The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (20 page)

I
n
Goldman Sachs’ Boston office, Innes Edridge checked he was up to speed with the
morning’s itinerary, the final action being a phone call with Liechtenstein’s
finance minister advising him of the effect issuing shale gas exploration
permits would have on the national oil company’s share prices. Then he sat back
in his office chair for ten minutes of mindfulness meditation before eating –
or drinking – his lunch of vegetable juice, a combination of cucumber, spinach,
celery, carrot, tomato, garlic, chili pepper and ginger, blended with a dash of
Worcestershire sauce. The latter, along with the carrot and tomato, was not
particularly alkalizing on the body, but it added a fruity flavor, and the result
was certainly far healthier than his colleagues’ choices – ham and cheese subs,
pasta mixes, and the previous evening’s leftovers.

He steadied his breathing and focused on the barely
perceptible pause at the end of each inhale and exhale, gradually emptying his
mind of anxiety and clutter. Occasionally, a random intrusive thought
interrupted the exercise, like a fly buzzing into a peaceful room. Innes
acknowledged the thought and let it slip gently into the ether, but as he
achieved a tranquil state free from the stress of modern life, his cell phone
rang.

“Orion, dear boy,” the Scotsman answered in his well-to-do
brogue.

“Muttley, any news on the prints?”

“I’ve been tracking the package, but somehow it’s got lost after
leaving the sorting office in Dallas.”

“Anything you can do?”

“I’ll call the company again in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you get the toys I mailed you?” Innes referred to the satellite-tracking
emitter Hans had requested to plant on Logan’s boat and an electronic gun pick to
bump the locks.

“They arrived at the embassy this morning.”

“Excellent!”

“And the cell phone records?” Hans pressed.

“Yes, our symp at Velafon’s come up trumps. I emailed them to
you earlier, along with a rundown on the numbers from Odysseus.”

“Good news, thank you. I’ve also sent you the detonator cap fragment
from the fishing boat.”

“Yes. I forwarded the photos you emailed to our ballistics
man. He came back to me right away saying it’s most likely US military.”

“Oh.” Hans’ mind began running through plausible scenarios.

“But don’t get excited,” said Muttley. “They’re openly available
on the market and one of many used by mining operations the world over.”

“I see.”

“Look, how about I send in a surveillance team?”

“I was gonna ask for Triton and Achelous if they’re available,” said Hans, using the code names for Phipps and Clayton, both former SEAL buddies and African American Concern operatives. “Let me think on it.”

“Say the word and I’ll book the Learjet.”

“Roger that.”

L
ogan’s
luxury villa nestled in a rocky inlet with its own dock a couple of miles south
of Karen’s apartment. Hans studied the terrain using Google Earth, and after
toying with the idea of driving there, parking the jeep up and covering the
last few hundred yards cross-country, he opted to take Karen’s boat around the
coast and swim in under the cover of darkness. Penny insisted on accompanying
him, and once again Hans tried to talk her out it.

“You’ll need someone to keep a lookout while you sneak on
board.”

“I . . .” Hans was about to suggest Enrique, but it wouldn’t
be fair to ask someone in his position to get involved in what was essentially
a criminal act. Besides, the less he knew about the information the Concern had
sourced on Logan, the better. “Okay, but if I get compromised, like the lights
come on in the house, I want you to get the hell out of there. This guy’s
responsible for the death of four people.”

“You want me to
leave
you?” Penny looked at him
askew.

“Honey” – Hans gripped her arm – “this is serious. We’ll
take the walkie-talkies, and at the first sign of trouble you buzz me and head
back here. Our little boat is no match for his. I’ll swim home.”

“And what if he tries to run you down again?”

“He won’t even see me, but he’d easily see Karen’s bright-orange
boat.”

After conducting a radio check, Hans put a walkie-talkie in
the dry bag he’d taken from the
Outcast
,
along with a head torch,
scuba mask, 32 gigabyte memory stick, the satellite tracking device, his M9, switchblade
and other tools for the job. Then they carried the outboard down the steep
rocky steps and readied the little craft.

