The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (17 page)

“R
ight,
we need a plan of attack.” Hans slapped down the laptop’s screen. “Here’s how I
see it. I have to get into Logan’s speedboat and download the data from his
onboard computer.”

“To find out where he goes on these long trips?”

“Yeah. I figure if he’s making them on a regular basis, then
the coordinates must be programmed into the GPS. It’ll be a big part of the puzzle,
and if he skips town with Jessica, at least we’ll know his waypoints and can organize
an intercept.”

“Would that be possible?”

“There’s always a US or British warship on exercise in the
area, plus coastguards looking for a piece of action, and Muttley never has a
problem pulling a few strings.”

Penny let out a small gasp, leaving her mouth ajar as if about
to speak.

“What is it?” Hans pressed.

“You just reminded me of something Muttley said when he was
here with Phipps organizing the search when
Future
went missing.” Penny
stared into nothing for a moment. “He said someone was putting pressure on the Pentagon
to block his request for US military intervention. Said they’d issued a Code .
. .
Purple
?”

“Really?” Hans grimaced.

“Something about the Pentagon can refuse to provide support,
and Code Purple means in the interest of national security they don’t have to
give a reason why.”

“
Baxter
,”
Hans spat under his breath. “Do you
remember I told you what happened to my team in West Africa?”

Back in 2000 Hans’ SEAL team joined a squadron from the British
Royal Marines’ Special Boat Service, the SBS, for a mission to take out a rebel
force, the West Side Boys, in Sierra Leone. Headed by a charismatic psychopath,
Fodim Kassay, the rebels modeled themselves on Tupac Shakur, the gangster
rapper, and were always high on drugs. They’d taken a group of American and
European medical workers hostage in an old hospital on the coast and were using
the building as their headquarters. The SEALs and Marines were on standby on an
aircraft carrier out in the Atlantic when their orders came through. They were
to drop into the sea from choppers a mile offshore and swim in under the cover
of darkness, then put in a dawn attack and conduct a rescue mission.

Only it didn’t go to plan. Blood diamonds fueled the conflict,
a dirty trade that went all the way to Washington. Protecting their own
interests, someone in DC made sure the Pentagon delayed the patrol’s clearance
to disembark the aircraft carrier. What should have been an easy swim for the
men turned into a battle for survival. The tide was on the move, a swell kicked
up and waves as big as apartment blocks smashed down on them. The one mile the
special ops team had to cover became the equivalent of four. Thirty-two men went
into the water, six got out. Hans lost thirteen of his closest buddies that
day, their bodies mutilated by the rebels when they washed up on shore. The six
remaining troops continued the mission, linking up with a detachment of Special
Air Service troopers at first light to take out the West Side Boys and rescue the
hostages, one of them being Kerry, an American nurse, who later became Hans’ wife.

“I remember you telling me about the mission,” said Penny. “Are
you saying Baxter was the one putting pressure on the Pentagon?”

“Let’s just say the Concern has had its sights on him
awhile. Guy’s a real-life Patrick Bateman, Ivy League
psycho
. Spent time
in the CIA in the nineties orchestrating all kinda atrocities to overthrow
governments down in Central America. Torture was always his MO – that and
cocaine smuggling.
Guy’s floated around the Republican cause for
years. He’s been a
strategist and policy advisor
on
foreign affairs to both Bush administrations. It’s given him the cover and
contacts to leech money from all kinda ill doings around the globe. He’s a
total sociopath, knows how to cover his back, and him and his neocon cronies
are puppets for some serious men behind closed doors. Hence why the Concern has
held off.”

“And . . .” Penny hesitated. “You said he had
something to do with Kerry’s and JJ’s murders.”

“When this is over, I’ll tell you all I know.
But for now I need to focus on getting Jessica back.”

“Will he be brought to justice?”

“He’ll get justice all right . . . at the
first chance I get.”

Hans was lost in thought for a while, before
bringing the conversation back to the present.

“We need to get Logan’s cell phone number.
Jonah
couldn’t find any phone bills, only the ones for Logan’s bars, and there’s
nothing out of the ordinary there. He must be using pay-as-you-go. We have to
find out who he’s been calling.”

“I think I can help,” said Penny, an idea forming in her
mind.

O
ver
the next couple of weeks Jessica did her best to keep Holly’s mood up, but her
fellow captee was always tired and distant and spent a good part of the day
asleep. Jessica reckoned she must have been swallowing the pills, probably too
scared or not understanding the importance of spitting them out. She hoped
nothing bad would happen to Holly and, not wanting to alarm her, didn’t mention
the new identity and trip to Europe business. Besides, her papa – her
real
papa – would be here soon to kick up hell and put things right.

“Jessica,” Holly whispered through the grate one afternoon.

“Yes, I’m here.” Jessie crouched down on the floor.

“I feel sick.”

“It’s because you’ve been eating the pills. I told you not
to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it’s okay, you’re just a kid. Hey, you wanna play a
game?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s called I Went to the Store.”

“What’s a store?”

“It’s like a place where you buy things.”

“That’s called a shop.”

“Oh well, we’ll call it . . . I Went to the Shop-Store,
okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, I have to say, I went to the store – the
shop-
store
– and I bought some . . . cat food. And you have to say, I went to the
shop-store and I bought some cat food and something else.”

“I went to the shop-store and I bought some cat food and
something else.”

“No! You have to buy cat food and you have to buy something
for yourself!”

“But we haven’t got a cat. We’ve got a dog and he’s in the
kennels while we’re on holiday.”

