SHARK ATTACKS ALWAYS MADE HEADLINES and the news that the legless body of a European washed up on the beach of Belize’s top tourist resort attracted journalists always on the lookout for sensational news in nearby Cancun.
Mike Watson, an expatriate journalist who freelanced for the The Riviera Maya Times, was the first to be tipped off by a contact of his close to the Belize City Police Department.
The remains were that of a Russian expatriate, one Igor Vishnevsky, his body, identified by a hotel room card found in a back pocket, had been found floating close to the beach near the Coral Cove Resort on Ambergris Caye, and according to the autopsy had been exsanguinated—drained of all its blood.
Remains they were, all that was left of the Russian’s legs were a few shreds of flesh and shattered bone, a shark attack, concluded the police report, which didn’t explain the life jacket still on the torso and what was left of a nylon rope knotted to it.
Watson who lived in Playa del Carmen flew down to met his contact at San Pedro on Ambergris Caye. San Pedro was the capital of Belize’s Barrier Reef, a national treasure, the longest barrier reef in the Western Hemisphere and the second longest in the world, a top destination for scuba divers.
‘La Isla Bonita’ named after Madonna's hit ‘… last night I dreamt of San Pedro’ had a population of about 10,000 permanent residents and its police department consisted of less than a handful of officers with a small tight budget.
The Caye, in reality a peninsula, separated to the north from the Mexican mainland province of Quintana Roo by the Zaragoza Canal, was 40 kilometres long and about a couple across at its widest point.
The small airport ran alongside San Pedro, which lay on the southern part of the Caye parallel to many of the town’s shops, hotels, and restaurants.
It was a laid back tropical paradise, close to the Hol Chan Marine Reserve—a natural protected area filled with colorful fish, turtles and clear blue water, no high-rise hotels … and few tourists with the world plunged into the middle of the Covid pandemic. In normal times it would have been filled with scuba divers, snorkelers, windsurfers and lovers of other watersports.
Watson was met by Alan Kershaw at the airport, a former Belizean police officer, who now ran a small security firm in San Pedro providing services for the airport, hotels and banks.
‘How’s Playa del Carmen Mike?’
‘Not too bad, there’s a few tourists now, hotels are picking up, and here?’
‘Not good, business is bad.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Let’s go eat and I’ll tell you all about our late friend.’
They drove a few blocks north to Hurricane's, a small restaurant overlooking a jetty that jutted out into the transparent waters on the Caribbean shore.
‘It’s better here,’ Al told him, ‘not many people, besides their ceviche is good.’
They took a table inside where an air-conditioner wafted a cool stream of air over them and ordered a couple of beers.
‘So it seems the sharks are hungry here,’ said Watson.
‘Well not that hungry, otherwise they would have eaten the lot,’ he said smiling. ‘Rotten meat according to the police.’
‘A Russian.’
‘That’s it.’
‘They didn’t release the name.’
‘No, pressure from the Mexican embassy.’
‘Oh.’
‘Russia doesn’t have an embassy here, they're represented by Mexico, a guy called Demitriev who goes between Mexico City and Cancun, supposed to be a commercial attaché. We think he’s a GRU agent, linked to the shark attack victim, a certain Igor Vishnevsky, I’ve since discovered, a Russian expat living in Cancun, travelled on a Cypriot passport.’
‘What the hell are Russians doing in Belize!’
‘That’s the question. What I’ve learnt is Vishnevsky was wearing a lifejacket and was dressed. Attached to the lifejacket was a nylon boat cord, it was as if he had been thrown overboard, towed behind a boat.’
‘Shark bait.’
‘Right.’
‘Drug traffickers?’ asked Watson.
‘I don’t think so, even if it’s one of their methods.’
*
At precisely the same moment the two men ordered a second beer at Hurricane’s, it was ten in the evening in Moscow, where Oleg Sedov, a member of the Russian state security apparatus, was dining with an old friend, Andrei Rublev, a director of the VTB bank.
‘It seems like our friend has had a boating accident,’ said Rublev.
‘Yes, according to Demitriev he fell overboard,’ Sedov replied with a shrug.
‘The question that's worrying us is the media, it won’t be long before somebody starts to ask questions about his links to the bank.’
‘We’re looking after that, we’ve taken care of his associates, Wallace and Simmonds.’
‘I’ve heard one of them was in Spain. Perhaps you could find out if it was linked in any way to our business?’ instructed Rublev.
‘I’ll do that.’
‘We wouldn’t want any bad publicity, would we?’ said Rublev tersely.
*
An hour later Demitriev got a call from Moscow with instructions to investigate the movements of Simmonds before his unfortunate accident.
Sedov was not only very unhappy about the financial loss, he was furious at the risk of being caught up in a scandal in that Caribbean backwater, one that could be used to embarrass the Kremlin, at a moment when it was trying to shore up its friends in the region, especially Maduro’s shaky regime in Venezuela, just before the US elections.
