The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (14 page)

K
aren’s
holiday home, a white-walled bungalow with terra-cotta roof tiles, sat right on
the edge of the sea five miles from the city. It nestled in a secluded spot
between greeny-black basalt cliffs topped with sparse dry scrub.

“Look at this!” Penny stepped out of the jeep and breathed
in the fresh, salty air accompanying a stunning vista.

“Now
that’s
what I call blue!” Hans crossed the
flagstoned patio and hopped up onto the parapet to see waves lapping the rocky
shore ten feet below.

“I’d say turquoise,” Penny remarked, gazing out over a
lagoon sheltered by rolling headland. “Do you think that’s the boat Karen
mentioned?”

An orange plastic skiff moored to a buoy bobbed contentedly
a few yards out.

“Looks like it. She said the outboard’s in the shed, if you
fancy a spin,” Hans said, grinning.

“Have we got time?”

“There’s not a lot else to do while we wait for Jonah and
Enrique to come back to us with anything. Besides, it will give me time to
think, and we can unpack later.”

Hans took out his wallet and cell phone and laid them on the
wall. Then he peeled off his polo shirt.

“What are you—?”

“Geronimo!” He launched into a spectacular backflip, still
grinning as he entered the inviting water with hardly a splash.

“
Mr.
Larsson!” Penny looked down, laughing. “And how
am I supposed to follow that?”

“You could start by digging out that motor,” Hans yelled,
shaking water from his hair.

“Aye aye, skipper!” Penny threw a mock salute and went to
fetch it.

Hans duck-dived and in a few powerful strokes emerged by the
boat and climbed on board in one fluid movement. He untied the painter and rowed
ashore, then helped carry the five-horsepower motor down the steep steps carved
into the rock, which led from the house to the water’s edge.

Penny took the tiller, and they cruised out of the lagoon,
the sunlight sparkling on the water doing wonders for their mood. After a circuit
of the bay, she cut the motor and lay down opposite Hans on the plastic-molded
seating.

Hans had stripped to his boxer shorts, revealing ugly red
welts where the life raft had rubbed his joints raw, resulting in huge infected
ulcers.

“Your wounds have healed well,” Penny complimented him.

“Yeah, I can’t say I miss that foul stench. Kinda felt for
the staff in the hospital. But this still gives me a lot of pain.” He fingered
the jagged scar running down his temple. “The doc said there’d be nerve damage.”

“He said you needed cosmetic surgery too, but I told him fat
chance of that!”

“Saved me telling him.”

They lay there, basking in the late-afternoon heat and
listening to the waves splashing the hull.

“It was good to see Enrique again,” Penny piped up. “He was
a pillar of support when you were rescued.”

“He’s a good guy – not your typical CIA type.”

“How do you figure?”

“I was surprised he didn’t push me to file a missing persons
report. You know, to do things by the book and get the backing of the agency on
this.”

“I guess he bows to your and Karen’s better judgment.”

“Seems so. The last thing we need right now is a meddling bureaucrat.
Did you see him scribbling stuff down in a notebook?”

“I don’t remember it. Why do you ask?”

“Because being CIA, he knows exactly what information we
would need about Logan. He didn’t have to write it down.”

“Perhaps he was nervous – like big intelligence fish in a
small pond needing to get things right to impress the ambassador.”

“That could be.”

“Why did you ask him to access the CIA’s databases when you
can do that yourself?”

“Because it’s what any good private detective would request.
He doesn’t know about the Concern, remember.”

“I see.”

“There’s something else I’ve been thinking too.” Hans
shifted onto an elbow.

“Go on.”

“I’m gonna call Silvestre and get him to drop me on the
wreck of the
Rosa Negra
.”

“You think it might hold some clues?” Penny turned her head
to face him, shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand.

“A little forensic work might turn something up.”

“Do you think the police have done a search?”

“More than likely, but the authorities seem intent on
putting it down to an accident, so even if the cops do figure out what caused
the explosion, it’s not information they’re gonna share – and certainly not
with us.”

“Are you fit to dive . . . ?”

Penny realized it was a stupid question before the words
left her mouth, her remit as scuba instructor thinking for her. In view of the
former Navy SEAL’s single-mindedness, not to mention the thousands of technical
dives he had successfully logged, they’d be no way of stopping him.

