The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (26 page)

W
hile
Penny fired up the gas-assisted barbecue, Hans stripped to his boxers and dove
off the patio wall into the Atlantic’s inviting aquamarine water. A passionate
reader of all things adventure since childhood, he’d long followed the practice
of the South Pacific Islanders, who believe in going for a swim when faced with
hardship or crisis. His powerful front crawl saw him half a mile offshore in
eight minutes, where he floated on his back, emptying his mind and feeling the
movement of the sea and the sun’s warmth on his skin.

When Hans experienced complete relaxation, he turned his
thoughts back to the investigation. Sherlock Holmes once said when you have
eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the
truth, so rather than cluttering his mind going over old ground, such as Logan’s
boat and bank accounts, he focused on the discrepancies in the case – the missing
links between all the events. If only he could work out the connection, it
would expose those lurking in the shadows, revealing the kingpin and leading to
his daughter’s return.

Everything pointed to someone who knew the Fulani, someone she
would invite willingly into her home, someone who knew Alvarez and had the
means to blow his boat to kingdom come. Someone who knew Logan – at least well
enough to have his cell phone number – to warn him Hans was breaking into his
boat. Someone who had spoken to Silvestre and learned of the plan to dive on
the wreck of the Rosa Negra . . .

The problem was these people were all so unconnected that
any theory Hans came up with was instantly doubtful, any suspect immediately
expunged by the sheer implausibility of it all.

Larsson, stop!

Hans had let his mind go into overdrive. Instead, he went
back to the beginning, starting with the car tailing him on Mindelo the night
the Fulani was murdered. The yellow tag on the license plate had to be a Hertz
logo. It couldn’t have been a car leased out without the rental agency logging it
on the database, because they only had two E-Class Mercedes, and Jonah
accounted for both hirers at the time.

Impossible . . . impossible.
Floating on his back
with the midday sun directly overhead, he crossed off hypotheses in his head.
Impossible
. . .
impossible . . . impossible . . . Yes!

The answer stared him in the face – the midday sun!

Improbable, but not impossible!

He rolled onto his front and began hauling himself through
the water to reach the shore.

Penny waited on the rocks with a towel.

“What is it?” she asked, having seen this look on Hans’ face
before.

“I need to call Jonah,” he panted, rushing up the steps to
the villa.

“Won’t he be asleep?” she called after him.

“That’s the problem!” he yelled back. “He’s nocturnal!”

Hans picked his pants off the patio wall and took out his
cell phone. He hit Jonah’s number, praying the night owl would still be awake.
Midday on Cape Verde meant it was 5:00 a.m. in Los Angeles.

“Orion, dude!” Jonah’s Aspergic monotone made him sound the
least likely candidate for a surf bum, his condition allowing Hans to cut to
the chase without fear of offense.

“Odysseus, the info you gave me from the rental agency’s
database.”

“Hertz – both the E-Class Mercedes were rented out on the
night in question. One to a French lady and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But what night was it?”

“Orion, it was around midnight here when you called – er, you
asked for last night’s records, so the twenty-fifth I think.”

“Odysseus, did you pull info for the twenty-sixth?”

“No, dude, only what you asked me for.”

“Listen, I need you to get me the names of whoever hired the
Mercs on the twenty-sixth.”

“Okay, but if their administrator’s found the backdoor I programmed
into their software, it might take a bit of time to hack into the database.”

“Just get back to me as soon as you can, huh? Code Zero. It’s
really important.”

“Your wish is my job, Orion,” Jonah replied, knowing Code
Zero meant urgent, like
yesterday
.

As Hans ended the call, he could have kicked himself for
such an amateurish error
– Damn!

“What’s wrong, hon?” Penny placed a hand on his arm.

“I messed up. Do you remember when I called Jonah from the
airport the morning after the Mercedes followed me, asking him to hack the
records from Hertz?”

“How could I forget – the day after the Fulani woman was
murdered and a fishing boat exploded in my face!”

“I asked him for the records for
last night
.
I
was forgetting LA is six hours behind – seven with daylight saving.”

“So he would have thought you meant the previous evening.”

“Exactly! His Asperger’s means he takes everything literally
and wouldn’t have questioned it.”

“Hans, you really are quite some detective.”

“Yeah, I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

S
atisfied with the background checks and
reassured by the phone call to the orphanage in Gambia, the man invited Umchima
to spend the day with him. He led her out of the dingy underground office and
up a flight of stairs into one of his castle’s many hallways.

“Wow! Are you the King of Cape Verde?” she joked, gazing at
the ye-olde artwork and historical paraphernalia adorning the impressive stone
corridor.

“I am the mayor of Praia,” he announced with an air of
self-importance. “Would you like to walk around the grounds, Senhorita Umchima?”

“I would love to, er . . . ?”

“Videl . . . Videl Gonzales, but call me Videl please.”

“Thank you, Videl, and call me Brenda.”

She tilted her head flirtatiously and for a brief moment
looked deep into his eyes.

A pair of yapping Jack Russells joined them on the tour,
during which Gonzales showed her the former servant’s quarters, still
recognizable but now renovated and lived in by Fernando. They passed through
what would once have been the soldiers’ barracks and entered the great hall,
which was too large to suit any modern domestic purpose and empty of
furnishings, bar an aging maroon carpet. Gonzales then showed Umchima the
antique cannons lining the courtyard out front.

They sat on a bench, looking out over the rock and scrub on
the hillside to the cobalt-blue sea beyond, discussing the logistical and
financial aspects of their newfound partnership. Gonzales, despite a penchant
for prostitutes and young boys, felt a stirring at the thought of the “other”
partnership occupying his mind, his lust heightened by the power he held over
this beautiful woman.

