THE TRADE - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of my unpublished novel, The Trade, a Bolivia-set psychological thriller.

Chapter 2

When she saw the Presidential Suite, she was more than a little glad that she hadn’t argued about staying in the ‘Single’.

She dropped her bag and rolled onto the bed without pulling back the covers.

She closed her eyes, and then what could have been seconds later, her phone buzzed noisily on the nightstand. She rose, cracked her back, showered quickly, and went down to the lobby. She knew it was coming, but her blood still boiled when she saw that Vasquez was waiting for her. And it wasn’t like she could just send him away, or she’d never get to the plantation. Instead, she just climbed into the backseat in silence and did her best to stay that way.

It was just gone eight in the morning when the driver wheeled left between two stone lions and trundled up the long gravel track that led to the OV Coffee Plantation. The narrow lane wound through an undulating green sea of coffee plants for almost a mile and a half before it broke into a sprawling courtyard. Images of colonial cotton plantations flashed in her mind as the car circled a large and ostentatious stone fountain, pulling up at a set of wide steps that led to a veranda set before the house.

The wheels of the leather-lined tank crunched into the gravel as the driver stood on the brake. She exited slowly and massaged her worsening neck. She’d spent the entire ride with her head twisted to the left, staring out the window in an effort to avoid Vasquez’s gaze and Anglophilic small talk. He thought he’d piqued her interest when he asked if she was keeping up with Downton Abbey, and despite it being one of her favourite shows, she resisted the urge to retort. As such, her neck was aching fiercely.

It twinged as she shouldered her satchel full of paperwork and notepads. She clicked her pen on and tucked it behind her ear, brushing her short, fair hair out of the way as she did. She planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the colonial mansion, drowned in the early morning Highland sun.

Outside of the clearly Colonial influence the roof was covered with terracotta tiles and ivy spread across the pale walls like dark veins. A blend of Vasquez’s American capitalist aspirations, and his humble Hispanic roots. She smirked.

She could hear women’s voices and splashing echoing from above the steps, out of sight, and guessed that the veranda was occupied by a pool. Vasquez appeared next to her and sighed, smiling almost wistfully. He obviously couldn’t hear the women. ‘Not modest, I admit,’ he sighed. ‘But it is home.’

‘Do you live here alone?’ she asked airily, letting her eyes drift from the palace down over the fields. A dusty track circled the house, separating the coffee shrubs from the stone terrace that surrounded it. She could just see the back end of a battered truck parked on what looked to be a slope running down under the house.

He stared wistfully at it. ‘My staff and I.’ He paused, then laughed. ‘And guests, of course.’

She turned from the fields and smiled politely. ‘Of course.’

‘Would you like something to drink. Coffee perhaps?’

She swallowed. She did, but it was better to refuse. And yet, she wondered whether it was actually a question, and if she had a say in the matter. She thought not. ‘Alright, but then I’d like to get started as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, I’m sure. Would you like the grand tour?’ he asked, ignoring her haste. He snapped his fingers at a man who had appeared at the top of the steps, lingering half out of view. He was wearing a white shirt and black slacks, hair greased to his head, lined eyes watching them intently. He could only have been one of Vasquez’s aforementioned staff members. The man straightened as Vasquez snapped and he clasped his hands behind his back, saying nothing.

Vasquez held a finger up and the man nodded, turning and sinking out of view.

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Andrea said after the man disappeared, taking the pen from behind her ear. She twirled it between her fingers and looked up at the ivy covered mansion once more. ‘I’m not here to assess the house.’ She looked at Vasquez for the first time that morning, noting his impeccably clean, white linen suit and brown leather loafers, and wondered whether he’d ever picked a coffee bean in his life.

‘Of course.’ His accommodating smile was unwavering. ‘I’ll send for Yuri, immediately,’ he said, rocking back and forth on his heels, making no attempt to move from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Yuri?’ she replied after a moment, following his lead. He was stalling.

‘My Head of Staff. My left hand, if you will.’

‘Don’t you mean right hand?’ She arched an eyebrow.

He grinned a little wider and chuckled. ‘Indeed. He oversees all of our operations here at the plantation, and makes sure everything runs... smoothly.’ His voice was chocolate.

She nodded and waited, drinking the thick air. Her clothes were already painted to her body and she could feel the sweat trickling down her neck, though, despite the near unbearable humidity, Vasquez seemed utterly content, and showed no intention of moving.

The man in the white shirt appeared again and nodded from the top of the staircase. Vasquez proffered a hand suddenly and Andrea gladly took the first step. They walked up in tandem, followed by Vasquez’s driver, and were shown around a still seething pool. Her eyes followed the already almost dry trails of water on the pale flagstones, leading to one of the glass doors into the house. Whoever had been splashing had exited quickly at an order she never saw given. She watched the water glisten in the sun and felt a pang of thirst. A dip would be welcome.

The grease-haired man led them to a balcony that looked over the fields, and Andrea saw now that the truck she’d spotted earlier was parked at the edge of another courtyard that fed into a garage beneath the house. Three tracks led away from it - the first back to the fountain, the second around the far side of the house, and the third into the fields. She followed it, her eyes coming to rest on a huge polytunnel nestled against a wall of trees in the distance.

