The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) (6 page)

One month earlier

J
essica awoke from a deep sleep following the night spent
drifting on the ocean. She’d dreamt a bizarre repeating dream in which bad men
were trying to capture her and Papa was too busy sailing the yacht to stop
them. When she opened her eyes, the horror of the last twenty-four hours brought
reality crashing home.

In the feeble glow from a flickering bulb, she ripped off
the coarse gray blanket covering her and shook it, hoping and expecting to see Bear
drop out so she wouldn’t be alone. Since the death of Mom and JJ, Bear had been
her faithful companion, and to have him here now would have lessened the fear
and homesickness she felt.

Bear was gone, and Jessica remembered the last time she saw
him was when the seawater flooded into
Future
’s
cabin and washed
him away. As her eyes welled up, she took a deep breath and shook herself.

“Get a grip, funny face!” she said, echoing her father’s
favorite reprimand. “Sobs are for slobs!”

Jessica’s thinking helped, spurring her into action. She scanned
her surroundings but could only vaguely remember having been in such a place
before, when she was much younger.

Where is it?

It reminded her a little of the cellar beneath their home in
Maine – only the walls were built from large, crumbling yellow blocks covered
in damp mold and smelled like their kitchen did when Papa juiced vegetables
after his morning run.

The door was a modern internal type, smaller than whatever had
been the original and hemmed in with a rough-shorn timber surround. Jessica
wasted no time trying the handle, easing it downwards and pulling the door toward
her –
Damn!
It only opened an inch. Someone had bolted it from the
outside.

There were no windows in the room, and the same aging yellow
stonework formed the ceiling, so old that stalactites had formed. She sat back
down on the lumpy white mattress, its black pinstripes barely visible beneath
unsightly stains and grime.

Barefoot and wearing shorts and the T-shirt she had draped
over her head when the men plucked her from the sea, Jessica shivered in her
miserable dank prison. She wrapped herself in the blanket just as someone
started to undo the padlock.

Jessica stared at the door, fearful and confused, hoping it
was her father, who would pick her up in a bear hug, and everything would come
good.

The man entering the room had a bald head and goatee beard
and was definitely not her father.

“Ah, Maria,” he announced in an accent that wasn’t American.

“I’m
not
Maria,” she snapped with a slight tremble.

“Yes, you are,” said the man. “Sweet little Maria is going
to behave and make us a lot of money.”

“I’m not,” she spat, her eyes throwing daggers.

“Ha! Why not?”

“Because my papa’s gonna come and get me.”

“Is he?”

“Yeah, and he’s gonna kick your ass!”

“So your father is a fighter?” the man grunted.

“My papa is a
detective
and he was a
Navy SEAL
and he’s not afraid of
anything
.”

“Your father is dead,
Maria
. He died when your boat
sank, so we will find you a new family.”

He gave her a twisted smile and turned to leave.

Jessica leapt off the bed and kicked him as hard as she
could in the back of his leg.

“Ouch!”

The man spun around with a look of shock in his docile eyes,
then backhanded her across the face.

Jessica flew across the room and cracked her head on the bed’s
wooden frame, flopping onto the cold stone floor. She lay there paralyzed by
shock as the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth and she passed into
unconsciousness.

B
ack at the marina, Hans thanked Silvestre and his crew for their
efforts. Muttley had insisted the Concern would pay for the Angolan’s services,
but after exchanging business cards, Hans pressed a fat envelope into the old
man’s hand. With Penny’s help, he carried the scuba gear along the floating
pontoon, passing the variety of craft nosing up against it, which ranged from aging
wooden yachts to the latest million-dollar cruisers. Sitting in the cockpit
enjoying a late lunch in the sunshine, the German crew of
Edelweiss
threw
smiles and hellos and gave thumbs-ups upon seeing the dive gear, the scene and
sentiment far removed from Hans and Penny’s living nightmare.

At the marina office they stopped to say hello to Baba, the larger-than-life
Senegalese manager who had helped Penny when
Future
went missing. Upon hearing
the result of the search, he grasped their hands as tears welled in his kind
brown eyes.

“Anything I can do, Miss Penny, Mr. Hans, please let me
know.”

The street outside the marina was typical of Cape Verde, flanked
by two-story colonial builds painted in vivid pastel colors, most with spindly
wooden balconies, giving the impression of a frontier town. In this quiet part
of Mindelo, São Vicente’s port city, pickup trucks carrying trade goods and people-packed
Toyota minibuses cruised by. There were surprisingly few cars, though, and
those they saw were mostly Japanese models, their bodywork faring well in the
dry climate.

Hans was lost in thought in the afternoon heat, and as Penny
hailed a cab he found himself staring at a Fulani woman sitting at a table in an
open-fronted restaurant across the street.

