The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (18 page)

P
enny
hailed a cab outside Chico’s and asked the driver to take her to the meeting
place she’d agreed with Hans, a bohemian joint, Tima Tima, a couple of miles along
the seafront. She checked over her shoulder several times, as Hans had
instructed, to make sure Logan wasn’t following her.

“Good effort, Penny.” Hans joined her in the backstreet café
bar. “How was it?”

“Interesting. He certainly thinks himself Mr. Smooth. It was
hard to imagine the double life he leads. I wanted to dig my nails into his
face and demand where Jessica is.”

“I bet.”

Hans scanned Logan’s business card and then caught the
waiter’s attention and ordered two Strelas.

“I feel –
urrrh
!” said Penny, a feeling of repulsion
coursing through her as she began telling Hans about the meeting with the
trafficker.

Not long into their conversation, Hans’ cell phone rang.

“It’s Enrique. Something’s come up. Can we meet?”

“Sure,” Hans replied, sensing this was to do with Silvestre.
“We’re in Tima Tima. Do you know it?”

“I’ll be there in five.”

In no time at all Hans and Penny heard a throaty roar as
Enrique’s Porsche pulled up outside. He entered the café bar wearing his smart
cream jacket and black Armani jeans. Sporting his permanent grin, he hugged
Penny and shook hands with Hans.

“Small matter of a certain treasure seeker who’s disappeared
in his boat.” Enrique gave a theatrical frown. “You did say you planned a dive
last night.”

“Unfortunately, Eddy Logan was there to meet us,” said Hans.
“Took out Silvestre and tried to put an end to me.”

“You are sure it was him?”

“It was the same model of speedboat, put it that way.”

Enrique looked down at the table, nodding thoughtfully, then
clicked his fingers at the waiter and ordered a glass of white wine and more
beers.

“Your ‘activities’ – if we can call them that – have come to
the attention of Praia’s mayor,
Senhor
Videl
Gonzales. He runs a tight ship here on Santiago, likes to know what’s going
down in his front yard.”

“Activities?” Hans raised an eyebrow.

“People are dying and going missing, and it’s obvious to the
police you’re the common denominator.”

“Why haven’t they hauled me in?”

“Because it would cause a diplomatic incident, and besides,
the mayor pulls the strings around here, and he wants to meet you first. He’s
asked me to invite you and Penny to dinner with him at his home tomorrow night.
He’s a good man, and he’ll do what he can to help you find Jessica.”

Enrique took a small white envelope from his top pocket and
slid it across the table.

“La Laguna.” Hans read aloud the mayor’s address, printed in
neat gold lettering on the invite.

“It’s a converted fortress up in the hills a little further
around the island from where you’re staying.”

“I better put on a tie,” Hans joked.

“Ah, don’t worry,” said Enrique. “He’ll take you as you
come.”

Enrique insisted on paying for the next round of drinks.

“How’s the investigation going?” he asked.

Hans thought carefully before answering, not wishing to
divulge too much information for fear of having to explain his sources.

“We’re building up a picture on Logan. Everything indicates he’s
trafficking local orphans by speedboat, likely to the Canary Islands to supply
the European adoption market.”

“That figures.” Enrique bit his lip and stared into his
wineglass. “What’s your next move?”

“Tomorrow night I was planning to hop aboard his boat and pull
the GPS history from the onboard computer to see if his excursions
are
to the Canaries. But I guess if we’re meeting the mayor, it’ll have to wait.”

“You know the location of the boat?”

“It’s moored on a private dock at his home. I’m figuring if
Chico’s shuts at two, then I’ll leave it until three to give him time to get off
to sleep. Penny stopped by Chico’s tonight and managed to sweet-talk Logan into
giving her his pay-as-you-go cell phone number. If he’s signed up to one of the
big network providers, then I’ve got a contact through my detective agency who
can run a search on his phone records.”

“May I see?” Enrique asked. “If you manage to expose this
creep, then the agency will want his number for our own trafficking
investigation.”

Hans pulled the business card from his shirt pocket and
handed it to the CIA man, who wrote the number down in his small leather-bound notebook
with a pullout gold pen.

“So, Penny, have you ever thought about becoming a special
agent?” Enrique winked.

“Ha! I’m not sure hanging around in bars chatting up
sleazeballs is my thing,” she replied, and they all chuckled.

“What are you gonna do?” Enrique looked to Hans.

“It depends what we’re able to turn up. There’s no point involving
the police if the evidence is circumstantial and inadmissible in court. The
most they can do is invite him in for questioning, which will tip off the
trafficking syndicate. I’m thinking a spot of surveillance might be in order,
see if his movements give us any indication where Jessica’s being held.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then it might be time to come clean with what we know to
Interpol. See if anything cross-references with the search for Holly Davenport.
If we’re still drawing a blank, then the only option is I pay Logan a visit and
beat her whereabouts out of him.”

