The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (4 page)

“Really?”

“Yeah, in case we inadvertently hurt him and he sued the
company!”

Penny raised her eyes.

“And the crazy thing was the guy was happy to go along with
it. He’d rather risk burning to death than break the goddamn rules!”

“That pretty much answers my question,” said Penny. “I can
see the appeal of working for the Concern.”

“The Concern’s about doing the right thing. Something
exciting that you can feel good about—”

The phone on the desk rang. Phipps held up an apologetic
hand and answered it.

“Phipps . . . Okay . . . yeah . . . yeah.” His hand clenched
the receiver, his face deadpan as he spoke in brief, clipped tones.

Penny could tell it was the coastguard’s office and leant forward
as a feeling of dread came over her.

Phipps scribbled down a long number and the name “Kimberley
II.” Ending the call, he looked Penny in the eye. “Hans has been picked up.”

“A-a-and?”

“She didn’t make it.”

L
ieutenant Dave “Bungy” Williams flew the Lynx Mark 8 helicopter
low over the emerald-green water of the North Atlantic as he
radioed
the bridge of HMS
Fortitude
,
“Flight, this is one-seven-seven,
over,” his upper-middle-class English accent unwavering and professional.

“Go ahead, one-seven-seven.”

“We have visual on the cargo ship, over.”

“Proceed with caution, one-seven-seven. We await a sit-rep,
over.”

“Roger that, out.”

HMS
Fortitude
,
a Type 23 frigate, had been on
a joint training exercise with the Cape Verde coastguard. Upon receiving the
news of Hans’ rescue, Phipps wasted no time in contacting its captain to
request a casualty evacuation. The ship steamed toward the
Kimberley II
to
get within the operating range of its Lynx helicopter. Hans would remain aboard
the British warship until the ship’s doctor was satisfied his condition had stabilized
enough for the chopper to transfer him to Cape Verde’s Agostinho Neto Hospital.

Despite having spoken to the captain of the
Kimberley II
by satphone, Bungy Williams circled the aging vessel twice, as per procedure, checking
for any landing hazards before making his final approach, flaring the high-tech
bird gracefully to set her down on the designated shipping containers
highlighted with a crudely painted white H.

The aircrewman leapt out and skipped across the stack of
freight to where Carlos and Juan crouched next to Hans’ stretcher, doing their
best to shield him from the downwash from the rotor blades. After a brief
conversation the Filipinos helped load the injured man onto the Lynx.

“Wait, wait!” Carlos yelled above the din. “You better take
this.” He pulled the teddy bear found in the life raft from his overalls.

With a shrug, the crewman threw it into the hold and
clambered in himself, and the chopper was away.

Meanwhile, in Boston, Muttley had organized an experienced medical
team, who would fly out to Cape Verde on the Concern’s Learjet and provide
urgent treatment before returning Hans to a hospital in the US. Naturally, Penny
and Phipps insisted they accompany him on the flight.

On the deck of the
Kimberley II
, Jens and his boy Chamfar
watched the helicopter depart until it was a speck on the delicate blue backdrop.
With the reward money shared among the crew, this would be Jens’ last voyage on
the faithful old barge.

He put an arm around the first mate’s shoulders. “So how do
you think the fishing is in Mozambique, my friend?”

“I think it is very good, Captain,” the boy replied with his
ever-cheeky grin.

“H
ey sailor,” Penny held Hans’ hand as he opened his eyes.

“Miss Masters I presume.” He feigned a
smile.

They were in a private ward in Boston’s exclusive
Ross Medical
Center
, where Hans had spent a week in an
induced coma following surgical
debridement
to remove gangrenous
tissue from the side of his head. The surgeons left the gaping wound open at
first to allow the site time to self-heal, closing it when reinfection was no
longer a threat, leaving a jagged red welt only a skin graft would fix. Hans came
out of the coma four days ago, but it was only now he was lucid that the various
intravenous feeds of drugs, fluids and nutrients had been removed.

“Feeling better?” Penny knew it was a
ridiculous question, but there was not a lot else she could say.

