Читать книгу The Cayman Conspiracy - David Ph.D. Shibli - Страница 7

Joe LeRice soaked up the last rays of the Caribbean sun. His recliner had long since ceased to be at the best tanning angle, but that didn’t matter. There would be many more days like this, he thought as he felt the cool caress of the south-easterly that rustled the coconut-laden palm trees. He sat up and gazed into the crystal sea watching it stroke the sandy beach like a doting mother brushing her daughter’s golden hair.

The beautiful Cayman Islands, once remembered as The Land That Time Forgot. Joe smiled as the country’s motto seemed to form in his mind, “He hath founded it upon the seas.”

Joe knew who the He referred to. It was not Christopher Columbus who was attributed with the discovery of these islands in 1503, but rather the divine artist who had created this masterpiece. Columbus had obviously not been ashore because if he had, he would never have chosen to return to the shackles of civilization.

At first the three islands were referred to as Las Tortugas on account of the copious green turtles that once adorned the virginal beaches. During their egg-laying season, these turtles would come ashore to bury their clutches as they had been doing for thousands of years. That was before advanced European sailors had discovered the delights of turtle meat. Their population swiftly dwindled and, ashamed yet unshakeable, man was forced to choose a more suitable name for these islands having nullified the original one.

Las Caymanas was the next choice, taken from the Spanish word for alligator. In fact, the alligators referred to were probably huge iguanas that are now extinct in this particular environ and rather than sentence some other innocent species to a similar fate the name stuck.

Over history’s ensuing course, the islands became a genetic melting-pot simmering with an unusual recipe of genuine settlers, pirates, freed Negro slaves and indigenous Caribbean Indians. The most enduring ingredient proved to be the British seasoning which even today, gives these islands a distinctly colonial flavor and an English mother tongue.

Folklore has it that the now international tax-haven reputation of the Cayman Islands was a direct result of gratitude shown by King George III who is said to have removed all forms of taxation from the islanders following their heroic deeds during the Wreck of the Ten Sails.

Toward the end of the eighteenth century, a convoy of ten British merchant ships was sailing past the eastern end of Grand Cayman and during the stormy night, the leading ship ran onto a reef several hundred yards from the shore. In an attempt to warn the others, it flashed a signal which was mistaken for a benign command to follow. The splintering of the timber and the shouts of the ill-fated mariners alerted the sleeping islanders who quickly mobilized a small flotilla of whatever was remotely seaworthy.

The rescue attempt was a brave success and it is reported that not a single life was lost in the course of that momentous night.

Over the following years the islands remained relatively obscure, although the men forged themselves a reputation as master seamen. A Caymanian sailor was always, and still is, a respected member of any ship’s crew due to his almost boundless knowledge of his mother, the Sea, who had protected and nurtured him from birth, sharing her deep mysteries with him.

With the arrival of the first seaplane in 1953 piloted by Owen Roberts, and the subsequent construction of the airport that still bears his name, the Cayman Islands were primed for a mighty explosion of growth that would shatter any effort to retain the status quo.

The Caymans were established as an alternative vacation destination during the ‘sixties, its virgin reefs desired by insatiable scuba divers, anxious to follow in the fabled footsteps of the master, Jacques Cousteau.

The more astute business people set about creating homes for the wealthy visitors and banks for their money, away from the prying eyes of the taxation beast that ravaged their assets back home.

The ‘seventies saw an unparalleled, condominium construction boom on Grand Cayman that threatened to turn the glorious Seven Mile Beach into a writhing concrete snake.

Every major financial institution had watched these developments with keen eyes and after they had dipped their toes into the inviting waters, they decided to dive headlong into the establishment of the western hemisphere’s most sophisticated and secretive financial market.

Not surprisingly, undesirables soon took advantage of the confidentiality of the private banking system, flying in on their personal jets to deposit vast sums of cash in their secret accounts. This gave an effective way of laundering their ill-gotten gains with the added advantage of avoiding tax. The Caymanian government became wise to these tricks and passed a series of laws that required depositors to prove the validity of their cash. In drug-related investigations it then became possible to enforce the divulgence of the suspected baron’s account details.

