Crystal Whisperer (Spotless Series #3)

by Camilla Monk

  “Ilan.”

  “Yes, I heard about you.” Stiles quickly retrieved his hand and shook it discreetly after the introductions were done.

  “So you’re with them?” Ilan asked, jerking his chin at the Caterpillar’s agents waiting near the plane.

  Stiles turned around to confirm, and his eyebrows shot up. “They” had finally noticed that we were leaving without them and were running toward us, guns in hand, while the Caterpillar watched the scene from behind his sunglasses.

  “And here I was wondering when we’d start to run.” Ilan laughed.

  “Is it ready?” March asked, his gaze cutting to a big silvery helicopter.

  Ilan gave a firm nod. “My guy is waiting for you.”

  March glanced at Stiles’s colleagues, now less than a hundred yards away, and adjusted one of his cuffs. “All right.” He planted his gaze in Ilan’s. “Je te confie ce que j’ai de plus précieux.” I’m entrusting to you the most precious thing I have.

  When Ilan winked at him like it was a done deal or something, I took a gulp of air and my mouth opened, ready to protest and share my outrage. No sound ever came out, because March’s hand went around my waist and his lips crashed on mine—in public! The kiss was brief but laden with a familiar urgency, the same as when he’d kissed me on Dries’s yacht.

  “Trust me,” he whispered.

  No. Watching him climb into the helicopter without looking back, my legs shaky, my heart all over the place, I didn’t trust him. I hated him a little, in fact, for shunning me again. Especially when I feared he was hiding something big from me. I wasn’t exactly superspy material, and that damn cast didn’t help my street cred, but I wished he’d have at least told me what was on his mind before running away.

  I jumped a little when Ilan’s hand landed on my shoulder. “Let’s move.”

  Stiles watched the chopper rise above us with a deafening noise, visibly confused. “I wasn’t supposed to let him out of my sight.”

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked Ilan.

  “To a nice hotel on an islet across the atoll. It’s called Le Sauvage. No phone, no Internet, need a boat to get there: you won’t get any safer than that.”

  More like a fricking cage . . . “Was that March’s idea?”

  Ilan gave a noncommittal shrug.

  Of course. I had to think fast, because once Ilan got me locked up on that island, there would be no way out until March returned. If he ever did. The very idea that he might die hunting Gerone and Alex made my skin prickle with horror. My right hand went to rest on the heavy little green bag hanging from my shoulder as I mentally leafed through the possible scenarios.

  “Okay, but I need to use a computer first. Obviously, I can’t do that once we’re at Le Sauvage.” I turned to Stiles. “Do you think you could help me with that?”

  “Sure.”

  Ilan considered us warily.

  I joined my hands in a pleading gesture. “It won’t take long.”

  He relented with a sigh. “All right.”

  Stiles led us to a white Jeep around which several of his colleagues still waited. He retrieved a bag sitting on the back seat and took out a laptop that he opened and unlocked. “Here.”

  When he, Ilan, and the guys behind them all stared at me expectantly, I retreated inside the Jeep. “I have to call my dad. Does everyone have to listen?” I asked, before slamming the rear door shut. I saw Ilan’s arm move toward the handle, but Stiles appeared to reason with him, presumably arguing that a lady sometimes needed her privacy.

  Being around March, I’d caught on to a few things, like what protocol and software he used to make video calls to Phyllis. What caller ID he entered. What PIN code he used to secure the line. I was disappointed to discover that the CIA’s laptops weren’t the crazy secure stuff I’d expected to battle with. Within minutes, I’d overridden the admin rights and installed the extensions I needed to make that call. It was early morning in New York, but I figured Phyllis would be up and ready to rock when March needed her the most.

  I was right. At the second ring, her tired face appeared on-screen, a tangled heap of flaming-red curls cascading down her shoulders. “Hey! How’s the wrist?”

  “Good enough, I guess. The painkillers make it bearable.”

  Her head bobbed up and down, her expression turning serious. “Good, good . . . You gave my boss a cold sweat.”

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s been a pretty rough week for everyone so far.”

