The Ivory Express

By Laurie Carter

A high-profile murder launches reporter Taylor Kerrick into the world of international ivory smugglers. Determined to expose the criminals and raise public awareness about the plight of endangered elephants, she sets out to follow the story across the Pacific. The only obstacle is her editor. If Ben Palasco had any idea about the threatening letters—or her ultimate plan to snare the smugglers—he’d never let her go. But even without the facts, Ben insists on local backup and arranges for photojournalist Matt Anderson to meet her in Taiwan. Taylor bristles, but agrees, fully intending to ditch the guy - until circumstances and the alien environment force her to admit she needs his help. Simple surveillance gives way to a deadly threat, and the pair is forced to improvise on the run. Taylor returns to Vancouver, confident she can finally spring her trap. Instead, she finds herself in the crosshairs of a remorseless villain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sands Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781988281568

Book preview

Carter

Prologue

A rhythmic squeak signalled the hurried fall of rubber-soled shoes on the glistening marble floor. Such a fuss, groused the shapely young woman in the starched white maid’s uniform. She dropped a bulky wad of keys on the mirror-bright table by the door sending a jangling echo around the vaulted foyer.

Don’t care he messes my routine, she muttered, retreating to the staircase that curved up the opposite wall. No wonder he forgets. A man his age with a different bimbo every night. Unconsciously she touched the delicate golden crucifix at her throat. Widower or not, Mr. Lang must be over sixty. It was a miracle he only forgot his keys.

Rita paused, her foot suspended above the first step, and peered over the art deco handrail. Barely discernible, a door blended almost perfectly into the panelling below. Habitually locked, she had never seen anyone but Mr. Lang open it and then only once, on a rare evening when he was home alone and thought everyone else was asleep.

Slowly she lowered her foot, eyes drawn back to the keys like twin magnets. Farley had been sent to retrieve them, but even he couldn’t squeeze the Lexus through morning traffic in less than half-an-hour—and cook was already at the market.

On a rare impulse Rita snatched up the keys and hustled toward the concealed door. With no idea which of the dozen or more would turn the lock, she opted for trial and error. Half way through the bunch, an ordinary silver Yale set the tumblers in motion. For a moment she forgot to breathe as the door swung silently inward. Beyond, the space was completely dark except for the irregular splashes of light spilling past her from the foyer. Instinctively her right hand groped the wall and found a switch.

A mellow glow instantly tinted the interior, punctuated by light shafts beaming from strategically cited spots. The room was like none other in the artfully modern house. Far smaller than any of the main reception areas, Rita realised it must have been created by shaving space from the butler’s pantry and kitchen.

A plain rosewood desk and inviting leather chair were the sole furnishings. Placed so the chair’s occupant could lean back and admire the delicate oriental scene that dominated the far wall, or swivel right and gaze at one of the gilt-framed oils hanging there. Rita stepped gingerly across the threshold, staring for a long moment at the beatific smiles of a faded Madonna and Child. Though scarred by a spider’s web of tiny cracks, their serenity reached out to her.

Tip-toeing across the deeply carpeted floor, she stopped before a pottery vase. Displayed on the glass shelf of a rosewood case, the vessel was perfectly plain apart from the parade of stylised soldiers marching around its portly girth. Surprised by the chord of familiarity they struck, Rita dredged her memory. The corner of her mouth twitched upward as the image surfaced. Cleopatra. Columns of rigid guards rendered nearly invisible by the glory of Liz Taylor in passage. And there was more movie memorabilia. Instantly recognisable from one of her all-time favourites, Nicholas and Alexandra, was a jewel-encrusted cross, notable for its peculiar extra bar.

A rearing bronze stallion attracted her attention though it conjured no particular movie reference, Rita didn’t much like westerns. But the statue was nice, its burnished flank smooth and cool to her tentative touch. Emboldened, she reached for the delicate white carving beside it.

What you got there, little Rita? The taunt exploded in the silent room, assaulting Rita’s undefended back. She whirled as if jabbed by a cattle prod.

"Diyos ko," she breathed, her native Tagalog surfacing unnoticed in the moment of crisis.

The intruder smirked, advancing into the room. Cornering her.

Mister Justin, she stammered in a quavering whisper. Stretching a clammy hand forward, she laid the carving on the desk with all the care of a new mother tending her firstborn. I do no harm. Just look. Cringing back, she sought a glimmer of compassion in the drink and drug-swollen eyes of her employer’s son. There was none, only a blank, wide-pupiled stare. With nauseating deliberation, he traced the thin line of his pinched lips with the moistened tip of his tongue.

