The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (19 page)

“T
he mayor seems a good man to have on side,” said Penny as they drove
down the winding mountain road away from La Laguna.

“He’s certainly making an effort to combat
the traffickers,” Hans replied. “The radio station said the reward money he
offered for information about Holly’s kidnapping came out of his own pocket,
and he’s certainly connected.”

“Yeah, I saw you go quiet. What was that
about?”

“The painting in his office – a goat standing
on a pyramid of rocks in the sunlight.” Hans threw her a knowing look.

“Masonic symbols – or are you thinking Illuminati?”
Penny referred to the ‘enlightened ones,’ a global cabal of Satanists, originally
an offshoot from Masonry, who manipulate mankind through financial and media
control and by orchestrating a perpetual state of war.

“The goat might represent the devil Baphomet.”
Hans shrugged. “Or our mayor might just be a high-ranking Freemason.”

“Don’t tell me he gave you the handshake?”
Penny grinned.

“Ha! A mason will tell you that’s a myth.” Hans
braked for the T-junction at the bottom of the hill and pulled onto the coast
road. “You certainly impressed him with your Spanish.”

“We do our best.” Penny squeezed his knee. “It
was funny, though. I noticed he switched between
Castilian and South
American.”

“How do you mean?”

“
Castilian is the modern parlance of
Spain, but in Central and South America they speak the language of the
conquistadors – basically, an older dialect. He said
ustedes
, meaning ‘you’
plural, not
vosotros
.”

“Probably due to the influence here. We’re closer to the South
American continent than we are to Spain.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. The butler was a bit of a
bruiser, hey?”

“You can say that again. Did you see the shrapnel wound?”

“Is that what it was?”

“Yeah, he’s certainly been in the thick of it somewhere.” Hans
checked his mirrors and pulled over to the side of the road. “I need to speak
to Mike Davenport.”

He called the Englishman’s number.

“Mike, Hans Larsson.”

“Hello, Hans.”

It didn’t sound good.

“Any news?”

“No, nothing – only the usual police inefficiency.”

Hans looked at Penny and shook his head. “Are you still in
Praia?”

“Yes, staying at the Fortuna.”

“Is there any chance we can meet, say, tomorrow for lunch?
It would be good to catch up, and there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Sure, do you have anywhere in mind?”

“How about Tima Tima. It’s a—”

“Yeah, I know it. It’s near the hotel.”

T
he
Malian woman made her way through immigration at Cape Verde’s Nelson Mandela
Airport and, with no luggage to collect, straight into the arrivals area. It thronged
with disembarked passengers and expectant family and friends, most loud in
dress and voice. Chauffeurs held up cardboard signs with names of their
pick-ups scrawled on them in marker pen, and eagle-eyed cabdrivers and hotel
touts pounced on hesitant-looking travelers to try and make a buck.

This airport was far more modern than the one she had flown
from in Gambia. The mix of white tourists and coffee-colored and black Africans
meant that with her light-brown skin she stood out a lot less than on the
mainland. However, born and raised on the African continent, she had gotten
used to the stares.

Before exiting the airport to grab a cab from the rank, the
woman haggled with a moneychanger to get a good rate for the euros she’d
brought from Banjul. Then, after picking up a map of the city of Praia from the
tourist information desk, she bought a pay-as-you-go SIM card in a cell phone
store and topped it up with credit.

Intending to stay within her budget, the Malian asked the
driver to drop her at a boarding house she’d researched on the Internet. A
prestigious establishment frequented by Portuguese officials, merchants and
ships’ officers in its heyday, the two-story colonial building had long since
fallen into disrepair. It sat in a long terraced row on a street dividing the
booming tourist area from the shantytown housing the third of the city’s
population that lived below the breadline.

The woman gave the building a once-over. Its terra-cotta
roof tiles were broken, faded and mottled with age. Dark-gray mortar patched crumbling
yellow walls in desperate need of paint. The balcony’s handrail was broken in
places and missed several balusters. She climbed two limestone steps, worn into
polished-smooth troughs over the years by thousands of feet, to enter the
lobby. After crossing the stone-tiled floor, careful not to trip in the gaps where
tiles were missing, she woke with a polite cough the middle-aged local man sprawled
over the reception desk.

“
Kantu noiti
?” he asked lazily in Creole, propping
his head on an elbow.

“
Uma semana
,
por favor
,” she replied in Portuguese,
figuring a week’s stay should be sufficient for her mission.

He picked a key off a row of numbered hooks and slapped it
on the desk, then laid his head back down.

“
Pagar agora
?” She reached for her purse.

“
Mais tarde
,” the guy waved a dismissive hand in the
direction of the stairs.

The room was a simple affair and sufficient for her needs –
a wooden bed with clean, if not dated, linen, a wardrobe, and a table and chair
next to the louver doors onto the balcony.

After unpacking what little clothing she had, the woman hid
the SIM card purchased at the airport in the lining of her shoe. She undressed
and wrapped herself in one of the hotel’s threadbare towels, picked up her toiletry
bag and room key and headed for the communal bathroom at the end of the
landing.

Standing under the spray, washing off two days of travel
grime, the woman felt the occasional niggling doubt, sending a tingle of
anxiety through her shoulders, arms and torso. The Trade was a serious business
– as its name suggested. Life was cheap, yet dealing in those lives created
vast fortunes for amoral individuals who played by their own set of rules.
These players weren’t going to throw open the door and welcome her into their
midst because she had cute little orphans for sale. She had to find an in and
then be prepared to prove her intentions and trustworthiness by passing
whatever initiation they had in store. If she didn’t play it right, her fate
didn’t bear thinking about. Then there were law enforcement personnel to avoid
– and not only local police but agents from a number of countries’ intelligence
organizations operating covertly in Cape Verde, the hub of international
trafficking.

