The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

land at Cape
Verde’s São Pedro airport.
    A month into his recovery, Hans couldn’t let Jessica’s body
lie at the bottom of the ocean any longer, despite the doctor’s advice to rest a
good deal more. Fingering the crude scar on his temple, he gave a slow but
decisive nod.
    Regular flights to Cape Verde took twenty-four hours, with
two transfers, then a further hop from the main island of Santiago to the
smaller São Vicente, ten miles off which the sunken yacht lay. Hans would have
had no problem taking this cheaper option, but Muttley insisted upon the Learjet
and booking them in at the Grande Verde.
    As they exited the plane and climbed down the stairs to the
tarmac, the hot Atlantic air brought a rush of memories and emotions back to
Hans. Suddenly feeling queasy, he grabbed Penny’s arm, fearing his legs would
give way. Fortunately, an airport car was there to drive them to the terminal,
where Karen Shapiro, the US ambassador, waited behind the sliding entrance
doors to greet them.
    “Hans, Penny, I wish our meeting could be under better
circumstances,” said the tall and attractive African American, who dressed island
style in a T-shirt, denim miniskirt and flip-flops and spoke in a Southern drawl.
    “It’s thoughtful of you to come,” Hans replied, knowing Karen
lived in the capital, Praia, on the island of Santiago, a two-hour flight away.
    Penny nodded a polite agreement.
    After shaking hands, Karen led them straight through immigration,
bypassing the kiosks and throwing a smile of acknowledgment to one particular official,
and out to one of the Grande Verde’s limousines.
    “Guys, I wanted to say a quick hi and give you an update on
the search for Future , but if you’d rather settle in and get some sleep
I can grab a room and meet you tomorr—”
    “Now’s fine,” Hans seized the opportunity. “If that’s okay?”
    “Of course,” Karen replied, and then introduced them to the
driver, who ushered them into the car.
    “Phew, what a relief!” said Penny, fanning the cold air
around her face.
    “Kinda gets you, don’t it?” said Karen.
    Hans appreciated the ambassador’s personable approach and
could tell her laid-back persona belied a tough woman who’d fought hard to achieve
all she had. It was good to have her on side.
    Karen slid open the refrigerated drinks cabinet set into the
Mercedes’ lunar-gray velour and, without asking, handed Hans and Penny ice-cold
cans of beer. Hans’ admiration for the woman went up a notch, and Penny’s thoughts
flicked to the gentle Dr. Preece.
    “It’s Strela, brewed here in the islands.”
    Karen was about to add that they’d probably tasted
it before but thought it best not to remind them.
    Preliminaries over, she gave them an update
on the search , choosing her words carefully, since she knew it wasn’t
recovering the wreckage itself that was at stake. Hans had specifically
requested that, when found, the yacht and the memories it contained remained on
the seabed. The idea of salvaging, repairing and selling Future on filled
him with dread, since the thought of a new owner sailing her gleefully around
the yachting community would keep the nightmare alive.
    “Hans, as you know the satellite images your
. . . contacts provided have been obstructed by the weather. We’re in
what’s known locally as the tempo de brisas . The—”
    “Time of the breeze,” Penny chipped in.
    “Ah! Fala portugu ê s, ” Karen complimented
her.
    “ Falo, um pouco ,” she replied modestly.
    “I’m sure you speak a lot more than I do,
honey!” Karen let out a self-effacing chuckle before continuing. “And as we’re
not looking to raise the yacht, there’s no point bringing in a salvage rig and
crew from Dakar. So, as I said on the phone, I’ve put one of our local guys on
it. You’ll like Silvestre. He’s quite a character and something of a celebrity around
these parts for his treasure-hunting escapades—”
    “But can he find the yach—?” Hans