The Harvest Killings

By A. K. Goode

The eccentric old Englishman was shot to death—one bullet to the forehead. That much was clear. What isn't clear is why. The local police chief in Kampala said it was an accident—something to do with trespassing. But American Intelligence Agent Dan Becker knows he's lying.

Becker thought this would be a simple case to solve—in and out—and then he’d be on his way, back to his tropical vacation, casting his fly line and drinking beer. Not so. Especially when a dead CIA agent turns up the next day—killed the same way.

Everything quickly unravels when Becker and his team use the cryptic clues left behind by the deceased and discover a heavily guarded mountain, deep in the lush Ugandan countryside, surrounded by coffee fields and patrolled by a very paranoid American company.

Becker quickly realizes this has nothing to do with a murder, but a closely-guarded secret that has been dormant for decades and leads directly to the top offices of the British government.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. K. Goode
• Release date: May 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991417711

A. K. Goode

A. K. Goode was born and raised in Richmond, Virginia. She attended St. Anne's-Belfield High School in Charlottesville, Virginia before continuing her education at Pine Manor College in Boston, Massachusetts. Goode graduated with a B.A., in Communications with a focus on film and television. An avid fan of espionage and thrillers, this is Goode's first novel. She lives in Virginia.

Book preview

Prologue

A light flashed twice beyond the rolling coffee fields, and Leonard James leaned forward in his rocking chair, tossed back his Scotch, and glanced at his watch. Half past midnight. His contact was almost an hour early. Leonard was a tall, lanky man in his seventies with wrinkled, golden skin. He brushed the long white hair off his face, went into the farmhouse, grabbed his gun, and then hobbled across the front yard to his car.

His old Jeep bounced over dry dirt mounds as it sputtered across the coffee fields. The smell of burning wet hay moved through the air from the east. Leonard looked down the valley toward the mill house; the coffee roast had started. He hated that aroma. The full moon illuminated the farm, so he drove without his headlights to make it harder for someone on the road to see him. They were close to exposing the truth, and he couldn’t chance it. As he approached the turnoff into the thick brush, he downshifted, and the Jeep whined to find its gear. It lurched up the hill to the clearing.

Leonard killed the engine and hiked the hundred yards up the mountainside to the wire fence. He untied the wire fasteners from a post and pulled back the fence, squeezed through, and walked to the meeting spot.

A tall, muscular man with a small pointy jaw, stepped from behind a tree. His contact, Thomas Kelley. He walked with a slight limp and wore a shoulder-slung rifle.

Did you get it? Kelley asked.

You’re early.

Don’t worry about that, old man. The sooner we get this over with, the better. I think they know.

You’re paranoid. Leonard pulled an American flag lapel pin from his shirt pocket. Everything you need is in a micro document on this. Make sure it gets to the right people.

In twenty-four hours this whole thing will be over, and you’ll have your life back.

I’ve waited thirty years, another twenty-four hours won’t kill me. If this doesn’t get to the right people, we’re both screwed.

You can trust me.

As Kelley reached out for it, a bullet whistled past Leonard’s head. He dove to the ground, squeezing the pin tightly, and turned toward voices off in the distance.

They were closing in.

He jumped up, fired into the thick brush, and ran toward the fence. Gunshots blasted behind him, and he tried to run faster.

The whump-whump-whump of a helicopter sounded above him and the ground around him lit up. He dove under a tree for cover. Now dogs were yelping, getting closer. He didn’t have much time.

He scanned the forest. Where was Kelley? Did he double-cross him? Gunfire and voices now came from the side. He waited for the helicopter to pass and ran. If he could make it to his own property, he’d be home free.

There it was. He’d have to climb over the barbed wire. Fifty feet, forty feet, thirty feet… a loud shot sounded behind him. He felt a burning sensation run through his body and fell to the ground.

It was over.