Oh so wrong, little Rita, he leered. Baby, you’re up to your pretty little ass in alligators. You are so done.

No, she cried, tears springing to the corners of her wide dark eyes. I am a good worker. I never make trouble. Please don’t tell Mr. Lang, she begged, furiously twisting the silver band her mother had slipped on her finger at the airport in Manila. Don’t make me lose my job.

Take it easy, little Rita, Justin soothed, backing her further into the corner. I’m sure we can reach some kind of arrangement. He dropped his hand onto her shoulder, relishing the sharp intake of breath that shot her heavy breasts hard against the restraining uniform. Slowly he let it fall, a stubby finger tracing the dusky outline of skin against the starched white V, fall until his palm was full to overflowing. His contented moan, at the same time infantile and animalistic, abruptly choked into a petulant grunt as Rita squirmed to escape.

With a burst of strength, remarkable for a man his size, Justin trapped her arms and spun her around, pinning her to the desk like a mounted butterfly. No, she shrieked. But a powerful knee-thrust splayed her legs and he ground against his target with another hideous moan. Wet lips muffled her screams. Bile filled her throat. She gagged and wretched as his tongue, foul with stale smoke and vodka, invaded her mouth.

Savaging the front of her uniform, he burrowed his face between her heaving breasts, his steamy breath rasping her skin in ragged bursts. With a frantic jerk she broke one hand free, pummelling his back with a tiny fist.

It was like flogging a bull with a rose.

At will he tore her panties aside. Cursing as he wrestled one-handed with his fly.

Exhausted, Rita sensed defeat. Let it materialise as resignation. Her arm fell limp across the desk.

Sancta Maria, she cried.

Miraculously the white statue stood within reach. Frantically she grasped the unlikely weapon and lashed out with the fury of desperation. The force of the blow jarred her arm clear to the shoulder, but it made him lie still, crushing her with his disgusting weight. And after a moment, she even remembered to breathe.

Then, like a villainous resurrection in the dying moments of a late-night horror, Justin Lang slowly raised his head. Paralysed, Rita lay trapped in bug-eyed terror.

What the fuck, he stammered. As his eyes refocused, comprehension slowly hardened their gaze. What the fuck did you do? ... Bitch, he suddenly raged, wrenching the statue from her hand. It smashed into her face with bone-shattering force.

Bitch, he screamed again, blood and brain spewing across the desk.

"Bitch ...

"Bitch ...

Bitch...

Justin, cried a chalk-faced Farley from the door. Oh, my God Justin. What have you done!

Chapter One

Reporters expect to generate adrenaline. It’s an occupational hazard. But I was on hyper drive. I blew through the office at warp-factor five, ignoring the trail of curious heads bobbing up from computer screens in my wake. I burst through the door marked, Editor, into Ben Palasco’s fishbowl office and dropped panting into one of his worn leather chairs.

Tomorrow, I managed, gasping for air. Sarah Trent’s on the move again.

Blithely ignoring my bombshell, Ben looked me square in the eye, Taylor, he said; with that maddeningly deliberate way of his. You’re always in such a panic. Take a minute and calm yourself, then you can tell me about Sarah.

The man could make me crazy, but given no choice, I took a couple of deep breaths and had to admit that I was relieved the paramedics wouldn’t be needed to administer oxygen. Soon I was able to continue almost normally.

She’s going tomorrow.

Where? he demanded, his Churchillian jowls drawn into a mask of concentration.

Taiwan, I said, shrugging out of my heavy trench coat. There’s no doubt, Ben. The ivory statues are definitely being smuggled out of Taiwan.

I agree it looks that way. He folded his arms, heavy grey brows drawn into a frown. Still, it strikes me as odd that she’s the courier? It can’t be more than a month since her last run.

He had a point. Sarah usually only made the trip once a quarter, accompanying her husband on buying expeditions for his import company. It is a break in the pattern, I admitted. But there you have it. And I don’t really give a damn who’s making the pick-up, I’ve totally had it with waiting. This background stuff is fine, I said, pulling a face to express just how fine I thought it was. But I want to get at the story.

What a surprise. Ben shook his head slowly, setting those jowls in motion. I guess we better get down to details then. He tore the top sheet off the yellow pad he’d been working on and sat poised with pen in hand. What time’s the flight?

