Dead Asleep (28 page)

Chapter 50

K
emmer headed back to the dock and the
Siren's Song.
He wanted off the cursed island and away from them all. While the storm was dangerous, he figured he could take the boat offshore far enough to be safe from Joseph but not so far as risk capsizing. He'd stay in the protected part of the harbor until the rain lessened and then strike out for St. Martin, leaving the nightmare behind.

He made it to the dock and onto the
Siren's
deck. The boat pitched and rolled and water washed over the sides, but it seemed seaworthy. He went below, closing the door against the wind and rain with a sigh. He froze when he saw Joseph standing in the living area holding a cushion from the nearby sofa. The cabinets in the wet bar were thrown open and bottles, napkins, and glass were strewn all over the floor. Joseph had unzipped the cushion's cover and seemed to be about to cut the pillow open with a knife. His rifle was propped against the sofa's arm.

“Where did she put the minerals?” Joseph asked.

Kemmer swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry. “In the cooler abovedecks.” He was lying, trying to buy some time.

“I already looked there.”

“Then she must have taken them with her.”

Joseph dropped the pillow, picked up his gun.

“Don't!” Kemmer said.

He felt the bullet enter his chest in a flare of pain. A second shot rang out and he watched Joseph stagger and then fall. Kemmer looked behind him and saw his tenant from St. Martin holding a gun. In two strides he was at Kemmer's side and caught him as Kemmer began to slide to the floor. The man helped him into a comfortable position.

“Let me get something for the wound,” he said. “Don't move and don't close your eyes.” The man disappeared and seconds later returned with a dish towel that he wadded up and balled against the wound.

“What's your name?” Kemmer said. “I guess it's not the one on the lease.” The man gave him a grim smile.

“Cameron Sumner,” he said. “The wound looks bad, but I'm hoping he didn't nick an artery. I'm going to load you in the car and get you to the airstrip. We're flying out of here.”

Kemmer nodded. “I always said you seemed like a useful guy to have around.”

Then, despite the warning not to, he closed his eyes.

Chapter 51

I
van Shanaropov rose as his guests filed into the library. There were four, one African from Sierra Leone who dealt in blood diamonds, one Romanian who acted as the Eastern European business manager for a Somali warlord, the head of a vicious drug cartel from Mexico, and the lieutenant of an equally vicious rebel stronghold in Chechnya. Of them all, Shanaropov distrusted the Chechnyan the most, probably because he'd dealt with the breed many times over the years and they inevitably would attempt to double-cross him in one way or another. He continued to deal with them only because, as a Russian living close to their borders, they were impossible to avoid. All of the men took in the room, gazing at the bookshelves and expensive furnishings with approval and respect. The Mexican's gaze was locked on the sparkling blue bullets that Shanaropov had deliberately placed on the desk in full view. He nodded at each of them and reached for a cigar box.

“Gentlemen, please take a seat, and may I offer you a smoke?” He spoke in English. The Romanian, African, and Mexican all nodded and chose a cigar before moving to the library's sitting area. Only the Chechnyan refused. Getting ready to screw me and not willing to accept any gifts? Shanaropov thought. Or too ignorant to understand English? He kept his face neutral, however, closed the box and replaced it on the desk.

“They are Cuban. I hope you enjoy them,” Shanaropov said. He bent his wrist to look at his watch. He wore a Patek Philippe Platinum World Time watch worth over two million dollars. Shanaropov had never agreed with the standard view that one was born with class, one didn't purchase it. He'd proven the adage wrong time and again. His homes were on the finest, most exclusive islands, his cars were exotic, and his watch was considered one of the most expensive in the world. Wealthy men came to him when their businesses floundered and were happy to accept his loans in order to avoid the disgrace of bankruptcy. These men would rather pay usurious rates of interest than let the world know they were failures. He routinely loaned the funds and then destroyed the businesses when the inevitable day came that the assets were forfeited to him. Many never knew that their businesses had foundered not because they were bad businessmen, but because he had paid well to disrupt their contracts and destroy their reputations and customer base.