1

Dan Becker shifted his tall, broad frame in his plastic chair in Nassau’s dilapidated airport as he watched a petite, fast-walking man dressed in a blue uniform approach, examining each traveler in the terminal. He was short, maybe five-foot-one was a good guess, with perfectly-cropped and styled jet black hair that resembled something from the 1950’s. He didn’t look much older than thirteen, except for the thin mustache that gave him away. He bounced on his toes as he moved along. Who’s he looking for?

Becker adjusted the metal cylinder holding his fishing rod between his knees. At least he wasn’t the only one trying to get away from it all. He glanced at the crowd and then at the odd man again, and pulled an old, worn watch from his khaki pant’s pocket. He smiled. In two hours he’d be on his beloved island.

The strange man slowed when he reached Becker’s section. He stared at a piece of paper he held, and back at Becker. It’s you, he said.

What did this fruitcake want? Becker’s combat boots were hot and uncomfortable from the humid air, his feet were itching. He was fatigued and dirty from his recent Middle East tour—and now this. He stood from his plastic chair, feeling his sweat-soaked shirt pull toward him. He was tall, six-foot-six, barrel-chested with steel blue eyes. He scratched his long, wiry beard and couldn’t wait to shave it off, part of his disguise when he traveled and worked in the Middle East. He lumbered over to the waiting man.

He glanced at the man’s faded name tag. Can I help you, Wilmer?

"It’s pronounced Vilmer."

Becker shrugged. The man was obviously of Spanish or Mexican descent, where w is pronounced like v. He waited for him to speak again.

Are you this man? He flashed the piece of paper. It was a picture of Becker.

Yes, Wilmer, I am.

"It’s Vilmer. You have a phone call at the counter."

Becker sighed and followed him to the counter, dwarfing him with his own broad frame, taking one stride to his two. Obviously, the intercom wasn’t working. He squeezed the fishing rod canister to him so as not to bowl down other travelers.

Not now. I’m so close.

He glanced out the terminal window. His island-hopping twin- prop Otter plane was taxiing in right on schedule. He pictured himself standing in the surf of his very own island, the warm, blue water brushing against his tanned calves as he cast his line into the waves.

Here you go, sir. Wilmer set a black telephone on the counter and pushed it toward him.

Maybe his vacation would have to wait. He picked up the receiver and spoke into it, knowing who it had to be.

Your cell phone is off, a female voice said. I’ve been trying to call you for an hour.

Becker smiled; it was his partner Piper Lee. She was the perfect analyst, street smart, intelligent, always spoke her mind, and a virtual bulldog when it came to solving problems. He imagined her sitting at her desk with her long blonde hair swept up in a loose knot secured with a random pencil, her arms and legs crossed.

It’s dead. What’s up?

I have some bad news. Leonard James has been murdered.

Becker felt a chill roll through his body. He flipped the broken- strapped wrist watch over and over in his pants pocket, his mind flashing back. Leonard had been a good mentor. He’d given him that watch for college graduation, and Becker had worked many summers on his Uganda coffee farm with Leonard’s nephew Henry. Why had they lost touch? And why would someone kill such a kind, eccentric man?

Becker glanced at Wilmer, who was now busying himself at the computer while listening to his conversation. He edged down the counter away from him, stretching the phone cord out as far as it would go. Wilmer quietly followed, pushing the phone along the counter.

Becker turned back to his conversation. What happened?

Henry said his uncle took one bullet in the forehead at close range.

When?

About twelve hours ago.

Does he know why?

He thinks it’s something to do with a new pesticide some farmers over there are using.

Wilmer was now fumbling with files directly across the counter. Becker moved farther down, again stretching the cord. Wilmer followed, gently pushing the phone behind him. Becker pulled a spiral notepad and pen from his shirt pocket and flipped to a blank page.

What’s Henry’s number?

Piper told him, and he scribbled it down.

Did Leonard use the new pesticide?

Henry said he liked his regular stuff. Becker, something’s suspicious. One more thing, they found a gun on Leonard.

Becker rubbed his forehead. That’s interesting. I wonder if they planted it on him.

I’m sorry for your loss. I know he meant a lot to you.

What do the police have so far?

