The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance (16 page)

Pavel watched Lauren leave, his amber eyes following the cab as it drove away. She seemed to him to be an unlikely candidate for involvement in such a risky undertaking. But then, he didn’t look the part either. However, he was curious about her. She didn’t fit. She asked too many questions for one thing. And she had seen his face. That had been a mistake on his part. In his line of business, one couldn’t be too careful. Then again, he had been assured she was simply a courier, uninformed of the nature of the operation and the contents of the envelope she had just delivered. He shrugged off his misgivings, paid the bill and walked outside. The rain had stopped and the sun was coming out.

TWENTY-TWO

There was a crack like the sound of a rifle, then an instantaneous flash followed by a clap of thunder that shook the windows of the Island Daily News building until they shuddered. Lauren looked up from her computer and out the window eyeing the hissing forks of lightning nervously. It was pouring down, a deafening deluge, which deposited puddles in the parking lot outside almost as soon as it had begun. The rain was coming down so hard she could hardly see her car.

The thunder rumbled on, obliterating Lauren’s already feeble effort at concentration. Logan was consuming her thoughts again, as he had been from the minute she had boarded the plane for her return flight from London. During the flight, the weekend at Vale Verde had kept drifting back to her as she passed in and out of an exhausted sleep. It was during one of her waking moments that it dawned upon her that her interest in Logan was a little more than professional.

But as far as Lauren could tell, Logan had not given the slightest hint the feeling was mutual. He had been charming, yes. Informative when it came to the history of the estate, yes. Nothing more. Though there had been one moment when she had thought there was more. While pointing out an old sugar mill, he had drawn nearer to her and touched her lightly on the shoulder, the contact of his hand sending a surge through her. But, Lauren reminded herself, it had been the briefest contact, too casual to be mistaken for anything more than innocent. She gazed out the window, trying to pinpoint the exact moment she had fallen for Logan. It was the laughter that had done it for her, she concluded, fits of laughter bonding them for a breathless moment of hilarity. When their laughter had finally subsided, he had held her eyes fleetingly. Had she seen something in his eyes? Or was she imagining she did?

Lauren started at the sound of a voice behind her. “You scared me to death, Peter!” she exclaimed swiveling her chair around.

“What’s the matter, Lauren? You seem a bit on edge this afternoon. I just wanted to pop by and tell you I liked your piece on Armstrong. I never had a chance to tell you before you took off.”

“Told you you’d like it,” Lauren grinned.

“Talk about blowing your own trumpet,” Peter laughed. “If you’ll allow me to shower the praise, you got a lot. I hear it’s hard to get anything out of him.”

Lauren gave Peter an enigmatic smile. “Must be my irresistible charm.”

“What’s this e-mail you sent about his sister’s party?” Peter asked. “You obviously ignored my advice. And now there’s some write-up on the estate too? You aspiring to be a Features writer or something? You find crime and corruption not enough of a challenge?”

“I know you didn’t think it was a good idea, but it turned out to be very rewarding.”

“How so?” Peter grunted dubiously.

“There was quite a cast of characters in attendance, the Deputy Prime Minister and the Minister of National Security and Defense, to name two. Gordon Matthews and the Minister of National Security and Defense appear to be the best of friends.”

“And your point? The Matthews know a lot of people in high places. Why would it be unusual for two ministers of government to be at their party?”

“I suppose you have something there,” Lauren admitted grudgingly. “But you should have seen their house, Peter. There’s no way an income from a shipping company could support that kind of extravagance. Virginia Matthews showed me a grand piano she seemed particularly proud of. I wouldn’t know a piano from a harpsichord, but she was quick to educate me. It was a 1927 Bosendorfer. I checked it out and want to know how much a 1927 Bosendorfer piano costs? Fifty-two thousand dollars, Peter! Fifty-two thousand dollars!”

“That’s a lot for a piano,” Peter conceded. “It does leave you wondering, doesn’t it? I agree when you say Matthews’ income from his business holdings would not likely support that kind of lavish spending – unless they’re deep in debt.”

Lauren reflected for a minute. Debt didn’t ring true somehow.

