He sat down, leaned back, and looked at the ceiling. “It’s called the Guyana Defence League. During the 1960s the communists were active here and Cheddi Jagan was prime minister for a while. At the time that made Guyana only the second communist government in the Americas, after Cuba, and the U.S. sort of went ballistic. They pushed — and financed — Jagan’s former political partner, Forbes Burnham, into going up against his old colleague; they had been allies in forcing the U.K. to surrender their colonial power. There were strikes, riots, boycotts, and a lot of random violence against Jagan and his people. The fact that he was East Indian and Burnham was black only made it worse.
“Anyway, Jagan ended up in jail and Burnham became prime minister, supported by the Americans. At the time there was only a small police force in Guyana. The Americans needed assurance that the communists wouldn’t be coming back, so they invested heavily in building an army and creating a clandestine special forces unit. Because the country is so small, they came up with the idea of grouping all these security forces together, creating the Guyana Defence League.
“The communists came and went. Burnham was in and out of office. Even Jagan — who was now a social democrat — got a chance to be the leader again. Through it all, the Guyana Defence League remained intact and developed methods of operation that are still in play today. Basically, the person who heads up the special forces is the top man. The military report to him, the police report to him. He moves officers back and forth at will among the various services. So when you’re dealing with the police, you aren’t really. Everything flows upstream.”
“Including money?”
“Especially money.”
“I’ve just left Thailand, but it feels like I haven’t.”
“I’m sure the scale is different,” Lafontaine said. “This is a small, poor country. There’s only so much graft to go around, and the politicians feed at the same trough.”
“Who heads up the Defence League?”
“Commissioner Thomas for the police, and General Choudray heads up the military. One’s black, the other East Indian, and that’s the way it always is: one of each. The strange thing is, they report to a white guy, the infamous Captain Robbins.”
“A white guy — that’s curious.”
“Isn’t it. When I arrived here, I met him at a High Commission function. He has two daughters at school in Toronto — Havergal College — and Canada is his country of choice in terms of making investments. I thought he was just a fat, jolly businessman until the High Commissioner pulled me aside and told me to be careful, very careful.
“He’s had the same job for twenty years. There isn’t a man in any of the forces who is not beholden to him for his job, and in this country, with unemployment at around thirty percent, that’s no small thing. He also knows where all the bodies are buried, and he’s probably responsible for a number of them himself. There isn’t a politician whom he doesn’t know inside out, and I can’t imagine there’s one who would defy him. It has been tried, though. Last year there was an East Indian minister of mines who decided the royalties that were going to the Defence League should end. His house was broken into and he, his wife, and his mother-in-law were shot dead. They never found the perpetrators.
“So, Ms. Lee, if Seto has protection, it emanates from Captain Robbins, directly or indirectly.”
“How do I meet Captain Robbins?” she asked.
Lafontaine smiled again. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I mean, really serious. I keep looking at you and thinking you’re pulling a practical joke on me.”
“Do you have a phone number for him?”
He opened a Day-Timer that sat on his desk. “Write this down, though I don’t think it will do you any good. He doesn’t take calls and he never returns calls unless he wants to talk to you, not vice versa.”
“Thanks for all this,” she said after writing down the number in her notebook.
“We’re here to serve.”
“That’s always been my experience with the Mounties. You’re a very professional group.”
He nodded in acknowledgement. “Where are you staying?”
“The Phoenix Hotel.”
“Neighbours.”
“Sort of.”
“Tell me, would you like to have dinner with me while you’re here? You could keep me up to date on your progress.”
She looked over at the pictures of his children.
“I’m divorced,” he said.
Two propositions in one day, Ava thought, and unless she was wrong, Jeff was a potential third. For reasons she didn’t understand, gweilos found her attractive. In Hong Kong she could stand on a street corner holding a sign reading PLEASE TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER and not get this much action.
“I wouldn’t mind having dinner with you, but in keeping with our honesty policy I have to tell you I’m gay.”
“I did say dinner; I wasn’t assuming anything else,” he said, but the flush that crept up his cheeks told her differently.
“How about I keep in touch with you? Can I get your cell number?”
He handed her a business card. His title read ASSISTANT TRADE COMMISSIONER.
“I’ll let you know how it goes with Captain Robbins.”
(21)
Jeff was standing at the entrance of the PHoenix wearing slacks and a Polo golf shirt. He looked happy to see her, and she knew she was going to end up saying no to him as well.
“I have your SIM card,” he said.
“How much do I owe you?” she said as she took it.
“Twenty.”
She gave him thirty.
“Will you need me today? I have to make a run to the airport around one. After that I’m free.”
“I’m not sure. Call me when you get back.”
The room was way hotter than when she had left. The maid had turned off the air conditioning. She turned it back on and for good measure jacked it way down.
She undressed; her clothes were damp even though it was no more than a three-minute walk from the High Commission. She put on her running gear. It was really too hot to run but she needed to think, and running freed her mind. Before leaving the hotel she checked her emails at the business centre. Nothing from Seto. That was no surprise.
From the literature in the room she knew there was a walkway along the seawall. The path was grass, and running on grass was easy on her legs. Add the sea breeze to that and she thought maybe it wouldn’t be too tough, despite the heat.
The Georgetown seawall had been built during the nineteenth century by the Dutch, the original colonists, before the British ousted them. Georgetown, and in fact most of the northern coastline, was below sea level. The Dutch were experts at keeping the sea at bay, and they had constructed an impressive bulwark of stone about two metres wide and a metre high.
Ava began jogging towards the Atlantic. It was close to low tide, and between the wall and the ocean was a large expanse of sandy beach. On her right was Seawall Road, which was lined with embassies and consulates. There was hardly any traffic on the road and virtually no one on the path. Ava could see maybe two or three kilometres ahead. A woman was on the beach tossing sticks to a dog, and farther down she could see two figures sitting on the seawall.
She had run about a kilometre before the seated figures became distinct. They were two East Indian men, sitting maybe twenty metres apart. As she drew near she noticed she had attracted their attention. She thought about stopping and turning back, then told herself she was being silly. It was the middle of the day, and they were in a wide open area.
When she was five metres from the first man she saw him stiffen, and her senses prickled. She sped up to get past him. Just as she did, the second man jumped off the wall onto the path. She was trapped between them.
One of the men was about five foot ten and had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. He wore ragged blue shorts and a T-shirt that read DRINK COORS. The other, who was a bit taller and not much thinner, was wearing soiled jeans and a singlet that exposed his chest and armpits. Ava noticed he had only one eye. It was fixed on her, and it wasn’t conveying kind intent.