The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  Dru blinked again. The stranger was so close she could see beads of perspiration on his forehead, compliments of Georgetown’s blazing heat. She saw the pockmarks.

  Didn’t Ramy have pockmarks on his face, or was it boils? And she saw his eyes. Obsidian eyes. Liquid black orbs that were unreadable.

  Dru shivered. She had always told herself that she was not superstitious. But, Ramy or not, she could not help thinking that the sight of this man was a bad sign indeed.

  “Here we are, Dru. We got here ahead of time, but you might be lucky. The minister may have finished his work early, or he may not have had anything to do today.” Dalrymple hoped Dru would pick up on his sarcasm. He was still smarting from her gall. The idea that she could get an audience with a minister of government whenever she wished was a common attitude among big foreign investors. They seemed to think that their investments entitled them to 24-7 access to the top officials of whatever poor countries they were investing in. He’d heard the same complaint from colleagues in the islands and in Africa. These investors would never expect the same in America or Europe, Dalrymple fumed silently as he waited for Dru to step out of the car. He had pulled into the slot vacated by the Honda and had already opened the door on his side.

  Dru heard Dalrymple’s voice but his words were meaningless sounds. She wasn’t paying attention. She had turned her head to follow the stranger as he strode away.

  “Are you okay, Dru?” Dalrymple didn’t mask his impatience. What’s gotten into her now? he wondered.

  Dru turned to face the front of the car again, but did not respond to Dalrymple. Questions were pounding in her head. Could this man be Ramy? No, it couldn’t be. This one looked too old. Ramy would not have aged that much. Back then he seemed to be not much older than Theron. Sure, twelve years had gone by, but twelve isn’t twenty. Maybe he had plastic surgery. It would make sense for him to do that if, as Theron claimed, he was a criminal and wanted to disappear into a new life.

  So if it is Ramy, why is he here? And why now, when St. Cyr was here too? Were they friends after all? Partners in some heinous plot? They had to be. It was too much of a coincidence, their being here at the same time, in this out-of-the-way city, of all places! Not New York. Not Paris. Not Marseille. Not some place teeming with hustle and bustle and bright lights and starry-eyed girls looking for adventure and magic, girls who could easily be lured into their vicious net.

  Dru’s hands suddenly felt clammy. She rubbed them up and down her thighs. Ramy and St. Cyr were either working together or against each other, and whatever they were involved in had to do with the business that had brought her to Guyana. That was the only explanation that made sense. This guy was at the same ministry she was visiting. And St. Cyr was with the same man who was holding up Savoy’s proposal.

  Her head throbbed. If Ramy and St. Cyr were pursuing their own transportation deal in Guyana, then Savoy and its representatives—i.e., Pilgrim Boone, i.e. Drucilla Durane—may be standing in their way.

  She thought again of St. Cyr’s words to her on the plane. You simply would have disappeared and you never would have escaped alive, Dru. Believe me. Given what she had just figured out, those words sounded very much like a threat couched in the same charm and earnest concern St. Cyr had exhibited in Marseille. He was telling her what he and Ramy were capable of doing to her.

  For the first time since that terrifying night in Paris, Dru felt desperately afraid. This was not one of her nightmares that she would awaken from. There would be no big relief the morning after. Evil was here, in flesh and blood. She had sensed it.

  She covered her face and moaned. This couldn’t be real. Of course, that man wasn’t Ramy. It was the nightmare again. But this was daytime. How could she have a nightmare in the daytime? Was she going crazy?

  “Oh dear God! Dear God! What’s happening to me? Whatever it is, make it go away! Please make it go away!”

  “Dru! Dru! What’s the matter? What the hell is wrong?” Dalrymple had grabbed her by the shoulders and was shaking her roughly. “For God’s sake, Dru. Tell me what is going on!”

  Dru dragged her hands down her face and clasped them tight in her lap. She stared at Dalrymple as if she did not recognize him. Her breathing was heavy and jagged.

  She looked around wildly, her eyes searching in the direction she had last seen the man. He was gone. Of course, he was gone. It was an illusion. It wasn’t Ramy. Just someone who reminded me of him.

