I said, “Keep these, just in case there’s trouble.”
The twins were escorting me, only a step behind. “Where’d those come from?”
I said, “The three guys I passed coming on the trail? They dropped them.”
“They dropped them. Just like that, huh?”
I said, “That’s right. Like I told you, they were in a hurry. I don’t think they’ll be back.”
The twins’ eyes moved from the scratches on my hands to my face, and then they exchanged looks again with a new awareness-reappraisal time. “You took these knives from them, that’s what happened.” I smiled and said, “I hope your grooms realize how damn lucky they are. It’s like tonight-sometimes luck’s just on your side.”
I got to Saint Lucia around eleven and walked into my luxury suite with its infinity pool, ceiling fans, a room with only three walls open to the sea, to find that someone had slipped an envelope under the door.
Dr. M. North
Personal
Expensive stationery embossed with the initials JHM on the seal. Heavy, masculine hand with a slight tremor, suggesting age. I opened the envelope.
Dr. North, I am having a nightcap on the upper terrace of the Jade Club. I’ve had staff organize a midnight tea if you’re interested. I realize I’m being presumptuous in advance of an introduction, but it concerns a matter of mutual interest, I believe, and of grave importance.
Cordially,
Col. James H. Montbard RM (ret.) GBE DMC FIEC
Written with British syntax and formality, as were the postnominal letters associated with the British Honours System. I had never heard of the man, but understood it was from Sir James Montbard, recipient of the Knight Grande Cross, the Distinguished Military Cross, a retired colonel in the British Royal Marines, and an International Fellow of the Explorers Club.
Impressive. But how did he know I was here?
It was only my second night at Jade Mountain, a lodge and nature preserve consisting of six hundred acres of rain forest and beach on the southwestern shore of Saint Lucia. I’d chosen Jade Mountain because it is among the most private and exclusive resorts in the Caribbean, and because it was built into a mountainside with a clear view of Saint Arc, a few miles to the west, and Anse Chastanet Bay below, where I’d moored the Maverick.
Because I was doing countersurveillance, it would’ve been easier to stay near the beach house on Saint Arc. But that would put me under the control of the local government. It would have invited interaction with authorities and suspicion from the locals. If you seek anonymity, hide yourself among the very poor or the very wealthy.
Jade Mountain attracted the famous and rich, but of an unusual variety. The lodge had no air-conditioning, no glassed windows or screens. Suites were open on the seaward side, no walls or shutters, so it was like living outdoors in a luxury cliff dwelling-rare woods, custom tiles- jungle all around. The place was brilliantly designed. Rooms were breezy, each with its own infinity pool, water cool as the deep mountain spring that fed them. The staff was unobtrusive; privacy guaranteed.
But I hadn’t been at the place long enough to meet anyone-and I didn’t want to meet anyone. The previous evening, I’d had dinner alone at the beach restaurant at Anse Chastanet-jerked pork with lime rice, mango chutney, and some very good pepper sauce. In the morning, I’d gone for a long swim, ordered fresh fruit and coffee brought to the room, then went looking for a place to send e-mails.
The only Internet access was at the reception cottage, a quarter-way up the mountain. I wrote to Shay and Beryl, asking questions I should have asked earlier: Aside from investing in the resort on Saint Lucia, did Michael’s family have other business connections in the Eastern Caribbean? Saint Arc-had Shay discovered it on her own, or had someone recommended it? What was Ida Jonquil’s maiden name?
Aside from the woman at reception, and my waiter, I hadn’t spoken to anyone else.
That’s why it made no sense there was something so gravely important that a distinguished man like Sir Colonel James Montbard would track me here… if Sir James was who he claimed to be.
Standing on an open terrace, looking down at the Caribbean Sea four hundred feet below, Sir James told me, “In my opinion, Saint Lucia is the most beautiful island in the British Commonwealth-apart from England herself, of course.”
I said, “Of course,” sipping the Singapore Sling he’d ordered, looking at silhouettes of mountains across the bay where a few lights glimmered: beach huts, cooking fires, sailboats at anchor.
“Saint Lucia was undiscovered for decades,” he said, “like a beautiful mistress-but only because it was so wonderfully camouflaged by her association with the French. Napoleon’s wife, Josephine, was born here, you know. All the French names: Soufriere, Castries, Moule a Chique. And those famous peaks you’re staring at: the Pitons-Gros Piton and Petit Piton. ‘Tip of a bull’s horn,’ it means. Naturally, travelers assumed this island was French, so they avoided Saint Lucia like the plague. Understandable, in my opinion.”
I said, “Some would agree,” before asking, “Why are they famous?,” meaning the twin volcanic peaks, weathered rock, and jungle that rose from the sea like pyramids, towers half a mile high.
“I could give you the standard line about landmarks for sailors,” Sir James said, “but, truth is, they’re famous because they’re the most sexually suggestive rock formations in the Caribbean. Have a look now, let your eyes blur for a moment. Then tell me what you see.”
I did it, and laughed. "X-rated. I understand now.”
“They’ve found petroglyphs on those mountains more than a thousand years old. Are you interested in archaeology, Dr. North?”
“I have a traveler’s interest.”
