The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (21 page)

“W
hat?”

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.”

“A
rhhh!”

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.

Back at the Mason’s place, Jessie had been playing with Pearl
in the yard when her father arrived with the news that changed their lives
forever. She still didn’t know the full extent of what had happened, only that
a bad man had hurt Mommy and JJ and made them dead.

Whoever carried out the hits were professionals, leaving no traces
of their identities for the investigators, which was clue enough for Hans to know
who had ordered them. It was something he would have to live with forever. He’d
done his best to explain the loss to Jessie in terms she could understand,
giving the angels-in-heaven scenario a miss. When they’d sprinkled Mom’s and
JJ’s ashes on East End Beach, Hans had told his little girl how they would
always be with them in the waves, the flowers, the birds and the trees.

Tired from her workout, Jessica drifted off to sleep but
awoke to the sound of raised voices. Mouthwash and another man stood outside
the cell having a disagreement. The other man was unhappy Mouthwash had brought
the English girl to them when the American was poking his nose into their
affairs and the island crawled with journalists and police.

“
Lo siento
,” Mouthwash Man apologized.

“
Mátala y deshacerse del cuerpo
!
”

“
Bueno, voy a salir con ella en el barco
,” Mouthwash
Man agreed, saying he would take the English girl out on the boat and dispose
of her.

From the tone of the conversation, Jessica knew the outlook
was not good, but from Spanish lessons with her mom and their domestic help
back home, she understood what “
El americano está aquí
” meant: her
father was coming to get her!

H
ans
called Muttley in the morning to request backup, disappointed to hear Phipps
and Clayton were tied up and wouldn’t arrive for another two days. Now Logan
was clearly in the frame, Hans needed to start the surveillance operation and
begin watching his villa for any comings and goings giving a clue as to Jessica’s
whereabouts. He planned to sneak into a reconnaissance position somewhere on
the hillside and find a suitably large shrub to act as a hide, offering camouflage
while he observed the house through the sniper spotting scope loaned from the US
embassy’s armory.

Penny drove him into town to buy equipment and supplies. In a
supermarket Hans chucked three loaves of bread into the cart, a pack of
thick-sliced ham, some local cheese and a jar of pickled gherkins, adding a roll
of saran wrap and a few bars of chocolate for good measure. From a hardware
store he bought two plastic gas cans and a pair of pruning shears, and in a
sports outlet a backpack, camping roll and two-inch-long red anglers’ glow sticks.

Knowing there were no military surplus stores on the island,
they met Enrique in a coffee shop to pick up a camouflage net procured from the
US Marines in the barracks.

“Be careful out there, Hans,” said Enrique. “You know this
guy has some serious firepower, and he’s not afraid to use it.”

“Thanks for the warning, friend.” Hans smiled. “But so do I.”

Back at Karen’s place, they were surprised to find gifts on
the doorstep – two bottles of vintage red wine, a bouquet of flowers,
chocolates and a card.

“Hmm.” Penny smiled. “This fairy can come again!”

“Most definitely.” Hans peeled open the card. “Ah, they’re from
the mayor. He says, ‘Once again I urge you to leave this matter to the
authorities, but if you must continue, please let me know if I can be of
assistance. Wonderful to make your acquaintance. Your friend, Videl.’”

While Penny cleaned and oiled the Beretta as Hans had taught
her, he sliced the bread and made twenty ham, cheese and gherkin sandwiches. He
filled one of the gas cans with drinking water – the other would be for when it
came out the other end, the saran wrap for when he needed a dump. He strapped
on the holstered M9 and shoved all the gear, including the camera, into the
backpack.

As evening fell, Penny dropped Hans off a mile up the coast
from Logan’s villa and then continued into town to keep an eye on Chico’s from
a discreet distance. Hans ducked off the road and shouldered the backpack.
After crouching awhile to let his eyes adjust to the dark, he began clambering
over the rocky terrain and brushing through the shrubs to reach a suitable vantage
point.

In the blackness Hans wasn’t overly worried someone might
spot him, and the gentle but steady breeze covered the sound of his tracks.
Nonetheless, he got down on all fours three hundred feet from his predicted lookout
and crawled on his belly the rest of the way.

The security light on Logan’s property came into view in the
gulley below, and Hans continued another fifty yards before stopping to find
cover. Fortunately, several clumps of spurge, known locally as
tortolho
,
sprouted from the otherwise barren ground. Hans knew it would have to do and began
preparing the hide.

