THE TRADE - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 of my unpublished novel, The Trade, a Bolivia-set psychological thriller.

A little preamble for The Trade

I wrote the trade, oh, six or seven years ago now, I suspect. It seems like another life entirely. I believe it was either just before or during my first year at university (at about twenty-four or something). The novel is centred around one Andrea Grierson, who works for the International Labour Organisation. A coffee plantation in the Bolivian Highlands has applied for Fair Trade status, which would allow them to trade globally on a massive scale, but this process triggers a surprise inspection from the ILO. Andrea is sent to the OV Coffee Plantation to conduct this inspection, but her nickname precedes her …

She is known as The Executioner because of her tough but fair reporting, though the owner of the plantation, Michael Vasquez, already knows this. He knows all about Andrea, and her inspection isn’t coming as a surprise at all. In fact, he’s been planning for it for months. And when she arrives, she’s going to see exactly what she wants, and give Vasquez exactly what he wants. And if she doesn’t … well, Bolivia is a dangerous place, and foreigners go missing all the time.

Anyway, that’s a little blurb! Hope you enjoy the story. Any and all comments are welcome as this is at a second-draft stage and is in need of a further edit before it goes to publication!

The Trade

Chapter 1

A dog stared at her from across the road, outlined in the orange glow of a streetlight.

It hunched over, scratched roughly at its neck and then barked.

Andrea’s grip tightened on the strap of her satchel and she glanced at the ‘Pick Up’ sign hanging overhead. There was supposed to be a car waiting for her, but there wasn’t.

She checked her watch again. Just after four in the morning. Almost an hour late now.

She rubbed her eyes and groaned, stopping only when the hum of an engine broke the silence of the deserted Sucre Airport forecourt.

A black Mercedes sidled around the corner and pulled in at the curb. The rear window rolled down and Andrea stepped back.

Michael Vasquez grinned at her from the backseat. ‘Care for a lift?’

‘I, uh—’ Andrea started, shaking her head in disbelief. There was no mistaking him. She’d spent the last twelve hours staring at a picture of his face as she read his file again and again. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said reflexively.

Vasquez leaned out a little more and twisted his head around, checking the empty road. ‘The car services here in the Highlands can be so unreliable. Please, allow me to give you a ride.’

She screwed up her eyes and sucked in a breath. She’d been caught off guard before, but this was a new one. ‘How did you know I would be here?’

He shrugged, then chuckled, sitting back into the leather seat. ‘Lucky guess.’

This was supposed to be a surprise inspection.

His driver got out and circled the car, picking up her suitcase before she could protest.

‘Andrea,’ Vasquez started again, snatching her attention.

‘Miss Grierson,’ she corrected him, turning to follow the driver, who was already heading to the back of the car with her bag. ‘Hey, what are you—’

‘Fine,’ Vasquez called, getting out himself. ‘Miss Grierson.’ He shook his head and the boot thudded shut. The driver got back in without a word and Andrea turned around to find Vasquez in front of her, hand outstretched. ‘Michael Vasquez, a pleasure.’

She ground her teeth. ‘Mister Vasquez—’

‘Call me Michael.’

‘Mister Vasquez.’

He scowled.

‘I’m not sure if you know why I’m here, but this isn’t how things work.’

He raised his manicured eyebrows, linen suit trousers fluttering gently in the warm breeze. ‘You are here to look over my plantation, yes?’

‘I’m here to investigate allegations of substandard working conditions. You applied for Fair Trade status, and to gain it, you’ve been subjected to an official investigation. Do you understand the gravity of that?’ She pushed into her heels and stared him dead in the eye. She liked this part. When their faces drained of colour. When they started to grovel.

But Vasquez did neither. He grinned at her. ‘Ah yes, the investigation,’ he said, flourishing his hands. ‘So serious. Come now. You will visit the plantation, see that all is well, and then will be back on your way home before the end of the day. There’s no need for all of this bravado.’

