The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance (26 page)

By the time he reached the head of the harbor, army and police vehicles had already started patrolling the roads to the airport. Yet again, he was stopped. Unperturbed, he watched the police officer saunter over to the car, his amber eyes taking in the crisp white shirt with epaulettes, the black pants smartly striped with red on either side, the pistol slung into the black gun belt. “Do you mind telling me why you stopped me, officer?” he asked in a tone meant to clearly show he was in a hurry.

“We’re checking all traffic coming out of the city,” the policewoman drawled.

“Why is that?” Pavel asked with feigned surprise.

“The Prime Minister was just killed.”

“Killed?” Pavel exclaimed. “When?”

“Not too long ago. Can I see your driver’s license please?”

Pavel pulled his license from his wallet and handed it to her.

“You’re from the UK?” she asked examining the license.

“Yes, I am,” Pavel confirmed. “I’m actually on my way to the airport to catch a flight back home. I’m already running late.”

“Well, you better get going,” she said jotting down his license number. She handed it back to him with a flirtatious smile. “Have a good flight.”

Cleared once again, Pavel at last turned onto the airport road. On his left, the sea roared rough, crashing onto the pebbly beach that stretched as far as the eye could see. He looked towards the city, shimmering in the mid-afternoon heat. Lying across the harbor, it seemed innocent of poverty, crime, violence, or the tragedy that had just taken place. On the steps of the seat of government lay another notch in Pavel’s belt, the former Prime Minister Erick Freeman. Why he had been contracted to kill the man, Pavel would never know. But in his line of business, the whys and wherefores really didn’t matter. What mattered was getting the job done – efficiently and expediently. He had accomplished what he had come to do.

THIRTY-EIGHT

In the downtown area, sirens screamed as emergency vehicles fought their way through the crowd of curiosity seekers surrounding the capital building where Palmer jumped out of his vehicle almost before it stopped. Accompanied by the head of the Police Special Forces and an army of law enforcement officers, Palmer barreled over to the cordoned off crime scene. “Get these people away from here,” he ordered on seeing the crowd pushing forward. He turned around irritably to fend off a reporter’s questions and hurried up the steps to where Erick Freeman lay.

Palmer gazed down at Freeman’s lifeless body. “Who in the name of God could have done this?” he muttered under his breath. His eyes moved swiftly from Freeman to the buildings across the street, lingering briefly on an obscure window on the fifth floor of the Foster & Foster law offices. “Have we been able to pinpoint where the shots came from yet?” he asked his next in command.

“Judging from the way the Prime Minister fell, the sniper had to have been in one of those buildings across the street,” the Special Forces chief surmised. “This whole area in front was lined with cars and our security vehicles at the time it happened. Every vehicle has already been searched. None of the drivers waiting for officials have been allowed to leave the cars yet. I already have men searching the buildings across the street. We’ve asked people in those buildings to stay put until we have a chance to question everyone thoroughly.”

Palmer grunted and looked back down at the body. The ship from Nicaragua immediately flitted through his mind.

At Island Daily News, Peter and Lauren collided midway through the newsroom, the impact almost knocking the wind out of Lauren. She jingled her car keys at him. “I got it covered,” she said breathlessly. Before Peter had a chance to respond, she rushed off, trailed by a staff photographer. Not waiting for the elevator, she bounded down the emergency staircase to the parking lot. The photographer had hardly managed to get both feet in the car before Lauren tore out of the lot.

“Damn, Lauren, slow down before you get us killed!” the photographer shouted as Lauren screeched to a stop in front of a red light. Lauren clutched the steering wheel impatiently as she waited for the light to turn green. Not really expecting an answer she asked, “How on earth did a thing like that happen? Who could have shot him?”

“Beats me,” her associate shrugged, “But whoever did it, hats off to them. Erick Freeman got his just desserts, if you ask me. About time somebody got rid of him.”

Lauren gave him a reprimanding sideward glance. Though deep in her heart she concurred with him, she would never have voiced such a sentiment.