A chair scraped and Andrea turned back to the glass table set under a canvas parasol, adorned with gleaming silverware and several tall polished coffee jugs. Vasquez pulled out a chair for her and she took it, facing the shimmering haze that hung over the fields. They rose and fell in swells that seemed to go on forever, split only from the sky by a serration of hazy blue peaks in the distance. The fields teemed with life as tiny and colourful birds turned and twirled among the leaves, diving beneath the surface and shooting into the air, chattering and twittering incessantly as they did. The ever present army of crickets howled in approval, grating on themselves in a dull and thunderous symphony.

The man in white lifted one of the silver judges and poured dark liquid into delicate cups.

Vasquez picked one up and cradled it in two hands, sipping slowly. He watched her pick up her’s and she couldn’t help but look away. Though well-groomed and the picture of wealth, his knuckles rose from his hands in bony uneven lumps, broken ten times over. He’s not always been in coffee then. She made sure her eyes didn’t linger too long.

It was almost universal. The longer she did this job, the more she realised how wealth and violence were two sides of the same coin. It didn’t matter where she went in the world, it was always there, just waiting to be flipped.

The third chair remained empty for a few minutes as they exchanged what were almost pleasantries about her plane journey and the hotel. Vasquez had nothing good to say about either. He didn’t look like the sort of man who flew Economy.

Yuri arrived not long after. The Russian was over six feet tall and crooked like a bent rake. But, despite his thinness, his arms were laced with hard and veiny muscles that gave no hint of frailty. He rounded the corner of the house from the back, dressed in a tattered blue shirt rolled up to the elbows, and a pair of dark jeans belted tightly around his stomach. He strode up, rubbing a dirty rag across his receding hairline and over his stubbled turkey throat. A leather shoulder holster dangled from his ribs and Andrea could see a well worn grip sticking out of the top. She didn’t know what kind of gun was in it, but it was big and silver and looked like one of those revolvers a they carried in the old west.

His long fingers curled over the back of the chair and he stared at Vasquez. They exchanged words without saying anything and then he nodded at slowly, his face set in an ugly grimace.

‘This her?' he asked almost balefully, dipping his head towards Andrea.

Vasquez shifted in his seat, his eyes closing to slits. His bottom lip rose over the top one for a second before he hissed something in perfect Russian. Silence hung heavy between them before he cleared his throat and turned back to Andrea, smiling apologetically.

Yuri muttered something in reply to Vasquez, also in Russian, without looking away. Andrea didn’t know a word of the language, but there was little doubt as to what was said. Yuri’s shoulders dropped and his expression softened, sort of.

‘Forgive me,’ he droned in a thick accent. He shrugged and held up his hands as though they were weighing scales. ‘I don’t spend much time in civilised company. I forget my manners.’

He extended a large grubby hand and Andrea imagined it closing around her throat. She swallowed her unease and took it.

‘Pleasure,’ she said quietly.

As soon as she loosened her grip, his hand withdrew like a recoiling snake, and again he turned to Vasquez, who sat like a sphinx, glare unwavering. He moved his head to towards the fields almost imperceptibly and Yuri immediately pushed back off the chair and stood straight.

‘I’ll get the truck,’ he said flatly before gliding away.

When he was out of earshot, Vasquez once more became the amenable host. ‘Forgive Yuri. He is inundated with work at the moment, and as such, was not as pleased to attend the table as I would have liked. Sometimes, I simply have to remind him who pays his salary.’

‘Work? What is it that Yuri does?’ Andrea pried, draining the tiny cup of what she had to admit was excellent coffee.

‘Yuri’s main concern is to look after the plantation, in all respects. Because of the size of it, there is much to do. He makes sure things stay on schedule, he deals with any complaints that may arise, and he solves problems.’

Andrea measured him as he chose his words, which all sounded reassuring, but did nothing to divulge solid information.

‘And he needs a gun to do that?’ she asked quickly, hoping to throw him off balance. She failed.

‘Yes.’ He smiled, acknowledging the attempt. ‘This is not England, Miss Grierson. The dangers here are very real.’

‘What kind of dangers?’ she squeezed out. Vasquez was sucking all of the oxygen out of the air.

‘The kind you need to shoot.’

Andrea shifted under his gaze and looked away, glad that she had the fields to look at. He chuckled, satisfied with his own humour. ‘We have a very active jaguar population here, and my property also happens to fall within the hunting territory of a pack of maned wolves. Not to mention the snakes…’ He rolled his hand through the air to signify that there were plenty of other dangerous things that could, and probably often needed to be shot.

She nodded. She didn’t know what else to do.

‘Yuri will be taking you around the property. He will be your chaperone. He should return momentarily.’

‘I don’t need a chaperone,’ she said defensively.

‘On the contrary. It is vital. Yuri is not alone in his work. His teams patrol the fields, making sure the workers are safe. If they see a stranger striding about alone, they might—’

‘Shoot me?’ Andrea raised her eyebrows.