I fished in my coat pocket for a worn blue notebook and flipped to the last page. Ten-thirty tomorrow morning, Cathay Pacific flight 618, via Hong Kong.

Into Chiang Kaishek?

Yup.

We’ll get you booked, he said, reaching for the desk phone.

No need. I set it up when I checked to see what flight options the Trents would have.

This the only one?

It is.

That was lucky.

No kidding.

Arrival time?

Five-thirty, I replied automatically; then wondered why it mattered. I asked.

So someone can meet your plane.

Wait a minute. I don’t need anyone to meet my plane, I snapped, having a pretty good idea what was coming.

Ben ignored my objection and pressed on. Passport, visa?

Of course. I let my tone remind him I didn’t need a baby sitter. I arranged for the visa weeks ago, as soon as it started looking like Taiwan.

Ben nodded. Okay, he said less brusquely. We’ll get you a cash advance. You can exchange it at the airport in the morning. He consulted his list. How do you want to handle hotel reservations?

I know it’s risky, but I want to stay wherever the Trents are, so I’ll wait to see where they go.

I could see he wasn’t thrilled with that arrangement, but he must have seen the logic because he let it pass. Then all you need is the cash. I nodded.

While Ben got on the phone to accounting, I grabbed the opportunity to shift into low gear for a short, much needed rest. I swivelled around to treat myself to a few moments of communion with Ben’s mind-bending view.

The Vancouver Globe occupies a space-age building nestled into the hillside descending to Coal Harbour. The entire north face is a wall of glass relieved only by irregular ivy-shrouded terraces that give it the look of a living part of the landscape. It was a typical January grey-day. The broad expanse of Burrard Inlet reflected the steely overcast and gunmetal mist obscuring the mountains behind North Vancouver. Even the massive fir trees in Stanley Park stood grey-blue in the haze. Still, it was a sight few cities could match and I was glad it was my adopted home.

Mesmerized by the scene, I didn’t notice when Ben hung up the phone and leaned back in his huge swivel chair, eyeing me speculatively. It was a surprise when he spoke.

I have to hand it to you Ms. Kerrick, he said. When you got this crazy notion to flush out a smuggling ring, I thought you were headed on a wild goose chase.

I could have been, I admitted. I’ve been awfully lucky.

More like methodical and persistent, he countered. Staking out that art dealer’s place every night for a month, I think you made your own luck.

I thanked him for the kudos, though I knew a one-woman surveillance wouldn’t have gone far if I hadn’t been tracking somebody like Howard Leighton. The guy was practically a recluse. Once I knew the drops weren’t happening at his gallery, it was a simple matter of keeping an eye on his house.

Remember Ben, in that whole time Leighton never once went out at night and only three people came to see him. I shrugged. It didn’t take V.I. Warshawski to follow them and figure out who they were. After that I just had to keep tabs to see which courier would make the next run.

And it’s turned out to be Sarah Trent.

Yeah. Unexpected maybe. But there you go.

You’ve done a hell of a job, Taylor. Again, he added. Ben’s approval felt good. But I realized he was looking at me with a worried expression. What’s up? I prompted.

He hesitated for a beat, then took a deep breath and waded in. No matter how capable you may be, Taylor, this assignment is potentially dangerous and now the playing field is shifting to unknown territory. I can’t let you go off to a place like Taiwan without backup.

This was just what I’d been afraid of. What are you talking about, Ben? I exploded. I work alone.

Not this time, he countered with deadly calm.

I took my own deep breath, striving for the right tone. I wanted to come across as firm, not shrill or strident. Ben, how can I do my job if I’m tripping over some tour guide?

Frankly, Taylor, I don’t see how you can do your job without one. Stop and think a minute, he said, making the big chair groan as he leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk. When was the last time you were in Taiwan?

I’ve never been to Taiwan.

Exactly.

Exactly what? I’d never been in the bush before either. That didn’t stop me from doing a bang up story on the logging industry. Remember? I demanded, pointing at the framed feature story prominently displayed on Ben’s bragging wall. I knew full well he considered it one of the most balanced pieces of reporting the paper had ever printed.

This isn’t the same and you know it, he shot back. How’s your Mandarin?

My what?

Your Mandarin. You know, the dialect they speak in Taiwan. What did you expect to do, stop by Berlitz on your way home tonight and take a crash course?