Hans squeezed her hand and stared into the distance. Their
thoughts locked. It was all Penny could do not to dissolve into a sobbing mess.
With painkillers flooding Hans’ bloodstream, the full extent of Jessica’s loss
had yet to hit home, and she prayed she could do something to ease his pain
when it did.

“I . . . I can’t believe she’s gone.” Hans’ good eye fixated
on the teddy bear sat on the table by his bed.

“Let me move this,” she offered.

“No!” Hans rasped, placing his hand on her arm. “No.”

Moments passed in silence, the agonizing reality suspending them
in a meaningless black void.

“I thought I had her, Penny.”

“You don’t need to talk about it now—”

“No, I need to.” Hans turned to face her. “She was swimming
up to me as
Future
sank. I grabbed her hand . . . but the safety line .
. . It was clipped to the bunk . . . ‘You always gotta clip on your safety
line, Bear,’ she used to say. But I never thought she’d clip on inside the
cabin.”

“Hans, you weren’t to know. How could you?”

“I thought she was in the life raft with me. I could see she
wasn’t herself, but I thought she was in the raft.”

Hans reached for the bear. Penny passed it to him, and he
clutched it to his chest.

“I thought you were with me, sweet pea.”

He drifted into unconsciousness.

D
r. Simon Preece, Boston’s leading
trauma specialist, removed his glasses and slid them into the breast pocket of
his immaculate white coat.

“He’s been through a
lot, Penny. Way beyond what a person should ever have to take, to be truthful.
Another day or two at sea, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Sitting on a green leather chesterfield in the doctor’s spacious
office, a room that could easily have passed for an executive suite at the nearby
Ritz-Carlton, Penny wished they weren’t having this conversation.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t offered you a drink.” Preece stood up.
“Tea, coffee, soda – or perhaps something stronger?”

“Oh!”

The doctor smiled. “I’m not a big believer in drinking tea
at a time like this.”

“A beer perhaps,” Penny tendered, feeling it couldn’t have come
at a better time.

“Of course.”

Preece walked over to an oak panel and pulled it open to
reveal a well-stocked refrigerator. He took out a Budweiser for Penny and a
Perrier for himself.

“Glass?”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Penny cracked the tab on the can.

Preece winked – which would have seemed odd from any other
doctor – and eased into his sumptuous swivel chair, picking a stray fiber off
his pant leg and brushing down his lapels before continuing.

“Hans has experienced what is known medically as brief psychotic
disorder, sometimes called reactive psychosis. It’s brought about by trauma and
extreme stress, such as the loss of a loved one or an accident or assault – basically,
an extremely disturbing event.”

“Jeez,” Penny muttered, staring down at the expensive
Persian rug.

“I’m sorry, Penny, is this too much? We can talk about it
later—”

“No, no. It all makes sense. Hans’ wife and son were killed
last year, but he doesn’t talk about it.”

Preece kept quiet. As a long-standing operative for the Concern,
he was well aware of the circumstances surrounding the horrific double murder.

“And to witness Jessica drown . . .”

The doctor pushed a box of Kleenex across the desktop. “And
then there’s the physical trauma. He took quite a thump to the face.”

“So does this explain why he thought Jessica was in the life
raft all the time? Like his mind simply refused to accept the truth and blanked
it out?”

“Not so much blanked it out, like denial, for example. It’s
more that his mind took on a parallel reality.”

“Which would explain the delusions.”

“The delusions, the hallucinations – but!” Preece widened
his eyes and beamed. “It’s called
brief
psychotic disorder for a reason,
and it would appear he’s over the worst of it and making a full recovery.”

“And the infection?” Penny realized she had unknowingly
finished her beer and was crumpling the can.

“The infection’s under control. With a little help from antibiotics,
the human body is a wonderful thing. But spending some time in the hyperbaric
chamber will speed his recovery – get a little oxygen into his tissues – and
some cosmetic surgery, a skin graft, wouldn’t go amiss, if he wants to retain
his good looks that is!”

“I never thought the words ‘Hans,’ ‘Larsson,’ and ‘cosmetics’
would ever be in the same sentence, Doctor,” Penny joked, and they both
chuckled.

“Another beer?”

He needn’t have asked.

“A
re
you sure you want to do this?” Penny asked as the Learjet came in to land at Cape
Verde’s São Pedro airport.

