Papal Return

THREE

THREEHALFWAY THROUGH THE minute of 22h51 the phone rang. I was lying on the bed in only my underwear, chewing away at a protein bar. I swallowed it down with a mouthful of water and answered.

“Pope, who is this?” I knew who it was.

“Cut the s**t Alex, it’s Clarence.” His voice sounded clear. Gruff from thousands of cigarettes and cigars smoked over decades. But strong.

“I know Clarence, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.” It was just before 2pm on his side.

“Yes, I thought it’s about time you got off your ass again and make me some money. How are you doing, all healed up?” He had a thick Bostonian accent. From the sound of it, he had a cigar in his mouth as we spoke.

“Well, I haven’t maimed or killed anybody in about a year, so that’s good. But the doctor’s happy, the implant is fine, I’m feeling pretty good...” And bored as hell.

“Kid, that arm won’t be perfect ever again. But I’ll take Alex Pope’s pretty good over most anybody else’s perfect every day.” He was trying to butter me up, and I told him so.

“Just being serious, these large American outfits are taking all the good new blood before I can get to them. It’s gotten quiet these past few months...but I saw this new thing come along and I thought you could help me with it, on two fronts actually...” he trailed off, ever the manipulator.

In the background were noises from what sounded like the ocean. Along with it music playing that could only be beach bar music.

Clarence Deeley had ‘retired’ to Costa Rica many years ago, setting up a bar for expats and western tourists right on the beach in Manuel Antonio. I’ve visited it a couple of times and every time it struck me as the ideal setup to settle down in. Maybe I would take Uncle Dave there one day for a beer—and so he and Deeley can shoot the military breeze about the good old days. Deeley lost an arm in Iraq in ’91. But he never really left the military life after that. He had—and maintained—plenty of contacts in the private sector after Desert Storm—which he exploited at first, since everybody wanted to do something for a fresh amputee.

He found me in a hospital in Paris after I had a technical run-in with the law. Technically, the run-in had been with a group of Romanian drug and people-smugglers. However, the consequences of that run-in precluded me from being able to extend my service for another contract with the Foreign Legion. It would also have precluded me from entering Europe or most other countries. He managed to get charges scrapped—provided I joined his group. I did.

“Tell me,” I said, curious.

He did. “Simple job, at least to my eyes. There’s this Chinese guy in town...your town to be precise.”

I sat up. I’ve never been too keen on taking a job in South Africa, much less Johannesburg itself. It’s just always been a bit close to home. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t, I just always avoided it.

“Okay, there are many Chinese people in town,” I said.

“This guy’s a poacher. Goes by the name of Samuel Cheng. He’s technically wanted by almost everyone that has any kind of special animal in their country. The only real warrant out on him is from Australia though.”

“They don’t give rewards, if it’s Australian government,” I said. “Unless they changed in the last seven months.” Most governments wouldn’t put up fugitive recovery rewards for poachers or traffickers unless the people involved were huge political fish or guys at the very top.

“It’s not government. But let me continue.” Deeley was trying to sell this but personally I didn’t need to be sold on nabbing a poacher.

“He’s been strongly involved in rhino horn recently. They think he’s the main guy getting the s**t out of South Africa and on into China. Then, get this, using that as currency for supplying some of those wannabe militant assholes up in Central Africa with all sorts of other weapons they can use to kill their people.”

The way it goes, apparently.

“So why is he not arrested by anybody?”

“You need to ask? Same way these things always go. Multiple countries and jurisdictions and treaties. No real leadership. Many governments and politicians simply don’t think it’s a big enough thing to spend resources on. Vietnam and China allow the ivory to flood in so their men think they can get better boners...”

He paused for effect, proud of his little joke.

“Nobody, apart from Australia, has any warrants open for his arrest. And that only dates from ’97 for smuggling kangaroo infants to Mexico.”

Rhino poaching from Southern Africa has gotten to be huge business. There have been reports and stories of poachers caught with equipment that could deck out a special forces platoon for a small country. The more local authorities clamp down on countering these poaching efforts, the rarer the product becomes in Asia, which hikes the price, which again makes it more lucrative to the foot soldiers coming in to get more animal parts. Bigger risk, bigger reward. Demand remains constant. Product becomes scarcer. Price goes up. Economics 101.

“Let me guess, nobody wants to spend money on getting him out for a twenty-year-old warrant, right?”

I heard Deeley sip on something. Beer, by the sound of his lips smacking afterwards.

“It’s one of those things where everybody knows he’s doing this, but just sort of hanging around until an American or Brit or something gets caught in the crossfire. Nobody really gives a s**t about animals or poor people living in some central African country. If it’s not on CNN, it doesn’t happen...” Harsh, sure. Also, true.

“Okay, who’s the punter? Who’s putting up the reward?” When privates put out these rewards, we always had to be careful; they weren’t always good for the money.

“It’s complicated, but follow along,” Deeley explained.

There was a very wealthy Australian family who had one of their sons running for public office. According to the brief they simply wanted to be seen fronting the money to apprehend him and bring him ‘to justice’, using the current environmental climate as platform. Getting Cheng apprehended and hauling him in front of the courts would keep the candidate in the press and on television for months. Nobody would know, presumably, how or why he got back into Australia.

It sounded straightforward as far as motives went. The family representatives had come directly to SCOUR—instead of putting it out on the open market. Presumably through some contacts Deeley maintained somewhere.

“They’re putting up a million dollars flat on his head, if delivered on time and on their terms,” Deeley finished.

I sat up on the bed, almost choking on another protein bar. That was a massive amount. Usually a reward, or bounty, or ‘fugitive recovery fee’, as it was called by SCOUR, was not more than half that. Except in extreme cases where the target was a massive danger to society—usually the case for exceptional governmental rewards. FBI most wanted, that kind of thing. Usually, for privates, we had to be very careful to vet the motives and targets behind putting up rewards of any magnitude. A million dollars was massive for anybody, private or not.

“A million? US?”

“Australian,” Deeley replied. That was still a lot. About seven hundred thousand US dollars.

I asked, “The catch?” There had to be a catch. Private rewards like this always had tails attached, sometimes vanity-related. People who could afford this kind of reward were used to having people jump at their command, without question.

“Nothing big. Delivery at the latest 10pm Thursday night, local time. Directly to a boat waiting off a small harbor off the West Coast of the Cape. SCOUR people to escort it to a yacht off shore where the fugitive is to be loaded onto the yacht and ways parted. At confirmation of delivery aboard the yacht, reward pays out. They supply the boat. That’s it.”

It sounded too good to be true.