The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (9 page)

A
t
exactly 7:00 a.m. Hans’ cell phone rang. It was Muttley, calling to say he hadn’t
managed to pull any additional intel on Captain Alvarez and to proceed with the
plan, adding that he’d briefed Karen, and she was expecting Hans’ visit.

Hans called the ambassador to let her know his flight’s
arrival time, leaving Penny in the hotel and taking a car to the airport. From
there a scheduled island-hopper flight landed him in Praia on the island of
Santiago in a little under two hours.

Although only a hundred miles closer to the equator, Hans
felt the increase in temperature and flapped his shirt as he walked through the
arrivals hall.

A middle-aged Latino dressed in a cream sports coat and designer
jeans approached.

“Mr. Larsson?”

“That’s me.”

“Enrique Ramos.” He beamed and thrust a hand out. “Miss Shapiro
sent me to collect you.”

Enrique led Hans to a modest beige Ford sitting innocuously in
the parking lot. “It’s one of our runarounds. I have orders not to draw
attention to ourselves, huh?”

“Good thinking,” Hans replied, and hopped in the passenger
seat.

“You’re looking a lot healthier than when I last saw you, Mr.
Larsson.”

“Really?”

“I was at the airport when the British Navy helicopter
brought you in. You had us worried. No one expected you to make it.”

“Thank you, Enrique, and call me Hans.”

Enrique drove into the city, the difference between the two
islands immediately apparent to Hans. The traffic moved with a sense of purpose
along wider streets, lined with taller, five-story builds best described as “functionalist
postcolonial” – less lurid pastels and solid concrete design as opposed to
Mindelo’s rickety authenticity – with banks, cell phone companies, bathroom and
furniture showrooms and other outlets pandering to the growing economy leasing
the ground floors.

“So how do you end up in the Foreign Service?” Hans asked.

“My parents were Nicaraguan immigrants to the US, so after graduating
in foreign relations from Harvard, I went back to Central America and worked in
international development. Fifteen years ago I joined the Foreign Service and
have been on the island for ten.”

He pulled into a private parking space in front of a surprisingly
nondescript townhouse. The only clue as to the goings-on inside was the
American flag flying from a pole jutting out at a forty-five-degree angle from
the premise’s dirty cream walls. Below it was a circular plaque featuring the
US coat of arms.

Two US Marines, looking out of place at the building’s shoddy
aluminum-framed door, sprung to attention. Enrique ushered Hans inside and into
an antiquated elevator to travel the three floors to Karen’s office, where he
left them in private.

“Hans, good to see you!”

She stepped out from behind a somewhat flimsy wooden desk –
complete with bald eagle figurine nonetheless – crossing the stock red-pile carpet
to greet him. A gold-tasseled Old Glory hung wearily in a corner of the compact
office.

After a hug Karen pulled a chair across for Hans and slumped
in her leather-backed one as she cut to the point.

“So, it’s a lot better news than we coulda hoped for, but
still far from good. This guy Alvarez is just one of the many scumbags feeding
the trade for human life in these parts – but tell me about this Fulani woman. We
have nothing on her.”

“You won’t. I’m pretty sure she’s an illegal, but she’s gone
out of her way to make contact, and she’s risking her life by getting us more
intel.”

“Are you sure it’s genuine – or is she after a handout?”
Karen tilted her head, skepticism clear in her eyes.

“No, this isn’t about money or a work permit.”

“And you don’t think it could be a trap set up by the Trade?”

“For her this is personal. You can see it in her eyes.”

“What’s your rationale for approaching Alvarez?”

“We’ve nothing else, Karen. The guy’s got no record, no bank
account, no known criminal associates. On the face of things he’s a simple
fisherman. There’s no way to trace where the hell Jessica is – other than
putting a tail on him. But that could take months to turn up a connection.
Besides, how do we know this isn’t just a one-off, like opportunistic?”

“Agreed. It’s not every day a poor fisherman comes across a windfall
floating in sea – sorry, Hans, I—”

“It’s okay. But you see my point?”

“Sure. That’s why I’ve arranged for you to have this.” Karen
pushed a black-covered diplomatic passport across the table. “You’re now
officially contracted to the embassy in your capacity as private investigator.”

“Pleased to be of service.” Hans flipped open the crisp
document to see a working visa stamp on the first blank page. “Was it hard to
get authorization?”

“No, it’s within my remit to employ temporary staff – both
local and domestic – but I had to run it by the State Department and the foreign
office here. Luckily, Cape Verde’s prime minster is in the US’ pocket. He’s
just signed a foreign aid agreement with Washington that requires cooperation
in certain areas – crimes involving US citizens being one of them – so he’s
eager to impress.”

“The mighty dollar.”

“The Trojan horse – but be discreet. This isn’t a license to
kill – except in self-defense. You’re cleared to consular level on special
mission status, meaning you can still be arrested if you cross the line but can’t
be sent to prison.”

“Lucky me.”

“I’m guessing you’ll need a ‘toy.’”

“Some backup wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Then you’ll need these.” She handed over a gun permit and a
diplomatic pouch to transit a weapon and ammunition through the airport.

She buzzed the receptionist. “Catarina, can you ask Enrique
to join us?”

“Is he on the level?” Hans raised an eyebrow.

“He’s most definitely a patriot – but it’s no secret around
here he’s with the agency.” Karen gripped her neckline with two fingers. “So, we
keep our thing quiet, huh?”