A month into his recovery, Hans couldn’t let Jessica’s body
lie at the bottom of the ocean any longer, despite the doctor’s advice to rest a
good deal more. Fingering the crude scar on his temple, he gave a slow but
decisive nod.

Regular flights to Cape Verde took twenty-four hours, with
two transfers, then a further hop from the main island of Santiago to the
smaller São Vicente, ten miles off which the sunken yacht lay. Hans would have
had no problem taking this cheaper option, but Muttley insisted upon the Learjet
and booking them in at the Grande Verde.

As they exited the plane and climbed down the stairs to the
tarmac, the hot Atlantic air brought a rush of memories and emotions back to
Hans. Suddenly feeling queasy, he grabbed Penny’s arm, fearing his legs would
give way. Fortunately, an airport car was there to drive them to the terminal,
where Karen Shapiro, the US ambassador, waited behind the sliding entrance
doors to greet them.

“Hans, Penny, I wish our meeting could be under better
circumstances,” said the tall and attractive African American, who dressed island
style in a T-shirt, denim miniskirt and flip-flops and spoke in a Southern drawl.

“It’s thoughtful of you to come,” Hans replied, knowing Karen
lived in the capital, Praia, on the island of Santiago, a two-hour flight away.

Penny nodded a polite agreement.

After shaking hands, Karen led them straight through immigration,
bypassing the kiosks and throwing a smile of acknowledgment to one particular official,
and out to one of the Grande Verde’s limousines.

“Guys, I wanted to say a quick hi and give you an update on
the search for
Future
, but if you’d rather settle in and get some sleep
I can grab a room and meet you tomorr—”

“Now’s fine,” Hans seized the opportunity. “If that’s okay?”

“Of course,” Karen replied, and then introduced them to the
driver, who ushered them into the car.

“Phew, what a relief!” said Penny, fanning the cold air
around her face.

“Kinda gets you, don’t it?” said Karen.

Hans appreciated the ambassador’s personable approach and
could tell her laid-back persona belied a tough woman who’d fought hard to achieve
all she had. It was good to have her on side.

Karen slid open the refrigerated drinks cabinet set into the
Mercedes’ lunar-gray velour and, without asking, handed Hans and Penny ice-cold
cans of beer. Hans’ admiration for the woman went up a notch, and Penny’s thoughts
flicked to the gentle Dr. Preece.

“It’s
Strela, brewed here in the islands.”

Karen was about to add that they’d probably tasted
it before but thought it best not to remind them.

Preliminaries over, she gave them an update
on the search
,
choosing her words carefully, since she knew it wasn’t
recovering the wreckage itself that was at stake. Hans had specifically
requested that, when found, the yacht and the memories it contained remained on
the seabed. The idea of salvaging, repairing and selling
Future
on filled
him with dread, since the thought of a new owner sailing her gleefully around
the yachting community would keep the nightmare alive.

“Hans, as you know the satellite images your
. . .
contacts
provided have been obstructed by the weather. We’re in
what’s known locally as the
tempo de brisas
. The—”

“Time of the breeze,” Penny chipped in.

“Ah!
Fala portugu
ê
s,
” Karen complimented
her.

“
Falo, um pouco
,” she replied modestly.

“I’m sure you speak a lot more than I do,
honey!” Karen let out a self-effacing chuckle before continuing. “And as we’re
not looking to raise the yacht, there’s no point bringing in a salvage rig and
crew from Dakar. So, as I said on the phone, I’ve put one of our local guys on
it. You’ll like Silvestre. He’s quite a character and something of a celebrity around
these parts for his treasure-hunting escapades—”

“But
can
he find the yach—?” Hans checked
himself, realizing he may have sounded rude. “Sorry, Karen, I didn’t mean to
blurt all over you. But is this guy any good?”

“More than good, Hans.” Karen reached into
her bag. “Have a look at this.” She handed them a folder containing an underwater
photograph Silvestre snapped with his boat’s umbilical camera that morning.

There, unmistakably, in a picture taken deep
in the ocean’s murky depths was a gilt-lettered wooden plaque screwed to the
hull of a yacht:
Future
.