“What about her? Didn’t Virginia Matthews inherit a ton of money?” she suddenly remembered.

“Yes, from what I understand. Even at that, she would have probably chewed it all up with a couple grand pianos like that. In any case, her father may have been wealthy, but he was hardly Bill Gates.”

“What about Logan Armstrong?”

“What about him?”

“He’s not exactly hurting himself.”

“No, but there’s no reason to believe he’s involved in anything that’s not above board. How he amassed his fortune is pretty much public record.” Peter frowned worriedly. “I would drop it if I were you, Lauren. If there’s involvement at the government level as you suspect, this goes deep. I don’t want you sticking your neck out for a good story. Let’s talk about this another time, I have to run.”

Lauren swiveled her chair back around to face the window as Peter left. The sudden storm had eased up, the remnants now a swirling mist cloaking the mountains. Lauren stared at them unseeingly. Something was going on. She could almost feel it tangibly. Something dark and insidious, rushing down from the mansion-clad hills like sewerage to be deposited in filthy puddles on tenement streets before finally making its way to the sea, taking all hope with it. It was everywhere, covering the island with its stench. And, even if he were above reproach, where did Logan Armstrong stand in all of this, she wondered. How much did he know of these things that, blatant as they were, were always kept hush-hush, the pretense of not knowing kept up in a whirlwind of social events where handshakes, insincere smiles and good old boy pats on the back denied the ugly reality. How could he not know from where he stood, or did a life led somewhere else insulate him from the truth about his own country? And if he knew, did he even care?

On an impulse she picked up the phone. Just as quickly she put it down. She had no valid reason to call him. And even if he had shown any interest in her, she could not bring herself to be so bold. But she could, she decided after some thought, call and ask if he had seen the article, find out if he wanted a few complimentary copies. She didn’t have his mailing address, so she had an excuse.

Butterflies began fluttering madly in her stomach as the phone up at the cottage began ringing.

“Mr. Armstrong’s residence,” Ivy answered on the fourth ring.

All the courage Lauren had summoned for the call fled out the window. Somehow, she had expected Logan to pick up.

“Hello, can I help you?” Ivy said on hearing nothing on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Ivy. May I speak with Mr. Armstrong please?” Lauren asked awkwardly.

“Who is this calling?”

“It’s Lauren Anderson.”

“Oh hello, Miss Anderson!” Ivy exclaimed exuberantly.

Lauren chewed a fingernail, waiting anxiously for Ivy to put Logan on. Instead Ivy said, “Mr. Armstrong isn’t here, Miss Anderson.”

“Will he be home later?” Lauren asked.

“No, he went back to New York.”

Lauren’s heart plunged.

“Can I take a message, Miss Anderson?”

“No…no, thank you, Ivy. That’s all right.”

Slowly, Lauren put down the phone. She wanted to kick herself for being such a fool.

TWENTY-THREE

Jorgé studied Maria sitting opposite him. The trip to Europe had obviously done her a world of good. She seemed more relaxed than she’d been for some time. Appearing oblivious to his scrutiny, she glanced around his office as if seeing it for the first time – the blatantly masculine furnishings – photographs of the soccer team he owned, the art on the walls, the pièce de resistance being a Botero, which would have made any museum proud. Her dark eyes finally settled on him. “
Tienes alguna noticia
?” she asked, not unexpectedly.

“News of what?” Jorgé toyed.

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Jorgé.

“
Ha sido arreglado
, it’s been arranged. But it’s not too late to cancel the whole thing, which I strongly advise. Killing the man will serve absolutely no purpose, except to throw suspicion on us if it is discovered we were doing business with him. And as I said before, this goes far beyond enforcement. I don’t believe in using violence as a tool for gaining control.”

Maria laughed, the low throaty laugh that always seemed to enter him by way of his heart then surge swiftly downward. He checked himself and looked at her steadily, his eyes inscrutable blue-green.

“Aside from that, there’s some messy stuff going on down there on the island,” he mentioned casually. “You may have been right in your assessment of Prime Minister Freeman. He may not have the situation under control.”