“Wanna see fit?” Hans sat up and stretched. “Race you to the
seabed!”

Penny looked over the side, and even though the boat had drifted
to within forty yards of the rocks, she reckoned it was still a good thirty
feet down.

“Okay, but last one to the bottom fires up the barbecue!”

She stripped off her T-shirt and shorts and, without warning,
dived over the side. Hans laughed and leapt after her, catching up easily and
teasing Penny by turning on his back to pull stupid faces as they descended.
Both were as at home in the water as a couple of dolphins.

Upon reaching the coarse black volcanic sand making up the
seabed, they swam along hand in hand, until Hans pointed to a scattering of
rocks and headed for them. Penny followed, vision blurred by the salt water, wondering
what Hans had spotted, her curiosity turning to surprise when he picked up a melon-sized
boulder and handed it to her.

Despite the increased density of the seawater, Penny
struggled to keep on her feet while holding the hefty rock. Hans lifted a
boulder for himself and began running along the seabed into the darkening blue.

Penny’s body craved oxygen, her lungs feeling as if they
were about to implode. She managed five steps before a pang of anxiety sent her
shooting to the surface, where she trod water while waiting for Hans.

A good thirty seconds later he’d yet to appear, and Penny
began to worry. She swam back to the boat and was about to climb on board when
she heard “Whoop! Whoop!” over her shoulder, turning to see her favorite idiot clambering
onto the rocky shore.

“I don’t suppose you could pick us up?” he joked, then dove back
into the sea and swam front crawl to the boat.

Penny smiled. There was a barbeque to light.

K
aren’s
villa couldn’t have enjoyed a more idyllic setting. Hans and Penny lay on sun loungers
on the terrace, charcoal smoke wafting over them, witnessing a fiery spray sear
across the sky as the sun burned into the horizon. It should have been
paradise, but a dark cloud hung over the two of them.

“It was her idea, you know.” Hans sat up and rested his chin
on his hands while gazing at the myriad of colors making up majestic backdrop. “The
yacht trip, I mean.”

“Really?”

“We were gonna do a double crossing of the Atlantic originally,
as a family, but when Kerry and JJ died that idea seemed doomed. I didn’t feel like
crossing the goddamn street, let alone an ocean.”

“What changed?”

“Jessie asked me one day, when are we gonna sail to England
and back like we planned? It hadn’t even occurred to me she would still wanna
do it. She’d even started mapping our itinerary and showed me a book called
Secrets
of the Caribbean
she’d borrowed from the school library. She’d bookmarked all
the touristy things she thought would be interesting – beautiful waterfalls in
Jamaica and cave tubing through underground rivers in Belize.”

“Pretty smart for a seven-year-old.”

“Yeah, it was – although she was only six at the time. You know
the backpacking trip I told you about, the one we went on in Peru?”

“Uh-huh.”

Kerry and I let the kids decide everything – what to eat,
where to visit, which hostels to stay in. Gave them a little help, of course.”

“In modern parlance they call that inclusion. It never
ceases to amaze me when parents bring kids into the world and then drag them
around like unwanted accessories.”

“We even walked the Inca Trail. You know, up to Machu
Picchu, the ancient settlement high in the mountains.”

“What, all of you?”

“No, JJ stayed in Cusco with his mom – he was too young.”

“Hans, that’s like twenty miles!”

“Twenty-six, hence why no tour company would take us. They said
the minimum age was twelve due to the arduous route and challenging conditions.
So we went on our own – me, Jessie, and Bear.”

“No!”

“Apparently, it’s forbidden – to go without guides – but we
just hiked on through, overtaking the tour groups, and they had all their gear carried
by porters. We slept in a little two-man tent every night and cooked up backpacker
broth under the stars.”

“Backpacker broth?”

“It was a recipe Kerry came up with to keep it simple for
the kids. Fry up vegetables from the market and then add an instant soup mix or
a pack of noodles – delicious after a day’s hike.”

“Sounds like sea rations. When you’re cold, wet and hungry, any
combo tastes amazing.”

“The
whole
experience was amazing. We trekked through
cloud forest and jungle, crossed wild rivers and climbed mountains. Jessie
never complained, not once. Insisted on carrying her bag the whole way and was good
with the map too.”

“How was Machu Picchu? I’ve only ever seen pictures.”