Using the secateurs, Hans carefully snipped away foliage to
form a tunnel in the bush. Once inside he widened the space enough for him and
his rucksack. The bush was sparse, so the camo net came in handy. Hans strung it
around the hide using spring clips to hold it in place. He took the roll mat,
sniper spotting scope, camera and gas cans out of the rucksack, then
unholstered the M9 and placed it inside. Having unrolled the compressed-foam
mattress, he maneuvered himself onto it – not an easy task in the confines of
the hide – and then set up the scope on its tripod. Finally, he tied back some
of the leaves in the front wall to form a viewing hole.

Now all Hans had to do was what Navy SEALs did best – to
watch and wait – figuring there was enough food and water to last until Phipps
and Clayton arrived in a couple of days to take shifts. He hadn’t gone as far
as applying camouflage cream to his face, since this wasn’t a military
scenario, where a determined enemy would have sentries posted watching for any
sign of movement, an out-of-place shape in the brush or light reflecting off
skin and equipment. Nor had he bought military fatigues, which would arouse
suspicion should he bump into an islander, but instead wore jeans, sneakers and
a long-sleeved shirt. Hans chuckled. He couldn’t imagine anyone had ever lain
in the dirt conducting covert operations in Armani, Ralph Lauren and New
Balance.

Despite applying the strongest mosquito repellent available,
neat DEET, to his exposed skin, Hans felt insects biting through the thin
fabric of his shirt. Having experienced far worse, he didn’t flinch. Years of
self-discipline had taught him that if you resist the urge to scratch, then the
itch disappears in two days and, besides, bugs weren’t his problem tonight. He
rested his elbows on one of Karen’s couch cushions – she wouldn’t mind – and
scanned the property in a figure-of-eight pattern with his naked eye, checking
through the scope every couple of minutes in case he missed any subtle movement.

There were lights on in some of the villa’s rooms, but drapes
prevented Hans seeing what was taking place inside. Cupping a mini-glow-stick
in the palm of his hand, he began drawing a three-dimensional map of the
property and surrounding ground.

The villa itself sat fifty yards up the hillside and enjoyed
a stunning sea view. It had an L-shape design, with a barbeque and sunbathing
patio and swimming pool fronting the seaward wing. The other wing was furthest
away from Hans’ position, and nestling in the crook of the L-shaped design was
a block-paved courtyard skirted with a triple garage and two outbuildings.
Neatly manicured garden lay all around, and there was a fair-sized vegetable
plot, its soil darkened by the water from a sprinkler system.

Hans suspected the property housed hidden rooms, likely in a
basement, and felt a pang of anxiety that his terrified daughter could be so
close. He would conduct further reconnaissance later to check if the property
was alarmed – highly probable in view of its secluded location and the fact the
speedboat appeared to be. If he ascertained the type of alarm, he could ask
Jonah to provide technical direction on how to disable it. The recon patrol would
have to wait until tomorrow night, though, as he needed twenty-four hours to
assess the movement at the villa and daylight to see whether there were any
surveillance cameras.

Hans took out the radio and clipped on the earpiece. “Skipper,
you there?”

“I’m here,” Penny replied, her voice reassuring to Hans in
his vulnerable position.

“Anything?”

“I buzzed past Chico’s in the jeep. Logan’s playing host to
the usual suspects. I’m parked a block down watching the door.”

“Okay, let me know when he leaves.”

“Will do,” said Penny. “Are you all right?”

“Having a blast, honey. Booked into the Ritz Praia.”

“Ha! Don’t eat your sandwiches all at once.”

“Roger that. Later.”

As Hans placed his eye back on the scope, the house lights
extinguished. In the glow of the security lamp, he made out a local woman lock up
the front door and hop on a moped. Figuring it was the domestic help, he wrote
in his notebook, “2104 hrs – DH leaving property.”

Nothing of significance took place during the next two hours.
Hans was in two minds whether to get some sleep, knowing Penny would notify him
when Logan left the bar to return home. If Phipps and Clayton had been there
for backup, it wouldn’t be an issue, the three of them taking turns to watch
the villa. As it was, he worried a forty-eight-hour stretch awake with no
possibility of moving about would tax his weakened body to the point where
sleep overcame him. He couldn’t afford to miss any intel or compromise tomorrow
night’s recon.

