Dalrymple and Roopnaraine had stopped briefly at Reception. Judging from the coy smile and batting eyelids Sharon—Miss Cat Eyes—lavished on Dalrymple, Leila guessed that “lover boy Compton” had turned on the charm and was really pumping it up.
A few minutes later, he and Roopnaraine had headed for the elevators, looking neither left nor right. As they passed within a few feet of her group, she ducked down, pretending to scratch her ankle, making soft hissing sounds as if in pain and causing her girlfriends to tinkle the ice in their rum-and-Pepsis indignantly and grumble that “mosquitoes shouldn’t be biting people in a place like this.”
Leila did not raise her head again until she heard the elevator ping a second time, signaling that it was on its way up. She watched the floor numbers light up as the elevator made its ascent. It stopped only once, at the floor on which St. Cyr had his room, and then made its way down to the lobby again without stopping.
No one got off when the doors whooshed open.
An hour later, Leila’s girlfriends stretched, yawned, and announced they were going to bed. Leila kissed them and watched them walk giggly and unsteadily toward the elevators, each one’s arm hooked in the other’s for support.
The moment the doors closed behind them, Leila moved to a corner of the lobby that was hidden from the front desk and called Alejandro on her cell phone.
His voice, cold and clinical now, dragged her wandering mind back to their conversation.
“You must find out what they talked about. I want to know by tomorrow.”
“You will,” she said coolly.
“They still have not come down?”
“I can see the elevator from where I am. They have not come down.” Alejandro clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “As I said, I want to know by tomorrow what they spent all this time talking about.” Leila heard the abrupt disconnect and shuddered. Pursing her lips, she snapped her phone shut and shoved it into her handbag.
She sat for a while longer, staring at nothing in particular, her eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown. Then she stood up and headed for the door, her jaw tight with renewed determination.
She would wait in her car in the parking lot until they came out. If they were alone, she would take the shortcut back to her house—the one behind the cemetery that Nelson avoided—and wait for Compton to show up. If they came out with St. Cyr, she would follow them, see where they went, then return to her house.
One way or the other, before the sun rose she would have the information Alejandro needed.
26
Alejandro Bernat stood on the balcony outside his bedroom, delighting, as he never tired of doing, in the endless moon-washed expanse of land that belonged to him. He half-cocked his ear to the early night symphony—a raucous mix of man, beast, and insect.
Every now and then, a familiar song, usually, that drifted up to the balcony from one of the campfires of his watchmen. The lyrics spoke of unrequited love, of a home far away, of dying.
Bernat closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the fragrance of his Cohiba. This was the time of day he cherished most. It was at this most private time that he put into perspective any new information he had acquired from the legions of people he dealt with during the day.
He never used cocaine at this time. He needed his mind to be razor sharp as he replayed, in the minutest detail, every conversation, every report, every scene that had come before him. Then, he would mix and match new information with old, until everything fit into a picture that, to him, made the utmost sense. And from that picture, he determined the moves he would make the following day, or at some time in the future, if it was a question of acting later than sooner.
The entire ritual lasted two, sometimes three, hours. It was this ritual, this daily discipline and nothing more, that was truly responsible for the charmed life he was rumored to have. For Alejandro Bernat never made a bad move.
His conversation with Leila was on his mind now. She had hesitated at that one, simple question. She, Leila, who never hesitated, whose responses never required thought before she spoke them because she was so utterly detached, now, after all these years, had broken her pattern.
Bernat looked for broken patterns the way predators scoured the sounds and scents in the air. It was the only way a man like him could survive. A broken pattern meant a situation had been compromised. It meant danger lurked nearby.
Ah, Leila! Leila! Leila!
His heart felt like a ball of lead in his chest. The lines of his jaws hardened. His eyes narrowed with resolve. He balled his hand into a fist and pounded it on the marble ledge of the balcony. Cocaine and marijuana production was booming in the Andes. Growers in Bolivia and Peru had already surpassed those in Colombia. He needed that air corridor through Guyana. Let the locals stick to boats. They’re babies in this game. “Small thinkers,” Bernat scoffed aloud. “Too excited by the fast money to think big.”
Bernat rolled his shoulders back and forth and twisted his head from side to side to work the kinks out of his neck. The movements seemed to give a fresh spark to his thoughts. The big picture appeared in sharp focus.
Yes, Guyana was perfect for a visionary like him. The DEA was all over the Caribbean and Central America. And forget Mexico. Too much heat down there. Those crazies weren’t content with just killing their own people. They had declared war on the yanqui border.
It was an entirely different ball game on the other side of the world. The Asians were more controlled. He liked that. He was still trying to make a connection in that part of the world. Opium use was climbing in Europe and America and the trade out of Afghanistan had skyrocketed, eating into profits from cocaine and weed. There was more land under opium poppy cultivation in Afghanistan alone than all of the land Latin America had in coca. Add Myanmar and the rest of the golden triangle—Thailand, Vietnam, and Laos—and the total amount of land devoted to opium was mind-boggling. The Afghan warlords were raking in billions. They probably pray every day to their gods that the Americans never leave, Bernat chuckled. Once the Americans had landed and sent the Taliban packing, that was the end of the ban the Taliban had put on opium.
