The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (22 page)

Up on the hillside, Hans snapped close-ups of the guests for
the record. As the men snorted marching powder and washed tequila slammers down
with gulps of beer, he listened intently for any swing in the conversation –
particularly Logan’s bragging – that might lead to finding Jessica.

In reality Hans knew Logan wasn’t going to jeopardize his
lengthy and profitable operation by divulging anything to these bozos. He knew
from time spent in England that the country’s working class, including its
thugs and criminals, hated crimes against children more than anything else –
even murder. One misplaced word from Logan would see him drowned in his own
pool – after which these tattooed lager louts would snort all his cocaine and
drink all his liquor in celebration.

The rest of the morning went as expected, with the booze and
drugs inducing boast-and-bravado-filled speeches, discriminatory jokes and
cringeworthy revelations – in addition to dive bombs in the pool and a belly
flop competition, won not surprisingly by Mr. Misogynist, God’s fat-bellied gift
to women.

Come 6:00 a.m. it was clear Logan wanted his bed. Unlike his
guests, the millionaire playboy indulged in this behavior most nights, and the
novelty of a hedonist’s paradise wore thin.

“Right, fellas, taxi’s here!” he announced.

The three men roused their buddy and, following man hugs and
false promises to keep in touch, lurched toward the cab waiting out front.
Logan left the pool area in a mess of bottles, cans and overflowing ashtrays
and went inside the villa. Seconds later all the lights went off.

Hans reviewed his notes, feeling a cloud of depression
envelop him. Not once during the morning’s festivity had Logan sneaked away to
check on Jessica and Holly – only his dog – confirming the likelihood they were
imprisoned at another location. He set the alarm on his cell phone for 8:00 a.m.
and attempted to grab a little sleep, knowing the sun’s relentless rays would bear
down on the hide soon, making rest impossible.

H
ans
awoke to the
put-put
sound of the domestic helper returning on her moped.
He hadn’t expected to see her with it being Sunday, but as she began clearing
up the poolside mess, the reason for the overtime became obvious.

Hans pressed his eye against the spotting scope and chuckled,
for the young and pretty mestiza, unaware of anyone watching, racked up a
couple of fat lines of Logan’s coke and snorted them through the left-behind banknote.
Then, having pocketed the cash, she piled the contraband and paraphernalia onto
the mirror and carried the lot inside. On her return she downed a couple of
tequilas and, to Hans’ surprise, peeled off her tank top, shorts and panties and
dived in the pool. Hans glanced down at his notebook, figuring that, when he
briefed Penny later, he’d leave this part of the proceedings off the record.

The girl swam ten lengths of the twenty-meter pool using an
impressive front crawl, slipping seamlessly from the water to dry herself off with
one of Logan’s towels. After putting her clothes back on, she tidied the few
remaining items, locked the property and sped away on her scooter.

Knowing Logan would be sleeping off his booze-and-coke
hangover Hans didn’t expect to see much action for the rest of the morning. He
worried the Englishman might take Sunday off from Chico’s, thwarting his plan
to reconnoiter the property as night fell. Putting it out of his mind, he scanned
the grounds, searching for surveillance cameras. He couldn’t see any through
the scope – although they might be out of his line of sight.

Hans drank some water and ate a couple more sandwiches, and
not long after, his digestive clock told him it was time to take a dump. This
was always a challenge in covert operations. Rolling back against the hide’s
scrub wall, he took out the saran wrap, tore off a generous length and spread
it along the camping roll. Having unbuckled his belt and jeans, Hans rested on
his elbows and relieved himself, then cleaned up with wet wipes and sealed the
lot up in the plastic film. He wrapped a few more layers around to be safe and placed
it in the backpack.

The sun rose in a cloudless sky, and the heat in the hide
intensified – as did the pain from the hundreds of mosquito bites on Hans’ back
where they’d penetrated his shirt. Having accidently upset a scorpion during
the night, Hans’ left ankle had inflamed to twice its normal size and throbbed with
intense pain. He reached into the backpack for the first aid kit and popped an
ibuprofen and a couple of antihistamine tablets, washing them down with lukewarm
water. The rank aftertaste of the pills, combined with soaring temperature,
sleep deprivation and general discomfort, made Hans nauseous, but he put it out
of his mind, for as far as the former Navy SEAL was concerned, he was alive, he’d
been through a lot worse, and he would go through it all again if it meant
getting Jessica back. He radioed Penny to let her know all was okay and that he
would give her a further update when Logan surfaced.

