Aground on St. Thomas (8 page)

Charlotte Amalie

The Hideout

IN AN ABANDONED
construction site up the hill from Government House, Cedric kept a watchful eye out the window through which Fowler had hefted the Governor less than an hour earlier.

The aide wiped his sweaty face with a damp handkerchief. He was standing next to the building’s only open portal; the rest of the doors and windows had been sealed up, likely to prevent just this type of incursion.

Government Hill was a pricey neighborhood with several historic homes built into its steep slope. Key selling points were the area’s proximity to downtown, the facilitating access of multiple public staircases, and the stunning harbor views. The most appreciated feature—by both the current inhabitants and the original settlers—was the breeze that filtered up the hillside, helping to break the humidity.

“No luck on that today,” Cedric muttered as he glanced over his shoulder at the gutted interior. Despite the building’s missing roof, the high walls blocked any cooling respite the wind might have provided.

•

THERE WASN’T MUCH
left of the residential home that had been co-opted as the Governor’s hideaway.

The structure was undergoing a major renovation and had been stripped down to its concrete shell. From the look of things, work had been stopped for several months. The interior had been left exposed to the elements, and weeds had sprouted up through cracks in the concrete. A permit issue had probably tied up the construction, Cedric mused.

It was a perfect spot for the Governor to lay low, he had to admit. With the exterior walls still intact, they were hidden from the public staircase that led down to Government House. That same walkway had ensured the Governor’s minimal exposure en route. Once they ducked out the back gate, it had taken just a few minutes to get here.

His only complaint: with no roof, the concrete floor was baking hot.

•

LOOSENING THE TOP
buttons of his collared shirt, Cedric glanced over his shoulder at the fugitive hiding farther inside the building.

The Governor had tucked his body into a shaded crevice in one of the kitchen walls, an opening designed for a sink or a stove. Capped wires and cut-off piping poked out from the framing. Seeking shelter from the sun, he had crawled as far back into the hole as possible. Not much of the man was visible, other than his sneakered feet, which had drooped sleepily sideways.

Whatever burst of energy had inspired the wild sprint through Government House and the hike up the hill had been depleted.

Cedric grinned as a snore droned out of the kitchen cubbyhole.

Now
that
was the Governor he knew.

Cedric shifted his gaze to Fowler, who hunched by the Governor’s shoes like a pit bull guarding a bone.

Fowler stared across the construction site, an unreadable expression on his flat face. Sweat drenched his oversized golf shirt and dotted his loose-fitting khaki pants.

Cedric found himself wondering, yet again, how the Governor had managed to contact the Fixer without his knowledge.

In the weeks leading up to the indictments, he had carefully monitored the Governor’s movements, always staying within earshot, if not closer. Whatever means they’d used to communicate had somehow slipped past his radar.

His eyes narrowed as he pondered Fowler’s interference in the day’s proceedings.

The day hadn’t turned out quite the way he and his coconspirators had planned. Now that he’d had a moment to reflect on the situation, however, he could see that the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as he had initially feared.

They had yet to achieve their primary goal—the Governor’s arrest—but it was only midmorning. The Guv couldn’t possibly elude his pursuers for long. Operation Coconut was off and rolling. The feds wouldn’t stop until they had their man.

•

CEDRIC RETURNED HIS
focus to the window and the view through to the public staircase on the opposite side. Although all sorts of commotion rumbled up from Emancipation Park and the city’s waterfront, the walkway outside the construction site was quiet and—frustratingly—unoccupied.

There was no indication that the federal agents inside Government House had sounded the alarm and begun a wider search.

Cedric tried to ignore the tantalizing weight of his cell phone in his pocket.

If only he could send a text message with their location to the woman from the local attorney general’s office, the information would be routed to the FBI, and agents would be swarming up the stairs in a matter of minutes.

But with the Fixer lurking less than ten feet away, it was too great a risk to try to access his phone. While the man’s eyes appeared to be glazed over, Cedric had the distinct impression they were sharply trained on his position by the window. He couldn’t chance it.

He shrugged off the thought.

All but essential phone lines in the territory had been shut down. Even if he could sneak his phone out of his pocket, he probably wouldn’t be able to send the message.

More important, he had a cover to maintain. The general public need never know that he was involved in the Governor’s downfall.

He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

By now, the doppelgänger in the Governor’s office should have been exposed. Surely, one of the many backstabbers at Government House would have snitched on which direction they’d fled, if not the exact location of the hideout.

It was only a matter of time before the feds began sweeping the hillside. Sooner or later, the agents would track them down.

With a tense sigh, Cedric stared out the window.

He wished they’d hurry up.

He’d been waiting months for the Governor’s ouster. His patience had reached its limit.

