The Trade

  “They should be with you in forty-eight hours. If you need someone sooner, say the word, and I can be on the Lear tonight.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

  “She’s my goddaughter, Hans. Carter comes first, but family comes a close second.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Hans ended the call.

  As Hans relayed the conversation, Penny didn’t need to see the strain on his face to know how much rested on the fingerprint results and Jonah’s second hacking of the Hertz database. They couldn’t act until they heard anything, so “Let’s go fishing,” she suggested.

  “Er.” Hans worried there was something to do.

  “Come on! Let’s chuck some beers in the boat, grab Karen’s fishing poles and see if we can catch a monster with the leftover mackerel.”

  Hans knew Penny deserved a break from the constant stress too. “Catcher of the biggest fish gets breakfast in bed?” he suggested.

  “If you don’t mind cooking.” Penny winked, running a finger up his chest and pretend-poking him in the eye.

  Hans grabbed the beers and rum and rowed out into the channel as Penny cut the mackerel into strips.

  “Here’s good,” he said, shipping the oars.

  Using hefty leads and stainless-steel hooks, they set up paternoster rigs and, making sure to keep a thumb on the spool to prevent the line from bird’s-nesting, lowered them over the side.

  “Good idea of yours, Penny.” Hans gazed at the spectacular pink and orange sprays firing up the lilac sky.

  “Yeah, we should have left a note saying ‘Gone Fishing’!”

  “Up until this last eighteen months it was always the answer to life’s problems. Chuck a line in the water, crack open a beer, and if you caught a fish it was an additional bonus. Now . . .” Hans’ shoulders slumped.

  “Honey, there’s a big difference between ‘problems’ and the life-changing events you’ve had to go through.”

  Penny hated seeing Hans beat himself up.

  “Yeah, I know. When I was in the life raft with Jess . . .” Hans stopped himself.

  “It’s okay. I know what you mean.” Penny swapped hands on the fishing pole to lean across and squeeze his arm.

  “When I was in the life raft thinking I was with Jessie, I promised myself if we ever got rescued I would give everything up – the house, the business, the Concern – and buy an RV and travel the country. You know, seeing the sights, sleeping under the stars, grilling the fish we caught on an open fire.”

  Hans reached for the beers and handed one to Penny.

  “No, I’ll stick with the Sprite.”

  “Oh, okay. You haven’t had a beer all day?”

  “Good to have a break every now and then.”

  “Yeah, it is – what was I saying? Oh yeah, it seems ironic that we were rescued, and yet the nightmare’s even worse now.”

  “Worse, but you will find her. I know you will.”

  “Thanks, Penny.” Hans forced a smile, then unscrewed the rum and gulped from the bottle.

  “Do you ever think you could give it up – the Concern, I mean?”

  “Ha, it’s funny. We used to have the exact same discussion in the military. Like, how can you leave, man? There’s no jobs out there, you gotta great career, and all this kinda stuff. In the Concern it’s known as Buying the Chains.”

  “Explain.” Penny sipped her Sprite.

  “You know, like when the slaves on the plantations gave up the fight, stopped trying to escape and going against their masters’ wishes, because buying into their own oppression actually became an easier option.”

  “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, you mean?”

  “Exactly. The difference being, in the military you’re wearing the chains. You’re owned by Uncle Sam and used and abused for the Illuminati’s sick agenda. Getting out ain’t a bad option.” Hans pretended to spit into the water.

  “And working for the Concern is the other way around?”

  “In the Concern you feel like you’re doing something worthwhile, like you’re working for the benefit of mankind. No one’s trying to make off you. You’re not sitting in a crummy office typing irrelevant bullshit into a computer all day long to make some creep rich, while he gives you two weeks a year to spend with your family and a crummy watch at the end of forty-five years.”

  “I guess I’ve been lucky.” Penny smiled, thinking of a life spent on the ocean.

  “Damn right you have! Sailing this beautiful planet, meeting folks from all cultures, and the only damage you’re doing is leaving a few bubbles in your wake.”

