The Trade

  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.”

  - 56 -

  Logan’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. S
towed 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.

  - 57 -

  “What?”

  Penny stared at Hans in disbelief – although in reality their suspicions were confirmed.

  “. . . and baby formula, duct tape and diapers,” Hans continued. “Basically, everything needed to traffic kids by speedboat to a new life.”

  Penny took a long slug of beer. “And do you think someone saw us approaching his boat this evening and warned him off?”

  “More likely my breaking in triggered an alarm in his villa. Luckily, I downloaded everything I needed, including the charts.”

  Hans held up the memory stick.

  “Thank heavens.”

  “Thank Jonah. His instructions were spot on.” Hans powered up his notebook and double-clicked an icon depicting an M emblazoned on a globe. “This is the Marin GPS software I installed, the company used by the speedboat manufacturer.”

  He inserted the memory stick. When the folder-view window popped up, Hans copied the one containing the boat’s navigation history and pasted it into the GPS application in accordance with Jonah’s instructions. He clicked “My Data” and then “My Locations,” which brought up a series of dated folders going back years. As he checked the dates against Logan’s offshore bank account, it soon became apparent the journeys were all two to three days before the large deposits. They also tied in with the fuel purchases from the pump at the harbor.

  “Here goes nothing,” said Hans, right-clicking a folder and selecting “View” to bring one of the recorded voyages up on the notebook’s screen.

  The brightly colored chart covered the southeastern part of the North Atlantic, taking in the West African coast, a jagged purple line highlighting the speedboat’s route. Scrolling the mouse arrow along the route flashed up an information box displaying progressive coordinates.

  “There it is.”

  Hans sat back on Karen’s couch, arms folded and staring at the screen.

  “The Canaries,” Penny murmured, tracing the line north to where it stopped short of the island group. “But what’s with the dogleg?”

  Initially, the line ran west from Praia for fifty miles into the mid-Atlantic, clearing the archipelago before abruptly shooting north.

  “At a guess I’d say he heads out into the commercial fishing grounds, using the trawlers for cover from the coastguard’s radar,” Hans replied. “Once in the channel he breaks away from the fleet and makes north for the Canaries.”

  “But if Logan’s trying to avoid known smuggling routes, why does he head directly back to Praia from the Canaries?”

  “Because he’s already handed the kids over to the next traffickers in the chain and has nothing to hide – with the exception of his payoff. But there’s no law against having a few thousand euros on board.”

  “I see.”

  “Penny, can you grab a couple more beers and the rum? It’s time to have a look at this guy’s cell phone calls.”

  Jonah had taken the records provided by the Concern’s symp at Velafon and put the last twelve monthly call summaries into a PDF file, adding annotations elucidating on destinations of interest. Some of the calls were to known criminals on the island or in the UK, but Jonah’s notes explained the individuals were not linked to trafficking and that the calls were so infrequent they were likely social and didn’t point to a possible kingpin.

  “Anything?” Penny set the beers down on the coffee table and went back into the kitchen area to fetch the rum.

  “No,” said Hans, perusing the most recent telephone statement before scrolling back two months. “Ah!”

  “What is it?” Penny sat down on the couch and unscrewed the bottle cap.

  “Have a look.” Hans turned the notebook toward her, taking the rum and filling their glasses.

  “Orphanage on São Nicolau,” she said, reading Jonah’s note, São Nicolau being another of the islands in the archipelago.

/>   “And the one below,” Hans prompted.

  “A pay-as-you-go number in the Canaries.”

  “Check the date,” said Hans, passing her a list he’d complied from the GPS records of the speedboat voyages to the Canary Islands, along with the respective fuel payments and offshore bank deposits.

  “It’s the day before Logan’s last big trip.”

  “And look.” Hans took the notebook and flicked through the PDF, pointing out the corresponding calls to the Canaries, as well as numerous ones to the orphanage.

  “So what’s next?”

  “I need to call a team in. Bug Logan’s house and put surveillance on him for a few days. If that doesn’t turn up anything, it’s time to get heavy.”

  - 58 -

  “Arhhh!”

  Jessica pushed out her thirtieth push-up, finishing her morning fitness regime. Then she climbed back onto the bed and lay there thinking of her family.

  JJ was dead.

  Mommy was dead.

  Miss Potter, her class teacher – whom she and Hans referred to as the Old Witch – had been unusually nice to her that day, taking her out of class and putting her in the care of Matt and Kelly Mason, family friends, who’d made a surprise visit to the school to pick her up, along with their own daughter, Pearl.

  However, Matt and Kelly didn’t take Jessie home. Had they done so, they’d have met with a scene from a Hollywood movie – emergency vehicles and flashing lights everywhere, the house cordoned off with police tape, the bomb squad in attendance, helicopters overhead and a SWAT team on alert as detectives questioned local residents and other potential witnesses to the atrocity.