Lying there, Hans found it impossible not to think about Jessie.
Since his recovery in Boston, he’d done so every waking moment. He remembered when
she came into the world with hardly a whimper and made him and Kerry such proud
parents. She could swim the width of their pool back in Portland at two years old
and scuba dived in the sea off Maine aged five. Carl, his younger brother bought
Jessica a Rubik’s Cube for her sixth birthday, which came with step-by-step instructions.
When Hans went to tuck Jessica into bed that night and read her a Willard Price
adventure story, he found the little girl fast asleep with the completed cube sitting
on the nightstand. She was such a smart kid the school moved her up a year, and
Kerry spent time in the evenings tutoring her.

When Kerry and JJ were murdered, Jessica displayed a
maturity way beyond her years, dealing with her grief better than most adults would.
Then there was the night Hans downed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and sat staring
down the barrel of his Beretta – she had been his reason to go on living then. Now,
checking the date on his cheap plastic watch, November 1, tears began to well.
It was her birthday in three days.

With the time approaching 11:00 a.m., Hans let out a monster
yawn. He had to get some sleep or he’d be no good to anyone, Jessica or
otherwise. Setting the alarm on his cell phone for 1:00 p.m., he laid his chin
on his hands and dozed off.

T
he
sound of a shotgun blast rocked the hillside.

Hans woke in an instant, his mind flashing back to numerous
enemy contacts during his days as a SEAL. Staying calm, he pulled the pistol
from its holster and put his eye to the scope –
Phew!

Logan stood on the terrace pointing his twelve-gauge out to
sea.

“Pull!”

His automatic launcher hurled another clay pigeon into the
air, and Hans heard the familiar zing as the disc whizzed skyward like a
miniature flying saucer. Logan raised his barrel in a fluid motion and squeezed
the trigger, shattering the imitation bird into a thousand pieces over the
ocean.

“Pull! . . . Pull!”

Hans was impressed as he watched Logan dispatch two more
clays in quick succession. The man could certainly handle a gun, prompting Hans
to rethink his camouflage. He thought about pulling the balaclava from the
backpack, although its solid black color wasn’t ideal. A trained sniper would
only have to glance at the hillside to spot the discrepancy immediately. Logan
wasn’t about to start scanning the surrounding area with optics, though, and in
the cover of the hide, Hans wasn’t overly worried. Besides, he was far enough
out of range of the twelve-gauge for its ammunition to be effective.

Ironically, the impromptu target practice provided Hans with
entertainment, taking his mind off the pain and discomfort. In between slugs of
beer, Logan sent forty or more clays sailing out over the sea and hit almost all
of them. Hans smiled when the Brit swapped to his pistol, which from its
two-tone gold-and-black finish looked to be a German-made Sig Sauer 9 mm. As
expected, he missed every one of the next ten targets, then stopped for the day
and carried his equipment inside.

What happened next saw Hans raise an eyebrow. Still wearing
a white tank top and Union Jack flag shorts, he emerged from the main door of
the villa with his Doberman, having swapped his flip-flops for gumboots. He
crossed the courtyard to one of the brick toolsheds and took out a garden fork
and a rake. For the next two hours he worked flat out, digging over one of his
vegetable plots, pulling weeds, smashing the clods of earth into smaller lumps
and raking stones to one side, only stopping to throw a ball for his hound.

Content with his spot of gardening, Logan rinsed the tools
under a hose and stowed them back in the shed. Then he went into his villa,
emerging minutes later wearing brown-framed glasses and carrying a book and a
long drink, complete with cocktail umbrella. He lay on a sun lounger by the
pool and began to read. Hans zeroed in the scope to see the book’s title:
Break
Through the Barriers Inside
, by the world-famous American personal development
guru Eric Jansen.

His involvement in the Trade aside, Logan lived a fulfilling
life, and, bizarrely, Hans felt he had a lot in common with the man. Both of
them worked hard in business, both liked boats and had a connection with the sea,
both enjoyed handling weapons, self-improvement and drinking a beer or two. Yet
Hans didn’t need to remind himself there was a distinct possibility that circumstances
might force him to put a bullet through Logan’s skull before the day was out.