Hans lay there until midnight, listening to the breeze
rustling the leaves of the hide, the whining of mosquitoes and waves crashing
on the rocks far below. He felt something pad across the back of his hand and
in the darkness could make out a scorpion, likely of the
Hottentotta
genus,
one of the island’s poisonous inhabitants. He smiled and watched as the creature
clambered over his fingers and went on its way.

Hans bleeped Penny’s walkie-talkie, a precaution before
breaking radio silence.

“I’m here,” she replied.

“Anything, skipper?”

“No, no change.”

“Okay, in that case I’m gonna take a nap. Bleep me if there’s
movement.”

“Roger that. Out.”

Without changing position, Hans lay his chin on his crossed
forearms and drifted off. Every few minutes a mosquito dipped its proboscis
into his skin, the sharp sting keeping Hans from deep sleep. He dreamt a
bizarre and fractured dream in which Logan caught him snooping around the house
and, rather than blowing him away with the twelve-gauge, invited him for a
barbeque and then laughed at Hans’ paranoid accusations.

The radio beeped, shaking Hans from slumber. For a split second
he remained in the dream world, his mood lightened by Logan’s innocence, until
Real World kicked in and a pang of anger coursed through him.

Hans keyed the mic. “Skipper?”

“Target’s leaving the bar now with four other men,” Penny
replied. “Looks like holidaying Brits. They’re climbing into a black
convertible BMW.”

“Thanks, hon. Go back to the villa and get some sleep.”

“Okay, I’ll leave the radio by the bed if you need me.”

In preparation for Logan’s arrival, Hans unscrewed the cap
on the empty gas can and, shifting onto his side, relieved himself into it. He
took a well-needed drink of water from the other can and gobbled down some of
the sandwiches. In a tactical operation such as this it wasn’t possible to cook
with a stove, but under the circumstances his picnic easily passed as five-star
cuisine. After stretching out his limbs one at a time, then his back, shoulders
and neck, Hans settled into position as the lights of the BMW appeared up on
the coast road. Logan turned into the long, hilly driveway and drove at speed toward
the villa. He screeched to a halt in the courtyard, setting his Doberman off
barking.

One of the men crammed into the sports car’s backseat
attempted to hop out of the car
Dukes of Hazzard
style. His mates roared
with laughter as the drunkard crashed unceremoniously onto the block paving,
where he rolled around, lacking the coordination to get up. The other men
grabbed his arms and escorted him into the house.

The next thing Hans knew, the patio was ablaze in
spotlights, and one of the high-spirited Englishmen was carrying a cooler
loaded with beer and spirits on ice as Logan led them to the poolside.

“Last man shut the door on the dog,” he ordered.

“Got it, Ed,” his guest replied, a lobster-red bonehead
bordering on obese and wearing a white tank top with the slogan “Don’t Be
Sexist to Bitches” emblazoned on it in comical pink lettering.

The men’s raucous voices carried clearly across the gulley up
the hillside to Hans’ position. He wondered if they’d feel so entertained if
Logan came clean with them about his
real
business.

“Who fancies a little Coca-Cola?” Logan bellowed as his new
friends cracked beers and necked shots.

Hans got that it wasn’t a reference to a soft drink.

“Rude not to, Eddy!” said the fat bonehead.

The others agreed – except the wasted guy, who’d fallen
asleep on a sun lounger.

Logan went inside and returned carrying a mirror with a bag
of white powder and a box cutter blade resting on it, placing it in front of
the men on the plastic garden table.

“This better not be like the shite we have at home!” said
the fat reveler.

“Ha!” Logan mocked. “This ain’t Blighty, mate, and this
stuff’s the real McCoy, from the South American jungle!”

He proceeded to pour a good amount of powder onto the mirror
and began chopping it up and furrowing it into neat inch-long lines with the
blade.

“That gear don’t look right,” said another of his guests, a weaselly-looking
guy with thinning brown hair tied in a ponytail wearing an England football
shirt, camo cargo shorts and black Adidas sports shoes. “Looks all sticky and
that.”

“That’s because it’s hundred percent pure,” Logan gloated. “Not
like that powdery crap back home.”

“Here’s a note,” said the other holidaymaker still awake,
holding out a clumsily rolled-up banknote.

“You Neanderthal,” Logan scoffed. “This ain’t fuckin’
Bromley.”

He rerolled the note but folded back one of its corners an
inch so the paper tube neatly interlocked. “There –
that
won’t come
undone. Now shove your nose in it.”