  Following her cue, Dalrymple looked around, at the same time tightening his grip on her shoulders. “What is it? What did you see? Who did you see?”

  “I saw…I saw…a man. An evil-looking man. He reminded me of someone I met—saw—many years ago.” Her voice was hoarse and cracking. Her eyes were still wild and darting.

  “Who is it? Where is he? Where?” Dalrymple’s head snapped from side to side as he scanned the compound.

  “He…he’s gone. He’s gone. I don’t see him anymore. He’s gone. But he was here. Just a minute ago I saw him. Coming toward me.” Her voice rose hysterically.

  Dalrymple shook her again, more gently this time. “It’s all right. It’s all right, Dru. No one is going to hurt you here,” he said reassuringly.

  It was all he could say. Dru’s behavior and her outburst were shocking. The frosty Drucilla Durane he knew could never lose it like this. And even if she did, she would not do so in front of him, not the way she looked down on him and Nello, perched on her high Yankee horse.

  So what was this all about, then?

  He wondered if she was on drugs and hadn’t had her fix. You never knew with Americans, even the best of them, these high-octane executives and high-society types—if you would excuse the pun, he chuckled inwardly. He’d seen some of them in action himself and read enough about others. Maybe Dru was part of that crowd. Hadn’t she acted a bit weird at the airport too? Hale and hearty one moment and lost in space the next. He couldn’t wait to tell Nello.

  All of a sudden he felt ashamed. You’re lying to yourself, Dalrymple. Dru Durane is no druggie and you know it. So what if she went off every now and then. A woman like her must be overloaded with stress. And with the government taking so damned long to decide on Savoy, the white boys are bound to be putting all kinds of pressure on the poor girl. So give her a break, Dalrymple! She’s entitled.

  Dalrymple’s eyes softened as he stared at Dru. He eased his grip on her shoulders and dropped his arms. He smiled awkwardly. Like we say, “Only knife know what in pumpkin belly,” he thought.

  The image of a knife plunged into the soft belly of a pumpkin flashed through his mind and brought him up sharply. Once again, his brow crinkled with concern. Something or someone seemed genuinely to have set her off. But whatever or whoever it was, it would have to be dealt with later. That is, if she wanted to. Right now, he had to get the situation in hand, get her to pull herself together. This meeting with the minister was important. Neither he nor Nello had been able to get a one-on-one with MacPherson since the last Pilgrim Boone visit. The minister had dodged them with repeated excuses about being tied up with Quartapint. But the minute he had heard Dru was in town, he had agreed to meet her.

  “Either he’s got a crush on her or he frighten ol’ Lawton Pilgrim,” had been Nello’s explanation. Whatever. The meeting was on and he, Dalrymple, would be there. He wasn’t going to say much. While Dru and the minister talked, he would be watching and listening closely to the minister for clues, anything that would tell him which way the decision would go. He was good at sifting through the hyperbole.

  He spoke to Dru in a voice that belied his concern. “Try to calm down, Dru. The person is gone. And look! You’re almost right on time for your meeting now. We have to start walking up.”

  Dru dragged her eyes to his face. His features slowly registered in her brain, his words slowly took on meaning. She thought of how she must have looked, how she must have sounded, how he seemed to be pitying her. Her face grew hot with embarrassment, which swiftly gav
e way to annoyance. She didn’t need Dalrymple’s pity. Her eyes hardened as she looked at him. She rolled her neck slightly, waiting for his smirk to appear.

  It didn’t. Instead, Dalrymple was looking at her quizzically. She held his gaze, neck-rolled again and said nothing. Still no smirk.

  The fight ebbed from her face, her eyes. Dalrymple was genuinely flummoxed.

  Dru took a deep breath and swallowed. “I’m sorry, Compton. You must think I’m nuts. It’s a long story, but I assure you I’m not crazy,” she said with a weak smile. “And I’m not on drugs, either. I know that’s the first thing you probably thought.”

  Dalrymple noted that she had called him by his first name. It pleased him. Still, he put on a face of one dutifully aggrieved. “How could you say, even think, such an ugly thing, Dru,” he said, his voice heavy with hurt.

