kelvin Welch.

  Anders had never met Welch in person, of course. But he knew the name. Knew why the man had been hired. He stared at the photograph for a long moment before Shaw broke his reverie.

  “Chen’s out. I’m in. You’ll pay me for the chemical sample and for my silence.”

  “You . . . took the sample from Chen?”

  “Does it matter? I want six million dollars, transferred to an account I’ll specify at the time. Cheap for cornering the market on infinite recycling, I think.”

  Anders felt slightly dazed. How the hell did Shaw know these things? Only four men outside Avizda’s top executives—Sebastien and Anders and Chen and Hargreaves—knew the full extent of the Dallas firm’s innovation, and its potential.

  And now, apparently, Shaw made five. Who else might he have told?

  Shaw continued. “What you do with the glop after that is up to you. Hell, you could even sell the stuff back to Chen.”

  “I will have to talk to Mr. Rohner,” Anders said. “And we must have proof, Shaw. If the solution is not viable, there can be no deal.”

  “Fire up your Bunsen burners. The island, tomorrow night. I’m guessing your testing equipment is still there.”

  “The island, yes. But one day is insufficient to acquire such a substantial sum.”

  “It’s not a suitcase full of small bills, Anders. Transfer the money from whatever slush fund Droma uses for bribing politicians and cover your tracks afterward. Take it out of Hargreaves’s cut, if you want.”

  Anders paused in astonishment for an instant before berating himself. Of course, if Shaw had found Kelvin Welch, he might also know of Paragon and Hargreaves. The man was a menace.

  “Is anyone else aware of the chemical?” he said. “If word escapes, the value could plummet. For all of us.”

  “That’s the trouble with trade secrets. You have to make sure they stay secret if you want to trade them. I’ll want a plane to take me to and from the island.”

  “That’s . . . possible. We can arrange for a seaplane, as before.”

  “The dock at Magnuson Park. Eight o’clock tomorrow night.”

  Shaw hung up.

  Anders looked once more at the photograph of the sample vial the man had sent him. Feeling slightly winded. Was it real? And if it were not, what was Shaw’s ploy? He must expect they would verify the chemical’s structure before any money would be exchanged.

  Anders had tried to reach Chen three times during the past two days, through the secure channel the Chinese intelligence agent had provided. He had received no response. Not even a cursory affirmation that Chen was still awaiting word about his replacement chemist. Anders was not even sure that Chen was still in the United States. Perhaps now he knew why.

  He stood and paced the office as he called Sebastien Rohner.

  “Are you where you can speak?” Anders said.

  “I’m at home,” Sebastien said. He meant the Rohner apartments in the center of the city. Sebastien called the Briar Bay Island estate “the island,” or sometimes “the house offshore.” If they were in Europe, “home” would have meant the family dwellings in Bern.

  “We have a new development.”

  Anders described the conversation with Shaw.

  “A trick. To steal from us when we arrive,” suggested Sebastien.

  “Perhaps not. He may have the actual chemical. He has learned its history and its worth, though how, I do not understand.”

  Sebastien didn’t reply.

  “If Shaw somehow reached the same conclusion we did—that Chen was in possession of the chemical all along—he might also have found an opportunity to steal it from Chen. And to force Chen to tell him what it was. Shaw has proved to be imaginative where criminal feats are involved.”

  “And he’s willing to come to the island?”

  “He is a fugitive from justice. I imagine his prime concerns are getting the money and escaping prosecution.”

  “Overconfident,” Sebastien murmured.

  Anders waited, knowing that his friend was thinking. He glanced out his third-floor window. Today was a Saturday, and the day before the American day of independence, which left the campus all but deserted. Sparing Anders the sight of employees streaming from the buildings at this hour, funneling into the stairwell to the below-ground parking structure like so many sheep. Eager to return to their reality-television programs and frozen meals. Anders was counting the days until his return home.

  “Shaw must have something more,” said Sebastien after another moment. “Something that in his mind will guarantee his safety and ensure that we will pay his price once the solution is complete.”

  “He was a soldier for his entire adult life. Trained in gun-barrel diplomacy. That will be his reflex.”

  Sebastien hummed agreement. “Working with a team as well. He may have accomplices.”

  “Enlisting friends from the military, you mean.” Anders contemplated that. He had initially thought Shaw was being reckless, rushing into a situation where he would be vulnerable. Sacrificing safety for speed. But now he wondered if the island’s isolation might work more to Shaw’s advantage. If the former soldier did arrive with a boatful of heavily armed and mindlessly aggressive cohorts, what would be their recourse?

  “We will require Kilbane,” Anders said finally. “I’ve already spoken to him about the need for greater physical security after Linda’s murder. He and his men can protect us on the island. We’ll have to explain about Hargreaves. He’s as much a danger as Shaw.”

  “Very well,” said Sebastien. “Time is short.”

  “We’ll fly to the island in the morning and make preparations.”

  “Once Hargreaves knows Chen is gone, he may entertain thoughts of taking the goods for himself.”