She stepped on the gas the second the light changed, her mind keeping pace with her little yellow VW Bug. An assassination was unprecedented. Nothing like that had ever happened in the Caribbean, not the English-speaking Caribbean at any rate! This was a huge story and she could hardly contain her excitement over being able to cover it. Now she had a chance to give Freeman’s murder closer consideration, she was sure it was not politically motivated. There was no doubt in her mind it was connected with the shady business at the port. That still didn’t answer the question of who was behind it, however. Was it somebody local, or was it somebody overseas? Whichever it was, the whole thing smacked of a drug deal gone sour.

Downtown was already a mess when they arrived, traffic jams at every turn. They ground to a halt a mile from the capital building. Lauren wove her way through the traffic as it started up again, going heavy on the horn to get cars out of her way. Finally, avoiding the main route, she took a short cut through a narrow alley. They were just two blocks from their destination when she found herself in front of a police barricade.

Lauren flashed her press ID at the two policemen. One strolled over to the car.

“You can’t go any further,” he told her.

“Then what am I to do?” Lauren asked with exasperation. “This is a one-way street. I can’t turn back!”

“Pull up over there,” the policeman instructed, pointing to a stretch of sidewalk not nearly wide enough for the VW Bug.

Lauren looked at the space doubtfully.

“The car will be fine there,” the policeman said. “Nobody is going to be coming down this road anytime soon.”

Lauren pulled the car over and switched off the engine. “Well, I guess that takes care of that,” she grumbled. “We’ll just have go the rest of the way on foot.”

She arrived at the square in front of the capital building to find Robert Palmer barking orders at a surrounding army of law enforcement officers. On the perimeters of the group, Special Forces faced every direction, their M-16s trained on windows and rooftops of surrounding buildings. At the foot of the steps, two ambulances waited, their emergency lights flashing in futility. Lauren edged her way forward and surveyed the scene. Erick Freeman lay at the top of the steps, the position of his body already outlined in chalk. Two medical examiners leaned over him. Lauren’s eyes descended the steps, slowly panning the assembly of officials still standing where they had been when the bullets hit the Prime Minister. Margaret Thomas stood motionless with lips pursed. Lauren’s eyes moved from her aunt to the man standing closest to her – Allan Harvey, the Deputy Prime Minister, his face an inscrutable mask. Slightly below him, Frank Sterling, the Minister of National Security and Defense stood looking shattered. Lauren’s eyes moved along, stopping briefly at John Boyd, the Minister of Tourism. He was talking quietly with someone beside him. Standing a few feet from Boyd was Jason McCloud, the Minister of the Interior. McCloud seemed frightened.

Lauren fought her way along the yellow tape until she was as close to Robert Palmer as she could get. “Inspector Palmer,” she shouted, waving to get his attention. “Can I have a quick word with you?”

Palmer walked over to Lauren. “Yes, Lauren,” he said impatiently. “What can I do for you? Please make it quick.”

“At what time was he killed?”

“Two o’ clock, give or take a minute.”

“Are there any suspects?”

“No, not at this time,” Palmer answered hurriedly. “However, it would appear the shots were fired from one of those windows up there,” he confided, indicating the Foster & Foster building.

Lauren gazed at the Foster & Foster building. “You mean the law offices?” she said in surprise.

“Yes,” Palmer acknowledged, “But for heaven’s sake please don’t print that. It’s much too early to say where the shots came from with any certainty. Last thing I need is a bunch of attorneys on my case.”

It was on the tip of Lauren’s tongue to ask how many shots had been fired when Palmer turned and hurried back to his corps of law enforcement officers.

“What the hell!” Tony Martin’s eyes rounded in astonishment as Erick Freeman, smiling at him from the TV screen, suddenly collapsed on the steps leading up to the entrance of the capital building. Martin grabbed the cell phone on the bedside table in his hotel room. “Shit,” he cursed as he frantically dialed Smith’s number only to find it no longer in service. Impatiently, Martin waited for the string of commercials that had just started to come to an end. At last, the broadcast of the event resumed.