She bit her tongue. It was supposed to be a surprise investigation, but not only was he not surprised, but he also knew exactly when she was arriving. She was unbalanced. Her mind raced. She should have clocked that something was off when she was detained at El Alto before her connection. The customs officer had taken her passport into the back for a while, made some calls. She’d watched through the glass but thought it was down to all the stamps she’d accumulated from flying here, there, and everywhere at the behest of the International Labour Organisation. Her employer.

It seemed that Vasquez had some pull. He’d probably found out which taxi service had been booked as well and cancelled it, then waited just long enough to dispel all hope of it arriving late before swooping in.

Andrea’s eyes moved from him, to the open door of the Mercedes, to the dog on the other side of the road.

It looked hungry.

She wanted to stand there and rip his head off. She wanted to tell him all the reasons that it would be futile. That if there was anything a miss, there’d be no mercy. That she’d shut him down faster than he could get on his knees and beg.

They all thought they were clever enough. Charming enough. Rich enough to get by without meeting her standards.

They weren’t. None of them were.

But she couldn’t. It wasn’t how things were supposed to be done.

You’ve met men like him before, Andrea. So what? He figured out when you were arriving. It won’t make a difference. You’ll get him like you got the rest. The right way.

‘Please,’ he said, offering her the now open door of his Mercedes. ‘We can dispense with all the formalities in the morning. It is late, and you must be exhausted.’

She stared at the pale leather interior and bit her tongue harder.

The dog stepped into the road and sniffed the air. The roads were empty in both directions, and the tin can she’d flown in on had already circled around and taken off again. There was exactly no chance of a taxi happening by. She was out of options.

‘It’s against protocol,’ she said through gritted teeth. Bribes or gifts were a great way to derail a report, and she wasn’t in the habit of going off-book.

‘Protocol,’ he laughed. ‘Yes, of course. Well, I won’t tell if you won’t.’

But she had to. It’d have to go in the report. Everything always had to go in the report. That was the job. She nodded. ‘Fine.’

‘Excellent.’ He beamed, proffering the open door. ‘Where to?’ he asked, though she guessed he already knew the answer.

‘Hotel El Gato,’ she answered anyway, climbing in.

The Mercedes sat low, overburdened from the reinforced glass and armour plating. She’d sat in bulletproof cars before. It was like being locked in a safe.

He made a disapproving noise at her choice and then got in after her, the door thudding shut heavily.

Andrea grimaced and the car pulled away.

She looked over her shoulder. The dog stared after them for a second, and then scarpered. The streetlights overhanging the curb grew dimmer in the thick air. She watched as they disappeared behind a wall of foliage, and then reappeared above it as the car climbed into the hills, already too far away to leap out and walk back.

She reached for her satchel, for her notepad and pen to kill the time. It was more than a hundred miles to her hotel. She made circles aimlessly until she began to sketch a snake. It rose up, mouth open, ready to strike. Then she drew a mouse and stared at them both. From the corner of her eye, she could see Vasquez’s ringed fingers beating slowly on his knee, his eyes fixed on the headrest in front.

The road wound higher and the apprehension slowly faded. Vasquez hummed along to the jazz he’d requested from the radio and she sank lower into the leather seat, eyes heavy. At this pace, they were still a few hours from the Ortega Vasquez Coffee Plantation. She sighed and rubbed them with the heels of her hands, leaning her head back, almost glad in a way. She never would have risked napping in the back of a strange taxi.

She’d never been good at sleeping on planes, they hurt her ears. Especially the rickety ones, and she seemed to be on those the most, heading to generally inaccessible places owned by men like Michael Olmos Ortega Vasquez. Factories. Farms. Plantations. Vineyards. She’d seen it all. She’d met them all. A hundred Vasquezs. All too smart, too mean, and too cocky for their own good. At least until she got there. She smirked in the darkness.

For now, though, she figured she could kill two birds with one stone — avoid any further needless conversation that would compromise her report, and catch up on some sleep.

‘Miss Grierson,’ he said softly before she could drop off. ‘Can I ask you something?’

She didn’t turn or lift her head. ‘Sure,’ she sighed. It was too soon to fake being asleep.

‘Why do they call you The Executioner?’ His voice was calm, his accented English dulcet in the throbbing blur of the passing streetlights. They strobed orange inside her lids.

‘I never liked that nickname,’ she said, voice quiet.

