The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (10 page)

H
ans
packed the gear from the embassy into a khaki gym bag and placed the pistol and
ammo in the diplomatic pouch. He asked Enrique to drop him off at a hardware
store, saying he would make his own way to the airport.

Peering through the store window, Hans checked there were no
CCTV cameras installed before proceeding inside. Even with the diplomatic pass it
was best to err on the side of caution and leave as small a trail as possible.

Figuring Cape Verde would be a little short on leather
gloves, he added a light pair of rubber industrial ones to his collection, a
roll of duct tape, a foot-long jimmy, Maglite and a black balaclava – the type
worn by metalworkers.

At the airport he entered the security channel reserved for
diplomats and aircrew, showing his passport and gun permit to the official, who
asked him to place his bag and diplomatic pouch on the X-ray machine,
explaining the pistol and ammunition would go in the plane’s hold.

Before boarding, Hans made a call to Penny, having agreed she
would speak to Baba, the kindly Senegalese manager at Mindelo’s Porto Grande
Marina, and ask him about Alvarez.

“How’d you get on, hon?”

“Hans, I was about to call. Baba says he knows Alvarez, and
the
Rosa Negra
’s
berthed at the industrial port next to the
marina. He showed me her through his binoculars.”

“You mean she’s not put to sea?” Hans frowned and began massaging
his forehead.

“That’s why I was about to call – according to Baba, it’s unusual.
He says these guys go out three-six-five in all weather. Do you think something’s
up?”

“I don’t know. Where are you now?”

“I’m in Salgadeiras, the café bar, keeping an eye on the
boat.”

“I’ll see you there in two hours.”

Back on São Vicente, Hans headed for the airport’s Hertz
desk. Karen had offered to ship an embassy car to him the next day, but Hans
didn’t want to draw attention to himself in an official vehicle, plus he needed
wheels right away.

Browsing the laminated brochure, he ignored the flashy high-end
models, opting for a compact Daihatsu Terios jeep in modest gray. It was small
enough to negotiate the island’s narrow backstreets and hectic traffic, capable
of going off-road, and blended in with the hundreds of other 4x4s buzzing
about. Hans left his driving license and credit card details and drove toward
the marina.

“A
ny
change?”

Hans joined Penny in Salgadeiras, the cabana-style café bar
she’d sat in every day for a month watching out over the ocean when
Future
went missing.

“See for yourself.” Penny pointed across the harbor to a
rusting tub moored against the dock wall.

“No one’s approached her?”

“Not a soul. Is it worth making more inquiries – with the
fisheries department or in the fish market?”

“No, it will only cause a stir. I gotta pay this guy a visit
anyway.”

“Do you think the Fulani woman could have talked?”

“She was making inquiries into Jessica’s whereabouts, and it’s
possible Alvarez got wind. When I see her tonight, I’ll ask.”

“Could Jessica be on the boat?”

“I’m pretty sure Jessie changed hands weeks ago. Alvarez
wouldn’t have kidnapped her without the contacts to sell her on. Plus the boat’s
been at sea every day. It would be impractical to keep her on board – Alvarez knows
the fisheries inspector could pay a visit any time, or a dockworker might see or
hear something suspicious.”

“I’ve asked Baba to tell his staff to watch out for any
movement.”

“Good thinking.”

Hans hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was now
midafternoon. “Fancy some food?” He pulled a menu from the condiments rack.

“The cachupa rica is good,” said Penny. “Slow-boiled stew
with pumpkin, sweet potato, and fish or chicken. And try the local red, bottled
from grapes grown in a volcanic crater on Fogo.”

“What’s this
perceves
?”

“Sea fingers – purply-brown things. You crack off the skin
to get at the meat. Looks like squid.”

“But what are they?”

“Gooseneck barnacles. They’re a popular dish.”

Hans thoughts flicked to his time in the life raft, where
eating these creatures prevented him starving to death.

“Er, I think I’ll give them a miss. The capucha rica sounds
good.”

As their food arrived and Hans finished updating Penny on
the morning’s events, his cell phone rang – Jonah in LA.

“Odysseus, what you got for me?”

“I’ve got a picture of our man Alvarez. It took some trawling,
but I found an archive article in the
Cape Verde Chronicle
. The guy led
some protest against the Fisheries Department a few years back. I’ll text it over
– or do you want high-def?”

“No, low-res is fine, so long as I can get a positive ID.”

“So are you gonna put one right between his eyes?”

“Ha! That’s for me to know and for you not to.” Even considering
Jonah’s Asperger’s syndrome, Hans never knew if the kid was joking or serious. “Say,
what’s the time over there?” he asked.

“Seven in the morning. I’ve been on this all night.”

“And I bet you’ve been smoking the weed all night too.”

