Apex Page 7

  Heat found the overview map at the front of the tome, then turned to the page where the maps of the coastal region began. With no time to read or digest any of the information, she snapped photos of the maps with a tiny camera so she could peruse them later. She planned to fudge a bit on the kid’s ten-minute time limit but knew she couldn’t push it too far. From the sound of things, he was definitely sticking his neck out for those fifty euros. Heat didn’t want to be responsible for getting him fired.

  She had almost photographed all of the coastal maps when she heard the door open. With a start, she pocketed the camera in her shorts and turned to confront the kid. Shit!

  “What are you doing in here?” demanded a stern older man wearing a tan linen suit with a pale blue kerchief sticking up from the breast pocket, who glowered at her from behind square-rimmed spectacles.

  “Consulting maps,” Heat said calmly. This old bastard wasn’t about to ruffle her feathers.

  “No.” He strode quickly across the room, snatched the atlas and snapped it shut with authority. “Permission is required to enter this room, mademoiselle. Who let you in here?”

  “The door was open. And why is permission required to view maps? Geographical knowledge should be available to the public.”

  “It is available with permission, which you do not have. These are delicate archives. My assistant must have left the door unlocked, the fool.”

  “Are you the head librarian?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I continue to browse the maps?”

  “Absolutely not. Now please leave this room, or I shall be forced to have you removed from the building.” He shelved the atlas.

  “Great! So where am I supposed to find accurate, detailed maps of this area?”

  He turned and leveled a hostile smile at her, the sort that might turn into a raging grimace in an instant. “I suggest you try Google Maps or purchase a good travel guide, mademoiselle. Good day.”

  She thought about offering a bribe—she had over nine hundred euros remaining—but judging from the man’s demeanor and dress, particularly his gold Rolex watch, she didn’t think it would be enough. And as much as she loved to bait and taunt assholes like this librarian, she recognized a losing proposition. She’d said enough, perhaps too much, already.

  More determined than ever to discover just what the fuck these people were hiding, Heat sat down at a corner table in the reading room, far from the closest person. She took her laptop from her backpack, powered on, and entered the library’s wi-fi password. The people who had hacked Josh’s email accounts might very well be at work on her own, so she’d created a TorChat profile before leaving DC. She pushed in the flash drive for the Tails operating system that would allow her onto the dark web anonymously, opened the Tor browser, and logged into TorChat profile A1MuckRaker.

  No messages from Paws, which meant he hadn’t gotten the cell phone running. She needed him for more than that, however.

  At footsteps behind her, she turned and saw the librarian level a dubious glance in her direction as he walked by and then disappeared into an office. Eat a dick, buddy. She turned back to her computer and hit up Paws on TorChat: U there? Their conversation began almost immediately.

  Katpawzz420: Yeh where the fuk else would I be?

  A1MuckRaker: Any luck on the phone?

  Katpawzz420: Nah it’s pretty much fuked. Sorry.

  A1MuckRaker: Shit really?

  Katpawzz420: Yeh don’t get me started. More pissed than u r trust me.

  A1MuckRaker: Dunno about all that lol

  Katpawzz420: Hows shit going down there?

  A1MuckRaker: Not so good. At library, these people are secretive af! Weird shits up. Need some help. Can you get me into a satellite again? I need some detailed pics of F Guiana coast out to a few miles asap.

  Katpawzz420: ah she only hits me up when she needs a satellite. Momma warned me about gold diggers like you...

  A1MuckRaker: lmao fuck you, you know it ain’t like that baby...

  Katpawzz420: Whatever u say (sigh). Anyway let me see what I can find. They’re constantly updating the codes but I can find something.

  A1MuckRaker: Cool can I control it again?

  Katpawzz420: Depends what I find. Stand by.

  While Paws worked back in DC, Heat plugged her camera into the laptop and downloaded the pictures she’d taken in the map room. Paws hit her up about five minutes later.

  Katpawzz420: Breaking in now. Ur new boyfriend w u?

  A1MuckRaker: lmao not my bf asshole u know me better than that.

  Katpawzz420: not bangin yet lol?

  A1MuckRaker: ur getting awfully personal. That bud making you horny? U know I’m not into government types.

  She thought about Max in an intimate context and not for the first time. Not government anymore, just a hardass and an unknown quantity. She couldn’t deny her interest—the guy had an aura of danger and mystery about him that would interest all but the frumpiest hausfrau. Not hard to look at either, especially for an older man. She liked the cut of his face, his strong jawline, and hazel eyes.

  Honesty was his best quality however. Heat could smell bullshit from a thousand yards away and had yet to detect the stink on Max. But she wasn’t the sort to become invested in any man if she could help it, even for a night. Steer clear and don’t complicate shit. “You’re only human” is no excuse...

  Katpawzz420: We’ll know soon enuff...

  Heat wasn’t sure if he spoke of Max or the satellite and didn’t bother asking. She began looking at the pictures as she waited, thirty-two in all.