“Hans, as you know I can’t get the agency involved in this –
not unless you’re willing to file a report – but if I can help on a personal
level, just ask. The thought of this scumbag laying a hand on a child makes my
blood boil.”

“Thank you, Enrique.” Hans raised his beer bottle. “I’ll
certainly do that.”

T
he
woman shuffled toward the check-in desk at Banjul International Airport. The
air was stifling in the Gambian capital. She mopped her brow with a Kleenex and
cursed the flies landing on her golden-brown skin.

It had been a two-day boat journey from Kankaba, a small
city sprawling along the banks of the Upper River, where the All Saints Home
for Abandoned Children sat. The woman’s skin itched from the mosquito bites she’d
received while sleeping on deck. She prayed she hadn’t contracted malaria again.
It would be the fifth time in as many years, and she’d spent enough time lying
in sweat-soaked bedsheets with a fever raging so high death seemed the better
option.

In front of her in the check-in queue was a loud, fat,
sweating Mandinka wearing white robes and a skullcap, and, dressed in a gold
sari and turban, his equally as vocal and ample wife. The woman waited
patiently as the Mandinka couple attempted to haggle over the luggage allowance
with the pretty Fula behind the desk. Repeatedly she told them that the bulky
collection of food and other goods piled high in cardboard fruit boxes on their
trolley was eighty kilos over the airline’s limit. Each time the man tried to
bluff his way out of the additional fee by handing her his
kora
, a
stringed instrument made from a calabash and cow’s hide, and suggesting she
take it as payment.

Finally the role play ended, and the Mandinka pulled a fat
roll of banknotes from a faux-crocodile-skin shoulder bag and slapped down half
of what he owed. The petite Fula feigned a polite smile, opting for discretion
over valor and the chance to move the annoying couple on.

The woman placed her passport and ticket on the counter and
was soon walking through the departure lounge toward her gate. On the flight
she mused as passengers broke out pack lunches of fish, chicken, rice and beans
before
takeoff, raising an eyebrow at the footprints some confused
individual had planted on the toilet seat. The woman spent the flight reflecting
on the circumstances that had conspired to put her in this position.

Born in Mali to Christian missionaries, a Mozambican father,
an American mother, she had studied law at the University of Bamako in the
capital and had gone on to serve as a junior government official. She fled the
country during the buildup to the brutal Northern Mali Conflict, when Tuareg
rebels declared war on the government and issued a hit list with her name on
it. She had crossed Senegal to seek political asylum in Gambia, settling in Kankaba,
where with her university education she was ideally suited to take over the
running of the children’s home, a neglected operation surviving on sporadic
handouts and UN food parcels.

Since arriving at the home, she had accessed several funding
streams, allowing for a complete overhaul of the building, its dormitories,
classroom and kitchen. She’d gotten computers and Internet installed and set up
a website displaying staff profiles, pictures of the orphanage and a Sponsor a
Child link. In her sole piece of luggage, a sackcloth shoulder bag, the woman
carried a cheap laptop storing files on each child, including photographs,
personal characteristics and skills, and the circumstances surrounding their
orphanment.

Many of the children at the All Saints Home for Abandoned
Children were anonymous, having no traceable histories, and although a
humanitarian at heart, she was a businesswoman first. Surely everyone had the
right to create a little nest egg for themselves, particularly when it involved
trading children no one would miss who were destined for sweatshops or worse
anyway.

When the woman passed through immigration at Cape Verde’s
Nelson Mandela Airport and the official asked, “Business or pleasure?,” “Pleasure,”
she replied – although in view of the children’s profiles stored on her laptop,
the declaration wasn’t entirely honest.

H
ans drove the jeep ten miles northeast along the coast, following
satnav directions leading them inland and up a winding country road. As they
came over a brow, the mayor’s magnificent fort crowned a hilltop to their
front.

“Wow!” Penny reached for Hans’ new camera. “Let
me get a shot.”

“Looks like our man’s not short of a few bucks.”

Hans pulled to a stop a hundred yards from La Laguna. Penny jumped
out and snapped a few pictures but immediately felt guilty, reminding herself this
was not about tourism.

“I wonder if our meet will be mutually beneficial,” said
Hans, continuing on to cross a vast grit-strewn courtyard lined with antique
cannons and passing through a huge stone archway, complete with a raised
portcullis, into an inner quadrangle enclosed by the building’s solid walls.

“How do you mean?” Penny slipped the camera back in its
case.

“What with people dying left, right and center on the
islands, I can understand why the mayor’s taken an interest, but I’m wondering
what he can do for us.”