  Dru laughed. Under the circumstances, his predictability was comforting. She felt almost back to normal. The pounding in her head eased. She had imagined the whole thing. She must have. Ramy walking toward her in Georgetown, Guyana, indeed! How could she have allowed herself to get so carried away? She had simply seen someone who reminded her a lot of Ramy.

  It’s because he had that same evilness about him, she told herself. The feeling that he was a bad sign. Bad for the meeting and therefore bad for the whole Savoy deal. That’s what had set her off.

  She sighed, relieved that she had a reasonable explanation for her behavior. She had to get a grip on herself. These past few weeks have been crazy, what with trying to close on Savoy, Grant on her back, Lawton supportive but clearly anxious, St. Cyr surfacing and behaving as if he had done nothing wrong, the hastily arranged trip to Guyana. Not to mention Georgetown’s unforgiving heat! Her brain was frying, literally and figuratively. No wonder she was starting to imagine things.

  I never should have given up yoga, Dru thought. I wrapped up my life when I stepped onto the corporate ladder and handed it over to Pilgrim Boone. That’s what I did.

  She sighed again. What else could she have done? What else was she supposed to do with her loan-shackled college education and her European experience? Wasn’t she supposed to reach for the top? Blast her way through all the ceilings?

  The sudden blast of a car horn startled her out of her thoughts. Dalrymple was still looking at her like a man unfairly wronged. A few parking slots down from their SUV a shiny black Mercedes Benz with the ubiquitous dark-tinted windows was backing out. The driver blasted the horn again. Two young women were slow-walking directly in front of the car. Simultaneously, they turned their heads, cut their eyes at the driver, and slowed their pace, exaggerating the roll of their hips.

  Dru looked at the Mercedes curiously, wondering if the stranger was in it. No point dwelling on him, she told herself, and turned back to Dalrymple. She owed him an apology. She would put the stranger out of her mind. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said to Dalrymple. “Suggesting that you would think I’m on drugs was an ugly thing to say. You would never think a thing like that. Come on, let’s go see Minister MacPherson.”

  §

  Reginald MacPherson stood somberly as his secretary ushered Dru and Dalrymple into his office. He leaned across his cluttered desk and shook hands with them, Dru first.

  Dru was thunderstruck by his appearance. This was not the affable, energetic man she had met before. Never mind the exquisite manners. The man whose eyes seemed barely able to meet hers was a shadow of the man she had expected to see. Standing before her was a man in torment. Or was it defeat? His face was ashy and drawn, his shoulders sagged. Dark circles stained the skin under his vacant, reddened eyes.

  The confident smile Dru had plastered on her face as she walked up the wide mahogany staircase to his office fell away instantly. She stammered as she shook hands with him.

  “It’s…it’s good to see you again, Mr. Minister.”

  Dalrymple, equally appalled by MacPherson’s appearance, muttered something unintelligible. The two were on very cordial terms. They met frequently at various political and social functions, and once in a while

  MacPherson would seek Dalrymple’s advice on a sensitive matter having to do with ministry operations.

  When the minister spoke his voice was hollow, a sound emanating from a body that seemed to be hemorrhaging its own life. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Durane, Compton. Please have a seat.” He waved vaguely to the chairs facing his desk and dropped into his own.

  They waited for him to continue, but he seemed to have drifted away, no doubt to whatever was responsible for his obvious torment.

  Dru’s mind reeled. Her heart pounded. Though she couldn’t explain it to herself, somehow she knew that the man she had seen downstairs—the man she knew now was not Ramy, but someone just as sinister—had something to do with the way the minister looked.

  Dru shivered. The presence of evil in the room was palpable.

  Once again, though less than ten minutes had elapsed, she found herself struggling to overpower fear. She glanced at Dalrymple, who seemed to be fiercely contemplating the Marjorie Broodhagen original on the wall behind the minister’s desk. She knew he was trying to save the minister face by not staring at him. She had no way of knowing that he was frantically trying to recall his grandmother’s teachings about protecting yourself from obeah, Guyanese witchcraft.