  “That had occurred to me as well,” said Anders.

  After Sebastien rang off, Anders stood at the window for a time, looking at the empty grounds of the campus.

  He knew he was not without courage. He had completed his compulsory service in the Swiss mountain infantry when he was hardly more than a boy and had acquitted himself well. But he’d regretted Sebastien’s choice to pursue the deal with Chen Li almost from the beginning. Over time he had come to recognize the wellspring of that regret as fear.

  Some of that fear was natural. Concern that they were overreaching, that there would be legal or governmental repercussions if Droma were caught engaging in corporate theft.

  Since Linda Edgemont’s death, a more visceral dread had snuck in around the edges. Anders found himself checking the locks of every window and door in his rented home at night. He’d begun keeping a firearm by his bedside, a choice that felt as though he had already lost some battle of principle. Anders preferred that his first and best defense would, as always, be his mind.

>   But the choice had been made. They would be ready if Shaw or Hargreaves came with violence in mind. He picked up the phone to call Kilbane.

  Hargreaves, in his hotel suite, listened a second time to the playback of the conversations between Olen Anders and Shaw, and Anders and his boss, Rohner. Or to one side of the exchanges. The bug Louis had planted in Anders’s office was good enough to pick up every word from the Droma chief of staff. Tapping his mobile device had proved out of reach. But one side was enough.

  “It’s on,” he said to Tucker and the others. “Tomorrow night on the island.”

  “Shaw ripped off Chen.” Tucker shook his head. “That slick shit.”

  “Fortunes turn. We’ll have everybody in one place, away from the city.”

  “How much time does Morton say it’ll take to test the chemical process?” asked Louis.

  “An hour, if he cuts a few corners.”

  Tucker scowled. “That’s a long damn time to be staring at one another across a room, everybody with one hand on his gun.”

  Hargreaves saw Tucker’s point. He drummed his fingers on the suite’s French Provincial coffee table. “I think Rohner’s wrong about Shaw recruiting a team of Army grunts, all yelling ‘Hooah’ and looking to kick ass. If he were to enlist help, he’d have done so when he escaped the police. Shaw’s more subtle than he seems at first.”

  “You said he asked for a plane to the island.”

  “Yes,” Hargreaves said. “That’s good luck for us. We can stack the odds in our favor ahead of time. I’ll make the call.”

  “What about Rohner?”

  Hargreaves thought about it. “Rohner and his team are a known quantity. But we can improve our situation there, too. Louis, is your pilot rating still up to snuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Half our team on the island, as they expect. The other half arriving after the festivities have started. We’ll use Taskine and Riley. They’re frothing for another chance at Shaw.”

  “Keeping them on a leash might be tough,” said Tucker.

  “By that stage”—Hargreaves smiled—“the last thing I’ll want will be to hold them back.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  Shaw watched as a dot in the sky resolved into the familiar blue-and-white seaplane. It banked low, as if to duck under the rays of sunlight still streaming from the west into the shadow of the land. The Otter touched down and immediately turned toward the boat launch at Magnuson Park. Shaw walked out to meet it.

  The plane came alongside the dock and slowed. From the pilot’s seat, C.J. waved hello. Shaw made a keep-going motion. He ducked under the wing and stepped smoothly onto the float with his duffel bag to open the rear door. He placed the duffel gently inside before climbing in after it.

  “I figured it would be you,” Shaw said.

  “That’s the job,” C.J. called back over the thrum of the engine. “On call twenty-four/seven. Happy Fourth of July. Another hour and I’d have had to dodge the fireworks.”

  Shaw looked into the storage area at the back of the plane. A milk bin full of different lengths of quarter-inch galvanized chain had been strapped firmly to the lower stanchions of the luggage rack. He picked up the duffel and hunched to walk between the passenger seats. The duffel went under the first seat on the starboard side, where it would be secure from turbulence. Shaw settled into the copilot seat and put the headset on.

  “What did Rohner tell you about tonight?” he asked. “Or was it Anders?”

  “Mr. Anders. He said they’re having a business meeting at the last minute because one of the partners has to go out of town early in the morning. That Mr. Rohner wanted them to have a last look at the estate.”

  “Did you fly them all to the island earlier?”

  She nodded. “The Droma team and Mr. Hargreaves’s people. About four hours ago.”

  “How many?”

  C.J. gave him a sideways look as she steered the plane to face away from shore. “How many on the flight?”

  “Yeah. Rohner and Anders and who else?”

  “Warren Kilbane and Mr. Castelli and Ms. Pollan. Plus Mr. Hargreaves and three others.”

  “Morton, the weedy guy. He’s one of Hargreaves’s bunch,” said Shaw. “Did you know the other two?”

  “Nope.”

  “Bigger guys? One black man, one white with a busted face?”

  She gave him that quizzical look again. “Sounds like you didn’t have to ask.”

  Tucker and Vic. Leaving their curly-haired buddy Louis elsewhere. And the two hitters who had chased him across the continental U.S. Where were they?