“Good point,” said Penny. “Enrique seems to think this guy’s
something of a gentleman with a good grasp on local affairs, so fingers
crossed.”

They stepped out of the jeep and began gazing around at the
magnificent refurbished stonework – only two yapping dogs rushing out from
behind a huge oak door interrupted them, closely followed by the mayor.

“Hello!” Penny bent down and petted the excited Jack Russells
as they jumped up and pawed her.

“
Senhor
Larsson,
Senhorita
Masters,”
a booming voice echoed off the walls. “It is good to finally meet you.”

“Lord Mayor, thank you for inviting us,” Hans shouted back.

A dapper-looking gent with slicked-back, white balding hair,
the mayor wore duck-green slacks, a navy-blue blazer, burgundy cravat and highly
polished wingtips. After ordering the dogs inside, he pumped Hans’ arm up and
down with a cast-iron grip but was gentler with Penny.

“It is my pleasure,” said Gonzales, a glint in his little
flitting eyes. “I have followed your story with interest and thought it was time
I offered my services.”

Hans and Penny smiled. However, in view of recent events and
the trail of devastation in their wake, they knew Jessica wasn’t the only item
on the agenda.

“La Laguna is quite some place,
Senhor
Gonzales,” said Penny, turning
to take in a glimpse of dazzling ocean through the archway.

“Thank you, but please, my first name is Videl.” The mayor
gave her a warm smile. “The castle was originally called Forte de São Paulo, built
to defend the Portuguese from the English after the colony was plundered by Sir
Francis Drake in 1582.”

Penny looked at Hans and winked, for Jessica knew all about Sir
Francis Drake, Queen Elizabeth I’s favorite sailor, from the history lessons
her father gave her during their stay in England.

“Only it was sacked by the French in 1712” – the mayor
shrugged – “and has undergone extensive renovation ever since.”

“Why can’t we all just get along, Videl?” Hans joked.

“Exactly!” said the mayor, chuckling. “Come, let’s go inside.”

He led them through the oak door, set into the seaward wing
next to the entrance tunnel, and into a vast corridor with large
maroon-and-white-checked floor tiles and oaken paneling on the walls. Hans and
Penny would have loved to have stopped to inspect the suits of armor,
gilt-framed portraits and other antiquities decorating the refreshingly cool
hall, but Gonzales, pausing only briefly for their approval, continued up a burgundy-carpeted
stairway to the next floor.

“My office away from the office,” Gonzales announced, opening
a door on the landing to reveal a suite with a stunning sea view and the pomp
and regalia associated with municipal government. “For the days I work from
home.”

“Incredible,” said Penny, rushing across the deep-pile
carpet to the window, for the ocean view meant far more to her than antique
furniture, rare book collections and photographs of the mayor meeting VIPs.

“You’ve got your very own city hall,” Hans remarked, taking
in the stately desk and gold floor stands supporting poles bearing Cape Verde’s,
Praia’s and the mayor’s flags.

“One must be comfortable.” Gonzales sat down in his
throne-like chair, reveling in his own importance. “And how about we get a
photograph, the three of us?”

“Sure,” said Hans, catering to the mayor’s ego. “Only I haven’t
got a tripod, so can I set it up on this?” He indicated to a display pedestal holding
the warhead of a rocket-propelled grenade. Olive drab in color and biconical in
shape, Hans figured it was left over from Cape Verde’s struggle for independence,
backed by the Soviets.

“Yes, yes,” Gonzales replied, dusting down his lapels and
remaining seated for the shot.

As Hans set the camera up, a photograph of four soldiers,
obviously comrades-in-arms, on the wall behind Gonzales caught his eye, so
surreptitiously he zoomed in and focused on it, then joined Penny to stand
either side of the mayor.

“Smile,” said Hans as the self-timer began to beep rapidly. “Perfect!”

“Excellent! You must send me a copy.” Gonzales stood up and
put his arms around them. “Now, how about we eat?”

The mayor ushered them through the door next to his office
and into an impressive dining room, its polished-walnut table long enough to
host twenty guests. A thickset Spaniard, who must have been in his sixties, stood
waiting to greet them with a tray of bubbly. Bald on top, with his remaining
hair pomaded back from the temples, he sported a goatee beard and dressed in a
simple black suit and tie. An ugly scar rose above the collar of his shirt. Hans
could tell immediately it was a shrapnel wound and that, from the way he held
himself, the man had seen some serious combat.

“Fernando,
gracias
,” said Gonzales, passing a glass
to Hans and Penny before taking one for himself.

“S
enhor
Alcalde
,” the butler grunted. He half smiled and disappeared, leaving the
three
of them to seat themselves at one end of the enormous table.