The Fulani were Africa’s largest ethnic group. Centuries of conquest
and migration had resulted in them occupying vast expanses of land in a
longitudinal belt south of the Sahara. In keeping with the nomadic tribe’s tradition,
the woman wore a flowing yellow-and-lime-patterned robe and head scarf, a mesh
of colorful coral necklaces, gold hoop earrings, a nose ring and brass anklets,
with cowrie shells and silver coins attached to her long braided hair. She had blackened
her lips with indigo ink, sported henna tattoo sleeves on her hands, wrists, feet
and ankles, and had tribal scarification around her eyes and mouth. Even at a
distance she projected a palpable aura of grace, strength and unadulterated femininity.

But it wasn’t the Fulani’s appearance capturing Hans’ attention.
Something seemed odd. Perhaps that she sat on her own or appeared to be aware
of his gaze, glancing at him several times, nervousness or shyness evident in
her dark-brown eyes. Hans was about to say something to Penny when a cab pulled
up and his attention switched to helping the driver load the dive gear into the
trunk.

On the drive to the hotel, Penny made polite but subdued conversation
with the cabbie, who’d immediately sensed the couple’s anguish and ceased with
the tourist banter. After a time “
S
ão
os
pais da
menina
?” he whispered, asking if they were the parents of the little girl.

Penny said yes to keep it simple and
asked
how he knew.

The driver explained that the islanders had
followed the search for
Future
’s crew on the news and felt terrible
about the tragedy. The TV station had run a bulletin following Hans’ rescue by
the
Kimberley II
and another
announcing his return to Cape Verde
to recover Jessica’s body with the help of Silvestre, the islands’ very own treasure
hunter.

“But the senhor, he look different to the
one on the televisão,”
the driver queried.

“Oh.” Penny shrugged but chose not to
elucidate, for coordinating the media around the search, the team from the
Concern purposely concealed Hans’ and Jessica’s identities. “We don’t want our special
operative’s picture flashed around the world,” Muttley had said. “It’s a life
raft or a drifting yacht we want to draw attention to, not the faces of the
people inside.”

“And . . . no is lucky today?” the
driver asked softly.

“No, no luck,” Penny muttered, gazing out
over the ocean she had spent a lifetime upon but not feeling the usual longing
to return.

She wished there was something she could do to relieve Hans’
agony, compartmentalizing her own grief for his sake. With Jessica’s body still
missing, closure was impossible, and even if they had recovered her today, Hans’
mental state was a serious worry.

Arriving at the Grande Verde, Penny fished in her daypack
for her pocketbook, but the driver refused payment. After unloading the scuba
kit, he shook their hands, offering condolences while bowing his head.

Penny sat down on the suite’s vast leather couch and put her
arm around Hans. “What now, honey?”

“I don’t know. It feels wrong to go home.” Hans massaged his
eye sockets, then turned to her, seeking direction.

“Then we don’t,” Penny said promptly. “Let’s take a trip.
Anywhere, but let’s get off this island.”

“I know it’s crazy, but do you mind if we stay awhile? I
just . . .” Hans couldn’t explain his feelings.

“Hans, take all the time you need. But let’s get out of the
hotel tonight. I hear the seafood’s top-notch down at the front, and I’m
paying.”

A
fter
a shower and a change of clothes, Hans and Penny drank a few beers in the room
and then went down to the lobby, where Branca had one of the hotel’s cars ready
to take them downtown. Their driver was Paulo, a young mestizo, who had driven Penny
to the Grande Verde the night
Future
disappeared.

As Paulo drove out of the hotel’s grounds, he pushed a
button on the satnav set into the Mercedes’ center console, and a Portuguese
soap opera replaced the electronic map on the screen. The young man had no
problem keeping half an eye on the TV show as he sped along the ocean road,
weaving with ease around vehicles in their path. Hans and Penny looked at each
other and smiled, so amused at Paulo’s relaxed driving style they failed to
notice the taxicab that had tailed them from the hotel.

Paulo dropped them at Mindelo’s beachfront by a row of
open-air restaurants lining the promenade. They opted for Casa Frutos do Mar
and seated themselves at the only table not taken by locals and tourists
indulging in the exotic food fare on offer.

“Wow, this is nice,” said Penny, taking in the view over the
brightly painted fishing boats beached above the high-tide mark on the
postcard-yellow sand. “Perfect place to watch the sun set.”

“And have a liddle drink.” Hans mimicked their dear departed
Dutch friend Marcel, making Penny smile, then caught the waiter’s attention.

A bottle of red wine arrived, and Hans filled their glasses.

“What are you going to order?” Penny asked, scanning the
menu.

“I’m not sure. You’d think after a month in a life raft I’d
be sick of fish.”

“Oh, Hans! I’m so sorry.” Clutching a hand to her mouth, Penny
looked mortified. “When I suggested seafood, I didn’t think. We can go
somewhere else.”

“Don’t be silly. This is a
slightly
better setting than
what I’m used to – the restaurant doesn’t bob up and down, and the food won’t try
to escape.”

Penny smiled but fell silent, staring at her wine.

“You’re wondering what it was like being adrift,” Hans
tendered.

“If you don’t want to talk about it—”

“No, it’s fine. I just don’t know where to start.”