Henry said they’re not looking into it. So, I’d say nothing.

I’ll make sure they do look into it.

Becker again glanced out the terminal window at his plane. Passengers were already boarding, and he now knew he wouldn’t be joining them. But at least he’d had a shot at it, thanks to working with the privately-owned American Policy Institute instead of those CIA bastards, who kept their agents under a microscope. Maybe next time.

I’ll call Henry. Get me a flight to Kampala? I’ll call you back.

You’re already booked. You leave for Miami in thirty minutes and get your connection there. You’ll be in Uganda first thing in the morning.

Thanks, Piper. Get to work on the pesticide angle, would you? I want to know why someone killed an innocent man.

I’m on it.

He called Henry.

2

Twenty-one year-old Jackson Spence looked up from the book propped on his stomach, and glanced around the near-dark sparsely decorated room. What was that flash?

There it was again. A beam of light from outside his Kampala apartment danced on the far paint-chipped wall, in the flickering gloom created by the single candle on the shelf above his bed. The light went away, and then danced again on the wall, this time moving violently from side to side and up and down.

Jackson pulled himself up from his bed, pushed the window curtain open an inch, and peeked out. People were moving around in the dark apartment across the alley, waving flashlights. He checked his watch. A little after three in the morning. Maybe it was a robbery.

He glanced down the dirty alley, littered with garbage and debris. It was a long way from his parents’ home in the upper-crust neighborhood of Winnetka on the North Shore of Chicago. Jackson Spence was average height, with short, dirty blonde hair and a chiseled jaw. He took after his mother in the looks department and did some modeling in college but ultimately was too short.

He thought about the fight he and his father had before he left for Uganda, remembering how disappointed his father was when he decided to take a semester off to explore Uganda’s coffee regions. He wanted to start a coffee import business with the money he’d inherited from his grandmother, but his father wanted him to go to law school. He hated law.

He looked back at the window. There were four men, all wearing gloves. At least one had a pistol strapped to his belt. They all had flashlights and were frantically throwing stuff into black garbage bags. As Jackson leaned farther out the window to get a better view, one of the men, a big, pudgy bald man with a round face, looked his way and shined his flashlight at him. Jackson threw his arm over his face and fell back onto the bed. The light flashes stopped, and he heard the window slam shut.

He jumped up, grabbed his cell phone, and ran into the hall and down the stairs. Dressed only in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, he started to exit through the front door. He’d draw too much attention. He spotted an open window and squeezed through it. It was dark outside, and no one was in sight. His bare feet touched the cold cement walk and he sprinted across the pebbled, red-dirt street until he was opposite the building.

The intruders came out. They were all white, wore black gloves, and from what he could tell, all carried side arms. Except for the pudgy bald guy, the others sported crew cuts. Each dragged trash bags out and threw them into the back of a black Suburban.

Jackson stepped back into the shadows and took video and pictures of the scene. The dank street was riddled with debris and stank of sewage. Another man came out carrying a bound and gagged man on his shoulder and walked with a long, determined stride. He was tall, a little bit taller than the others, with brown hair that was brushed back. He also wore black army fatigues but, unlike the others, wore a tight black t-shirt that squeezed his massive biceps and pressed against his bulging pectoral muscles. Jackson snapped videos and pictures again as the man tossed his load in with the trash bags. The man, silhouetted against the bare building façade, lit a cigar and took a long drag. The other men stood to the side as if they were waiting for the man to say something. He was talking to two of them, pointing behind the building, and then they disappeared. He and another man climbed into the Suburban and waited. He has to be the one in charge, Jackson thought.

Jackson slipped back to his building, climbed through the window, and went upstairs to his apartment. Sweating, he glanced about his room for his laptop and found it under his bed sheets. He dumped his backpack onto the floor and found the cord to download the video and photos to his computer. As he opened his computer, he heard a man’s voice in the alley.

He crawled across the dirty floor to the head of his bed, licked his thumb and index finger, extinguished the flame, and then stuffed his belongings back into the backpack.

Which one was it? It was the voice in the alley.