  “Have you always thought like this?” Penny’s curiosity kicked in.

  “Hell no! Remember I told you after I left the SEALs everything went downhill – started drinking, fighting, getting sacked from god-awful jobs by jumped-up managers, wondering what the hell this life was all about?”

  “Uh-huh – before you met Kerry.”

  “I hit rock bottom. When there’s no more way down, you either stay there and die or you learn your way back up. All that stuff they indoctrinated you with at school, like it’s good to be a doctor or a lawyer or a goddamn whatever, and all that stuff your parents tried to instill in you – respect authority, play by the rules, mow the lawn on Sunday, go to a bullshit church and vote in some phony-baloney political system – you gotta unlearn that stuff. You gotta do in your heart what you know is right, follow your own path, realize it’s all a big game put in place by a twisted ruling elite that only cares about money and power, who’ve been playing it since the time of the pyramids and know just how to sucker you in.”

  “The Coca-Cola dream,” Penny chuckled.

  “Ha! Do you know the average American thinks drinking that stuff is actually good for them?”

  “And did Kerry feel strongly about this stuff too?”

  “Acht . . . I loved Kerry. She came along in my life when I had nothing else, and I wouldn’t be here today if she hadn’t. I never tried to change her. But she thought by putting a link on Facebook she could help achieve world peace.”

  “Tphuh!” Penny choked on her Sprite. “So, I’m guessing life in a sleepy suburb is not for you, Mr. Larsson.”

  “Penny, I’m trying to say that yes, maybe one day I’d be happy to give up the Concern, accept a life of obscurity and hightail it around the good ol’ US of A in a camper with my daughter—”

  “Er-hum!”

  “Sorry, with the lovely Penny and my daughter, but . . .” Hans fell silent, the thought of Jessica spawning a pang of anxiety bringing him abruptly back to reality.

  Penny understood. Constantly being in limbo was hard for both of them, but for Hans it didn’t end there. Circumventing the system by conducting his own investigation, he’d taken sole responsibility for Jessica’s safe return.

  They fell silent awhile, sipping beer, jigging the lines up and down and watching the city’s lights come on as the sky turned to graphite.

  “It’s just . . . look at us here now, Penny. If it weren’t for the circumstances, would you wanna be anywhere else? A beer, a hook in the water, fresh air, the rise and fall of the sea and an incredible view. To think most kids today will never get to experience being in a boat, let alone casting a line or gutting a fish, but it’s perfectly fine to spend all day with your nose stuck to a smartphone or an iPad making synthetic friendships and clicking buttons for corporations who tell you how to think, feel and do. You know I ended up buying Jessie a cell phone, a tablet and a PC. Not because I believe a seven-year-old needs to be text-messaging her friends when she’s bored or surfing the net, but because I don’t want her getting left behind in the technology stakes.”

  “You talk about being controlled by a sicko elite – don’t you think technology and social media help bring people together, like it’s easier to spread the word on, you know, chemicals in our food, illegal wars and stuff?”

  “I think it’s the opposite, Penny. Disinformation is just information be
ing used against you.”

  “In what way?”

  “Take three weeks ago, an Ausair jumbo jet on route from Sydney to Rome shot down over Jakarta. The media went crazy, right?”

  “Uh-huh. At first they thought it was Muslim separatists using rockets supplied by al-Qaeda. Then the blame shifted to the Indonesian government for creating a false-flag operation.”

  “Exactly. Bringing the plane down so they had a legitimate excuse to go after the extremists, all of which set off a thousand and one theories on TV, radio and social media. But do you really wanna know who killed those innocent passengers?”

  “Go on.”

  “MIT – Turkey’s intelligence agency.”

  “MIT? But Turkey has nothing to gain by stirring up trouble in that part of the world.”

  “What if I were to tell you that the day the plane went down, the Turkish Army waged an all-out offensive on several Kurdish villages under the pretext of destroying PKK rocket-building factories? That four hundred innocent Kurds were killed, many of them children.”

  “I saw something about that, but—”

  “You were caught up in the hullabaloo created by the plane being shot out of the sky.”