  She shrugged. “That’s the business. Sometimes you can’t tell when the lemons will stop raining.”

  “Hopefully soon.”

  A clear laugh burst from the speakers. “What can I do to help you?”

  “I have a question, and I need you to tell me the truth, even if March ordered you not to.”

  The mirth died in her eyes. “It depends . . .”

  “No more lies,” I said, a little more harshly than I intended to.

  She gave a silent nod.

  “March knows what’s going on, right? He knows why Gerone is targeting the dome.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He’s been weird, shifty. He knows. I can tell he knows,” I insisted.

  On-screen, Phyllis buried her face in her hands. “He’s gonna kill me for this. Or he’s gonna cut my bonus. More likely.” She composed herself with a sigh. “He’s been to Rangiroa before. Once.”

  “For a job?”

  “No. It was a few years after he started working for the Board. They were very satisfied with him, and he was invited to the dome . . . to be introduced.”

  “You mean, to the Queen? That’s when he met her for the first time?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . . do you think there’s a link to all this?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Now you know how March met the Queen. Do you know how I met him?”

  “He didn’t give me the details, but I know he met you in Macau, that you were working in a casino there.”

  “Yes. A casino that belongs to the Board, the Goldmine. Code name HKS4MS17, which stands for HongKong Sector 4, Macau Subdivision 17. I was their accountant.”

  I filed every word, working the Rubik’s Cube in my head as she spoke.

  “And because I know their business inside out, as does March, I can tell you that if someone managed to pull apart the web of shell companies and foundations that own shares in the Poseidon, they’d eventually find a single entity named FPS3TS1.”

  I ventured a guess. “French Polynesia Sector 3, and—”

  “Tuamotu Subdivision 1,” Phyllis completed.

  “The Poseidon Dome belongs to the Board. They gather there,” I chewed out each word slowly, digesting the news.

  “It’s a multipurpose investment: good for money laundering, profitable on its own, and it’s both remote and crowded. Hundreds of people come and go all day long, dozens of boats and helicopters. Who’s going to notice a few businessmen gathering for a seminar?”

  “Do you think that’s what’s going on? That the Board is calling a meeting, and Gerone is gonna to try to blow them up?”

  “I have no way to be sure, but that’s what it smells like.”

  I clenched my right hand into a fist to stop its shaking. Anies wasn’t just getting rid of Dries; this was his big night. That insane turd was going to war. The Lions were done serving the Board, and the Board was likely done with them as well, after the way they had tried to keep the Ghost Cullinan for themselves. So Anies was going to try to destroy them and clear the path. And March stood in the middle of this mess, trying to warn the Board before it was too late, because even if his days as a hit man were behind him, he remained loyal to the Queen. As for Dries . . . did he know about this? Where the hell was that guy when you needed him, dammit?

  “If March lets the Board know, they’ll evacuate, right? And it’s over?”

  On the screen, Phyllis’s pale-gray eyes avoided mine.

  I smacked my forehead. “God .
. . they’ll pretend everything is cool to bait Gerone and try to shove his mask up his ass, right?” And if the showdown goes wrong, three thousand people will pay the ultimate price, I mentally completed.

  Phyllis leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “I can’t imagine the Queen running away from that sicko. That’s not the way she deals with threats, and she can’t afford to show any weakness. Plenty of guys willing to take her place if she misses a step.”

  “Phyllis, I need to get to the dome. I can’t just stay here and wait.”

  “There’s nothing you could do, and March’d kill me if I sent you there and something happened to you. He seriously would,” Phyllis retorted, a sudden gravity in her eyes.

  I didn’t believe March could ever hurt her, not even if I died, but I gathered Phyllis lived in a world where even undying loyalty never got in the way of some measure of caution. Begging her wouldn’t work.

  “I’ve seen Alex’s men. I could recognize them.”

  She shook her head. “Island, I like you, but right now, whoever takes you to that dome lands on March’s personal hit list.”

  “I understand.” Yes, I did . . . and I knew exactly whose name I was going to put on that list. “I have to go. Thank you. Thank you for telling me the truth.”