I think that one. Top floor, center window.

A whine came from his left. The computer was starting up. Its screen illuminated the room.

Let’s go. The voice now seemed closer to the front of the building.

Still in his boxers and t-shirt, Jackson stuffed the computer into his backpack, strapped it on tight, and climbed out the window. He leaned against a rusted gutter pipe, pushed off the window sill, and grabbed the roof ledge. He heard the men entering the building.

Jackson pulled himself onto the roof and ran up to the ridge. He pulled his laptop from his backpack and turned it on again. As it came to life, he got the cord from a side pocket and connected the phone to his computer. Now he heard the men kick the bedroom door open and sounds of his furniture being pushed around the room. What could they be looking for?

He listened closely as his computer loaded the pictures. Nice of him to leave us little red footprints. He climbed out onto the roof. I’ll stay here; you go up.

The slender, dark-haired man climbed out the window and grabbed the gutter pipe. Straddling the roof’s ridge, Jackson opened his email, attached the photos to it, and hit send. The man grunted as he pulled himself onto the roof behind him, and Jackson was sure he felt the man’s glare on his back. He heard the man unsnap his holster and rack back his gun slide to load a bullet into the chamber.

A shot sounded and Jackson lost his balance and slid down the roof. Holding his computer tightly to his chest, he tumbled over the edge and landed on his back atop a bush.

Did you get him? the pudgy bald man in Jackson’s apartment called out.

I wounded him. I’ll track him and take him down.

The bald man searched the room one more time. The four white walls were scuffed with dirt, nail holes, and small cracks. The single window offered the only ventilation and a small, wooden bed was pushed into the corner with the sheets ripped off and tossed onto the dirty cement floor. As he walked out, he noticed a book lying halfway under the bed and picked it up and read its cover; Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. He flipped the cover open and saw the name Jackson Spence scrawled inside, followed by an address. He smiled as he walked out the room and down the stairs, exited the dilapidated building, and climbed into the black Suburban. He handed the book to the man in the front seat smoking a cigar.

His name’s Jackson Spence. If Jake doesn’t catch him, we’ll pull his passport and I.D. tomorrow. Shouldn’t be a problem.

The man handed the book back. It better not be. We have less than three days to get this all done and I don’t want any distractions. We’ve come too far.

I’ll take care of it.

As they drove down the dark isolated street, Jake flagged them down, I lost him, he said.

Get in. I heard you nicked him. You go to the shooting range first thing in the morning, hear? Get some practice. We can’t take any chances.

Yes sir.

He looked out the windshield at the rundown buildings. He’s a kid. He’s running scared. He didn’t see anything, but kill him just to be on the safe side.

Yes sir, the two men answered from the back.

The man drew off his cigar. Now, we’ve got business to take care of. Drive on. I’ve got an early morning.

They drove through the desolate back streets of Kampala out to the countryside.

Becker threw his duffle onto the back seat and hopped into the front with Henry James, and squeezed Henry’s knee gently as the old Land Cruiser pulled away from the curb.

I’m sorry about Leonard.

Henry nodded. Thanks, man. It’s been crazy around here. I’m just glad you’re here to help me piece all this together.

Becker opened a fresh Camel unfiltered pack, pulled out two cigarettes, and tossed it onto the dashboard. He slipped one cigarette into his shirt pocket and lit the other.

Old habits die hard, I see, Henry said. He rolled his window down.

I’ll quit again. Becker blew out a plume of smoke. So tell me what you know.

Henry, tall and bony, with sunken cheeks and a sharp pointy nose, was a gaunt form of his younger self. He stared at the road ahead, and then glanced at Becker. About a year ago, the local farmers started using this new pesticide because it was free. But Leonard liked his old stuff better and didn’t use it. Most of those farmers died.

You think there’s a link between your uncle’s death and the pesticide?

I don’t know. He didn’t tell me much, said it wasn’t safe for me to know. Now his body’s at the morgue. They wanted to release him last night, but I told them I wanted an autopsy first. I can’t get anywhere with the local law enforcement. But I did get a visit from the bank this morning.