Bernat sighed. He wondered if the opium poppy could be grown in Latin America. Guyana might be just the place to test the idea. Someday I’ll find out, he promised himself. Until then, I’ll have to find a way to get a piece of Asia. Too bad Ramy hadn’t signed off with the cartel in Kyrgyzstan before he got himself killed. I warned him to stay out of the human trade. Wouldn’t listen! Pigheaded and disrespectful like the rest of his generation of Bernat blood. God rest his foolish soul.
Alejandro made the sign of the cross. There was no point in dwelling on the excesses of certain members of his extended family. He already knew how and when to put an end to that. Guyana was the priority now, and things there weren’t as wrinkle-free as they were supposed to be. That infuriated him. It would all fall his way eventually, he was sure. The authorities could dick around all they wanted over the death of Andrew Goodings. Sooner or later they would agree to what Savoy was offering. They had no choice. Not after he, Alejandro, had made MacPherson see what the consequences of deciding otherwise would be.
He was close. In spite of the delay, nothing and no one could derail his plans. “Not even you, my sweet Leila,” he said into the night.
He took a long pull on his cigar and blew rings at the moon. “No, Leila,” he said softly as he watched the ascent of each perfectly formed ring. “I simply will not allow it.”
He made the sign of the cross again.
§
Minutes after the door closed behind Roopnaraine and Dalrymple, St. Cyr whipped out his cell phone and called Transportation Minister Reginald MacPherson.
Andrew had given him the minister’s mobile number and e-mail address, with a strict warning that neither was to be used “unless in the most warranted circumstances.”
St. Cyr considered this a most warranted circumstance. He had not contacted the minister befo
re now. In fact, he had never spoken to MacPherson, not even after Andrew died.
“MacPherson is not supposed to know anything about you, Theron,” Andrew had said. “Not who you are, how you came to be in Guyana, or what you’re doing here.”
But Andrew had also assured him that the minister had been sufficiently prepped to know that it would be worth his while to accept a call, if one ever came, from the number that belonged to Theron St. Cyr.
“Good evening, Sir. I’m calling to say that I leave tomorrow for the States,” St. Cyr said when the minister answered the phone with a perfunctory “Yes?”
“I see.”
No questions. No small talk. No names. Goodings was adamant about that. You just never know who’s listening, he had said.
At the time St. Cyr had jokingly accused Goodings of living too long in America and watching too much cloak-and-dagger TV. But here was, carrying out Goodings’s last instructions to the letter, he thought wryly.
He said to MacPherson: “I learned much from my brief visit. What I learned will be very useful in my work.”
“That is very good to hear. It’s always gratifying to know that a small country such as mine can be of help to others. Will you come back to visit us again?” There was a hint of excitement in the minister’s voice.
“I will. Very soon.”
“Wonderful. Safe passage.” The minister’s phone went silent.
Theron flipped his mobile shut and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “You would have been proud of me, Andrew,” he said under his breath. In that seemingly empty exchange, he had communicated to MacPherson two important pieces of information. One: Andrew’s suspicions were right. If they weren’t, he would not have promised to return “very soon.” Two: he had a good lead and the trail led back to the States, hence his rapid departure. He knew that MacPherson got both messages. Andrew had worked out the language with both of them.
His thoughts switched to New York. He would call Dru, of course, to let her know he was back, and to make sure that she was okay. He had promised her that he would see her when he got back, but now he wasn’t sure he wanted to do so. He feared that by now she would have gotten over whatever it was that had spooked her earlier and made her cry out to him. If that were the case, Dru would have already reverted to the frigid, suspicious woman she had been on the plane and in the lobby of the Pegasus. The bruising he had suffered from his encounter with that Dru was still raw.
He got up from the desk. He should start to pack. He was glad to be leaving. He still could not believe all that had happened in such a short time. At times he felt as if he were in a nightmare. He would wake up and everything would be normal again. He would be back in his office in New York, juggling projects and upbraiding himself, as he had done in the two years since he took up permanent residence in America, for not trying to reconnect with Drucilla Durane. He wanted to, but he didn’t want to risk subjecting himself to feelings that too often led to pain. He had seen that kind of pain over and over again. In husbands, lovers, fathers, brothers. Men like himself—shattered by the loss, or actions, of a woman who meant the world to them.
Sometimes, after Tabatha died and he formed his vigilante group, he personally had to deliver the news of death to these men.
But it doesn’t always have to be painful, Theron.
The woman who had spoken those words had long departed, driven away by his bogeyman. She had tried so hard.
He sighed and turned his thoughts to the reason why Andrew had sent for him. The same reason, he now knew, that had led to Andrew’s death. Was there a connection between Alejandro Bernat and Grant Featherhorn? If so, what was it? After reading those reports, it was easy to figure out why a drug mogul like Bernat would want Savoy to win the contract in Guyana. The new infrastructure would provide the alternative route he needed for his illicit trade.
But Featherhorn! Where did he fit in? And what about Lawson Pilgrim? Was he involved, too?