This time, Martin watched with an analytical eye. The governor and Freeman ascend the steps followed by a throng of government officials. A photographer aims his camera at Freeman. Freeman turns around for the photo op. Dashing smile. Bam. Freeman falls. People ducking. Others freeze. Where did the bullet come from? No way to tell from the angle of the cameras. But if it was someone who knew what they were doing, and they obviously did, the shot had to have been fired from across the street. That meant it could only have come from one place. Martin suddenly found himself in need of a drink. He went to the wet bar and poured himself a straight Bourbon.

By the time he turned around, the commercials were on again. Martin sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on a couple in swimsuits drinking beer on a beach – blue water, white sand and palm trees – an island paradise. If there was one thing Martin was sure of, it was that he needed to get out of paradise fast. He deliberated for a moment then threw back his head and laughed as the realization hit him. What had just taken place was a blessing in disguise. “This is good, this is really good,” he chortled. As far as Smith knew, the Foster & Foster building was still a go. That meant Smith would be under the assumption he had done the shooting. The cartel would come to the same conclusion, unless an investigation proved otherwise. And even if that were to happen, he could always claim the authorities got the wrong man. As far as the piper would ever know, he had paid, this time in full. Once he got rid of the gun, he would be home free.

Gordon Matthews started as his executive assistant flew into his office in the pitch of excitement. Gordon stared at her nonplussed. What she was saying didn’t make sense.

Hearing no response from him, she repeated, “Someone just shot the Prime Minister in front of the capital building! The Prime Minister is dead.”

“Are you trying to tell me someone just walked up to the Prime Minister and shot him in full view of everybody?” Gordon asked in astonishment.

“No, the shot came out of nowhere. A friend just called and told me. She saw it on TV.”

It took a minute for the news to sink in. When it did, Gordon was visibly shaken.

“What time did this take place?” he asked tensely.

“I think about half an hour ago, about two o’ clock.”

Gordon fumbled for his car keys. “Ask the driver to bring my car to the front of the building, would you? On second thought, forget about the driver. Do you mind getting the car yourself?”

His assistant looked surprised. “You want
me
to get the car?”

“Yes, yes, please, if you don’t mind,” he said distractedly.

No sooner had she left than Gordon picked up the phone. “Dan, have you heard the news?”

“No, I just got back from lunch. What’s going on?” Dan Matthews drawled.

“Erick Freeman was just gunned down in front of the capital building.”

Without waiting for a response, Gordon stormed down the hall to his brother’s office.

“I warned you and Gary you were playing with fire,” he growled pulling up a chair.

“Spare me the sanctimonious ‘I told you so’, Gordon. You were happy enough with your cut of the first shipment.”

It was with effort Gordon kept his voice low. “We agreed it would be only one shipment. Look, if you and Gary want to act like a pair of hoods, that’s your business, but my ass is on the line here. Are you aware what this could mean? Aside from the whole thing blowing up in our faces, our lives could be in danger. We don’t know who was behind Freeman’s death.”

Dan’s eyes narrowed on Gordon. “Think Sterling was behind it?”

“Who the hell knows?” Gordon answered testily.

He rose abruptly. “You better let Gary know about this mess if he hasn’t heard already. I’m heading home to Vale Verde. I won’t be back until one of you figures out what the hell is going on.” “And I would be careful if I were you,” he added, pausing at the door. “My advice, if you’ll take it for once, is ratchet up your security. War has been declared and right now the enemy is faceless.”

THIRTY-NINE

There was a hush over the island the following day, an uncharacteristic stillness, the cities devoid of everyday street sounds. Even the trade wind off the sea seemed to have given way to the abundant speculation being expressed in muted tones and heated discussions in every corner. What had happened was so far removed from any national experience no one knew what to make of it. Some believed it was politically motivated, others, who had heard whispers, suspected the motive for the crime was even darker. Opinions on why it happened may have varied, but regardless, Erick Freeman’s assassination had come without warning, as quickly and unexpectedly as a bolt of lightning before a thunderstorm.

Downtown was not exempt from the pervasive mood of sobriety as Lauren pulled into the Foster & Foster parking lot shortly after ten and took note of the man with the AK47 stationed at the back of the building. To her mind, the presence of Special Forces meant one thing only: the Foster & Foster offices were under scrutiny. Explaining the purpose of her visit to the security guard in the parking lot, she parked and proceeded on her mission.