Becker checked his watch. It was half past ten in the morning. The bank must have opened early. I’ll get the cops to talk. What time did the banker come and why did he visit you on a Saturday? Aren’t they normally closed?

I was asleep, around seven or so. Some banks have Saturday hours. Why?

Just curious. What did they want?

That someone made an offer on the farm. Apparently Leonard owes the bank money and they’re afraid his estate won’t pay it, so the farm is being sold.

Wow, Leonard’s body isn’t even cold yet. That’s not going to happen. Becker got the second cigarette from his pocket and rolled it in his fingers. So will the farm and export business continue without him?

I guess not. His business license is suspended since he’s dead. In order for the company to continue, it needs to be transferred over to someone else.

Becker frowned. Uganda was plagued with poverty and corruption. Coffee was its largest export product. The farmers had struggled with processing and getting goods through customs in Mombasa, Kenya until Leonard expanded his business many years ago and offered them his services.

Uncle Leonard paid the farmers a premium for their beans. The more farmers came to him, the more beans he exported. A lot of corrupt people took advantage of them before.

Do you want to take over the company?

I travel too much. I compete in Ultra Marathons around the globe. No time.

"What’s an Ultra Marathon?"

It’s a hundred mile race. I’m starting to pick up some sponsors.

Sweet Jesus. Why in the hell would you want to run a hundred miles?

Henry shrugged. Because it’s fun. When was the last time you ran a mile, big guy?

Becker detested exercise and deplored any criminal that he chased. I prefer short bursts of energy. Like a few city blocks.

Henry grinned. Just because one of your strides equals two of the average persons doesn’t mean that you can just skip it.

Well, the running explains your gaunt frame. I thought you were anorexic when I first glanced at you back there. Back to Leonard. Was there another export business in town and what about his will? Have you seen it?

I haven’t seen a will. I saw an attorney’s name scribbled on some files at home. I brought them with me. Henry motioned to the backseat. I’m not sure about another export company. Why?

Maybe Leonard put a crimp in some other guy’s business. Maybe he pissed someone off.

Maybe. I never thought of that. It’s written on one of the file folders. You’ll see it. Henry watched Becker thumb through the files on his lap. There it is, he said, pointing. Henry dialed a number on his cell phone.

His name is Justin Boothe, Becker said.

No answer, voicemail. Henry left his name and number and referenced Leonard. He’ll call back.

Becker sat back and watched the scenery go by. The countryside was covered with lumpy grass and shrub bushes with green mountains nestled off in the distance. Umbrella trees and brown thatched roofed huts spotted the landscape. What about this loan? How much does he owe?

Henry shrugged. I haven’t had a chance to find out. But it doesn’t make sense. He was about owning everything outright. He hated banks. Thought they were crooked.

That’s interesting. We’ll pay the bank a visit later.

Henry glanced at him, a smile on his lips. Leonard never had a problem speaking his mind, like someone else I know.

Nothing wrong with being honest and speaking the truth, my friend.

Henry grinned. This, coming from a man who’s angered a lot of people. Remember Cairo?

I do, but I don’t want to. Look—let’s start at the police station.

Becker stretched his long legs out as they continued north toward Kampala. He rubbed his right hip, an old football injury that flared up from time to time coupled with being cramped in a airplane for nearly two days. He could handle a lot of things, but constant, dull pain wasn’t one of them.

They reached the capital city and he eyed the luxury hotels and a sprinkling of rundown buildings still in use. An ox-driven wagon hauling bundles of wheat to the local market caused traffic to slow. Children dressed in dirty, tattered clothes wondered aimlessly down the streets as local vendors lined the sidewalks pushing their goods on tourists. The constant blare of car horns rang out. Kampala was a bustling international city that was supposedly trying to move away from its corrupt and violent past, but that apparently hadn’t happened yet. Old habits die hard.