The plan they came up with was simple. Every couple of
months a handler would collect a child from the orphanage to transit down the
River Gambia by passenger boat. Because of the system of extended family in
Africa, it would be unlikely to raise suspicion. Besides, few people carried
any form of checkable ID, and corruption ran rife amongst police and officials.
The handler would have more than enough cash to grease greedy palms should the
need arise.

In Banjul, Gonzales’ connections would traffic the kids by
speedboat via the Canaries to Europe, or bring them to Praia while a sham
adoption and the relevant documentation were organized.

“What if a speedboat gets intercepted by the coastguard?”
Umchima wrung her hands.

“The kids are shackled to a concrete block, and at the first
sign of trouble they follow the block to the bottom of the ocean.”

“Good.” Umchima gave a slow and satisfied nod. “And what if
a trade falls through for any reason?”

“There is still good money to be made selling children here
on the islands – begging syndicates and factory labor – and some of our curb crawlers
and sex tourists like them young.” Gonzales’ lips curled into a slight but
heinous smile.

“So I have seen.” Umchima returned it.

“Anyway, enough business talk for one day. Are you hungry?”

The mayor stood up and offered his hand.

“I’ve had nothing since breakfast.” Umchima grasped it
without hesitation.

“Then we must go and see what Fernando has prepared for us.
He is a little dumb, but his food is the finest.”

The mayor led Umchima to the dining room, where Fernando had
laid two settings at one end of the long polished table and stood waiting to
pour drinks.

“Cordornìu.” The mayor held up the cork to display a black
four-pointed star, the symbol of a true Spanish cava. “So much crisper than
champagne, don’t you think?”

“I will have to take your word for it, Videl.” Umchima
flushed a little, too embarrassed to make eye contact. “I can’t say I’ve ever
drunk cava, and I doubt the bubbly served at government functions in Mali is of
the quality you are used too.”

“Well, we must rectify that, mustn’t we?” Gonzales ran a
finger up Umchima’s cheek, his smile still indistinguishable from a sneer.

She took his finger gently in her hands and kissed it,
adding a playful wink, since this was a man who could get her results, and she
wasn’t about to upset him.

Fernando entered carrying a tray of traditional Cape Verdean
starters. “
Pastel com o Diablo dentro
,” he announced, setting down
plates of pastries filled with devil-hot chilies, tomato paste, onion and
garlic.

“Please enjoy,” Gonzales urged. “But tell me, how did you
end up managing an orphanage in the Gambia?”

“My parents lived in a small town in the north of Mali near
Timbuktu. After they were murdered, I fled west. There were thousands on the
road, all heading for a refugee camp in Mauritania, but word came back the camp
was overflowing and many were dying of malnourishment and disease, so I headed
for Senegal. It was a long, tough journey. I joined a family, and we had to
avoid the main roads for fear of rebel checkpoints. We walked for many days,
stopping in the villages and begging for water and food. Finally, I crossed
into Gambia. I knew former Malian officials who now lived in the capital, but when
I got as far as Kankaba, the nuns at the orphanage took me in and insisted I
stay until I got my strength back. It was a good life – living by the river,
getting over the loss of my parents, helping out with the kids, free from the
stress of government.”

The mayor opened a bottle of Tinta Roriz 1978 as he
listened.

“The nuns were kind but they knew nothing of funding,
promotion or social media. When I helped out, they begged me to stay and suggested
I become manager, so I applied for a residential permit.”

“And you haven’t gone back?” Gonzales began filling Umchima’s
glass.

“How can I go back? The Mali military overthrew the
government, and at the same time the rebels joined forces with the Islamists to
take control of the North. In the meantime al-Qaeda and other extremist networks
have established themselves in the country. What was initially a
straightforward issue of land rights has turned into a civil and religious war.”

“You have every right to feel bitter.”

“I’ve lost my parents, my roots and everything I worked hard
for.”

“Then” – Gonzales raised his glass – “we must drink to you
getting it back.”

Umchima lifted her wine and, with a dreamy smile, gazed
around at the palatial setting. “We must, Videl. I think I could get used to
this life.”

Fernando removed the plates from their starters and returned
with a large silver tureen. He peeled off the lid and began ladling a
delicious-looking yellow stew on their plates.

“Hmm, what is it?” Umchima looked at the butler and smiled.

“
Rondon
,
senhorita
,” Fernando grunted, and
disappeared.

“
Rondon
?” Umchima turned to the mayor.

“A Nicaraguan recipe, one of my and Fernando’s favorites.”
He ladled a huge helping onto her plate. “Breadfruit, sweet potato, banana,
yucca, coconut, onion and lobster.”

“And the sauce?”

“Chicken stock flavored with garlic, green herbs and lime
juice.”

“It looks amazing.”

“I will drink to that.” Gonzales raised his glass.

By the time they finished dessert – sweet papaya cooked with
cloves, cinnamon and lemon – Umchima felt on the drunken side of tipsy. This
didn’t stop Gonzales opening a bottle of port and pouring glass after glass
while flattering her in true Hispanic style.

“Videl, a girl might think you were trying to get her drunk.”
Umchima gave a cheeky flutter of her eyebrows.

“It is a long time since I had such a fine woman’s company
to get drunk in. I hope you are not planning to eat and leave.” He placed a
hand on top of hers on the white satin tablecloth.

“Is that an invitation to stay the night?” She put on a
churlish look.

“I feel it would be more comfortable for you than a run-down
guesthouse.”

“Then how could I say no?” She giggled and leant forward for
the kiss.