Only two companies that he'd recently attempted to undermine managed to continue as going concerns. One was Pure Chemistry, a small laboratory run by the Caldridge woman, who had interfered with a past mission of his, and the other was Darkview, a much larger company that had thwarted many of his more shadowy operations worldwide. Neither business was aware of his backdoor manipulations, of course, but Shanaropov had every intention of prevailing against them. He'd sell the bullets and then devote his entire attention to destroying the two. The Darkview company, in particular, would be a wonderful asset to acquire. Shanaropov knew that Edward Banner employed some of the best and most unique set of contract security personnel in the world. Shutting down their operations would leave him free to continue without anyone hindering his progress.

“Are those the bullets?” The Mexican pointed to the desk, and his comment snapped Shanaropov out of his reverie.

“They are,” he said.

“I have heard that they have a tremendous failure rate. Is this so?” the Romanian asked. Shanaropov shrugged in his best imitation of nonchalance.

“While they do misfire at times, this is to be expected given their construction. I think we all know how difficult it is to create a bullet without the usual metal jacket. Some reduction in performance is to be expected.” Shanaropov took out his own cigar, cut the end, and lit it. He puffed for a moment while he thought about what to say next.

In fact the bullets failed nearly ninety percent of the time. He'd told his salesmen to claim a much lower misfire rate in order to lure potential buyers. His own venture partner, a pockmarked Bulgarian who assisted him from time to time with arms sales, had told him to forget about selling them. The minerals to make them were rare, difficult to mine, and the resulting product so poor as to be nearly useless. Shanaropov, though, had decided to go forward with the sale. He would use the excuse that the bullets were so rare that he couldn't allow anyone to test them as a way to avoid revealing the true extent of their failure.

One of the long French windows rattled as the wind pummeled it. Rain sheeted down the glass.

“Filthy night,” the Romanian said. “Will this storm turn into a hurricane?”

Shanaropov shook his head. “It's predicted to taper eventually.”

“What about the quarantine?”

Shanaropov waved his cigar. “Not to worry. No one in this villa has contracted the disease, and the rest have left the island.” The last was a lie. Ten of his staff slept and one had already died, but he saw no need to alarm his guests. “I can't imagine a quieter, or safer, place to host a transaction such as this, can you?”

The Romanian nodded. “You have tremendous luck. First to create the ideal bullet and then to have a deserted island to yourself to auction it.”

The Chechnyan eyed the ammunition. “How much?” The blunt question was what Shanaropov expected of the uncouth rebel.

“The bidding starts at one million dollars each.”

The Mexican snorted. “Are you crazy? For one bullet?”

“For one bullet. They cost at least half that to make, so consider it a deal.” This wasn't true, but none of the men before him could possibly have determined what the bullets cost to fabricate.

“And the gun?” This was from the African, who hadn't blinked at the cost. Shanaropov had chosen that one wisely. Money flowed in Africa, just not to the average African.

“Ten million,” he said.

“Ridiculous,” the Chechnyan said.

Shanaropov focused on him. “Too much to pay for a gun that can sneak past the Russian prime minister's metal detectors and security systems? I think not.” He looked at the Mexican. “Or for you to do the same with your country's president?”

The Mexican got a gleam in his eye as he stared at Shanaropov. He had boatloads of money, Shanaropov knew, and spent most of it on elaborate villas complete with zoos. Cost was not a significant factor for him.

It was, though, for Shanaropov. He'd made some improvident loans and the borrowers had defaulted, as predicted, but when they did it became clear that they'd claimed assets far in excess of reality. Shanaropov had been taken in, given the loan, and discovered the truth only after the defaults. On three different occasions the men's businesses were revealed to be nothing more than Ponzi schemes. Multibillion dollar Ponzi schemes, yes, on a vast scale, certainly, but schemes nonetheless. He had been furious. When he'd found out about the deception he arranged for one to die during his morning swim and another shot after writing his own “suicide” note. Still, the money was gone. While Shanaropov was far from broke, he never missed an opportunity to make more money.