“I’ve been
smoking
it, Orion!”

I
n
preparation for the evening, Hans laid his newly acquired equipment on the hotel
bed. Penny watched as he disassembled and cleaned the Beretta, pulling the
barrel through with a lightly oiled rag before putting it back together. Then
he adjusted the shoulder holster for size, slid in the pistol and tried it on
underneath a dark-blue sports coat. Satisfied with the weapon’s concealment, he
loaded the four clips with rounds, having wiped each one first with a cloth to
remove any grime and fingerprints. He put the rubber gloves, flashlight, jimmy and
duct tape into Penny’s daypack, along with a contrasting change of clothes, and
pocketed his diplomatic passport, gun license, wallet and keys. After switching
his cell phone to vibrate, Hans took a cold shower, emptying his mind of all
thought and focusing solely on his breathing – a mindfulness technique to purge
his body of anxiety. Revitalized by the spray, he dressed in dark colors but
dismissed the bulletproof vest.

Finally, Hans gave Penny a rundown on the walkie-talkies. Cell
coverage was good on this part of the island, but he didn’t want to take any
chances.

“Penny, if I’m on the radio, it’s fine to go ahead and speak
because I’ll have the earpiece in, but I won’t be wearing it the rest of the
time, since I don’t want to draw attention to myself. So if you need to get
hold of me, use your cell. If I can’t answer, leave a voice mail or send a text.”

“How long’s this going to take?”

“Depends on how cooperative this guy’s gonna be.”

“Are you visiting the Fulani first?”

“I figure. She might have information that short-circuits
the need to see this creep. If I’m out of contact for more than two hours, get ahold
of Karen, and failing that, Muttley.”

Hans typed the Fulani’s address into the Daihatsu’s satnav and began
following directions given by Mr. T – of A-Team notoriety. Hans smiled. Whoever
rented this jeep last sure had a sense of humor.

Driving the coast road in the dark, he turned on the car radio
and scrolled through endless channels of hyperexcited DJs, call-ins conducted
in Portuguese and Creole, and anonymous pop music. Hitting the button again,
Hans heard an English voice reading the news on an expat station. He listened to
an interview with a professor from the local university, who explained in
simplified terms the increased ferocity in ultraviolet rays, backing up the
recent health service recommendation that locals and tourists should apply a
minimum of factor 40 sun cream.

Hans was about to change channels when the newsreader announced,
“Following the abduction of five-year-old Holly Davenport from Praia Beach, the
mayor of Mindelo, Videl Gonzales, has offered a reward of ten thousand US dollars
from his personal savings to anyone offering information leading to her safe
return. The mayor, noted for his contributions to children’s charities, wants
to reiterate this is a one-off occurrence that should not deter tourists from
visiting the region.”

A one-off occurrence
, Hans mused.
And what about
all the missing local kids that go unreported?

Hans had decided not to mention anything to Holly’s father
at this stage in the investigation. Overcome with emotion, Mike would only see
the smaller picture, and there would be no way of stopping him informing the authorities.
With no firm evidence to make arrests, it would warn the traffickers Hans was
onto them. He changed the channel and listened to a chat show in Creole – the eclectic
mix of Iberian, West African languages and slang spoken by the islanders – and although
Hans only understood the odd word, the laid-back patter soothed his nerves.

Taking the slip road to head into town, Hans felt sure a car
was tailing him. He made a random series of turns to be certain, the headlights
remaining in his rearview mirror until he got close to the Fulani’s home. He considered
forcing his assailant to a stop and pulling out the M9 to extract some answers,
but to keep the odds in his favor he came up with another plan.

Tapping the gas station icon on the satnav brought up two
red nozzles on the digitalized map. Hans selected the one nearest to his
location and heard, “Rerouting, you crazy fool!”
followed by, “At the
junction, go straight over. Destination is a hundred yards on the right, sucka!”

Hans laid the M9 on the passenger seat, unlocked his cell
phone and set the video camera to record. Then, as the forecourt lights of the
gas station came into view, he wound down the window and pulled up at the pump
nearest the highway, using the Daihatsu’s door pillar to conceal the phone from
view.

Taken by surprise, the driver of the other car, a silver
Mercedes
with tinted windows, braked at first
and then sped off down the road.

“Amateur,” Hans muttered.

He’d figured his pursuer wouldn’t risk a confrontation in a
public place, particularly one well lit with surveillance cameras installed,
and now, unbeknown to the tail, he had the car and its license plate on film.

He gave Penny a quick update over the radio, then pulled
back onto the road, spinning the jeep around and heading in the direction he
came from. Sure that he’d lost the
Mercedes,
he rerouted the satnav.