Penny hugged the coastline with the throttle at half revs, the
gradient of the cliffs blocking out the waning moon. Hans had memorized the
outline of the island they needed to skirt and, estimating their speed at four
knots, timed the journey on a cheap black plastic watch he’d bought to replace
his shiny Rolex. Pointing the compass at a lighthouse marking a treacherous
reef south of Praia, Hans waited until the needle aligned with the bearing he
had taken from the map. He raised his hand, and Penny cut the engine – as the
security light on Logan’s villa came into view higher up the cliff. A few meters
out, still in the shadow of the cliff, they dropped a paint can filled with
cement over the side to serve as an anchor.

Hans put on the black metalworker’s balaclava he’d bought,
which, unlike a scuba hood, covered most of his face. Having buckled the dry
bag around his waist and tightened the straps on his Teva all-terrain sandals,
he gave Penny the okay sign and slipped into the warm water, using a scissor
kick and sidestroke to get him to shore.

A slight wind and the sound of waves lapping on the rocks muffled
those of Hans’ movement. He swam into the long inlet fronting the property and headed
for the state-of-the-art speedboat, which Logan had moored to a smart wooden dock
jutting into the sea. A row of car tires lashed with thick blue nylon cord to
the dock’s hefty wooden posts protected the craft from damage as it bobbed gently
in the swell. Using the decked walkway to keep out of sight from above, the
American swam underneath and clambered up through the gap onto the boat using
the tires for hand- and footholds.

Hans crouched on the aft deck for a minute or so, calming
his breathing and listening for any sign of human movement. He opened his mouth
wide to act as an amplification chamber for any sounds, a trick learned in the
military.

Satisfied he remained undetected, Hans wasted no time,
opening the dry bag and clipping the walkie-talkie to the collar of his black
acrylic rash vest and hooking on the earpiece. Then he took out the electronic
lock-picking gun.

Muttley had informed the Concern’s leading locksmith of the
speedboat’s make and model, and the man had pinpointed the locks used on the
boat in the extensive database available to the profession. Knowing the specifications
of the door and ignition locks, the locksmith fashioned two attachment rakes
for the gun. The rakes housed vibrating teeth that worked on the principle of
Newton’s cradle, transferring energy to the spring-loaded pins in the lock and suspending
them in the open position, thus allowing the lock picker to turn the barrel.

In seconds Hans was in. Leaving the rake attachment in place,
he dashed through the plush saloon and emptied the contents of the dry bag onto
the white leather couch nearest the cockpit. He unfurled a rectangular length
of black curtain fabric, onto which he’d sewn six suction cups from
windshield-mounted cell phone holders bought in a motoring accessories store. He
licked the cups and stuck the fabric over the inside of the windshield to block
the red-filtered light from his head torch, the filter lessening the
illumination and preserving Hans’ night vision.

Using the lock-picking gun, Hans turned the cockpit’s ignition
to flash up its airplane-like console and navigation system, then pressed the
on-screen buttons to scroll through the menu as Jonah had instructed. Arriving
at the button labeled “Backup,” Hans inserted his memory stick into the console’s
USB slot and began downloading the computer’s stored history. The download bar
indicated this would take some time, so Hans went to work unscrewing a plastic
panel below the ignition to expose the wiring loom. He located a brown wire that
went live once the ignition was turned and a blue earth wire, clamping on the
tracking device’s quick-fastener connections with a pair of pliers and replacing
the panel.

Checking the download bar, Hans saw there was an estimated
four minutes left, so he spent the time searching the boat for anything that
might link Logan to the trafficking operation. Underneath the sofa’s leather
cushions he found life jackets, barbecue equipment and snorkeling gear, and in the
galley’s cabinets the expected seagoing victuals – coffee, tea, canned and
dried food, a few bottles of wine and beer. Opening the wardrobes and drawers
in the master bedroom also turned up nothing. Hans was about to give up when he
lifted the mattress on the king-sized bed to reveal a storage compartment. Stowed
inside it were reels of duct tape, bulk packets of baby formula and children’s
clothes – brand new, and for ages ranging from babies to young teens.

