the question.
CHAPTER 34
Victor Westlake was attempting to sleep late on Saturday morning, but after the second call he got out of bed, made the coffee, and was contemplating a possible nap on the sofa when the third call jolted him and swept away any lingering drowsiness. It was from an assistant named Fox, who was currently keeping the Bannister/Baldwin file and waiting for something to monitor. There had not been a peep in over two weeks.
“It came from Customs,” Fox was saying. “Baldwin left Roanoke yesterday afternoon on a private jet and flew to Jamaica.”
“A private jet?” Westlake repeated, thinking about the $150,000 in reward money and wondering how long it might last if Baldwin was burning through it.
“Yes sir, a Challenger 604, chartered from a company in Raleigh.”
Westlake thought for a moment. “I wonder what he’s doing in Roanoke. Odd.”
“Yes sir.”
“Didn’t he go to Jamaica a few weeks back? His first trip out of the country?”
“Yes sir. He flew out of Miami to Montego Bay, spent a few days there, then went to Antigua.”
“I suppose he likes the islands,” Westlake said as he reached for fresh coffee. “Is he alone?”
“No sir. He’s traveling with a man named Nathaniel Coley, at least that’s what’s on his passport. However, it appears as though Coley is traveling with a fake passport.”
Westlake sat the untouched coffee back onto the counter and began to pace around the kitchen. “This guy got by Customs with a fake passport?”
“Yes sir. But keep in mind it was a private aircraft and the passport was not actually examined by Customs. All they had was the copy sent in by the charter service, and they checked it against the No Fly List. It’s pretty routine.”
“Remind me to fix that routine.”
“Yes sir.”
“So the question, Fox, is what’s Baldwin up to, right? Why is he chartering a private jet and why is he traveling with a man who’s using a fake passport? Can you answer these questions for me, and soon?”
“If those are my orders, yes sir. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how prickly the Jamaicans are.”
“No, you don’t.” In the war on drugs, not all battles were fought between cops and traffickers. The Jamaicans, like many police agencies in the Caribbean, had long resented the bullying from U.S. officials.
“I’ll get to work,” Fox said. “But it’s Saturday, here and there.”
“Be in my office early Monday morning, with something, okay?”
“Yes sir.”
Nathan Cooley awoke in a small, windowless room, dark except for the red glow of a digital monitor on a table near him. He was lying on what appeared to be a hospital bed-narrow with railings. He looked up and saw a bag of fluids, then followed the tube all the way down to the back of his left hand, where it disappeared under the white gauze. Okay, I’m in a hospital.
His mouth was as dry as salt and his head began to pound as he tried to think. He looked down and noticed the white Nike running shoes, still attached to his feet. They, whoever in hell they might be, had not bothered to cover him or dress him in a patient’s gown. He closed his eyes again, and slowly the fog began to lift. He remembered the shots of tequila, the endless mugs of beer, the craziness of Reed Baldwin as the two of them got smashed. He remembered having a few at his bar on Friday afternoon as he waited for his trip to the airport, then on to Miami. He must have had ten beers and ten shots. What an idiot! Blacked out again and now hooked to an IV. He wanted to get up and move about, but his head was screaming and his eyes were bleeding. Don’t move, he said to himself.
There was a sound at the door and a light came on. A tall, very dark nurse in a pristine white outfit entered the room in mid-sentence. “All right, Mr. Coley, time to go. Some gentlemen are here to take you.” It was English, but with an odd accent.
Nathan was about to ask “Where am I?” when three uniformed officers marched in behind the nurse and looked as though they were ready to beat him. All three were black with very dark skin.
“What the hell?” Nathan managed to say as he sat up. The nurse removed the IV and disappeared, closing the door hard behind her. The older officer stepped forward and whipped out a badge. “Captain Fremont, Jamaican police,” he said, just as they do on television.
“Where am I?” Nathan asked.
Fremont smiled, as did the two officers immediately behind him. “You don’t know where you are?”
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Jamaica. Montego Bay. In the hospital for now, but soon to be in the city jail.”
“How’d I get to Jamaica?” Nathan asked.
“By private jet, and a nice one.”
“But I’m supposed to be in Miami, at South Beach. There’s some mistake here, you see? Is this a joke or something?”
“Do we look like the joking type, Mr. Coley?”
Nathan thought it was odd the way these people pronounced his last name.
“Why did you try to enter Jamaica with a fake passport, Mr. Coley?”
Nathan reached for his rear pocket and realized his wallet was missing. “Where’s my wallet?” he asked.
“In our custody, along with everything else.”
Nathan massaged his temples and fought the urge to vomit. “Jamaica? What the hell am I doing in Jamaica?”
“We have some of the same questions, Mr. Coley.”
“Passport? What passport? I’ve never had a passport.”
“I’ll show it to you later. It’s a violation of Jamaican law to attempt to enter our country with a bogus passport, Mr. Coley. Under the circumstances, though, you have far more serious problems.”
“Where’s Reed?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Reed Baldwin. The guy who brought me. Find Reed and he can explain everything.”
“I haven’t met this Reed Baldwin.”
“Well, you gotta find him, okay? He’s a black guy, like you all, and Reed can explain everything. I mean, we left Roanoke yesterday around seven. I guess we had too much to drink. We were headed for Miami, to South Beach, where we were supposed to work on his documentary. It’s about my brother, Gene, you know? Anyway, there’s some big mistake here. We’re supposed to be in Miami.”
Fremont slowly turned and looked at his two colleagues. The glances they exchanged left little doubt they were dealing with a confused and babbling moron.
“Jail? Did you say ‘jail’?”
“Your next stop, my friend.”
Nathan clutched his stomach and his jaws filled with vomit. Fremont quickly handed him a lined waste bin, then took a step back to stay clear. Nathan puked and heaved and gasped and cursed for five minutes as the three officers inspected their boots or admired the ceiling. When the episode was mercifully over, Nathan stood and placed the waste bin on the floor. He wiped his mouth with a tissue from the table and took a sip of water. “Please tell me what’s going on,” he said in a scratchy voice.
“You’re under arrest, Mr. Coley,” Fremont said. “Customs violations, the importation of controlled substances, and possession of a firearm. Why did you think you could enter Jamaica with four kilos of pure cocaine and a handgun?”
Nathan’s jaw dropped. His mouth opened, but nothing escaped but warm air. He squinted, frowned, pleaded with his eyes, and tried again to speak. Nothing. Finally, he managed a feeble “What?”