Seeking a Schism

IT WAS NO
small thing, plotting to unseat the elected governor of a US territory. Even as Cedric sweltered in the hot sun, restlessly anticipating the arrival of the federal agents, he knew that he had to remain calm and let the situation play out.

This was but the latest scheme hatched by the aide and his fellow conspirators—the goal of each initiative had been to trigger a groundswell of social upheaval that would cause a permanent schism between the territory and its US overseer.

Separatist movements had been present in the US Virgin Islands for decades, going back to the 1917 transfer of ownership from the Danes to the Americans. But in recent times, the independence ideal had lost all momentum. Despite a never-ending stream of complaints, most islanders had concluded that the benefits of US citizenship outweighed the drawbacks of their limited federal representation. After years of thwarted ballot initiatives and waning political support, the separatist agenda had petered out—on the surface, that is.

A secretive offshoot from the lone surviving independence coalition, Cedric’s cabal was alive and kicking.

•

CEDRIC AND HIS
conspirators had abandoned all attempts to achieve a separatist mandate through the ballot box. In their view, subterfuge had a far better chance of manipulating public perception than stump speeches and door-to-door canvassing. They aimed to create a provocative event that would rile local sentiments and sway enough opinions, if only temporarily, to effect the desired change.

As in any modern municipality, there were plenty of fears and prejudices upon which to play. The easiest for the cabal to exploit revolved around Native Rights, a belief among a vocal minority that preferential treatment should be given to islanders who could trace their ancestry back to West Indians living in the territory at the time of its US transfer. The proposed list of rights included tax exemptions, homestead land grants, voting privileges, and qualification hurdles for those seeking elected office.

Frictions between those who could claim the Native Rights heritage and those who could not were regularly vented in election debates and on the floor of the Legislature. The contentious issue had even torn apart the most recent effort to draft a USVI constitution.

The populace was primed for an explosive outburst. It was just a matter of finding the right wedge, the right nerve to expose and trample.

•

IT TURNED OUT
social engineering was a difficult science, a delicate process of trial and error. Despite their best efforts, the cabal’s previous schemes had failed to achieve the desired results.

Indeed, the most recent project had nearly ended in disaster.

Intended to spark civil unrest on St. Croix, a plot to engineer the racially motivated murder of a Saudi grocery store owner had gone awry when the sacrificial perpetrators, two luckless coconut vendors, had disappeared from the crime scene at the last critical moment.

Cedric shook his head at the memory. They were lucky their man on St. Croix had taken the fall for that caper. Otherwise, the entire cabal could have been exposed. Casanova had been sent to Golden Grove to serve a minimal sentence. Given his connections, he would no doubt be released soon.

The cabal had continued its work, unabated.

Crouched next to the concrete wall inside the abandoned construction site, Cedric listened to the chaos bubbling up from Charlotte Amalie’s lower downtown area. He could hardly suppress his inner glee.

The attempt to remove the Governor from office was their most promising effort yet. It was bolder and more direct than anything they had tried before.

And this time, it was working.

•

WIPING ANOTHER LAYER
of sweat from his forehead, Cedric reflected on the inspiration for the day’s ploy.

The idea had occurred to him a few months back, when he read a news story about a controversy brewing in the Caribbean islands of the Turks and Caicos. The territory’s residents were railing against a VAT (value added tax) that their caretaker governor had threatened to impose on all goods and services.

It was the notion of the appointed governor, imposed by the overseeing British government, that had piqued Cedric’s interest.

He vaguely remembered the corruption allegations against the elected premier that had triggered the British takeover, but T&C was too far north of the Virgins to draw more than a passing mention in the local press.

Intrigued, Cedric quickly plowed through every news article about the T&C crisis he could get his hands on.

After a police inquiry into enormous bribes being paid to develop public lands, the T&C’s premier had suddenly resigned and fled to South America. The UK promptly suspended the islands’ government and replaced it with one led by the British caretaker governor, who would serve until the corruption issues were resolved and new elections could be organized.

The initial British takeover met only muted resistance, but by the end of the interim governing period, the appointed leader had plummeted in popularity.

The threatened imposition of the VAT drew a firestorm of criticism. The caretaker governor eventually withdrew his tax proposal, deferring the issue to the incoming elected government, which had since taken control—and summarily dismissed the hated tax.

•

CEDRIC HAD OBSESSED
over the story.

What would it take to wake Virgin Islanders from decades of subjugated complacency? Could a similar scenario be devised to provoke a US takeover—one that would prove so distasteful the residents would finally rise up and throw out their overlords?

The question was tantalizing. He’d spent several days plotting out a strategy.

Then he shared it with the separatists.

Like a boulder careening down one of Charlotte Amalie’s steep hills, the project had been gaining momentum ever since.