“Hans!” Penny’s voice came over the radio. “Lights have come
on in the villa, and there’s a dog barking.”

“Okay, I’m out of here,” he replied. “Go back to Karen’s, and
I’ll meet you there.”

Hans returned to the saloon, packed up the gear and switched
off the head torch. He considered the M9 for a moment, but a discreet getaway would
be preferable to a shoot-out, so he shoved it in the dry bag and then checked
on the download. Still thirty seconds left
– Damn!

The dog’s barking grew louder. Hans peeled
back the makeshift curtain to see someone with a flashlight running down the
path from the villa. The GPS console flickered with the message “Download complete,”
but Hans knew the dog would soon be upon him. He yanked out the memory stick,
turned the ignition off and removed the lock-picking gun. Then he ripped down
the curtain and wrapped it around his right forearm for protection.

A shotgun blast rang out in the darkness.

Hans ducked instinctively but figured it
was only a warning shot, the beam of a powerful flashlight playing on the
windshield and illuminating the cabin. He scrambled outside, relocking the door
as another shotgun blast saw a patch of water erupt only feet away. Strapping the
dry bag around his waist, Hans heard a long bloodcurdling bark and looked up to
see a Doberman, teeth bared, leap from the dock.

In one fluid movement Hans thrust his
bandaged forearm into the dog’s salivating jaws, rammed a fist into the angry
beast’s abdomen and dived overboard. The second his feet got purchase under the
surface, Hans powered downwards with all his might, dragging the animal by one
of its legs, intent on giving it the fright of its life.

The terrified Doberman released its bite on
Hans’ arm and flailed for the surface. Hans hit the sandy bottom four meters
down and let go of the powerful animal. Then, staying true to his SEAL
training, he fought to remain calm, preserving the air in his lungs and
swimming out of the inlet. He could see nothing except blackness but knew from
experience that twenty strong strokes would get him the thirty-five meters into
open sea. Turning left, he put in another twenty strokes to seek the protection
of the headland.

When at last Hans sensed he was out of Logan’s
line of sight, he broke the surface, took a deep breath and then duck-dived and
swam another stretch of the rocky coastline underwater. Finally, he felt safe
enough to swim in the open and continued onwards using sidestroke to keep his
splashes to a minimum.

Hans rounded an outcrop and considered his
options – whether to clamber ashore and go cross-country in case Logan gave
chase in his boat, or finish the two-mile swim back to the villa. As Hans opted
to keep swimming, he heard “Psst!” echo in a gulley in the cliff. Craning in
the darkness, he made out Penny rowing Karen’s boat toward him.

“I thought I told you to—”

“Shut up and get in,” Penny whispered.

Hans gripped the hull and wrenched his body
up and down twice, the third time kicking like hell and rolling aboard the small
craft. Knowing the distance sound travels on water, they remained silent as Penny
pulled smoothly on the oars. She had rowed for the best part of half a mile
when Hans raised his hand.

Penny lifted the oars off the water, and
they listened intently.

“Okay, we’re good.” Hans nodded at the
outboard.

Penny flicked the kill switch to “On,”
closed the choke on the
carburetor
and gave the
pull-cord a solid tug. As the engine fired, she opened the choke, twisted the
throttle grip and they whirred away.

Meanwhile, Logan watched his Doberman swim
to the rocks and clamber out of the sea. The trembling dog shook water from its
fur and, tail between its legs, ran to meet him.

“What was that about, Mani?” Logan asked, pulling
out his cell phone and autodialing the last number to ring him. He had no idea
who the person was that had called him to warn him his boat was being broken into
– probably one of his drunken mates having a late-night laugh.

Somewhere on the island a pay phone rang
and rang.