Darkness fell, and it looked increasingly likely Logan would
spend the evening at home. Hans polished off the sandwiches as he watched the
multicolored glow of a widescreen TV flicker across the courtyard. From the
sound of intermittent cheering and running commentary, Hans guessed Logan was
watching English Premier League soccer, the thought of a comfortable couch,
cold beer and a ball game making him long for the day all this was over and he,
Penny and Jessie could return to Maine.

To cheer himself up, he called Penny on the walkie-talkie. “Skipper,
you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Looks like Logan’s staying home tonight, so the reconnaissance
mission’s off,” Hans whispered, holding up the cushion to prevent his voice
traveling in the night air.

“Can you wait until he’s asleep?”

“I’d only wake his dog.”

“Ah, I hadn’t thought of that. Listen, how about I pick you up,
and we can continue this when Phipps and Clayton get here?”

“To be honest that’s not a bad idea, but I can’t risk
leaving this place. If anything happened while I was—”

Wailing sirens interrupted their conversation.

Hans looked up to see a convoy of vehicles with flashing emergency
lights speeding along the coast road.

“Orion, what is it?” Penny hissed.

“It’s a police raid. Stay off the radio until I make
contact.”

“But—”

Hans twisted the volume knob to “Off.”

Blue-and-red light bathed the hillside, the sirens growing
louder as police cars and SWAT team vans poured down the villa’s driveway.

How not to conduct a covert operation.
Hans scowled,
strapping on the M9 and shoving everything but the sniper scope in the
backpack. He had his eye to the scope when the first car pulled up in the courtyard
and none other than Chief Inspector Barbosa Amado jumped out, pistol in hand.

If you put my little girl in danger . . .
Hans
cursed, recognizing a bungled operation when he saw one.

As the police tactical unit rushed the front door with a
battering ram, Hans caught a movement at the seaward side of the house. He
turned the scope to see the Englishman dashing across the floodlit veranda,
manhandling a large suitcase, which he lowered over the parapet and vaulted
after. From the exertion on Logan’s face, Hans could tell it contained
something heavy.

Jessica!

Leaving the backpack and scope, Hans was out of the hide and
bounding down the hillside, realizing Logan was making a dash for his boat in
an attempt to sink the evidence of his involvement in the Trade to the bottom
of the Atlantic. Pain rocketed up Hans’ leg from the scorpion bite, but he
hardly felt a thing as he powered toward the dock, hurdling rocks and scrub and
sliding down the steep drops on his backside.

Logan had the speedboat’s engine fired up in no time, thrusting
the throttle forward to roar away from the jetty. Hans sprinted down the
walkway but knew his efforts were in vain. Even if he jumped he would miss
landing in the boat by a matter of inches. He was about to give up the chase when
he saw something dragging through the water. In Logan’s haste to cast off he’d
let the stern line drop in the sea.

The American needed no prompting, launching himself at full
pelt from the end of the walkway and flying through the air to come down in a
belly flop on top of the trailing line. He grabbed the thick hemp rope with
both hands and plunged underwater for what seemed an eternity before the pull
of the boat towed him to the surface.

With the thunder of the diesel engine and the cabin door
shut, Hans hoped Logan wouldn’t notice he had company, but if he did and came
out on the offensive Hans would do everything in his power to put a bullet
through his skull and give Jessica a chance to live.

He quickly realized this wasn’t going to be an option, for
as the boat picked up speed it was all he could do to hold on, let alone think
about drawing his gun. The churning seawater surged over him, placing enormous
strain on his arms and preventing him drawing a breath.

Desperate for air, Hans knew he had to let go but was
determined to fire a few shots into the cabin before the speedboat disappeared
into the night. Praying he wouldn’t get tangled in the rope, Hans counted, “One
. . . two . . .”

Logan realized something impeded the boat’s progress, so he throttled
back, and the speedboat slowed. Fueled on adrenaline, Hans seized his
opportunity, hauling himself along the line to within a yard of the hull.

Fearing the stern line had wrapped around the propeller,
Logan grabbed a sheath knife and left the cabin to investigate. When he saw Hans
gripping the stern ladder, his jaw dropped, and he rushed for the suitcase.

Hans leapt on board as Logan heaved the case over the side. Logan
turned and, unsheathing the knife, rushed at Hans. The American blocked the
thrust with his forearm and shattered Logan’s nose with a crunching head butt.