Vasquez nodded, his bottom lip covering the top. ‘Such a strong title. One simply can’t help but wonder how it was earned.’ He wasn’t going to drop it, and she’d never get to sleep.

She pushed herself upright and chose the lesser of two evils. ‘The harshness of my reports. The other guys ILO thought it would be funny.’ She sighed again. ‘It’s not.’

‘But why that name?’

‘My reports have led to the closure of sixteen companies, businesses, enterprises — whatever you want to call them.’ She flicked her hand limply. ‘And as such, they think that makes me an executioner.’ She scoffed.

Vasquez nodded slowly. ‘Hmm. The International Labour Organisation... And on my doorstep.’ He tutted. ‘What did I do to deserve The Executioner?’ He laughed to himself quietly and Andrea’s lip curled into a thin smile.

Well, I suppose that’s what I’m going to find out.

Vasquez leaned forward after a moment. ‘Cuanto tiempo más?’ he asked the driver. How much longer?

‘Dos horas,’ was the reply.

Vasquez muttered indignantly. ‘I don’t know why,’ he shook his head and turned to Andrea, determined to keep her awake, ‘you want to stay in that rat’s nest.’

She picked her head up and scratched her nose. The air conditioning was making it tingle. ‘Seeing as it’s the only hotel within fifty miles of the plantation, I don’t know that I have much choice.’

‘You could always stay at the house. There is more than enough room to accommodate you, and I assure you that you will have all the comforts of home, and then some. I’ll make my chef available to you at any time, and you will have full use of the—’

‘Mister Vasquez,’ she said, raising her hand. ‘This isn’t a holiday, and that’s totally out of the question.’

‘Call me Michael.’ He grinned and one of his canines glinted gold in the passing lamps.

‘Mister Vasquez—’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. I appreciate the ride, and though I’ll be detailing the reason for accepting it in my report, which with any luck will allow it to slide past the informality guidelines — do not mistake it for anything else. I’ll be staying at the Gato, and that’s that. Though I’m sure the plantation is quite beautiful, it’s just not possible. It would compromise my position as an unbiased third party. Now, if you don’t mind, tomorrow’s going to be a very long day, and I’d appreciate it deeply if you’d let me get as much sleep as I can before we get to the hotel.’

Andrea barely caught his mumbled reply. ‘Yes, well you won’t sleep there. Not once you see the bedsheets.’

He took to humming again in the absence of conversation, and stayed that way for the rest of the journey. It must have been soothing, because when she woke up, her head was pressed against the window, and the hotel was staring at her. It’s crisscrossed frontage was a mess of dark wood and ancient white paint, adorned with a partially backlit sign that read El Gato. Underneath it, an orange neon proudly displayed the word Vacancy. The sun was lurking behind the horizon, the first rays of daylight bleeding into the night sky; but even in the gloom it was clear that the Gato was a rundown and battered excuse for a building.

She pulled her head off the glass and swore, rubbing her aching neck. She winced and turned to find the car empty and the other door open. The night air was warm and heavy and an army of cicadas roared in the undergrowth.

Crickets. Always crickets. Everywhere you go in the world it’s bloody crickets.

She could see Vasquez through the hotel doors and went in. How long she’d been asleep, or how long he’d been in there, she didn’t know. When she approached the front desk, he was berating the clerk, who, judging by the smell and bloodshot eyes, was stoned.

‘Pendejo,’ he snarled. ‘You will change her room, immediately.’

‘Sir,’ the clerk said lazily, trying to blink the sheen from his eyes. ‘As I have said, it is not the room she has booked, or paid for. We have other guests to consider, you must—’

‘Other guests?’ Vasquez sprayed flecks of saliva. ‘There’s no one else here. No one in their right mind would pay a penny to stay in this hole!’

Andrea cleared her throat and Vasquez froze, quickly straightening his jacket. He smiled at her as she stepped next to him, though it didn’t suit him. It looked like someone had stuck fish hooks in his mouth and pulled the corners as wide as they’d go.

‘Is there an issue with the booking?’ she asked.