Although not openly discussed, it has become extremely fashionable for the more privileged members of our society to have private accounts at one of the five hundred or so banks registered in Georgetown, the capital, which does not even cover a square mile. Foreign-owned, private shell companies soon outnumbered the population, which at last count in 1989 stood at 25,000, only 1500 of whom do not live on Grand Cayman, mainly in favor of Cayman Brac. A mere handful occupy the sleepy Little Cayman.

With the advent of the telex machine, the Cayman Islands boasted more machines per capita than any other country in the world.

Bewildered by this sudden and relentless development of their once peaceful land, many Caymanians still view most foreigners with a justifiable caution.

One foreigner who had almost forged total acceptance was the late Sir Richard LeRice, Joe’s father. In the late ‘sixties, Richard LeRice, a civil engineer, had been one of several professionals dispatched to the Caymans by the Foreign Office in answer to a plea for assistance from the islands’ government. They desperately needed help from the motherland in establishing an efficient bureaucracy to leash the impending expansion. Richard LeRice became so dedicated to the people with whom he had worked alongside, that he was invited to stay on as a consultant to the government even after his Foreign Office contract had expired.

After a knighthood in 1975, Sir Richard was killed in a tragic plane crash two years later when engine failure forced his Cessna into the sea during a routine six mile ‘hop’ between the two smaller islands, Cayman Brac and Little Cayman. Floating debris yielded a wallet containing a few sodden banknotes and a photograph of his wife and son. On the back a fading inspiration could just be made out.

“Richard, to yourself be true.”

No body was found and it was probably fitting that a man so vibrant in life should not have been seen in death; reduced to a flaccid corpse, planted into a hole in the ground and watered by a river of diplomatic tears. A memorial was erected to him on Cayman Brac.

After the accident, a fifteen year old Joe and his mother returned to England permanently. Joe’s young life had been spent commuting between public school and his father’s job, but he clung quietly to the memories that he had collected in the Cayman Islands and he promised himself that one day, he would return.

In 1980, the year in which his mother died from cancer, and not helped by a broken heart, Joe had almost dropped out of university and decided to spend some time in the islands, amongst the memories of his youth.

Still reclining, he recalled that visit which was to shape the course of his life and bring him back forever to this Land That Time Forgot.

The seeds for his return had been planted in his adolescence. During that time of his life, Joe had found someone whom he enjoyed being with; she was a pretty, Caymanian girl, whose different culture had given her a set of homely values that were in refreshing contrast to manufactured, teenaged Britain.

Joe was determined not to be one of the millions who carried fond recollections of their childhood sweethearts through their compromised lives. Having tried as hard as he could, he could not forget that honey-brown girl whose face was firmly imprinted on his soul.

On returning to Cayman Brac, Joe had been pleasantly surprised to find out that Rachael Downing had not married, as so many young island girls seemed to do. Instead, she had embarked upon several correspondence courses in a bid to further her career with local government. Impressed, yet guilty for harboring his own plans to drop out of university, Joe had decided to struggle through the final year of his studies before returning. Many nights of passionate love beneath the bright, Caribbean moon ensured that they would both have something to look forward to.

If his future was to contain Rachael, then it would have to be in the Cayman Islands and Joe knew that he had to find a career to preserve those conditions. He did. After a small wedding, he had used the last of his inheritance money and bought a plot of land on Grand Cayman. With Rachael’s help he had secured a loan to build a house on it. He had worked on the site every day spending hours helping, even after the workmen had long since gone home. He had sold the property for a healthy profit and over the next five years, he had built up one of the most successful property development companies in the Cayman Islands. In fact, this evening was one of their first in the brand-new house that Joe had built for his wife.

Joe turned his admiring gaze towards Rachael as she lay just a few yards away. As she slept, her hair cradled her face in a pillow of auburn, and Joe spent a few minutes appreciating the part that she played in his happiness. She and Joe were so different that their relationship served to strengthen the theory that opposites attract.

Rachael had achieved a respectable position with the legal department of government and could easily have followed her father into politics, but there were more important things on her mind. Rachael’s greatest desire now was to hear the patter of tiny feet, perhaps a couple of pairs.

Joe found these thoughts stimulating and with a naughty grin he concluded that if Rachael had not yet conceived, it was not for lack of trying. Just imagining making love to his wife, Joe became aroused and played out the scene in his mind.

The sun was slowly sinking below the waves and like a drowning artist, it painted its last skyscape. In a breathtaking spectrum of colors that ranged from a rich yellow to a deep blood-red, skillfully blended on Nature’s blue canvas, it submerged in a fleeting flash of green and was gone.