  “Oh, Hans, I thought I kept abreast of the madness, but the more you learn about the world, the sicker it gets.”

  “Can you understand now why I’m not ready to buy the chains?”

  “I don’t think you’ll ever be ready – oh-oh-oh!” Penny’s fishing pole bowed.

  “Hell, does this mean I’m cooking breakfast?” Hans joked.

  “Whatever it is, I don’t think it will take much cooking.” Penny grinned, playing the fish as it jittered about trying to shake the hook.

  “I’m thinking great white shark.” Hans downed his beer and stretched a hand toward the line, ready to help.

  “No, bigger than that!” Penny laughed.

  “Do we need a gaff, or shall we let it tow us into shore?”

  “I’m thinking we should cut the line to save us being chomped!”

  “Well, it better be worth us sacrificing our breakfast mackerel!” said Hans, the thought of the jazzy fish’s oily flesh perking his appetite.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .”

  The fish’s white underbelly began flashing below the surface.

  “It’s . . .” Penny lifted the rod to bring the catch on board. “A mackerel.”

  “Ahhh-hah-ha-hah! It’s not just a mackerel, Captain Penny. It’s a smaller mackerel than the one we had!”

  “It’s a start!” She poked her tongue out.

  They fished on awhile, Penny pleased her monster catch had lightened the mood on an otherwise miserable day, particularly as Hans’ clenched jaw told her that today was especially difficult for him.

  “It’s her birthday tomorrow, Penny.” Hans stared at his line disappearing into the shimmering black brine.

  “Oh honey, I could see something was up. Why didn’t you say?”

  “Because I can’t bear to think she’s out there somewhere.” Hans nodded at the myriad of yellow dots scattering the landscape. “Just the thought that she probably doesn’t even know it’s her birthday kills me.”

  “Hans, I hate to ask, but what if the fingerprints on the Fulani woman’s glasses aren’t on record and Jonah doesn’t come back with anything for the hire car?”

  “I’ve been thinking the same. Maybe it’s time we contacted a couple of the newspapers here. Start with the biggest. See if we can meet with an editor to get their take on this Trade business.”

  “Perhaps we should have done that earlier.”

  “It’s not as if we’ve had the time. Anyway, knock on wood” – Hans rapped his knuckles on the gunwale – “Muttley and Jonah will have some news for us tonight or tomorrow.”

  Penny stared at the distant lights without replying.

  “Honey, you okay?”

  Hans could see something was on her mind.

  She turned to face him. “It’s that I’ve got some news too, Hans.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  - 74 -

  As Hans cooked scrambled eggs in the morning, a million thoughts ricocheted around his mind. Where the hell were we six weeks ago? It must have been in the hospital in Boston. He smiled.

  Penny’s bombshell had a bearing on everything. Hans intended to spend his every breath, if that’s what it took, keeping up the search for his daughter. If, heaven forbid, any harm came to her, he would hunt down the traffickers like the rats they were and eliminate them one by one. Should this happen, he’d decided to take his own life, for losing a wife, son and daughter, there was no reason to go on. But the fact he was going to be a father again put paid to that idea.

  Stop it! Hans told himself. Jessica wasn’t dead, and this passive speculation wasn’t helpful. He would get her back. That was the plan, and he intended to see it through.

  Carrying a tray of coffee, eggs, bagels, fried tomatoes and mushrooms through to the bedroom, Hans turned his thoughts to Penny. He knew her mind was still in turmoil following the abortion two years ago. He also knew she loved him as deeply as he did her. They hadn’t exactly planned this pregnancy – but then it wasn’t unplanned either. Both knew fate had brought them together for a reason and that they were in this for the long haul. Now, along with so many thoughts and feelings surrounding Jessica, Hans had Penny’s and the baby’s welfare to consider. One day at a time, frogman, he reminded himself. One day at a time.

  By 10:00 a.m. neither Muttley nor Jonah had called. Hans didn’t need to chase them – they would be in touch the second they got a result. To make use of the waiting time, Hans called the Expresso das Ilhas, the national newspaper, and arranged to meet Nelson Cabral, its editor.