‘No.’ Vasquez’s grin twitched. ‘I was just trying to inform this boy that you would be changing rooms. They have you booked in a single and I was merely expressing my discontent in relation to the condition of the room in question.’ His teeth never parted and Andrea tried not to look at his balled fists.

‘It’s fine, Mister Vasquez. You’ve done enough. Please. This young man can show me to my room, which will be more than adequate, I’m sure. You must be exhausted.’ She tried her best to smile, too. ‘It’s almost dawn. I’ll see you at the plantation in a few hours.’

He bit his lip and looked through her. ‘No. It will not be.’ He put his hand against his head and raked it slowly down his face. It was a surprise that his mask didn’t go with it. ‘The key for the Presidential Suite.’ He stuck his hand out like a child.

She’d half expected the clerk to make another excuse, but instead he’d gone green. His pulse thundered in his neck and a thin sheen of sweat had formed between the scraggly hairs that covered his top lip. He swallowed hard. ‘Vasquez?’ he murmured. ‘Of course, of course. Lo siento, lo siento.’ He scrabbled frantically behind the desk, searching for it.

A large mortise key fell into Vasquez’s waiting palm and the boy nodded, almost bowing, and then disappeared backwards through a beaded curtain into the office.

Andrea watched him go. There was only one thing that made people act like that. Fear. As soon as he heard the name. Vasquez.

‘Here,’ Vasquez said, his voice honey. ‘The key to the Presidential Suite.’

Andrea stared at it for a second. ‘I couldn’t,’ she said softly. ‘The lodging allowance won’t cover the difference.’

‘I insist.’ He jangled it on the ring.

She nodded and then proffered her own hand. The clerk wasn’t going to come back any time soon, so there wasn’t much choice. Vasquez was still an unknown entity, too. She hadn’t sized him up — not fully, anyway, and this was all about the long game. She didn’t need to be his friend, but insulting him wouldn’t do her any favours.

She took it, but he didn’t let go. ‘It is the least that I can do if I cannot convince you to stay at the plantation with me.’

‘I’ll get in touch with John, my supervisor, and I’ll see about getting the allowance—’

He released the key and waved her off. ‘It’s fine. I think that they will not charge me, anyway. I know the owner, and once he hears of this… Well,’ he laughed, ‘I doubt he will have the gall to charge you either. There is hardly a line of guests waiting at the door.’

‘It’s very kind of you.’ This would also have to go in the report.

‘Of course. Though, if you had seen any of the rooms before making arrangements...’ He shivered theatrically. ‘Then I think you would have thought twice about my offer.’ His fish hook smile returned. ‘It still stands, if you’d like to change your mind...’

‘Good night, Mister Vasquez.’

‘Sleep well, Miss Grierson.’

The driver brought in her case and she nodded in thanks, first to him, and then at Vasquez. ‘I’ve arranged to be picked up at eight, so I should be with you before nine.’

‘I’ll send a car for you.’

‘Honestly,’ she sighed, sick from kindness. ‘It would be better for all of us if I made my own way.’ The thought of tackling a full day tomorrow on next to no sleep tainted her words. They came out with a little more sting than intended.

Vasquez stepped back and raised his hands. ‘Of course. If you have a change of heart, simply let the front desk know. They’ll be able to reach me.’ He lowered his chin and turned, spinning almost a full three sixty to add something else. He raised his finger, and his eyebrows. ‘Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if the driver didn’t show up at all. Those services are hardly organised.’ He shrugged and headed towards the door.

She watched him go, hoping to hell he wasn’t going to stop to add anything else. She knew that she’d wake up and find the Mercedes waiting at the curb for her. And no doubt, if she called the company that she’d booked and asked for another driver, they wouldn’t have one.

She was on his home turf, and that he’d already gotten the drop on her. She opened her hand and looked at the key to the Presidential Suite. The clerk hadn’t reappeared, and was likely outside the back door topping up to quell the panic. She’d not be able to change back, at least not tonight.

She waited for the elevator to arrive, rubbing her sore neck. Shit. Hopefully, the bed would be comfier than the car. But either way, it didn’t matter. Exhausted or not, home turf or not, she had a job to do. And there was nothing that Michael Vasquez could do about it.