This seemed to be the signal for hungry mosquitoes to emerge from their inactivity and search for their precious food, blood; preferably human. With the high-pitched whining of the first unwelcome insect in his ear, Joe decided to rescue his wife from the impending raid. Moving his six-foot frame quickly, he scooped his wife’s warm body into his wiry arms and smiled reassuringly at her as she awoke, pleasantly surprised at reality commencing where her dream had just left off.

“Mmm. Kidnapped by a horny pirate,” she teased, “Don’t tell my husband.”

“I promise,” whispered Joe. Rachael winked at him, drawing a smile from her captor. As well as being the gateway to her sensuality, her eyes were unique to look at. Their shape was slightly oriental, a legacy from a Chinese great-grandmother and the pupils were lost in an animated sea of green whose waters it would take a lifetime to chart.

Joe maneuvered himself and his prize between their two recliners and strode past the kidney-shaped pool to the patio door. Enjoying his firm grip, Rachael slid the door open from her vantage point so that Joe would not have to put her down. A cool wave flowed over them. The central air-conditioning had performed perfectly and the formation of goose pimples on Joe’s tense arms sped him to the bedroom.

Joe set Rachael down gently on their bed, her arms still wrapped around his neck. She did not want to let go and Joe came forward to kiss her in appreciation of this. They slid under the solitary top sheet and turned to face each other.

They came closer together, probing each other’s warmth, searching for opportunities to please one another. They both knew when the time had come, and when it did, they merged slowly and deliberately, savoring the moment. Rachael’s hands ran down Joe’s sides. Her touch was electric. Her legs began to quiver and she gripped him tightly with them. He sensed her urgency, moving faster and faster spurred on by her pleading, breathless voice. He felt profound waves swelling from deep within and he could not stop. She did not want him to, and they exploded into mutual climax, dissolving in pure emotion. Satisfied, they lay together, Joe’s head resting on his wife’s pert breasts.

About a half hour later, Joe gingerly eased himself away from Rachael’s lingering embrace and succeeded in leaving her asleep so that she could finish the dream that had left her face so serene. He padded out of their bedroom and treated himself to a shower in the guest bathroom. The strong jet of water massaged his entirety and he opened his mouth to savor the cool flow. He would have stayed longer but his awareness for water preservation in this hot climate got the better of him. He pushed in the shower dial, instantly stopping the flow. The sudden silence was broken by the ringing of the telephone.

“Shit!” Joe chimed in. He padded out over the white tiled floor leaving glistening pools of water behind with each footstep. He managed to intercept the call, his calm voice concealing any inconvenience.

“Joe LeRice.”

“Hello, Joe,” said a voice that Joe recognized immediately as belonging to his father-in-law, Arthur Downing.

“What are you and Rachael doing this evening?” he enquired.

“We hadn’t really thought about it. If there’s nothing exciting going on, we may go to Benjamin’s Roof for dinner.” replied Joe.

“Well, if you haven’t made concrete plans, perhaps you’d like to be my guests at a dinner function tonight?”

“Where?” asked Joe.

“At the Hyatt Regency.”

“Why? What’s happening?” asked Joe, now interested. Dinner at the Hyatt was always a treat.

“Oh, it’s just another boring function. Some travel company is presenting their sales awards. Actually, it’s you I really want to talk to. I need your Western expertise.”

Joe turned around to see Rachael coming over towards him. “Hold on a second,” he said, “Rachael’s here. I’m game, but I’ll ask her what she thinks.”

She nodded her head in answer to Joe’s question before relieving Joe of the ‘phone to have a daughter-to-father chat. Joe left them to it and returned to the bathroom to clean up.

He wondered what Arthur wanted to talk about this time. Arthur Downing was now a respected politician, having run in the last election and won one of the twelve seats in the Legislative Assembly, representing the smaller islands.

In fact, Arthur Downing was an important member of government who was responsible for the regulation of the thriving tourist industry. More importantly to Joe, Rachael’s father and his own had been close friends and Joe respected him for the strong values that were now evident in his beautiful daughter.

After Rachael had hung up, she found Joe and said, “It starts in a couple of hours. Daddy wants us to meet him at the Garden Loggia in an hour and a half.”