Theron stood still, the motions of packing suspended as he turned these questions over in his mind.
He was still standing this way, a pair of neatly folded boxer shorts in one hand and two short-sleeved shirts on hangers in the other, when the door to his room burst open and three men strode in.
One of them—a portly man with baby-smooth skin and a boyish, dimpled smile—wore a dark-green military uniform with a chestful of brass, ribbons, and braids. He carried a baton in one hand and kept smacking it against the palm of his other hand.
The other two men, lean and mean looking, wore the same dark-green, but their shirt-jackets were short-sleeved and bore neither brass, braids, nor ribbons. They wore black berets.
They flanked their senior officer and raised their Uzis to take dead aim at Theron’s head. Theron’s breathing slowed and he stared directly into the officer’s eyes. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. Not even a muscle twitched. Show no fear. Force the stranger to show his hand.
The standoff lasted several minutes before the officer abruptly turned his back to Theron and closed the door. He closed it so softly that the others in the room didn’t even hear the lock catch. For a few seconds, he remained with this back to the room, as if lost in thought. When he turned around, he was still smiling.
He beamed at Theron and moved toward him, stopping just a few inches away from him. He looked intently into Theron’s face, and then appraised him from head to toe.
The lean, mean men kept their guns trained on Theron.
Finally, the officer spoke. “Packing, are we? Don’t tell me you’re planning to leave our lovely country so soon, Mr. St. Cyr,” he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. His accent sounded like a battle between Guyanese and British in which neither side was winning.
Theron stared back at him mutely. He had run into such characters before. Renegade officers and soldiers. They appeared benign, but they could be the worst kind of sadists.
He stood as if bolted to the ground, hoping the fear that was beginning to roil in his gut did not show in his face.
The officer hmmphed. He looked past Theron, beyond the window into the black night where the Atlantic frolicked.
The two gunmen scowled and tightened their grips on their guns.
The officer hmmphed again and crossed the room to the window. He stood there for a good minute—Theron mentally counted the seconds—staring out, saying nothing.
Finally he spoke again. This time there was no swagger in his voice and the Guyanese accent seemed to have overwhelmed its British rival.
“If you must leave, Mr. St. Cyr, you must do so now. We will see that you get to the airport safely.” He turned away from the window and Theron swung to face him, a look of confusion on his face. The soldiers quickstepped until their guns were pointing once more at Theron’s forehead.
Theron glanced at them warily and opened his mouth to speak, but the officer held up his hand, silencing him.
“At ease, men,” the officer said to his men. The men lowered their guns and dropped their shoulders, but they kept their eyes on Theron.
The officer continued speaking. “There’s no need to say anything, Mr. St. Cyr. We’re here, compliments of Andrew Goodings.” He paused and his expression turned sheepish. “Sorry about the dramatic entry. It was a performance for the cameras in the corridor. We stretched it out a bit longer than necessary, I’m afraid.”
He paused again, as if waiting for a comment from Theron, but Theron kept his mouth clamped shut. The officer nodded and continued. “Andrew Goodings…” he swallowed hard, then pressed on. “Andrew Goodings was very kind to me a lifetime ago. I am deeply indebted to him for that act of kindness. The only time he collected on that debt was when he asked me to look out for you. That was the day before he died.”
27
It was just the three of them in Lawton Pilgrim’s office—Dru, Grant Featherhorn, and Lawton himself.
Dru had come in at seven, intending to catch Lawton alone before the usual Monday morning gathering of the I
nner Circle. She had spent the entire weekend weighing her options and had finally made up her mind late Sunday night to go straight to Lawton and voice her concerns about Featherhorn.
St. Cyr would disapprove, she knew. He had warned her not to say a word to anyone about Featherhorn, not even to Lawton. But she had argued defiantly to herself that she had no reason not to trust Lawton Pilgrim, her mentor. What right did she have to deprive him of information that could jeopardize the company that was his whole life? The same company, the same man, who had given her the career and the renown she had dreamed of attaining when she was in college.
It would be wrong—traitorous—to deny Lawton the chance to secure the integrity of Pilgrim Boone. Worse, it would be ingratitude on her part. Her mother’s words rang in her ears. Ingratitude is worse than witchcraft.
In the security of her own home, her own country, she had seen things more clearly, and they were not as frightening as they had seemed in Guyana. She would tell Lawton about Featherhorn. And Lawton, in his inimitable way, would set about unraveling the mystery. He’ll get to the bottom of it and fix it, she told herself. I know him. Theron doesn’t have half the
resources or connections Lawton has. Neither, for that matter, does the Guyana government.
I’m only making it easier for Guyana, Dru kept insisting to herself as she rode the subway into Manhattan that morning. Theron would understand eventually.
Sitting in Lawton’s office now, the eyes of two of the country’s most powerful corporate executives trained on her, she fought hard to hide her agitation. She had been shocked to find Featherhorn there. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves almost to his elbows. He slouched comfortably—too comfortably, Dru observed resentfully—in one of Lawton’s two antique fireside chairs. He had a steaming cardboard cup of coffee in his hand and a smirk on his face.
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