  She heard a chair being slid back over the carpet. Looking up, she saw a tall man roughly her own age sit down at a table about ten feet away. God damn... Her eyes remained upon him. He had skin the color of creamed coffee, and his well-tailored beige suit concealed a lean, muscular frame. She didn’t care for his shaved head, but his face more than made up for it. Denzel Washington in his heyday had nothing on this guy.

  He noticed her, flashed a quick and perfect smile, then opened a laptop.

  Despite his movie-star looks, Heat remained suspicious of him. He radiated the polished, official vibe of a cop or government agent. Which government though? But maybe she was just being paranoid and judgmental. He might be a businessman or one of the professors. She quickly dismissed the latter, however—his sartorial perfection ruled out that occupation.

  That he was using a laptop so close by put her on even higher alert. The library didn’t have a secure wi-fi system according to the warning that had flashed when she’d logged in. He could be hacking me right now. She hastily messaged Paws: Send pics gotta go sorry. She logged out of TorChat, exited the dark web, and googled a page on tarpon fishing.

  She remained at her table for about fifteen more minutes pretending to read articles about tropical saltwater fishing; then she packed up her computer and departed. Still curious about the handsome man, she decided to at least find out if he was local or American. She had a decent ear for dialects in all the languages she spoke and figured she could gauge the man’s origins with one simple question in French.

  She paused before him. “Pardon me, sir, do you have the time?”

  He consulted his watch, a pricey silver Breitling. “Just after twelve-thirty, mademoiselle.”

  Local without a doubt. And a god to boot. She found his shining dark-green eyes absolutely captivating and more than a bit mischievous. Flawless French rolled off his tongue in a resonant voice poured from liquid gold. Heat actually regretted having to leave him behind, but she thanked him and turned for the door, wondering how long it would take for her to regain concentration on the job at hand.

  “Did you find everything you needed?” the man asked as she turned away.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment, a bit taken aback.

  “Really?” Up clo
se, his smile nearly blinded her. “I thought you were looking for maps.”

  Heat switched on her bitch face, well worn from constant use over the years. “Maybe I am... Why would that interest you, sir?”

  He produced a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, flipped it open to expose a gold badge. “Inspector Jean Antoine Baptiste. I’m with the city police department.”

  ***

  Fidgeting a bit in his sweat-soaked shirt, Max rapped the brass knocker on the front door of a baronial home that he guessed was of French colonial design. This had best fucking pan out.

  Unlike Marklin’s contact Matt Ruddick.

  To Max’s utter surprise and annoyance, Ruddick had proven less than helpful. A ranking government nabob, the man was obviously eager to end their meeting. He arrived an hour before Max from the US Embassy in Suriname, the closest one, and wasted no time claiming ignorance to all goings-on in French Guiana. Ruddick copped to being former CIA before switching to the Foreign Service. If he still served the CIA, a definite possibility, then he’d either stonewalled Max or he really was ignorant.

  Max figured it could go either way.

  Ruddick at least supplied the name of the sole US Foreign Service Officer living in Cayenne, Chester Weems, then departed hastily with his bumbling assistant Barnes back to Suriname. Thankfully Max could google the address himself.

  A plump older woman in a gray maid’s uniform, obviously a local, answered the door.

  “I’m here to see Chester Weems, please.” He anticipated a blank look and a question in French; he’d already received that treatment from a couple of hotel employees that morning. I need to learn at least one foreign language before I die.

  “Right this way, sir,” she responded in French-accented English, shocking Max to the core.

  Well, she does work for an American diplomat.

  She likewise didn’t ask his name. Max supposed just being an obvious American had granted him entry.

  The maid ushered Max into the dark and mercifully air-conditioned foyer. The place had been built long before the advent of air conditioning, thus the ceilings soared well over twelve feet in height. I doubt it did much to cool the place. Guiana resembled a steam room housed inside a convection oven. Even August DC humidity paled in comparison.

  She led him through the house, which was luxuriously wainscoted and floored in ebony, and halted before a tall door topped with a glass transom.

  At her knock, an upbeat voice called, “Please enter.”

  The maid opened the door and departed.

  Max entered a spacious, airy office. About thirty feet of empty floorspace separated door from bureaucrat, the area covered by a large Persian rug. Ahead, a monolithic wooden desk lay cluttered with stacks of paperwork, framed pictures, and scattered knickknacks, mostly bobblehead figures of various Chicago Cubs. A Cub’s pennant hung on the wall behind the desk, below a master’s diploma in political science from Northwestern University. On the wall to Max’s left hung the familiar official portraits of the Commander in Chief and Vice President, ubiquitous for any government office, along with the current Secretary of State.

  Clad in a pristine white dress shirt, blue silk ascot, and tan slacks, Chester Weems stood from his massive leather office chair and extended his hand to Max. They shook and introduced themselves, Max using the alias Michael Adams. Like Ruddick, Weems exemplified the elite government breed, at least in terms of looks. Though roughly fifty years old, he appeared lean and healthy, without a single gray strand in his freshly lacquered brown hair. His blue eyes looked animated, even interested, as they shook hands.

  Glad hander. Let’s see what you got.