Henry made his way through the city to the new Central Police Station on St. Georges Street, a modern sprawling complex that showed Kampala was at least trying to push itself into the present. He parked, and as they entered the building, Becker peered around. Impressive. Kampala’s old police station was nothing more than one building, run down, old, and worn out. This building seemed organized, something new to these people. Bright white walls, ceramic tile floor, and dark blue chairs filled the waiting area. The linger of fresh oil paint hung in the air.

They presented their identification at the front desk and the attending police officer paged Senior Superintendent of Police Nelson Hadeon, a veteran of the force whose name Becker recognized but not sure from where or when. As they sat in the reception area, three officers brought in a gang of hoodlums for booking, each handcuffed and shackled. Becker frowned. That seemed a little extreme.

Senior Superintendent Hadeon came around the corner. He was tall and slender, and his reading glasses were nestled tightly near the tip of his nose. His brown, weathered face and speckled, gray hair were signs of the toll the Senior Superintendent’s job had taken over the years. He walked slightly hunched over, his eyes locked on the floor. Becker saw a tired, battered man whose only peace these days was seeing the bright light of retirement creeping closer and closer.

Superintendent Hadeon extended a wrinkled hand, peering over his eye glasses. You can call me Chief, everyone does. It’s easier than Superintendent. Let’s go to my office where we have some privacy. He led them down the hallway, staring at the floor and not making eye contact with others who approached them.

Becker thumbed back up the hallway, toward the gang in the lobby. Looks like ya’ll are cracking down on the crime here.

It’s like trying to fix your car with a pocket knife, he said, still staring ahead and down. It’s an uphill battle.

He opened a door and led them inside. Take a seat, he said, walking around to his desk and collapsing into his chair. He sat patiently staring at them, waiting for them to start the conversation. Becker thought he would make a good poker player.

Becker glanced around. The office was newly decorated with fresh white paint, an L shaped wood desk, centered between two large windows that overlooked the street below, faced the door. Two short, matching file cabinets ran along one wall and displayed framed pictures and knick knacks. Awards and commendations hung on the wall behind the Chief’s desk including a college degree from The University of Michigan. The Chief was an educated man.

Say, Chief, you look familiar. Have we met before?

I never forget a face, so I don’t think so.

So, you went to Michigan?

My uncle taught international studies there.

Did you play football?

For a couple years, until I blew my knee out.

And you didn’t want to stay in the U.S.?

He shrugged. I figured I could do more here. I have no regrets. But I’m retiring at the end of the year.

Will you stay in Kampala?

My uncle died a while back and left me his cottage on Lake Michigan.

It’s pretty around there. Where on Lake Michigan?

A town called Montague. How can I help you gentlemen? The chief’s forearms were outstretched on his desk, and he rolled a paperclip between his fingers.

Becker spoke first. We’d like to talk to you about Leonard James’ murder.

The chief looked down at the paperclip. You’re reaching, Mr. Becker, to call it a murder. He didn’t look up.

What would you call it, then?

The chief peered across the desk at Becker, his eye glasses still firmly nestled at the end of his nose. Self defense, Mr. Becker.

Can you explain that?

My job is to oversee private security companies here in Kampala and all things with firearms. The private security sector is critical to Kampala’s future and they help us immensely with securing the city. There’s a company leasing the land from the government adjoining Mr. James’ property. There’s a fence there, to keep people from breaching that property.

The chief continued to roll the paperclip between his thumb and fingers, looking directly at it as he talked. He looked up at Becker. You see, these owners are, for lack of a better word, paranoid about trespassers. So they hired a security company to patrol that fence line. All perfectly legal. The chief smiled broadly, that’s why I’m here, to make sure they follow the law.

Becker worked his lips. The word legal was apparently used loosely in Uganda.

"There are no trespassing signs posted throughout the property, Mr. Becker. The line is very clearly marked. Once someone trespasses, they’re on their own."

So you’re saying he trespassed?

He was armed, and he breached the fence line. It was self defense. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. James. Your uncle was a prominent businessman here, and the coffee farmers thought of him as a Robin Hood. But there’s nothing I can do. Do you have any other questions?