“O-kay.” Jessica drew a deep breath. “Then you say, I went
to the shop-store and I bought some dog food and something else.”

Holly’s gentle snores came through the grate.

A
s
the cab drove along Praia’s seafront, Penny looked out of the window to see the
lush green fig trees sprouting from the beach’s gray volcanic sand fading into the
growing darkness, leaving only a thin line of frothy white surf visible.

“
Aqui
,” said the driver, pulling up outside Chico’s
Bar.

Penny was impressed. Somehow she’d expected Logan’s place to
be a spit-and-sawdust affair, like an old-school London pub, but Chico’s was
far from it. Stretching along the bar’s frontage was an elevated deck the
length of a tennis court, with a bamboo transom overhead creeping with vines
and interlaced with tiny yellow fairy lights, giving the impression of
fireflies. On the deck were smart dark-wood dining tables with pristine white
cloths and napkins, sparkling cutlery and crystal-cut wineglasses set out
neatly on them. Dotted around were hanging-basket chairs and swing seats,
allowing drinkers to relax while taking in the sea view.

Hans had tried to talk Penny out of this, arguing that the
Concern could fly an operative in, but she’d held firm, saying that would take
time. Hans worried Logan might recognize Penny from the night the fishing boat
exploded, but she pointed out it was dark and whoever blew the
Rosa Negra
out of the water had done so remotely and likely from a distance. Nonetheless,
Hans insisted on waiting around the corner in the jeep with the M9 locked and
loaded and that Penny took a walkie-talkie in the event Logan compromised her.

Penny had the story straight in her head. She was a tourist named
Jenny staying in the Pestana Tr
ó
pico hotel whose
middle-aged female traveling companion was having a quiet night in. Jenny, an
English scuba instructor living in Cannes in the South of France, fancied a few
drinks out on the town, and the Pestana Tr
ó
pico’s
concierge had recommended Chico’s.

She approached the restaurant’s smoked-glass doors and
pulled on a long gold handle to find the place equally as impressive inside, a glitzy
affair with its restaurant and bar area doused in subtle lighting and decorated
with modern sea-themed art in vivid pastels. Uplifting samba played in the
background, the progressive drumbeats, shrills and whistles complementing the perfect
harmony of a black female choir.

Stepping through the door, Penny spotted Logan’s bald head
in her peripheral vision but headed straight to the mock-ivory bar and sat on
one of its faux-zebra-skin, chrome-legged stools. The musclehead sat drinking half-liter
glasses of lager with a loud group of Englishmen, who, unlike Logan, in his smart
black trousers and a white dress shirt, wore shorts, flip-flops and sleeveless vests,
showing off the mismatched tattoos on their lobster-red skin. Penny could see
they were tourists and that Logan was throwing himself into the role of playboy
host. She ordered a rum and coke from the young mestizo bartender and pretended
to peruse the tourist leaflets stacked in a display holder, glancing at Logan
every few seconds until they finally locked eyes. She produced a shy smile and
went back to picking out and scanning the brochures.

Hans and Penny assumed the blond woman in the Facebook
photos was Logan’s partner, but other than her name, Krystal Cavenele, neither
they nor Jonah could come up with any more intel. Banking on fidelity not being
the flash merchant’s strongest point, Penny planned to lure him into
conversation and, if all went well, come away with his cell phone number.
Playing the part of a carefree tourist, she wore a denim miniskirt, emerald
singlet and leather flip-flops and, unusually, a trace of makeup. A whalebone pendant
in the shape of a fluke hung on a leather thong around her neck, a piece she
had crafted herself.

“I can highly recommend the 4x4 jeep tour, me darling,” came
a voice, making Penny jump.

“Oh,” she recovered, turning to see the man himself. “You
live here I take it.”

“Been on the island a few years now,” Logan replied, immediately
hooked by Penny’s smiling eyes and self-assuredness. “This is my bar. I’m Eddy.
Can I get you another drink?”

Penny accepted the offer and made small talk, choosing the
appropriate moment to ask, “So, do you run this place alone or . . . ?”

“If you mean do I have a girlfriend, yes.” Logan chuckled. “But
we’re going through what you might call a patch.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Penny, sounding genuinely
concerned. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Ah, you could say that. She’s desperate for a child. We’ve
tried for years, but it hasn’t happened. Kinda pushed us apart.”

At the mention of a child, Penny felt an immense urge to claw
Logan’s eyes out but forced herself to remain in character. “And this 4x4
island tour – you’ve been on it?”

“Ha!” Logan grinned. “I own a jeep,
and
I know the
island like the back of my hand, so I make my own tours.”

“Hmm.” Penny pretended to read the information on the
brochure, buying time while she considered what to say. “It looks fun. I’d love
to see more of the island – especially with a guide who knows the sights. Where
do I sign up for this tour?”

“Penny,” said Logan, seizing the moment, “I’ve got tomorrow
free. If you like, I can give you the tour myself.”

“Eddy, that’s so kind of you to offer,” Penny replied,
thinking one step ahead. “But I need to run it by my friend.”

Oh.” Logan looked down at his feet. “Of course. The offer’s
open to both—”

“No!” Penny giggled, sliding a hand down his arm and letting
it linger a moment at the wrist. “She won’t want to come. She’s not what you’d
call the adventurous type. I mean I need to check she’s okay to spend the day
on her own. Do you have a mobile number I can get you on?”

“Sure.” Logan reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a
business card. “If you can’t get hold of me for any reason, leave a message
here at the bar.”

“Brilliant!” Penny seized the opportunity for a polite hug
and a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you first thing.”