The Cayman Conspiracy. David Ph.D. Shibli
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the levels of depravity that he had sunk to, and finally, he had found his last scapegoat.
Higgins suppressed the rising urge to throw up. His thoughts flashed back to Brogan’s warning. It was too late now and he accepted it. Higgins found himself nodding vacantly, ignoring the veiled threats of violence that were now spewing from the mouth of Telesino.
After a slippery handshake that blended Higgins’ sweat and Telesino’s nature, Higgins was shown the door. Telesino returned to his observation room and patted a machine as though thanking it for a job well done. A magnetic tape in the device played continuously, singing its silent song that accompanied the easy-listening music in the gaming-room. It didn’t work on everybody, but it appeared to have an excellent success rate on drinkers and other fools seeking meaning to their lives. Once the victims kept coming back, the slightly unfair mathematical odds of the games would do the rest.
The security guard had waited to escort Higgins back into the public domain. During the descent of the elevator, Higgins wondered if he really had the courage to inflict a similar fate on other fools such as himself. He doubted his resolve. A few fragments of humanity were still nestled in his fragile code of existence.
The claustrophobia of the lift was gratefully diluted with the metallic swish of the doors that announced their arrival on the ground floor. Higgins now sensed the poisonous aura with belated disgust. He glared at the cameras before sneering at Charlie, who was busily assisting in the recruitment of the next slave. Higgins quickly made his exit into the warm Vegas evening strangely relieved that his downfall had been aided.
He found a payphone and dialed Brogan’s number. After three rings, Higgins heard the familiar hissing sound that was the beginning of the recorded message. He decided that this may be for the better considering his unswayable plan of action. “...and if you leave your name and number after the tone, I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”
Higgins pressed the receiver to his ear enduring the piercing, electronic beep. His grip tightened and he was shaking with a hybrid feeling of fear and anger tempered with love. He paused, desperately reaching for words to convey the spectrum of his emotions.
“Brogan. The bastards got me,” he quivered. “It was a set up; some kind of thought control. I never had a chance. I love you. Tell Penny...”
Click. His time was up. With no more change in his pocket, he’d have to leave it at that. Brogan would be able to handle Penny, he thought as he turned to go back to The Eastern Promise. Mentally, he kissed his children goodbye as he looked up to the thirty fifth floor and beyond.
Higgins marched back inside the tall building and rode the public elevator as far as it would take him which was two floors below Telesino’s lair. The thirty-third floor appeared deserted and he made his way to the emergency staircase. The fire escape key was hanging in a glass case on the wall. Higgins smashed it with his hand ignoring any pain and unsightly blood. He winced with pain as he twisted the key in the lock, struggling to overcome its history of inactivity. It gave way and he pulled the key back out, in the hope that it could help him two floors up. He was right, but there was a welcoming committee and Higgins’ gashed hand turned the carpet red.
Two oxen-like men grabbed him by the wrists, and forced his hands behind his back before they frog-marched him back into Telesino’s office.
“Mr. Higgins. I am most disappointed with your obvious violent intent. I may not give you another chance.”
“Spare me the bullshit.” Higgins was pleased with his new found valor. “You should be put away, you evil bastard.”
“I take it that you don’t wish to make amends for your outstanding obligations,” Telesino concluded, still maintaining his grasp of a bank manager’s vocabulary.
“I’ll see you in hell, mister!” Higgins shouted, struggling in vain.
“I don’t doubt that Mr. Higgins. But by the time I arrive you should be settled in,” smirked Telesino. He turned to his henchmen coldly and snarled, “Get rid of this piece of shit.”
The blood from Higgins’ cut hand had compromised the grip of one of his captors. He sensed this and swiftly twisted the hand free from the surprised goon. This motion swiveled him to face the second man whom he surprised with an accurate punch to the jaw. The recoil bought Higgins a few vital seconds and now free, he steadied himself on the heavy wooden desk before launching himself towards Telesino with the desperation of a wounded animal. As his hands vainly sought to induce a fatal stranglehold, Higgins heard a sickly crack that was his last memory.
Chapter Two
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