“Unbelievable. One of those places that looks surreal in
photos but is ten times as impressive when you see it for yourself. We climbed
the last mountain, which went up and up and up, and then came over the brow – wow!
– to find a complete Inca settlement, all the stonework rebuilt, in the most surprising
setting you could ever imagine.”

“In what way?”

“It’s so high in the sky it’s totally hidden from the valley
beneath – hence why the Spanish conquistadors never discovered it when they plundered
the Inca gold – and all around you is rolling jungle and rivers so far below
they look like tiny gray lines.”

“It’s on my to-do list.”

“And you know the best thing?”

“Go on.”

“We wanted to watch the sunrise from inside the site. Like,
wake up in our tent and
there
it is! But they kicked everyone out at 5:00
p.m. So Jessie and I climbed to the highest point, up these ancient rock steps
carving through the crags, and then we waited until the evening to see if we
would be asked to leave.”

“And no one did?”

“Not a soul. We sat there on the peak with the most
incredible view over the whole of the settlement, the forest sloping off thousands
of feet all around us. The sun went down and the insects chirped up, and we’re sitting
there in the exact same spot the ancients did before modern civilization existed.
Hell, being there with Jessie I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else at any
other time in history.”

“Did you pitch camp?”

“We crashed out the sleeping bags and slept right where we
were. In the morning we woke up to watch the sunrise, and Jessie says, ‘Aw,
look, Papa. It’s a little snake.’ And right there curled up on her sleeping bag
is a fer-de-lance.”

“Aren’t they extremely dangerous?” Penny shuddered as she
pictured the scene in her head.

“Third most poisonous snake in South America, but it didn’t
bother Jessie one bit!”

They chuckled and drifted off into their own thoughts.

After a long silence, “Hans,” Penny said quietly, her face tense
as she looked him in the eye, “where could she be?”

“Oh.” Hans lifted his broad shoulders, pulling a face that
said the question was never far from his mind. “I’m guessing in a halfway house
somewhere in the islands.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I know how the Trade works. There’s a massive
global market in trafficked children. Thousands go missing every year, mainly
between tier-three countries.”

“Tier three?”

“Nations whose governments don’t comply with internationally
agreed standards to prevent people trafficking – Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Cuba,
for example. The kids are forced into labor, slavery, like sweatshops and
begging syndicates, but some end up in prostitution rings or brothels or sold
to pedophile gangs.”

Penny winced.

“Then there’s the sham adoption rings. Third World kids are
bought from poor and often illiterate parents, or plucked from homelessness,
and placed in phony orphanages alongside genuine orphans. The child’s given a
false identity, and officials are bribed to ignore the illegality and speed up
the international adoption procedure – pretty appealing to wannabe parents
faced with all the red tape and bureaucracy that’s standard in the West.”

“This . . . this . . .” Penny struggled to find words.

“Some kids are stolen to order – which is probably what
happened to Holly Davenport. Blond hair, blue eyes and young enough to be
brainwashed into a new identity, she’d be the ideal child for an amoral European
couple looking to adopt – or some sicko’s fantasy.”

“But who arranges all this, and how do they get away with
it?”

“It starts with an agent, who works on behalf of the end
buyer. They’re part of long-established underground networks and know how to
cover their tracks. They can spot websites providing ‘domestic services’ and ‘cheap
labor’ that are actually a cover for human trafficking, and they communicate
via secure forums that require certain browser certificates, special computer
settings and recognized IP addresses.”

“How can you be sure Jessie hasn’t already been sold abroad?”

“Because even for children stolen to order it takes weeks to
get the necessary documentation together – forged passport, new birth
certificate, adoption paperwork – and then there’s the brainwashing the kids undergo
before being transited. Jessie’s kidnapping was opportunistic. Alvarez plucked
her from the water to make a quick buck. So the whole process wouldn’t even
begin before they found a buyer. Plus, with her European looks the traffickers
will be after a hefty paycheck, which requires time to find the right buyer.”

“I guess it’s not as if she’d be sold into some sweatshop in
a developing country. She’d stand out like a sore thumb.”

“That’s why the traffickers will look for a buyer in the
West.”

“God these people are sick.”

“In their minds they’re just predatory capitalists, no
different to corporate criminals or the warmongering politicians most folks
vote for every four years.”