“
Salud
!” Penny raised her glass.

“
Ah
,
hablas español
.” Gonzales acknowledged
that she spoke Spanish.

“
Más o menos
,” she replied modestly.

“
La dos ustedes
?” The mayor waggled his finger at
both of them.

“Hans speaks a little,” Penny said, switching to English for
his sake. “But tell me, Videl. How does a Spaniard get to be mayor of Praia?”

“I was born in Madrid to a Spanish father and a Cape Verdean
mother, so I have Spanish, Portuguese and Cape Verdean citizenship. Like Hans,
I served time in the military, and I came here just as the country held its
first open elections. I campaigned for the Democratic Alliance, and when Prime
Minister Carlos Fonseca was voted in, he gave me a junior role in his cabinet. I
eventually ran for mayor, and several terms later I am still here.”

“And do you live in the castle alone?” Hans asked.

“Along with Senhor Chavez – that’s Fernando, my butler – yes,”
said the mayor, uncorking a bottle of red wine and filling their glasses. “My
wife, Catalina” – he looked over to a portrait painting on the wall of a
naturally beautiful, dark-haired woman – “she died in childbirth many years
ago.”

“That’s harsh,” said Hans.

“When you understand this life is cruel, it makes it easier
to live, no?” Gonzales paused to look at the picture once more, the pain
evident in his birdlike eyes. “I guess it is why I wish to help you find your
daughter.”

“What makes you think she is still alive?” Hans asked.

Before the mayor could answer, Fernando entered the room
pushing a trolley laden with starters. As he set down goat cheese salad, shrimp
soup, fried moray eel and thick-crust brown bread, Penny caught the distinct
smell of
aguardente
on his breath, a type of moonshine popular in
Portugal and Latin America.

“It is not what I think, Hans, it is what you think.” The
mayor broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it in his soup. “I know you came to
the islands to recover Jessica’s body. You didn’t find it, but you are still
here. I would say that is something of a clue, no?”

Hans half nodded and shrugged, giving nothing away as he
helped himself to salad.

“I also know you have received special mission status from
the US embassy and that the treasure hunter you hired has rather curiously
disappeared.”

“You know a lot.” Hans smiled politely, not wishing to
appear defensive.

“Enough to know you believe your little girl has fallen into
the wrong hands,” said the mayor, locking eyes with Hans as the mood turned
serious.

“Are you referring to the traffickers?” Hans asked, although
the question needed no answer.

“
Os traficantes
.” Gonzales turned his head and made a spitting motion.
“
It is the islands’ ugly secret, and the evil vermin responsible need
to be brought to justice.”

“I heard on the radio your offer of a reward for information
about the English girl’s disappearance.”

“The money is the easy part, Hans. Even as mayor I can do
little else, except to put pressure on the police to do their job. But I must
warn you this business is centuries old. As Europe and the West modernized and your
law enforcement developed ways to fight crime and corruption, Cape Verde
remained in the dark ages. It is only recently, when we follow the international
example to receive investment and support, that we have started to get our act
together.”

“And your point?” said Hans.

“That the foundations of this business were laid many years
ago by men who care nothing for accepted rules, who have moved quicker than the
times and who will let
no one
get in their way.” The mayor’s fist
clenched, and it looked as if he would start banging it on the table. “I am
trying to warn you, Hans. If you persist, you and Miss Penny will not get off
this island alive.”

“Are you suggesting I forget about my daughter and go home?”
Hans fought to keep his temper.

The mayor reached forward, gripped both their hands and
lowered his voice. “Hans, I am saying that you and Miss Penny have been through
a lot already. You cannot afford to lose each other. You must go back to the
States and let the authorities do their job.”

Hans refrained from asking if these were the same
authorities who let a fugitive from English justice move to the island, then start
a business with the proceeds of his crimes and buy weapons and a boat for trafficking
kidnapped children – but what the mayor said next made him glad he kept silent.

“
Amigos
.” Gonzales clenched his grip and looked them
in the eye one at a time. “I
beg
you to go home, but if you
must
stay and continue the search for your daughter, then I suggest you focus on one
man.”

Penny’s eyes flicked to Hans.

“And you must tell no one you heard this from me –
comprende
?”

They nodded.

“We have an Englishman here running a bar in Praia. It is
called Chico’s. Do you know it?”

“We’ve driven past it,” said Hans.

“Then I say no more.”

“But how do you know this?” Penny asked.

“I cannot know for certain,” Gonzales replied. “But let’s
just say, to serve four terms in office it helps to have connections in the
right places.”

He didn’t need to explain further, for the first thing Hans spotted
in the mayor’s office wasn’t so much a landscape painting of a goat basking in
the sun’s rays on a hilltop but the esoteric symbolism behind it.