  “Great to meet you, Mike, have a seat.”

  Max thanked Weems and did just that.

  “So what can I help you with today? No wait, let me guess... You’re down here to work and you need a visa. I can get you in touch with the proper French officials lickety-split, no worries.” He swiped a flat hand above his desk, proof positive that Chester Weems could easily slice through the spiderweb of French bureaucratic red tape. His gleaming smile never shut off, a shining example of the art of cosmetic dentistry.

  “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” Max said.

  “So you need help getting home, then? Not a problem.”

  “No.”

  His static smile wavered for an instant. He appeared nonplussed. “I see. Then what can I do for you?”

  “I need a bit of information on the local geography. Matt Ruddick from the embassy in Suriname sent me.”

  “Oh great! Matt’s a super guy!”

  “Uh, yeah... He sure is.”

  “Any friend of Matt’s is a friend of mine. Fire away, Mr. Adams; I’m all ears.”

  Max had expected Weems would be CIA. And I’m the King of Siam. This guy was either legit Foreign Service or one of the finest actors Max had ever met. He’s like the State Department’s version of Michael Scott.

  “Well, as I said, I need some geographical information, particularly regarding the islands off the coast.”

  “Hmm...” Weems looked aside, squinted a bit in thought. “That’s not really my area of expertise, Mike. There’s an excellent bookstore in the government district that might have something on that. Oh, and the New Library at the Rectorat de Guyane. I’m certain they’ll have what you need.”

  “I think I need more in-depth information. I came down here in my yacht to do some fishing, and it seems the maps of the coastal islands are a bit inaccurate.”

  “Inaccurate how?”

  “Incomplete would be a better word.”

  Weems looked to the high ceiling, perplexed yet again. Then his mouth fell open and light returned to his eyes. “Oh... yes, yes, now I understand.”

  Sure about that?

  Weems sighed, shook his head. “Yes, the coastal islands. That’s going to be a tough nut to crack, Mike.”

  “How so?” Max carried ten grand American in his pocket and sensed he’d be breaking out the Benjamins soon.

  “Well, I don’t know if you’re aware, but French Guiana isn’t actually a country—”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Very good. So this area is technically a region of France.”

  When Weems didn’t continue, Max said, “And?”

  Weems chuckled uneasily. “Look, Mike, I’m going to give it to you straight—the French don’t like people visiting those islands for a number of reasons.”

  Again, Max had to prompt him to continue. Your stone wall’s gonna crumble, pal. Now get to it already!

  “Well, there have been problems out there over the years, mostly with tourists and artifact hunters trying to sneak onto Devil’s Island, or islands I should say, since several were used as prisons. Anyway, the French don’t want them touched whatsoever. They’re havens for wildlife now, Mike, and we all need to concentrate on making this a greener world. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Sure, whatever, but I’m not down here to pillage artifacts from Devil’s Island. I just want some accurate maps so I don’t run aground when I’m cruising at night. Can you supply them or connect me with someone in local government who can?”

  Weems shook his head. “Gee, Mike, I sure wish I could. But it all comes back to the French protecting their interests. They’re a very liberal and egalitarian nation these days, and the last thing they want is people poking around and dredging up the brutal, inhumane legacy of Devil’s Island. There have also been treasure hunters looking for sunken Spanish galleons out there. The French definitely don’t want that, and justly so—those salvage pirates have no intention of paying the proper share of treasure to the French government. It’s a very touchy—”

  “Look, I’m not here for any of that. I’m just trying to get in a little tarpon fishing away from the crowds.” Though it sickened him to do so,
Max decided to try a bit of glad handing. Perhaps Weems would respond favorably. He turned on what he considered to be his friendliest smile. “Chester, I work hard all year long.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I own a firm that produces specialized munitions for the DOD.”

  “Oh, that’s great! We have to keep our troops well supplied with the latest gear. With guys like you running the show back home, we’ll have the War on Terror won in no time.”

  “No doubt. But because of the War on Terror, I only get a couple weeks off a year to go fishing.”

  “I completely understand.”

  “So I’d really appreciate your help in this matter. I mean, all I need is an accurate map. How hard can that be?”

  “Pretty hard, Mike, pretty hard.”

  Max pulled a plastic bank-deposit bag from his pocket.

  “What...? What are you doing?”

  “That map’s worth a lot to me, Mr. Weems, and I know how valuable your time is.” He tossed the bag onto his desk. “Now let’s stop kidding around. I have fish to catch.”

  Weems stared uneasily at him for several seconds. “Is there money in that bag? Are you aware that it’s a federal offense to bribe a government official?”

  Max could take no more. “No, it’s fucking Cubs tickets, you nitwit!” He stood, leaned forward, and planted his hands squarely on Weems’ desk, toppling bobblehead Sammy Sosa in the process.

  Weems recoiled in fright, backpedaling his rolling throne until he hit the wall two feet behind him. “I—I don’t know what you want!”

  “Just what I fucking told you! Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

  “But I can’t do anything! And I don’t want your money. I would never dream of... of fleecing one of our valued military contractors.”