  “Island, wait.”

  She combed back a red lock behind her ear with nervous fingers. “Don’t do anything stupid. He’s not”—her voice quavered—“he’s not as strong as you think. He needs you. Alive.”

  “As I need him.”

  29

  Da Boss

  He was done taking orders from the bigwigs in DC. He’d go alone and nuke Colombia if he had to in order to find her. His mission order was love.

  —Tiffanee Thunder, Delta Heat#2: Bogota Fever

  Ilan was steaming mad. I didn’t dare meet his eyes as on the tarmac the Caterpillar’s men surrounded us. Meanwhile, that flaming douchesac smiled at me, the usual cigarillo glued between his lips.

  “And here I was afraid you’d bail on us, Miss Chaptal.”

  I sustained his mocking gaze with a blank expression. “We’re a family; we help each other out. I can identify the men who tried to kidnap me, and I can also help you find Gerone’s sound cannon. I wouldn’t want to sit by and watch.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Ilan’s fists clench.

  The Caterpillar smirked and blew a spinning smoke ring in my face—his favorite trick. “Very well. Agent Stiles will take you to the Poseidon Dome along with Delta A1.”

  I looked past him at the few men standing several yards behind him near a second Jeep. They reminded me of the guys who had shown up with Alex in Croatia, all wearing unremarkable civilian clothes: jeans, Dockers . . . and even an actual Taco Bell T-shirt. On a two-hundred-pound beefcake who had probably never set foot there. I bit my tongue and wrestled the urge to ask if they were Delta Force for real, whether they’d heard of the Delta Heat series, and if any of them had ever led a secret operation in the Colombian jungle to save the woman he loved.

  “I’ll be going with her,” Ilan stated.

  I shook my head. “No, you don’t have to take that risk.”

  “Then you should have thought about that before you made your decision,” he snapped. “I took responsibility. I’m coming.”

  The Caterpillar was bored with us already. He sized up Ilan with a disdainful eye. “Suit yourself. But consider yourself on your own, and if your presence hinders my men in any way, they have my permission to dispose of you, Mr. Menahem.”

  It was the first time I’d heard Ilan’s last name, and it served as a reminder that the Caterpillar was anything but a fool. Could he possibly know about the dome too? I knew from past experience that the CIA did not face the Board frontally but rather embraced a comfortable status quo where they tolerated most of its shady activities in exchange for self-regulation efforts and even a little collaboration now and then.

  Behind me, Stiles clasped his hands, as if to disperse the explosive mix of contempt and anger hanging in the air between his boss and Ilan. “We’re ready to move.”

  He turned his head toward the end of the airstrip, where a blue civilian Chinook was landing with a loud hum. I tugged at Ilan’s flashy shirt with my right hand. “Let’s go.”

  On our way to the helicopter, I mumbled. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t stay back.”

  I felt a big arm sneak around my shoulder, and a note of humor was back in his gravelly voice as he replied in French, “Franchement, tu serais ma nana, j’t’assommerais et on en parlerait plus. Mais c’est pas moi qui décide pour toi, et le nouveau féminisme, j’y comprends rien.” Frankly, if you were my woman, I’d just knock you out, and that’d be the end of it. But I don’t call the shots for you, and I have no idea how feminism works these days.

  “Toi et March, vous êtes bien pareil,” I yelled cheerfully over the droning of the blades as we approached the Chinook. You and March really are the same.

  He helped me inside with the hint of a prideful smile, and I watched the sunburned tarmac shrink away as we took off and headed for the ocean. It was my first helicopter ride, and even with a headset that kept slipping because the headband was too loose, it was damn cool. The colors appeared even brighter from above, the palm trees and pristine sand banks merging in a thousand shades of tourmaline, only to be abruptly swallowed by deep blue waters. Once again though, I did feel a little singled out, because while I tried to get used to these new flying sensations and the powerful vibrations of the rotor, everyone had pulled out sunglasses. I was starting to wonder if there was some kind of peer-pressure phenomenon going on regarding those in the espionage and crime sectors at large.