Air bubbled from the suitcase as it slowly sunk into the
depths. Hans dived into the sea and powered downwards. He managed to locate the
case’s handle and kicked for the surface, no easy task lugging the deadweight.

“Jessie, Jessie!” he screamed, gasping for air as the boat’s
momentum carried the craft forward.

He tried the catches on the case but Logan had locked them –
Damn!

Hans struck out with his legs and one arm. It was a good minute
before he managed to grab the mooring line and pull himself to the ladder.

“Urr . . . uur . . .” Logan started to come around.

“Stay down!” Hans ordered, using his remaining strength to
drag the case over the fiberglass coaming.

“Jessie! It’s Daddy!”

He grabbed Logan’s knife and broke open the catches. Clutching
his nose, Logan looked both shocked and bemused.

Hans threw open the case. “Wha—?”

It was filled with cracked and chipped clay pots and
figurines.

He collapsed back on the deck, his mouth trying to form
words that wouldn’t come.

“So, you’re Interpol I take it.”

Logan’s nasal tone sounded ridiculous. Blood dripped down onto
his sweat-and-brine-soaked T-shirt and spread out in an ugly red blossom.

Hans came to his senses, leaping up and pulling out the M9. “Where’s
my daughter?” He leveled the pistol at Logan’s head.

“Mate” – Logan held up his hands – “I’ve got no idea what
you’re on about.”

“Alvarez! He passed her on to you after he pulled her from
the water.”

“Who?” Logan looked utterly confused. “I don’t know anyone
called Alv—”

“And this?” Hans jerked his head at the suitcase.

“I’d rather not say.” Logan broke eye contact.

Hans tensed and pressed the barrel of the M9 into the
Englishman’s forehead.

“Okay, okay, okay!” Logan made a to-ing and fro-ing movement
with his palms as if he were telling a car driver to stop, his demeanor more guilty
schoolchild than international child trafficker. “They’re ancient artifacts.
Colombian – mostly terra-cotta from the Piartal Period.”

Hans let the muzzle drop and sank back on his haunches. It
was his turn to look confused.

“AD 750 to 1250,” Logan continued. “In fact, archaeological
evidence proves ceramics were produced on Colombia’s Caribbean coast earlier
than anywhere in the Americas outside of the lower Amazon Bas—”

“Stop!” Hans had heard enough of the history lesson. “Is
this
the reason behind your boat trips to the Canaries?”

Logan gave a mournful nod. “Some guy from Tenerife came into
my bar one night. We got chatting over a beer, and he said he was an art
dealer. When I told him I owned a boat, he asked if I was interested in making
some serious cash. All I had to do was meet a fishing trawler from South
America offshore, collect a package and take it up north and collect the money.”

“Hence the dogleg,” Hans muttered, remembering the GPS
coordinates.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Hans waved the pistol. “Go on.”

“I got greedy. A lot of the items were similar, so I figured
no one would notice if I helped myself to the odd piece. Only I couldn’t work
out a way to sell them on.”

“So you shoved them in a suitcase.”

“Yes, mate.”

Hans gripped the Brit’s bloodied shirt. “Up!”

He marched him through the doorway into the cabin, down the
ladder and along the passageway into the stateroom, then ripped the mattress
from the double berth and lifted the lid on the storage compartment beneath.

“Explain the children’s clothes.”

“Th-th-they’re for an orphanage . . . over on São Nicolau,” said
Logan, still visibly trembling. “Before my partner, Krystal, up and left, we’d
been trying for a baby. In the end we decided to adopt. We’ve visited the
orphanage several times to meet the kids. The clothes cost nothing in the
market and—”

“Yeah, I get it . . . and the baby formula too. But what
about this?” Hans picked up the duct tape and gave Logan a knowing look.

“Actually, the formula and the tape are for something else.”

“Care to explain?”

Hans felt his whole being deflate as anger and suspicion flowed
out of him, along with the last traces of hope. Logan might look like a thug,
but he certainly wasn’t an international child trafficker. In fact, he sat
somewhere between nerdy and pathetic.

“Yeah, I can explain, but listen, er . . . ?”

“It’s Hans.”

“Hans, are you going to arrest me?”

“I’m nothing to do with the police.”

“Then what the hell was all that about?” Logan flicked his
eyes in the direction of the villa.

Mike Davenport
, thought Hans, but didn’t say
anything. “I have no idea.”