  “Mr. Anders sent me back here to pick you up,” C.J. said.

  “Another private trip.”

  She smiled softly. “I don’t mind.”

  The summer holiday had lured plenty of boaters to the lake, but the Otter had an unobstructed path straight out from land for a quarter mile or more. They picked up speed and were airborne within another minute.

  “Your bag okay there?” she said as they banked softly left. “You can strap it down in the luggage compartment in back if you want.”

  “Should be fine.”

  “’Cause I am expecting a few bumps. We’ve got rain coming in.”

  “What’s the box of chain for?”

  “That? New anchor chain for the boat.”

  “Pretty lightweight for a yacht that size.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe it’s for the lifeboat.”

  Shaw unzipped his jacket and settled in. The view wasn’t as clear as it had been the morning C.J. had flown him over the northern reaches of the city, but the hills and islands gained extra definition from the low sun and the promised clouds far ahead.

  They sat without talking for the rest of the trip, C.J. perhaps catching Shaw’s quiet mood. He remained focused on the horizon through the windshield, half his mind occupied with what was to come.

  He couldn’t match the enemy for firepower. Not even close. He’d have to rely on the preparations he’d already made, already checked over in his mind two dozen times. They would be enough, or they wouldn’t. The time for strategizing was done. Now there was nothing left to do but act and react to what came, like a boxer after the bell rang.

  C.J. followed as straight a route as regulations allowed, along the diagonal length of Whidbey and on up into the islands. The hour’s flight passed swiftly. They seemed to be racing the sun for which would touch the water first. The forested islands became a richer green, the straits deeper blue. As if not to be outdone, the western sky took on the sheen of polished topaz.

  All the colors were momentary. Even as C.J. banked around the northern tip of Orcas, the first fingers of night crept in, robbing hue and tone in equal measure from everything. The plane dipped lower, until Shaw could see the whitecaps on the waves below. Large swells, growing larger. The Otter shuddered in the headwind. To the north, a wall of clouds loomed.

  Briar Bay Island was a torch. Dark along its fat cigar length until the very tip, where Rohner’s showpiece pavilion blazed with light. The spikes and spires of the glass enclosure looked as though each sharp point had skewered a tiny sun and held it trapped.

  “Whoa,” said C.J. “I’ve never seen it from the air at night.”

  The pavilion was bright enough that as their plane passed Shaw thought he could make out figures moving within. A large table had been placed near the center of the structure, an image fragmented by the dozens of crooked windowpanes.

  The lab, Shaw was certain. Relocated to the pavilion from the art gallery. Maybe Rohner couldn’t resist the spectacle or Anders had thought the huge pavilion and its multiple exits made a safer place for the exchange than the confined gallery.

  C.J. brought the plane in. Compared to the brilliant pavilion, the solar lamps on the maintenance sheds and dock were mere specks of gold leaf, the helipad’s light a square of candles. Everything else on the island—the paths, the wings, and the main house—was dark. Doused. All attention on Rohner’s star
attraction.

  They landed on choppy seas. C.J. gripped the yoke tightly, letting the plane tap each successive wave until its speed lessened and the floats eased into a rumbling and rapid deceleration. The slender, crooked finger of dock was empty. C.J. steered the Otter in a wide circle around the dock’s end, the plane rocking on the waves as she made a loop to bring the starboard side in first.

  Shaw took off his headset with one hand and hung it on the dashboard hook. He unclipped his seat belt.

  “Mind stepping out and tying us off?” C.J. said over the idling engine as she removed her own headset.

  She turned to see Shaw pointing a gun at her across the cockpit.

  “What are you doing?” C.J. said, her eyes suddenly wide.

  “Testing my psychic powers. Keep both hands on the wheel. And keep us next to the dock.”

  Shaw moved behind her, making sure she felt the muzzle of the Browning touching the back of her hair. He reached down to run his left hand along the edge of the pilot’s chair, between C.J.’s leg and the door. His fingers touched metal. He wrapped his hand cautiously around the length and pulled. With the whispery sound of tearing tape, it came loose.

  A Ruger Mark III .22-caliber. A shorter-barreled version, but with the added suppressor the weapon was more than a foot long.

  “You drill the baffles on the suppressor yourself?” Shaw said.

  C.J. was silent.

  “Sure you did.” Shaw sniffed the gun. It didn’t have the scent of being fired. He would have been surprised if it had.

  “I just have that for safety,” said C.J.

  Shaw grunted. “I don’t feel safe at all.” He set the Ruger down and felt her shins and ankles and forced his hand behind her to check between her back and the seat.

  “That hurt,” she said.

  Shaw picked up the Ruger again and sat sideways in the copilot’s seat. He glanced toward the bin full of chain. “I’ll play fortune teller again. It would go like this: I step toward the back of the plane to open the door. You shoot me. You wrap my body with chain and drive the plane out into the strait half a mile or so, or as far as you can get with the weather like this. Then you shove me out the door. Hard work. But clean. Nobody would ever find me, except the crabs.”