‘We’ve found out that Simmonds travelled to Spain … San Sebastian,’ announced Demitriev.
‘Find out why.’
‘We know he stayed at Hotel de Londres, five stars, very up market.’
‘Good, there must have been a good reason for that. Was there anything special happening there during his stay?’
‘I’ll check that out.’
‘Do it quick, your men already fucked up with Wallace,’ Sedov said, ‘keep me updated.’
He then hung up.
Demitriev immediately called his colleague in Madrid who informed him they had no consular representation in San Sebastian. He then remembered Biarritz, about half an hour’s drive to the north of the city, which, if he remembered rightly, was a spot long favoured by Russians with its Alexandre Nevsky Orthodox Cathedral, a chic seaside resort that was a getaway for a number of Muscovite oligarchs, amongst them was Vladimir Putin’s son-in-law, Kirill Shamalov.
Demitriev checked out the Honorary Vice Consul, Jacques Gautier, a French intellectual, evidently a good friend of Russia, a man of letters, an historian, a lover of good wine, sociable and worldly, and described as a person of influence.
He called Gautier, who not only spoke good Russian, but was also very voluble and agreed to help Demitriev with his enquiries.
The next day he was informed that the main cultural event on the date in question was the Feria de Arte y Antiguedades at the Kursaal, a fine arts and antiques salon.
Demitriev ran an internet search and downloaded the catalogue. He then checked out the names of the participating art galleries and conference attendees, which he cross-referenced with the guest list at the Hotel de Londres for the corresponding dates, which he had received earlier when checking Simmond’s movements.
A few more searches turned up Asia Galleries in Paris, and its owner, a certain Scott Fitznorman, who moved in rich collector circles. On show in his Parisian gallery, amongst other fine objects d’art, were a number of pre-Columbian pieces.
Demitriev had a hit, there was definitely a link, but what exactly was Fitzwilliams’ relationship, if any, with Simmonds?
He decided to salvage Simmonds’ Toyota Land Cruiser, perhaps there were some clues to be gleaned in the SUV. There were two questions, the first was could they remember exactly where he had run off the road, and second had the swamp alligators left anything worth salvaging after a month under water.
He questioned the Russian who had followed Simmonds, one of the bratva, a gangster, who ran a restaurant in Cancun after fleeing New Jersey with the FBI on his heels, one of Demitriev's acolytes He had no idea where the unfortunate accident happen, he knew little about Belize. He then questioned the bratva’s sidekick, a Mexican thug, and had better luck, he knew the road that led to Caracol, and remembered a panel that warned drivers of wild animals crossing. Demitriev ordered him to locate the spot, but not to touch anything.
A couple of days later the Mexican informed him they had found the place and together they set out with a recovery truck and three helpers.
The sun was rising when they arrived on the edge of the steaming jungle covered swamp. In normal times there were few if any vehicles at that time of day, not that many people visited the archaeological site, but times were not normal and with the pandemic the flow of visitors had come to a complete stop.
A few fading tire marks remained on the edge of the road, in the undergrowth they could still see the traces of shrubs and saplings that had been smashed when Simmo’s Land Cruiser careered off the road. In the vigorous tropical climate the foliage had already grown back into place, filling the space with a dense screen of new branches, bright green leaves and fresh undergrowth.
The men quickly located the vehicle beyond the roadside vegetation, its roof under about half a metre of stagnant water. Not without difficulty they broke the back windows and threaded a cable through the Land Cruiser’s compartment which they then hooked onto the crane and slowly winched the vehicle out of the swamp onto the flatbed of the recovery truck.
As they pull the driver’s door open, a wave of fetid black water rushed out. Behind the wheel was what remained of Simmo, a rotten slime covered skeleton in shirt sleeves and pants slumped over the wheel. He’d probably been knocked unconscious by the shock when the Land Cruiser was forced off the road at about 100 km/h and drowned immediately.
Demitriev searched behind and under the seats, he found a backpack, in the glove box there was nothing but the water sodded papers of the vehicle.
He then pulled the pulled the putrid remains out onto the side of the road where he searched the pockets and found an iPhone and leather wallet.
When he was sure there was nothing else remaining in the Land Cruiser he ordered the men to throw the hideous skeleton back into the swamp, which they reluctantly did, gagging as they gathered the pieces, together with the license plates, before driving Demitriev back to Belize City with the backpack, wallet and iPhone.
*
Back at his place in Belize City, Demitriev emptied the wallet, spreading out the different papers, credit cards and a number of business cards on a table to dry in the sun. In the backpack were a couple of books on the history of the Mayas and Aztecs and a few sodden photocopies in a plastic pocket which he also spread out on the table.
He then put his dirty clothes into a sack and took a shower to rid himself of the smell of death that still clung to him.
As he scrubbed himself under the open air shower looking out onto his luxuriant garden, he wondered what Simmonds links were with Anna Basurko, who according to her sodden business card was an archaeologist with an address in San Sebastian, Spain.