Very funny, I shot back. But you can spare me the sarcasm. I thought most people over there speak at least a little English. I mean, Hong Kong was a British colony and this is the age of the Internet.

That’s true, but Taiwan never was a colony. The only concentrated exposure they ever had to the English language was during the Viet Nam war when the island was used as an R&R centre for American GI’s. Nothing since. So, sure, people may be learning English, but what are you going to do when you have to read a street sign?

Damn. It burned me to have to admit that Ben had a point. I bit the bullet. What did you have in mind?

He let me down easy. "With you making such fast progress I had to consider this possibility, so I contacted an old associate in Taipei, the capital. I met Nancy Lee years ago at a conference in San Francisco. She was a student at Berkeley. Now she’s editor of The China Post. Nancy was a great help. In fact, our timing is perfect."

I couldn’t wait to hear how perfect.

Apparently the government is trying to raise public awareness to support new environmental protection legislation. They’ve contracted a photojournalist to do a piece on the country’s pollution problems and since he’s an American, Nancy’s acting as liaison. She talked to him and he’s willing to be your guide and interpreter.

My heart sank. Ben’s backup just had to be some hyper-jock journalist. I knew what would happen. In no time he’d be trying to elbow into my story. I didn’t like it, not one bit. But I could see from the look on Ben’s face that the point was not negotiable. I decided to concede for the moment. I figured I could always ditch the guy once I was safely over there. What’s his name?

Matthew Anderson, said Ben with evident relief.

Sounds familiar, should I know him?

By reputation at least. He swivelled around to the credenza behind his desk and retrieved two magazines. Here are a couple of samples, he said as he pushed them across the desk to me. Yellow stickies protruded from each, presumably marking the contributions of my soon-to-be-ignored minder.

Pretty sure of yourself, I commented.

No choice, he replied. I wasn’t going to let you go without backup. Editors have some rights, you know. He glanced at his watch then thumbed an app on his cell. Two p.m. Vancouver time, he ran his sausage of a finger down the screen. Six o’clock tomorrow morning in Taiwan. Too early to call, I’ll email Nancy the details. Meanwhile, I need to organize a couple of things.

Ben heaved his bulk from the chair and headed out to talk with his assistant. Seizing the opportunity to learn something about my unwanted partner, I picked up the first magazine. It was dated February 2010 and the marked photo essay was titled simply, Kandahar. The layout was striking. Full colour images bordered with a thin red line set on a black field.

On the first spread two school-age girls clung to each other, their faces obscured by encircling white headscarves that hid all but eyes filled with naked grief. Turning the pages I encountered soldiers in the heat of battle, tattered civilians fleeing the site of a market day car bombing, on and on to one final layout, an image that had become all too familiar in the last few years. Eight soldiers in dress uniform, faces set in grim determination to quell emotion, marching shoulder to shoulder beneath the burden of a maple leaf flag-draped casket. Saluting officers at rigid attention, a clutch of black-clad civilians. It took a minute to pull myself together.

When I picked up the other magazine, the contrast was startling—a three-month-old copy of Audubon, the naturalist magazine. There again was the artistic eye, the use of perspective for emphasis and, although the subject matter could not have been more different, there was an unmistakable similarity of theme. These pictures told the story of embattled old growth forests in Eastern North America—from thousand-year-old white cypress trees in South Carolina to an otherwise ordinary looking cedar, defying gravity and growing at nearly right angles from the sheer rock face of the Niagara Escarpment in Southern Ontario.

After my piece on the logging industry, I was caught completely by surprise. I knew a lot about the plight of West Coast forests, yet here were Matthew Anderson’s serene images arguing eloquently for their eastern cousins, an issue I knew nothing about.

What a talent. I envied his ability to portray and evoke raw emotion with his lens. I began to wonder what he would be like, this genius who could capture the spirit of frightened children and threatened trees with equal intensity. Obviously focused, definitely sensitive, technically skilled—the image of a geek in a safari vest, hung all over with camera gear began to take shape in my mind. This guy wouldn’t be such a problem after all.

Quite something, aren’t they? Ben asked as he came back into the office.

I nodded. What’s he like?

Bit eccentric I’m told, don’t really know. I’ve never met the man. But if Nancy vouches for him, I’m sure you’ll be safe enough. A twinkle fired the corner of his eye. Now if there’s nothing else you need from me, I suggest you trot on home and pack. I’ll send over your cash advance and call when I’ve made contact with Taiwan.

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