  “Forgive me, Ms. Durane.” MacPherson’s voice was thin and far away. “I’m not sure I can be of any help to you at this time. You see, I lost a dear friend quite suddenly last night.” He paused, momentarily overcome. He pulled himself together quickly and turned to Dalrymple. “You may not have heard yet, Compton. We’ve been keeping it quiet because it’s all so strange, so very strange. So I must ask you not to say anything to anyone. I don’t mean Nelson, of course, because that would be like asking you not to breathe.”

  The minister smiled feebly at his own joke, but his eyes drifted away as he continued to speak, more to himself than to his guests. “What I cannot understand is that he was in such perfect health. A little blood pressure, that’s all. And which of us doesn’t have that. His certainly wasn’t serious enough to cause anything like what his doctor is talking about.”

  He paused again, shaking his head. Then he looked straight at Dru. “My friend’s name is Andrew Goodings. He supposedly died of massive heart failure. But there’s still the autopsy to come.” He slumped back in his chair, one arm folded across his chest, the other hand holding his forehead.

  The horror in Dru’s gasp seemed to envelop the room. No one spoke. Dru’s hands trembled and she gripped the chair tightly. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight as if to keep away the thoughts that came pelting toward her. She did not want to think of the man downstairs anymore. Nor did she want to think of Theron St. Cyr, whom she had seen getting into Andrew Goodings’s car. She did not want to think of Andrew Goodings himself, a man who seemed to have been in good health, enjoying life. And most of all she did not want to think of the question that was trying to claw its way through all the others.

  Would she be next?

  She sat like a rock. She would not move. She would not speak. Moving, speaking, they made room for thought. She was determined not to think. Not now.

  It was Dalrymple who broke the silence. “I’m sorry to hear this, Macky. You have my deepest sympathy. And please convey the same to his wife and family for me. Goodings and I had our differences as you know, but this…” He shook his head in disbelief. “This is a terrible, a most shocking loss. We all know how close you two were. Is there anything I can do?” He meant every word. Goodings’ death was bad news in more ways than one. Very bad news indeed. If someone had bumped off Lebba Lip, and Macky seemed to be hinting that someone had, it meant an even longer delay in the Savoy decision. It could be weeks. Everyone knew where Goodings had stood on Savoy. People who had already positioned themselves to benefit from the spin-off contracts and the side deals that went with such a project had cursed him to high heaven. Some of them did so publicly, some p
rivately. Every last one of them would come under suspicion, not to mention himself, Nelson, the Savoy Aerospace reps who dropped in from time to time, and Pilgrim Boone. Even Dru.

  He turned to her. She seemed to be in a daze. He thought she was overreacting. After all, she hadn’t known Goodings. The first time she ever saw him was at the airport. He wondered if the episode downstairs had anything to do with the way she was acting now. Hadn’t she said she knew the man Goodings met at the airport? What the hell was going on? He turned back to MacPherson, waiting for his answer. MacPherson had slumped deeper into his chair, his chin on his chest. He stirred, wiped a hand across his face, and sighed.”No, Compton. I don’t even know what to do myself. Perhaps later I may need your help.”

  The sound of the minister’s and Dalrymple’s voices shook Dru out of her daze. She had to say something. “My condolences, Mr. Minister. What a shock it must be indeed.” It wasn’t enough. She had to say more. She had to know. “It must be awful for Theron St. Cyr,” she said.

  The minister’s head jerked up. “Who?” he demanded.

  Dru was taken aback by his vehement reaction to St. Cyr’s name. “Theron St. Cyr. Mr. Goodings met him at the airport yesterday. They seemed to know each other well. Mr. St. Cyr was on the same flight I took from New York.”

  “And how do you know this Mr. St. Cyr?” MacPherson was suddenly transformed. Gone was the tortured shadow of a man. His voice commanded. His eyes pierced.

  The shroud in the room lifted. MacPherson stared at Dru, fixing her like a bug.

  She was thrown off guard, but she didn’t flinch. “I met him several years ago in France,” she said evenly.

  “And do you know why he is here?”The question was almost an accusation. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What is the reason for Mr. St. Cyr’s visit to Guyana?”

  “I have no idea, Mr. Minister.” The conversation had devolved into an inquisition and she resented it. What the hell was he trying to prove?