The Rabbit Hole

IT WAS A
long and winding path from devoted public servant to devious revolutionary, from starry-eyed intern to subversive malcontent.

Cedric had made the full conversion.

The man he once idolized, he had come to despise.

The system that had provided his life’s most valuable opportunities, he now loathed and labored to dismantle.

A vigilante’s blinkered zeal steered his vision.

He thought of the events still to come, the chips yet to fall, and relished his role in the Governor’s demise.

He was a complicated man with complicated ambitions.

But it hadn’t always been that way.

•

GROWING UP, CEDRIC
was a studious sort, an awkward adolescent who tried hard to fit in but somehow always found himself outside the norm. His efforts to assimilate made him stick out all the more.

A fragile soul, he soldiered on, closely watching his peers for signs of acceptance that would never come, at least not in the demonstrative form that would satisfy his thirsty ego.

That perceived rejection wounded him to the core.

Emotionally closed off, he was a puzzle to his parents and the few friends he had accumulated. He could be openly hostile, frigidly polite, or, in his more desperate moments, unnervingly obsequious.

The alienation fed an isolation-induced vanity. In that coping mechanism sprung the seeds of the duplicitous adult he would become.

In politics, he was a natural fit.

•

CEDRIC STARTED WORKING
for the Governor on his first campaign, volunteering as an entry-level intern. Eager to please, he worked tirelessly, making himself available for extra duties after hours and on the weekends. He made himself useful and then, inevitably, indispensible, soon earning a paid position as a junior staffer.

Latching on to the Governor’s broad coattails, Cedric gradually weaseled his way into the politician’s inner circle. His duties expanded into his natural area of expertise: data consumption and on-demand delivery.

Long an observer of local politics, Cedric was an encyclopedic resource on the topic. His brain was wired with an infinite capacity for minutia. He knew the pros and cons of every policy issue, the professional and private details of every actor engaged in the legislative process. Most important, he could disgorge these facts at a moment’s notice. This last ability, in particular, gained him the highest level of access to the Governor—and the informal title of “right-hand man.”

Maintaining this database, however, required constant study, intake, and observation.

It was while diligently collecting information that he slipped down the rabbit hole.

•

CEDRIC WAS ON
his way home from another busy day at Government House when the first wayward step occurred.

He had stopped at Emancipation Park, where the separatists were holding a sparsely attended meeting. It was an innocuous gathering, clearly the dying sputterings of a dysfunctional organization.

But as he prepared to leave, one of the members touched him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, extending an invitation to a far more select committee that would be convening later that evening.

Skeptical but intrigued, Cedric wrote down the location.

At the designated time, he wandered into the waterfront alleys and found the address of the jewelry shop he’d been told was hosting the event.

From the narrow walkway, he tried to peek through the grate-covered glass. Like the rest of the stores in the downtown area, it was locked up tight. There was no indication that anyone else was around.

Cedric rang the buzzer, not expecting a response. But after a few silent seconds, the furtive shopkeeper peered out through a hole in the protective grate and reluctantly let him in.

The aide was surprised at what he found inside—or more specifically, who. In a dimly lit room behind the display area, he encountered a cluster of the island’s most influential citizens, native Virgin Islanders with tremendous economic and political clout.

Then he was introduced to the woman at the center of the group, a charismatic figure of immense prestige. Due to the sensitive nature of her public position, her role in the organization had to be kept confidential, and she could only attend private meetings with closed access.

He left that evening unsure of how to process what he’d observed or of why he had been entrusted with such an important secret.

Nevertheless, he omitted mention of the meeting from his briefing the following day.

The next time the Governor asked for his thoughts on the separatists, Cedric dismissed them as irrelevant.

From that moment on, the schism slowly grew between Cedric and his mentor—even as the Governor remained unaware of the rift.

•

CEDRIC PIVOTED AWAY
from the window in the concrete shell of the construction site on Government Hill. He turned as if to check on the Governor and Fowler. In reality, the aide was looking up over the far wall to the mansion perched on the adjacent hill, about twenty degrees around the city’s upper perimeter from the worksite where they were hiding.

Visible from almost every angle within Charlotte Amalie, the Governor’s Mansion looked down on the whole of the city. Flagpoles in the south yard framed the stately white-painted structure. Surrounded by a mass of jungled greenery, the building stood alone atop the steep slope, its columned front emulating the president’s living quarters in Washington, DC.

Cedric had visited the gated property numerous times during the Governor’s tenure. His admiration for the fine furnishings, manicured lawns, and expansive view had followed his overall transition, morphing into envy-tainted desire.

His was a patriotic mission, a matter of pride and heritage. But if he played his cards right, he would soon be moving into that mansion—as the new head of state.

The woman leading the conspiracy had assured him as much.