  It took less than an hour for the dome’s outline to appear in the horizon. We were flying over an increasing number of yachts and cruise ships, all ferrying lucky vacationers to this modern Elysium. Blood chilled in my veins when I realized the implications of that particular point.

  “Ilan, please tell me they’re not taking new guests . . .”

  “They are. Apparently the Poseidon will keep operating normally until further notice. The owners and the DGSI don’t want to start a panic. To be honest, they don’t really believe the Americans’ story about that masked guy.” His gaze cut to Stiles. “They think one of your agents went rogue, and you’re only trying to come up with something to cover your mess.”

  Stiles’s face fell. “Really? It’s . . . uh . . . outlandish.”

  Ilan appraised him with piercing green eyes but didn’t press the issue.

  As we approached, the details of the massive lenslike structure emerging from the water became clearer. I pointed at a series of incurved triangular blades overlapping to form a crown at the base of the dome. “It’s the top of the iris. It’s part of the elevating system.”

  Stiles squinted at the resort beneath us. “What is it for?”

  “I read articles about it; it’s amazing,” I yelled into my microphone. “The whole resort is built on giant hydraulic jacks and can be partially immersed. When they do that, the triangles rotate over each other, like an iris, to form a steel belt that seals all accesses on the first level, like windows, terraces, doors, that kind of stuff. All the sundecks around the dome are retractable—how cool is that?”

  Stiles scooted closer to me to look through the window. “But if the dome explodes, the iris won’t resist, right?”

  I gazed at the gracious curves sadly. “Even if it does, it would become completely useless.”

  The Chinook circled around the dome slowly until it landed on a floating helipad connected to the building by a ramp. Three larger docks served cruise ships and yachts.

  After Ilan helped me out of the aircraft, I looked up at the sheer mass of concrete, steel, and glass engulfing my field of vision. So close to the Poseidon Dome, I felt like an ant. Through the windows, I could glimpse the paradise brochures and websites promised: several stories of shops, hotels, swimming pools, palm trees everywhere. This “resort”
was really a huge mall built in the middle of the ocean. Like Phyllis had said, profitable, indeed. I personally preferred Rangiroa’s deserted beaches, and some real sand between my toes.

  Ilan led us to a white spaceship-like hall where visitors were being “welcomed”—as in searched and requested to provide a credit card imprint. Our little group, however, was escorted by security through a side door.

  Once inside, we were swallowed by a wave of humid heat, artificial perfume, and tropical ambient music. Half of the people around us wore bathing suits, and cocktail trays swung past us, carried by nimble waiters. This was clearly the mall area I’d seen from outside: scattered on circular platforms whose balustrades overflowed with plants and flowers, the shops were installed inside fake tiki huts, complete with palm trees. A tangle of escalators and the massive spiral of a staircase linked the stories together.

  At the confines of this consumerist heaven, screams and splashing sounds announced the dome’s water park. Dodging a tray of mojitos, I looked up at the giant kakemono hanging from a balcony. Under the hourglass figure of a woman dressed in a black glittery gown, a bold title announced a representation of Mozart’s Magic Flute in the dome’s concert hall.

  Ilan placed a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, I meant to tell you about it. March mentioned your guy was a homicidal maniac who liked Mozart.”

  “Yes.”

  A smirk revealed Ilan’s incisors. “And if I told you that tonight they’re planning to submerge the dome fully during the show?”

  “That sounds like a proper finale for the Crystal Whisperer,” I said, unable to look away from the poster.

  Stiles patted my shoulder, “Don’t worry; we have a second team ready in case we need reinforcements.” He checked his phone with a frown. “The French are sending a . . . joint but separate task force.”

  “They’re just gonna compete with you guys for who gets Gerone first, right?”

  He winced. “Yeah.”

  As he said this, the Taco Bell task force that may or may not have been composed of actual Delta Force dudes split from us to spread throughout the resort and start the hunt. After they were gone, Ilan took us away from the tourist crowd, into a quieter area where tall windows opened to a terrace overlooking the Pacific. A few people lounged on deck chairs, but there was definitely more fresh air and privacy. I liked that.