Maria’s eyes became alert. “
Qué me quieres decir?”

“Some supposed Customs official attempted to inspect our cargo.”

“
Como pudo haber sucedido eso?
How could that have happened? I thought their Customs was taken care of!”

“If it wasn’t before, it is now. But that’s not our concern. What concerns me is the man was an undercover agent for their Criminal Investigation Department. It’s obvious law enforcement hasn’t been taken care of. I don’t understand what the problem could be. Even in Miami, we’ve been able to get law enforcement to look the other way. It’s not that difficult.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. But there’s no point dwelling on that now. When’s the job going to be done?”

“Any time now.”

“Someone on our payroll?”

“Yes.”

A mere trace of a frown shadowed Maria’s brow. Despite what Jorgé seemed to think, she believed in manipulation rather than bullets. Unlike some of her country’s criminal elite, she preferred to maintain a low profile, exercising power covertly, though she was not above using strong-handed methods to ensure the cartel’s interests were met. In cases like that she had no option but to be ruthless when overseas players threatened their interests. As to the problem on the island, the man – what was his name, Sterling? Yes, Sterling. He was a possible alternative. When all was said and done, he was the one with whom they did business. The other man was merely a power-hungry figurehead, too greedy for his own good.

“You do realize we’ll have to close the operation down until the dust settles,” Maria sighed heavily. “I’ve been giving some thought to what happens after. That man Sterling may be a possible candidate for the future.”

“I’ve been thinking along those lines,” Jorgé concurred.

“Should we begin setting the stage now?” Maria wondered.

“No,” Jorgé answered firmly. “There can be absolutely no suspicion we’re involved. We’ll have to wait and see how things unfold.”

“Would you like to have lunch somewhere?” Maria asked unexpectedly.

Unable to believe his ears, Jorgé stared at her. Maria seldom chose to be seen in public. She had become a virtual recluse, her paranoia over being harmed increasing while her hobnobbing with Colombia’s social set decreased. Jorgé couldn’t remember the last time her picture, or her name for that matter, had appeared in a social column. More and more, Maria seemed to find her amusement in short treks to Europe.

“We could drive over to Granada,” she suggested.

“
Vamos
,” Jorgé said rising from his desk before she had a chance to argue herself out of it.

The black custom Mercedes with the darkly tinted bulletproof windows and panel separating the driver from the two passengers cruised through Cali towards the fashionable Granada district. Following closely on its tail, a Mercedes of similar appearance kept pace with the leading car. Maria fidgeted restlessly as she looked out the window at the hub of upscale boutiques and restaurants. Understanding the reason for her agitation, Jorgé tried to assuage her fears. “There’s no reason to be uptight, Maria,” he said quietly. “You’re perfectly safe. The bodyguards are right behind us.
Dejar de preocuparse.
”

“Si, si,
Lo sé, pero todavía
, I know, but still.”

Jorgé took her hand. She withdrew it, continuing to stare out the window. “I know it’s silly, but I have these recurring dreams that someone murders me. It’s always the same dream. I believe in those things, Jorgé. I don’t believe we dream for no reason. I think my dreams are a warning. I think Papa is trying to tell me something.”

Maria’s belief that dreams held meaning was nothing knew to Jorgé. Although he wasn’t superstitious himself, so he couldn’t begin to relate. However, he knew it was pointless trying to talk her out of her paranoia. In any case, be believed Maria had every reason to be cautious. There was no imminent threat that he knew of, but she had stepped on too many toes for him to believe her fear of enemies was completely unfounded.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I was admiring your ability to micromanage everything,” he replied diverting her away from the subject.

“Micromanage? Are you being facetious?”

“Not at all.”

Maria gave his statement close consideration. The only person in the world she trusted, she left the overseeing of her complex illicit, and legal business holdings to him. But when it came to actual trading, she preferred to keep an account of every dollar and kilo herself. It was the only way to avoid cheating on the part of the traffickers.

“Since you’re accusing me of micromanaging,” she smiled thinly, “I’d like to know the status of our bid to buy the casino in San Andres.”