The woman put this out of her mind and concentrated on the
next move. She needed a contact through whom to ease her way into the Trade. It
had to be someone on the fringe, someone not too smart, a bit player she could
blackmail.

W
hen
Hans and Penny entered the Tima Tima the following day, Mike sat sipping coffee
and staring intently at his laptop screen. They both understood what he was
going through. The café bar itself was quite some place, its bohemian ambience
and neorustic decor setting it apart from the local food parlors,
churrascarias
and touristy eateries. The proprietor had acquired a series of enlarged prints
of Jack Kerouac’s original manuscript for
On the Road
, including authentic
rum stains, handwritten by the Beat Generation author without paragraphs on a
single roll of paper, which ran in segments along one of the café’s redbrick walls.

“Hans, Penny!” Mike looked delighted to have company with
whom he had something in common – as opposed to police, journalists and hotel
staff. He stood up and welcomed them with a hearty handshake. “Let me get you
some drinks. The espresso’s good.” He raised a thimble-size cup. “Or if you
want milky, I’d go for a
galão
.”

“
Galão
sounds great for me, Mike,” said Penny, “but I
reckon Hans will have a beer.”

“Brilliant. Then I’ll join you, Hans. I’m glad you suggested
this place. I’ve been coming here every day to get out of the hotel.”

Mike caught the waitress’s attention and asked for the
drinks and two more menus.

“So, how’s tricks?” he asked, attempting a smile, but his haggard
face spoke of only exhaustion, his bloodshot eyes of utter helplessness.

“No, you go first,” said Hans. “And lunch is on us.”

Mike took a deep breath and closed his laptop screen. “It’s
like whoever took Holly was invisible. Several people have come forward saying
they were on that part of the beach the same day, some even camped right near
us.”

“But no one saw a thing?” Hans ventured.

“Nothing, Hans.”

“I’ve come across this in my detective work. Those folks who
did actually see Holly being led away wouldn’t have registered it, because
their brains weren’t interpreting it as a crime, and the other beachgoers could
have been preoccupied with a million and one other things at that exact moment.”

“Yes, yes.” Mike shifted forward in his seat.

“It’s like a thief who goes into an electrical store and
walks out with a huge TV. Because he’s not acting all suspicious and no one’s screaming
‘Thief,’ he gets away with it. It’s called crime in plain sight.”

“How come you’ve explained to me in ten seconds what no policeman
here has been able to?” Mike looked both gobsmacked and cheated.

Hans spread his palms and gave an
I think you know the answer
to that
look, adding, “It’s my job, Mike.”

The waitress returned with the drinks and menus and gave
them time to order.

“I hope this doesn’t sound inappropriate,” said Mike, “but
have you noticed how much you look forward to eating out when you’re in a
crisis?”

“Drinking beer too,” said Hans. “It’s a combination of
replacing energy lost through stress and taking your mind off things.”

“And having an excuse to eat whatever you want and stick it
on a credit card,” Penny joked, and the three of them laughed.

“Well, I’m going for the
jagacida
– bean and sausage
stew,” said Mike. “I’ve had it every time here, and it’s really good.”

“If it fills a hole, then I will too,” said Hans, never picky
when ordering food.

Penny had the same, and as they dipped chunks of freshly
baked bread into the delicious
jagacida
, Mike filled them in on events.

“The media back home is having a field day – which has been
hard for Carrie to deal with on her own. But it’s getting difficult for me here
too, what with the local backlash.”

“Really?” Penny stopped her fork midway to her mouth.

“The islanders thrive on tourism. The more this thing drags
out and the more journalists arrive here to stand on public beaches giving
frantic news updates, the harder it’s gonna be on their economy.”

“Let’s hope there’s an end to this sometime soon,” said
Penny.

“I think if the British police had been given access to the
case, it may well have been solved by now.” Mike shook his head and blew
through pursed lips. “But the cops here are next to useless.”

“Have they given any indication who might be involved?”
asked Hans, locking eyes with Penny for a moment.

“No. Why do you ask?” Mike put down his knife and fork,
having spotted the nonverbal communication.

Hans looked at Penny again before continuing, not wanting to
give too much away but feeling it disingenuous to keep the desperate man in the
dark.

“Mike, we have reason to believe Jessica has also been
taken.”

The Englishman’s mouth fell open. “B-b-but I thought you
said she had drowned . . . When your yacht sank, I mean.”

“We were tipped off she was pulled from the water and passed
on to the traffickers,” said Hans.

“So . . .” Mike wrung his hands, struggling to get his head
around the dramatic turn of events. “We’re in the same situation.”

“It might even be the same kidnappers,” Hans replied. “Which
is why I need to ask you if the police have ever mentioned a guy named Eddy
Logan to you.”

Mike thought for a moment, but only out of politeness. “No,
Hans. They looked into a couple of local guys, and nothing came of it. But I’d
remember if a Westerner’s name came up.”

“When you first arrived, you said you flew into Praia and
spent a couple of days here,” Hans said.

“Yeah, we did.”

“Did you visit a bar and restaurant called Chico’s?”

No, I’ve not heard of it. Why are you asking this stuff?”

“Because Logan is a name that’s been mentioned, and Chico’s
is the bar he runs.” Hans screwed up his paper napkin and chucked it in the
empty bowel.

“Have you been to the police?”

“Believe me, Mike, if we had anything to go on, we would.
But at this stage the cops would only blunder in and send the traffickers scurrying
underground. I’m making inquiries, and I’ve got powerful people behind me and
the resources I need to do a thorough investigation. But I can’t stress enough how
important it is for the girls’ safety that you don’t tell
anyone
we’ve
had this conversation.”

“No, of course not, Hans,” said Mike, looking ever more bewildered.
“You have my word.”