The windows rattled while the men sat and contemplated the deal. Shanaropov's phone rang and Carl's name scrolled across the screen. He moved away from the others and answered it.

“The Caldridge woman is headed your way. She should be through the manchineel trees by now and roaming somewhere on the grounds.”

“Does she have a gun?” Shanaropov asked quietly while stepping away from the long window. No need to be shot through it.

“Hard to say. I chased her part of the way and she didn't fire, but that may not mean anything.”

“Find Carrow's boat and get the minerals she collected. We need those,” Shanaropov said.

“Fine, but the roads are bad. It'll be a while before I can get there and then return to the villa.” Shanaropov turned back to the room and looked at the collection of killers in his library.

“I'll handle it,” he said.

S
hanaropov crossed to the desk, grabbed the bullets, poured them back into a wooden box and headed to the door.

“Wait here,” he said to the buyers. He carried the bullets into a separate den, where a two-foot-by-two-foot safe, built into the wall, hung open. He placed the box inside, next to the small gun case that held the pistol fashioned from the minerals, and closed it. The electronic keypad lit, and after the door locked he walked to a far wall, where a glass case held a selection of rifles, ammunition, and several guns. He opened the door and selected three AK-47s, one nine-millimeter pistol, and one rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

When he returned to the other room, Shanaropov found the buyers in the same seats as before. Cigar smoke hung thick in the air. The African eyed the guns hanging off Shanaropov's shoulder and shot to his feet.

“What are you doing with those?” he asked. His hand went to his waistband in what Shanaropov supposed was a purely reflexive act, searching for a gun that wasn't there, because they'd been frisked and disarmed before docking at Terra Cay.

“We have company. Emma Caldridge. A sometime agent of the Darkview company. She's somewhere on the grounds, and it occurred to me that I have four men known for their efficient handling of obstacles. I brought the weapons to assist you in shooting her down.”

“I hate Darkview,” the Romanian said. “Edward Banner has deployed his mercenaries throughout the shipping industry, and my employer's pirates are being killed before they can get near a boat. Business is suffering.”

Shanaropov nodded. “Then you understand why I want his agent dead. I've heard that there is another on the island as well. Named Cameron Sumner. I have my own assassin working on killing him, but you should take precautions.”

Shanaropov handed out the AKs to the Mexican, Romanian, and African. He gave the Chechnyan the nine-millimeter.

“I want the RPG,” the Chechnyan said.

Shanaropov shook his head. He'd be damned if he was going to give the Chechnyan the biggest weapon he had. As it was, he took a massive risk, arming these killers. Any one of them could turn on him, shoot him, and spend the rest of the evening attempting to blast open the safe. But it couldn't be helped. Joseph had already failed to kill the chemist and Sumner was out there somewhere. “I'm going to use it.”

The Chechnyan frowned. He analyzed the weapon in his hand. “I need another magazine.”

Shanaropov handed him one.

“Where is she?” the Mexican said.

“I don't know. Somewhere out there,” Shanaropov pointed to the windows that faced the yard. The wind still buffeted the glass and rain poured down.

The Romanian huffed. “Senseless to go out in that looking for her.”

“Better to wait for her to come to us,” Shanaropov said. “I have no doubt that she will.”

“Why is that?” The African puffed on his cigar.

“Because she wants to stop the sale and take the bullets.”

“So they're that valuable?” The Mexican had a gleam in his eye. Of the three, Shanaropov thought that the Mexican would be the highest bidder. His hatred for the Mexican president was legendary.

Shanaropov nodded. “They are. She'll come. You'll see.”

The African ground out the cigar stub in the crystal ashtray on the desk.

“So where do you want us? We're not going to simply sit here until she decides to appear.”

“In the adjoining rooms. To the left and right of the hall. I'll leave this light on. She'll follow it, like an insect to a bulb. When she shows, fire on her.”

The men filed out of the library. Shanaropov waited until they were positioned in each room before he returned to the entrance and lowered himself to the floor. From that position he could see into the library, but at the first sign of trouble he would be able to withdraw into the hallway. He propped the RPG against the wall, removed a pistol from his pocket, and settled in to wait.