  - 75 -

  Mouthwash Man unfolded the chair and draped his jacket over the backrest, preparing to give Jessica another dose of brainwashing in preparation for her trip to Europe with the fixer. His eyes were even more bloodshot than usual and the smell of liquor on his breath strong.

  “Whhhaa . . . school you . . . you go to, Maria Denn-nis?” he slurred.

  “Kelloway Primary School,” she replied, knowing the answers off by heart now.

  “Whhhaas your mother’s name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Whhhere you live in . . . in . . . in London?”

  “Number 25 Allcourt Road in Tottenham.”

  And so it went on.

  Mouthwash was about to ask Jessica to spell her surname for the umpteenth time when the sound of high-pitched barking interrupted him. A small dog burst into the room, made a beeline for the bed, jumped on Jessica’s lap and licked her face in between yaps.

  “Hello, little doggy!” She hugged it tight.

  From somewhere outside the other man shouted and whistled for the dog to return.

  Mouthwash Man wasn’t happy. Grabbing the scruff of its neck, he pulled the dog off Jessica and shook it violently. Then he left the room to return it to its owner, slamming the door behind him.

  Jessica was off the bed in a flash and shoving her hand into the man’s jacket, searching for his cell phone. It wasn’t in the first inside pocket, and her hopes sank. Perhaps he didn’t have it with him.

  She tried the other pocket, and her hand closed around the phone. The little girl’s heartbeat stepped up as she pulled out a Nokia similar to the one she had at home. Her father always insisted she memorized the emergency services number for each of the countries they visited on the yacht trip. England was 999, France 122, but she couldn’t remember Cape Verde’s. Jessica didn’t even know if she was on Cape Verde. Perhaps when the pirates plucked her from the sea they had taken her to another country.

  One thing she did remember was her father’s cell phone number. He also taught her to prefix the area code with 001 when calling from abroad. Listening out for Mouthwash Man’s return, she punched the keypad and put the phone to her ear.

  Nothing – not a ring or ev
en the engaged message.

  Jessica checked the signal bars. There were none. She knew if this happened you could send a text message and the person would receive it when the signal improved. She typed “Help me” and her father’s number and pressed “Send,” then replaced the phone in Mouthwash Man’s pocket and hopped back onto the bed.

  Only, in her haste she’d forgotten to check the Nokia’s predictive text.

  - 76 -

  On the drive to the office of Expresso das Ilhas to meet the newspaper’s editor, Hans’ cell phone beeped. Penny picked it out of the center console and read the message.

  “Who is it?” asked Hans.

  “I think it’s Mike Devonport.” Penny looked puzzled. “It says, ‘Help md.’”

  Hans took the phone and glanced at the screen. “That can’t be Mike, unless he’s using someone else’s phone. His name would come up. Besides, it’s not a UK cell phone number, it’s local.”

  Without warning Hans hit the brakes and pulled off the road.

  “What is it?” Penny asked.

  “That’s not ‘Help md.’ It’s a typo. It’s meant to say, ‘Help me’!”

  They looked at one another in utter shock – Jessica!

  “Right, keep absolutely quiet,” said Hans, closing the electric windows. He thumbed through the phone’s icons, brought up the voice recorder and hit the red R. Then he pressed callback, set the phone to loudspeaker and turned the volume right up.

  As the number started ringing, neither of them had ever felt so much anxiety flooding through their veins.

  One ring . . . two rings . . . three . . . The line crackled a second or two.

  “Papa?”

  In that instant Hans went into professional mode, controlling his nerves as if adrenaline didn’t exist.

  “Jessica, Daddy’s coming, but I need you to answer these questions. Can you do that?”

  A barely audible –s could be heard.

  Checking the signal bars on his Samsung, Hans cursed the other phone’s reception.

  “Honey, describe the man who is keeping you.”

  “. . . older . . . you, Papa . . . speaks . . . ish . . . José . . .”