Penny reached for his hand across the table.

Hans took a gulp of wine. “When
Future
went down,
there was an almighty storm. I thought we – I mean, I
– was
done
for. The waves kept pummeling the raft, and I had to bail like a maniac to stay
afloat. I’ve never been so relieved to see the sunrise. When the emergency
rations ran out, I managed to put together some fishing gear – even used some
of your jewelry-making wire to make a trace.”

“You had my jewelry box?”

“It floated up when
Future
sank and pretty much saved
my life. The fishing got real good after a couple of weeks, since an ecosystem
grew beneath the raft – barnacles, seaweed, and then these minnows hatching outta
nowhere. I started to catch a few dorados. Just eating them raw was better than
any steak in a restaurant. Then the sharks came, bumping the raft all night.
Big whitetips, and those guys don’t mess around. Hell, when you’re out there
alone, it’s pretty terrifying.”

Penny shuddered.

“But sharks weren’t the biggest problem. I snagged a fishhook
on one of the raft’s inflation tubes just below the waterline. Started sinking right
away. Took two days swimming in shark-infested water to fix the damn leak and then
get the raft pumped back up.”

“Did you see any ships?”

“I saw ’em all right – damn used up all the flares on the
first one that passed. They just didn’t see me, though. Another ship ran us
down in the middle of the night.”

Penny caught the word “us” but didn’t say anything.

“Making water was the toughest challenge. You know that
hand-cranked desalinator I bought in Plymouth?”

“From Old Bill in the chandlery?”

“Yeah, but it was missing from the emergency ditch kit,
along with the radio and rescue beacon. I think Jessie had been playing with
them and didn’t put them back in the bag. All I had was this solar still that
came with the raft – like a Second World War contraption that floated on the
sea and produced about a cup a day. It wasn’t much, but enough.”

Now it was Hans’ turn to fall silent. After a time he let
out a morose chuckle. “I can’t believe I thought she was there with me the
whole time . . . and it was that goddamn bear.”

Penny squeezed his hand. “Dr. Preece talked to me about that
in Boston. He said the trauma you went through brought on—”

“Reactive psychosis. I know. You just never think that kinda
illness is gonna affect you.” Hans shook his head slowly and emptied his glass.

“Do you remember anything about the rescue?” Penny reached
for the bottle.

“No. I was out of it by that stage. I only remember waking
up in the hospital—”

A middle-aged white guy approached their table. He’d been
walking through the crowded forecourt, handing out leaflets.

“Can I give you one of these, mate?” he asked in an English
accent.

“Sure,” Hans replied, assuming it was a flyer for a
nightclub or a music event – though the guy looked a little too respectable to
be hustling for a buck. What Hans saw instead made him jump to his feet.

Headed “Missing,” the leaflet featured the face of a girl
about Jessica’s age, the text in English and Portuguese explaining that Holly had
gone missing from this beach a week ago.

“Oh, buddy. Please, please take a seat!” Hans pulled out a
chair.

“Thanks,” said the Englishman, the black bags beneath his
eyes speaking for him. “I’ve been passing these out all day. I’m Mike Davenport
by the way.”

“I’m Hans, and this is Penny. You’re on holiday, Mike, I
take it.”

“That was the plan. We flew into Praia and spent a couple of
days exploring the city before taking the ferry up here to enjoy the beaches. But
it all went
so
wrong. She was building a sandcastle no more than five
meters away from where my wife and I were sunbathing. When I looked up, she was
gone.”

“What have the police said?” asked Penny.

“They said several kids go missing from the island every
year, but usually migrants whose parents arrive here illegally, so it doesn’t get
reported.”

“Oh God!”
Mike’s head dropped into his hands as he
fought back tears.

In Hans’ work for the Concern he’d been involved in several such
cases. Cape Verde was both a source country and a hub for human trafficking – known
in law enforcement circles as “the Trade.” Ruthless criminal networks targeted
economic migrants and impoverished locals, duping them into drug-smuggling
operations, domestic and industrial servitude and the sex trade, trafficking
them as far as the Americas, Europe and the Middle East.

The fate of some of the children was particularly depraved, kidnapped
to supply sophisticated pedophile rings. Politicians, senators, prime
ministers, the rich and famous, even royalty were allegedly involved, but with the
power, money and connections to cover their tracks, the links were hard to
prove.

As the sun lowered to the horizon, setting the sky ablaze
with a sprawling palette of pinks, yellows, grays and silver blue, Hans ordered
Mike a beer and told him about Jessica.

“Oh, guys, I didn’t mean to add to your grief. I-I—”

“It’s not a problem, Mike.” Hans gripped the desperate man’s
shoulder. “Listen. Go back to your wife and get some rest. Penny and I will
hand out the rest of these leaflets.”

“Are you sure?” Mike’s mouth fell open.

Hans took a business card from his wallet and slid it across
the table.

“More than sure,” said Penny, knowing it would do them both
good to focus on something else for a while.