Andrew Gross - The Dark Tide

He twisted the lock of the security drawer a second time. When he went around into the shop, there were two men. The man who called out, sort of a circumspect smile in his dark features, stepped up to the counter. The other, tall in a beach shirt and a baseball cap, standing by the door.

“I’m Issa,” Michel said. “What can I do for you?” He placed his left foot near the alarm behind the counter, noticing the taller man still hovering suspiciously by the door.

“I’d like you to take a look at something, Monsieur Issa,” the mustached man said. He reached inside his shirt pocket.

“Stones?” Issa sighed. “This late? I was just preparing to leave. Is it possible we can reschedule for tomorrow?”

“Not stones.” The mustached man shook his head. “Photographs.”

Photographs. Issa squinted at him. The mustached man placed a snapshot of a man in business attire on the counter. Short, gray-flecked hair. Glasses. The photo looked like it had been cut out of some corporate brochure.

Issa put on his wire reading glasses and stared. “No.”

The man leaned forward. “This was taken some time ago. He may look different today. His hair may be shorter. He may not wear glasses anymore. I have a suspicion he may have come through here at some point, seeking to make a transaction. This transaction you would remember, Monsieur Issa, I’m sure. It would have been a large sale.”

Michel didn’t answer right away. He was trying to gauge who his questioners were. He tried to brush it off with a modest smile.

The mustached man smiled knowingly at him. But there was something behind it that Issa didn’t like.

“Police?” he questioned. He had arrangements with most of them. The local ones, even Interpol. They left him alone. But these men didn’t look the type.

“No, not police.” The man smiled coolly. “Private. A personal affair.”

“I’m sorry.” Michel shrugged his shoulders. “I have not seen him here.”

“You’re quite sure? He would have paid in cash. Or perhaps with a wire transfer from the First Caribbean Bank or the MaartensBank here on the island. Say, five, six months ago. Who knows, he may even have come back.”

“I’m sorry,” Michel said again, the specifics starting to alarm him, “I don’t recognize him. And I would if he had been here, of course. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to-”

“Let me show you this one, then,” the mustached man said, firmer. “Another photo. You know how these things sometimes work. It may freshen everything up again.”

The man pulled a second photo out of his breast pocket and laid it on the counter next to the first.

Michel froze. His mouth went dry.

This second photo was of his own daughter.

Juliette, who lived in the States. In D.C. She had married a professor at George Washington University. They’d just had a baby, Danielle, Issa’s granddaughter, his first.

The man watched Issa’s composure begin to waver. He seemed to be enjoying it.

“I was wondering if that refreshed your memory.” He grinned. “If you knew this man now. She’s a pretty woman, your daughter. My friends tell me there’s a new baby, too. This is a cause for celebration, Monsieur Issa. No reason they should ever be involved in nasty business like this, if you know what I mean.”

Issa felt his stomach knot. He knew precisely what the man meant. Their eyes locked, Michel sinking back on his stool, the color gone from his face.

He nodded.

“He’s American.” Michel looked down, and wet his lips. “As you said, he doesn’t look the same now. His hair is closely shaved to his head. You know, the way young people wear it today. He wore sunglasses, no spectacles. He came here twice-both times with local bank contacts. As you said, maybe six or seven months ago.”

“And what was the nature of the business, Monsieur Issa?” the mustached man asked.

“He bought stones, high quality-both times. He seemed interested in converting cash into something more transportable. Large amounts, as you say. I don’t know where he is now. Or how to reach him. He called me on his cell phone once. I didn’t take an address. I think he mentioned a boat he was living on. It was just those two times.” Michel looked at him. “I’ve never seen him again.”

“Name?” the mustached man demanded, his dark pupils urgent and smiling at the same time.

“I don’t ask for names,” Michel said back.

“His name?” the man said again. This time his hand applied pressure to Michel’s forearm. “He had a bank check. It had to be made to someone. You did a large transaction. You had to have a record of it.”

Michel Issa shut his eyes. He didn’t like doing this. It violated every rule he lived by. Fifty years. He could see who these people were and what they wanted. And he could see, by the intensity in this man’s gaze, what was coming next. What choice did he have?

“Hanson.” Issa moistened his lips again and exhaled. “Steven Hanson, something like that.”

“Something like that?” The man now wrapped his stocky fingers around Issa’s fist and squeezed. He was starting to hurt him. For the first time, Michel actually felt afraid.

“That’s what it is.” Michel looked at him. “Hanson. I don’t know how to contact him, I swear. I think he was living off his boat. I could look up the date. There must be a record of it at the harbor.”

The mustached man glanced back around to his friend. He winked, as if satisfied. “That would be good,” he said.

“So that makes everything okay, yes?” Michel asked nervously. “No reason to bother us again. Or my daughter?”

“Why would we want to do that?” The mustached man grinned to his partner. “All we came for was a name.”

STILL SHAKING, MICHEL closed up his shop and left shortly after. He locked the rear entrance to the store. That’s where he kept his small Renault, in a little private lot.

He opened the car door. He didn’t like what he’d just done. These rules had kept his family in business for generations. He had broken them. If word got out, everything they’d worked for all these years was shot.

As he stepped into the car and was about to shut the door, Michel felt a powerful force push at him from behind. He was thrown into the passenger seat. A strong hand pressed his face sharply into the leather.

“I gave you his name,” Michel whimpered, heart racing. “I told you what you wanted to know. You said you wouldn’t bother me anymore.”

A hard metal object pressed to the back of Issa’s head. The merchant heard the double click of a gun being cocked, and in his panic, his thoughts flashed to Marte, waiting for him at dinner. He shut his eyes.

“Please, I beg you, no…”

“Sorry, old man.” The pop of the gun going off was muffled by the Renault’s chugging engine. “Changed our minds.”

The first thing that came back was the data from Mustang World. The list of new subscribers Hauck had asked for.

Back at home, he glanced over the long list of names. One thousand six hundred and seventy-five of them. Several pages long. It was organized by mailing zip code, starting with Alabama. Mustang enthusiasts from every part of the globe.

From the bank trail he’d found at Dietz’s, it seemed a valid assumption Charles might be in the Caribbean or Central America. Karen told him they’d sailed around there. The bank manager on St. Kitts had told Hauck someone else had been looking for Charles. He’d also have to have access to these banks at some point.

But as he flipped through the long list, Hauck realized Charles could be anywhere. If he was even in here…

Slowly, he started to scan through.