“What happens in Vegas . . .” Hans smiled, recalling whose
database he’d accessed earlier.

After a brief explanation of events, “Enrique, can you take
Hans to the armory and give him what he needs?” Karen asked, and then said good-bye.

Enrique took Hans down to the basement in the elevator,
where a short corridor led to a formidable steel door. He typed in a code and
pushed it open, flicking a light switch to reveal a fair-sized vault with a
locking rack bolted to the wall to secure thirty M16s.

“For the Marines,” Enrique explained. “A detachment of
thirty’s barracked down the road.”

“I’ll stick with a pistol,” Hans joked, spying ten military-issue
handguns below the rifles.

“Karen put a Beretta M9 down on the gun permit.”

“M9’s fine,” said Hans – a similar model to his sidearm back
home.

Enrique opened a padlock and slid back a retaining bar to
release the weapon, double-checking its serial number against the paperwork. Then
he spun the dial on a walk-in safe and stepped inside.

“Hollow point or regular?” He nodded to shelves of neatly
stacked ammo.

“Regular’s fine. A couple of boxes.”

“Less of a cleanup job, huh?” Enrique winked, both knowing the
damage a hollow point did to its victim. “Wanna fire a couple off on the range?”

“You have one?” Hans looked surprised, as the building wasn’t
exactly huge.

“Under the trap.” Enrique pointed at a metal hatch set into
the concrete floor.

“No, I’ll be fine,” Hans replied, casting an eye over the
sizable collection of ordnance in the safe – plastic explosive, detonators,
grenades, Claymores and rocket launchers. “Quite an arsenal you’ve got here.”

“US soil, so we can defend it by any means. But if you ask
me it’s not enough. Remember Benghazi.”

“Right.”

Enrique handed Hans a weapon-cleaning kit, oil, a shoulder
holster and four fifteen-round clips. “And you’ll be needing comms. Cell
coverage can be hit and miss around here.” He pulled out two walkie-talkies,
earpieces and a charger. “Anything else?”

“A set of eyes please,” said Hans, nodding to a Leupold Mark
4 sniper’s spotting scope. “And I’ll take one of these.” He lifted a
bulletproof vest from a pile.

“Safety first, huh?” Enrique grinned.

T
he
cell door burst open, and the angry man walked in.

Jessica sat cowering on the filthy mattress, wrapped in the
rough gray blanket to preserve her modesty. She trembled but tried not to show
it.

The man threw a tub of wet wipes at her and dumped sandals
and clean clothes on the bed, but not out of compassion, his orders as always
to maintain the captive’s marketability. Then he left the room, leaving the
door ajar.

Jessica was up in a flash and dashing across the floor to
peer through the gap. Looking up and down the narrow stone corridor, she saw
that hers was one of a series of rooms.

Seize the moment and move like there’s no tomorrow!
Hans’
fatherly guidance echoed in her mind, and she knew it was time to escape.

She rushed over and grabbed her new attire – a pair of
shorts and an ugly pink T-shirt with a transfer of Hello Kitty holding a
balloon on it. Her parents never bought her pink crap.

Without wasting time dressing, she ran to the door and . . .

She heard the sound of approaching footsteps in the
corridor.

Jessica threw the clothes down, leapt back on the bed and
pulled the blanket back around her. The man appeared in the doorway carrying
two buckets, one – filled with water – inside the other, and a plastic basin
containing a plate of food, a plastic beaker and a roll of toilet tissue. He
stopped abruptly, his eyes flicking to the sandal lying at his feet.

As his mind almost registered the escape attempt, the
quick-thinking little girl hurled the other sandal at him.

“And you can take that one too!” she screamed, folding her
arms and sticking her bottom lip out.

Her cover-up worked. The man shook his head and set the
stuff down. He picked up the footwear and threw it at Jessica, mindful not to
hit her in the face, then placed the beaker and plate of food on the bed.

“For washing.” He held up the basin and set it down by the
wall. “Toilet.” He dropped the roll of tissue into the empty bucket.

He pulled a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste from his
suit jacket pocket and dropped them on the floor, then rummaged in another
pocket for a strip of pills. He popped one and handed it to Jessica.

“
Vitamina
– eat!”

The man took up the beaker, filled it with water and handed
it to her.

Hesitantly, she put it in her mouth and swallowed, so
parched the pill stuck in her throat. It tasted foul, making her gag.

“Drink!” the man ordered, and for once she did what he said.

Then he stood there, contemplating whether to feed his urges
and make her dress in front of him. But, deciding he’d had enough of the little
pissant for one day, he turned around and left the room, this time shutting the
door behind him and slamming the bolt home and padlocking it.

Not having eaten for two days, Jessica snatched up the
plate. It looked like the kind of leftover food she got the day after her
parents threw a dinner party or cooked something special on a Saturday night.
The meat was dark brown and covered in an orange-flavored sauce. Jessica didn’t
know what it was, but it tasted like chicken. She wolfed it down and began
scooping up the small boiled potatoes garnished with fresh parsley and the
sugar snap peas and baby carrots, shoving them into her mouth as fast as
humanly possible.

Jessica cast the plate aside and began to get dressed. She
pulled on the ugly T-shirt and the blue shorts but suddenly felt dizzy,
gripping the bed to steady herself. She became increasingly light-headed and
the room started to spin. Jessica stared at the floor, unable to work out if it
was above, below or beside her, and then her legs buckled and she collapsed.