After a command of “Turn right, sucka!” and “Destination is
on the left, fool!,” Hans drove past the Fulani’s building and parked up in a
side street. He placed the daypack out of sight in the Daihatsu’s trunk and hurried
toward the property.

At this hour the streets were deserted, bar the odd scraggy
feline on the hunt for a rodent dinner. Hans reached the front door unnoticed
and, recognizing the name Djenabou scrawled in spidery handwriting, pressed the
corresponding buzzer.

No answer. Hans left it a few seconds and tried again . . . to
no avail. Remembering Djenabou worked until 8:00 p.m., he checked his Rolex – 7:45
p.m., which explained why no light shone from her second-floor room.

The occupant of the silver Mercedes watched him from a
distance.

Rather than hang around, Hans returned to the jeep and headed
for Alvarez’s place, not far away in the adjacent district.

Again he parked discreetly, taking the daypack with him. In
this part of town, Porto Alta, the housing consisted of a maze of crumbling
brick bungalows surrounded by sagging picket-wire fence, weathered and undulating
like the decking of an antiquated roller coaster. Hans smelled the stench of
sewage and heard soulful
morna
folk music blaring into the night, along
with raucous laughter as adults smoked weed and got drunk and yelled at kids
playing in the yards.

The fence around Alvarez’s humble abode had all but
collapsed. Hans stepped over it and circled the ramshackle property, peering
through windows, looking for any sign of life but seeing none. He found an open
sash and paused to put his gloves on and cock the M9. After clicking the safety
catch off, he cracked his wrists and ankle joints, a cat burglar’s trick to
prevent any giveaway noise, and slipped inside.

Hans crouched on the bare wooden floor, letting his eyes adjust
to the dark. He craned for the slightest sound, ignoring the miasma of
cigarette smoke, body odor, stale urine and filth pervading his nostrils. His night
vision kicked in to reveal a bedroom, though not one any self-respecting human
would sleep in. He opened the door to find the bungalow empty, pulling the
rough sackcloth drapes across all the windows before switching on the Maglite.

Starting with a chest of drawers in the bedroom, Hans began
a systematic search, looking for anything linking Alvarez to his little girl’s
disappearance or a connection to the traffickers. He lifted the filthy mattress
on the floor to find an adult magazine, an empty wallet and a pewter necklace
with a peace sign pendant, but nothing else.

He moved to the kitchen. Painted in hideous pink gloss, bubbling
and peeling like a bad virus, it housed a grease-caked two-ring stove and blue gas
canister, on which sat a blackened frying pan and a half-full pot of rice, both
still warm. A rough-hewn set of shelves displayed tinned goods, a jar of instant
coffee and a bag of white sugar, a chipped cup and a plate and a heavily
stained Nescaf
é
mug holding cheap and tarnished cutlery. Beer
bottles piled up against a cut-down oil drum overflowing with trash in the
corner.

Hans played the beam of his flashlight around the living room.
A couch with patches of stuffing bursting out of it faced a small black-and-white
television set. On an improvised coffee table, consisting of four plastic beer
crates with a sheet of wood on top and a nautical flag for a tablecloth, sat an
untouched plate of rice, fish and beans, and an unopened bottle of beer.
Alvarez had abandoned this place in a hurry.

A two-foot-long crucifix hung on the wall above a shelf of
bric-a-brac and a photograph of a demure young woman. Hans peered at it,
wondering what part this innocent played in Alvarez’s past. For a moment he
felt pity for the fisherman, understanding the utter poverty that had shaped his
destiny, but the thought of the crime Alvarez had committed against his
daughter sobered Hans’ mind, for even in such desperate circumstances human
beings have the power of free will and are accountable for their actions.

In amongst the clutter on the shelf was a voucher to claim
two-for-one drinks in a local bar. Hans slipped it into a jacket pocket, along
with the beer bottle, and climbed back out of the window he’d entered.

A dilapidated shack the size of a home garage sat in the backyard,
likely, Hans figured, where Alvarez kept equipment from his boat. He slid back the
bolt on the door and stepped inside. There were no windows in the shack, so
Hans could play the beam of the flashlight about without worry of drawing
attention.

Strewn about the floor were piles of fishing nets, nylon
fenders, a rotting wooden tender, engine parts, hauling machinery and
electrical equipment. In the corner was a tall metal cabinet, the type used to
stock stationery in offices. Hans opened the door to see the cabinet divided
down the middle. The left side contained shelves of rusting tools and an
assortment of bearings, nuts, bolts and other fixings, plus a pair of ripped
flip-flops. The other side was empty, bar what looked like a pile of faded life
jackets.

A glint of chrome caught Hans’ eye. He lifted a life jacket
and froze, heart stopping dead in his chest.

There, slung in the bottom of the cabinet, was Jessica’s
scuba gear.