‘Heaven forbid.’ He didn’t seem broken up about the notion. ‘But, you never know.’ He paused and motioned for the man in white, who was never more than a few steps away, to refill his cup. ‘It is not uncommon for bandits to venture onto my land and—’

‘Bandits?’ she cut in again.

Vasquez had to restrain his temper. He didn’t like being interrupted. ‘Yes,’ he smiled through gritted teeth. ‘I have ruffled quite a few feathers in recent years. The rapid expansion of the plantation has put the neighbouring plantations under strain. They are not as civilised as you or I, and have been known to resort to, how do you say… unscrupulous tactics, in order to try to undermine my success.’

When she was sure he was finished, she probed further. ‘What kind of tactics?’

He stared at her, weighing up whether she would let it go if he remained silent. She wouldn’t. He clasped his hands together in front of his chin and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Burning crops, attacking workers, poisoning the irrigation system, things like that.’ He tried to sound nonchalant, letting his gaze wander to the green hills, but she wasn’t buying it.

She almost scoffed. ‘Things like that? Those “things” seem very serious to me.’ She pulled out her pad, and took the pen from behind her ear. She had hardly begun scribbling when Vasquez interjected.

‘What are you writing?’

She tried to ignore him so she could finish her note, but before she could his hand slapped the page next to her nib. The coffee cups hopped on the glass. ‘What are you writing?’ he asked again.

She cleared her throat and sat up straight. ‘Mister Vasquez, I am here to investigate and assess the working conditions on your farm. If you tell me that your workers are under threat of being harmed by “bandits”, as you put it, then that is something that will need to be taken under consideration.’

Vasquez looked coldly at her. ‘They are under no threat of being harmed. They are perfectly safe here, and are treated exceedingly well.’

Andrea narrowed her eyes and began twirling her pen again. She cocked her head to the side a little. She’d touched a nerve. ‘But you just said—’

‘I said that I employ Yuri and a team of men whose sole responsibility it is to prevent such occurrences from happening.’

‘Happening again, don’t you mean?’ she drilled.

He raised an eyebrow, shocked. He reigned supreme here, utterly unopposed, and she would have bet that not a single person within a hundred miles would have the stones to speak over him. He certainly wasn’t used to not having the last word. ‘No, I don’t mean. If I meant that, then I would have said that.’

She heard his voice tighten and watched as his jaw flexed behind the half clenched fist pressed against his chin. His other hand joined it and he clasped them again. She didn’t stop. She wanted to push him. To see.

‘You said that bandits “have” — past tense — resorted to such “tactics” as “attacking workers”, which leads me to believe that it has happened at least once — and regardless of the safety precautions put in place, it’s my job to assess the likelihood of it happening again, as well as to question those who were attacked to see what kind of proceedings followed said attacks — and whether they were in accordance with the employment laws currently upheld in the—’

He raised his hand abruptly, eyes flashing, and she stopped. ‘I will speak to one of my men, and ask him to compile the information necessary. You do not need to threaten—’

‘I’m not threatening—’

‘Nevertheless!’ He cleared his throat and straightened his jacket, looking down as he collected himself. ‘I’m sorry. I believe I hear an engine. That will be Yuri. Now, you must excuse me, I have a very busy schedule. When you arrive back here this afternoon, one of my employees will greet you with all the relevant information that you need.’

He stood very quickly and bowed his head. The chair rocked on its back legs, and by the time it landed, he’d breezed past her and disappeared into the house through one of the many glass doors. She watched the fresh coffee swim in his cup.

She couldn’t hear an engine, and neither had he. She’d drawn first blood, and he’d gone to lick his wounds. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, pushing a bead of sweat from her brow with her finger and flicking it onto the baking flagstones. The sun was beginning to climb higher and the line of heat where the shadow met the light crept ever closer to her boots.

She closed the notebook in front of her and pushed the pen back behind her ear. She drummed her fingers on the cover and wondered if she’d pushed too hard. She wondered what exactly Michael Olmos Ortega Vasquez was capable of, and moreover, what he was likely to do now.

In the churn of her thoughts, she didn’t hear Yuri approach.

The grinding of gravel and tires jolted her back to reality, and the sharp screech of a horn made her stand up, almost toppling the jugs on the table.

Below the terrace was a battered old Toyota jeep without a roof. In the driver’s seat, looking pretty pissed off with his mandate, was Yuri. He scowled at her and didn’t release the horn until she had rounded the balustrade and made her way down a set of stone steps to the courtyard. She crossed before the two huge steel doors that fed into the underground garage and approached the idling jeep.

As she climbed into the sticky leather passenger seat, she wasn’t sure if she would have prefered to stay with Vasquez instead. But before she could decide, Yuri stamped on the accelerator and she was thrown against the headrest. The jeep slithered forwards, snaking on the loose stone, the engine whining as it groped for traction.

From an upper floor window, Vasquez watched in silence as they vanished in a cloud of dust.

He scowled and turned away, set to tend to his busy schedule, which Andrea was already pretty sure had nothing to do with growing coffee.