“Traveler, eh?” His reply had an unusual inflection, as if inspecting the comment for double meaning. “I’m a traveler myself.. .” He waited several beats before continuing. “… and an International Fellow of the Explorers Club, I’m proud to say. Archaeology is a passion of mine. Inherited it from my grandfather. Amateur or professional, you must do serious field work to be voted in as a Fellow. I’ve published a few things on the pre-Colombian sites in the Caribbean and Meso-America that I’d like to think contributed to the literature.”
We talked for a few minutes about the Caribs, the Arawak, the stone pyramids of Tikal in Guatemala-he’d worked at a dig there-before he got back to the subject of the famous peaks and sexuality.
“The Pitons have always been associated with fertility rites and magic-first the Arawak, then escaped slaves with their obeah and voodoo. Now it’s every mix of race and religion because Anse Chastanet is a favorite honeymoon destination.
“My God,” he continued, “you didn’t hear the sounds coming out of the forest this morning?” The man chuckled and cupped a hand over his pipe as he relit it. “Positively obscene-and delightful. One couple awakes, sees those peaks, and they become amorous. Their sounds arouse the couple in the next cottage, and then the next-there are no windows or shutters, of course, to buffer the sounds-so the entire rain forest is echoing before long with the most primitive noises you can imagine. They yip and roar like gorillas. Even to an old campaigner like me, it occasionally gets the blood stirring.”
I said, “You don’t strike me as old.” A half truth. Sitting across the table, wearing pleated slacks, a sea-cotton shirt, and shooting jacket with a recoil patch and epaulets, Montbard was the 1940s prototype of the retired English gentleman. He was balding, not tall, and had the brown, tight-skinned face of a Brit who’d spent decades in the tropics.
On closer inspection, though, I noted the thick forearms and hands, the crease of scar tissue beneath his left eye, the way slacks bunched around his waist while the jacket strained at the shoulders. The man was in great shape.
Something else I noticed: the way the jacket’s inseams were tailored loose beneath the arms-room for a shoulder holster?-and, on his left hand, a gold ring engraved with a symbol that was difficult to make out because he
wore the engraving palm-side down. Also because the ring was weathered. I finally got a look: a skull and crossbones raised within a pyramid-an esoteric Masonic symbol that I’d seen only a few times in my life.
“But I am old,” Montbard insisted. “The howling of young honeymooners reminds me of the truth. My first and last wife, Victoria, God rest her soul, would agree. My quarters are just down the mountain, so there’s no escaping it. Family property, you know, deeded to us during the colonial uprising-the American Revolution, you’d call it.”
I said, “I’m surprised someone hasn’t made a recording and sold it on the Internet-‘Sunrise at Anse Chastanet,’ ” letting the sentence hang there so I could gauge the man’s reaction. I’d decided his invitation probably had something to do with blackmail.
We were halfway through our first drink and were still making small talk. Montbard had the focused, easygoing manner of an executive used to assessing applicants after only a few minutes of polite conversation. I expected to be dismissed at any moment, which convinced me he was the man he claimed to be.
That’s the only reason I stayed there listening to a seventy-some-year-old Brit lecture me on the history of an island that, so far, I didn’t find as interesting as Colombia or Nicaragua, countries to the northwest.
Sir James said, “Ah… here we go,” as two women came onto the terrace, carrying trays. “I’m a bit of a night owl, I’m afraid. Keep odd hours-an old habit from my days with the regiment. Hope you don’t find a midnight tiff too shocking.”
I began to get interested. Because he was so immaculately dressedslacks, white shirt with cuffs, shooting jacket-I said, “Sandhurst?”
The terrace was open on three sides, with ceiling fans and wicker tables. He laughed as he led me to a table. “That obvious, is it? Yes, I was born to the boots and bear. Grandfather was a major general in the Great War when your lads helped us run the Huns out of Argonne. Father learned a bit of Japanese in Malaya, then served in Suez after the French mucked up the bloody business. Between wars, our family have always come back to Saint Lucia.” He reached for a plate of biscuits. “Scone?”
The table was now covered with a tea service, a silver tureen, and heated serving dishes. There were cheeses, salted cod, fresh mangoes, tamarinds, local pineapple, and sugar bananas. Within easy reach were bottles of Harper’s bourbon and Pinchbottle Haig amp; Haig, a siphon of soda, ice in a bucket, a flagon of spring water, and two pint glasses thick as crystal. Montbard had also ordered poached snapper, some kind of curry dish, and roasted marrow bones-something I’d never tried. The marrow bones were served wrapped in napkins, with caviar spoons.
“Like those, do you? I have Chef bribe the local butchers. When good marrow bones come along, he snaps them up. I believe that fine food and drink are a form of art.”
I raised my caviar spoon in acknowledgment. “You live here, at Jade Mountain?”
“No! I’m the resort’s closest neighbor and a friend of the man who designed the place-a Russian who also happens to be a brilliant architect. His name’s Nick, but I call him the Mad Russian. A joke of ours.
“The food here’s wonderful, of course, but Nick doesn’t mind if I have my own chef send over the occasional delicacy. I live there-” He nodded toward lights on the dark hillside overlooking the sea. “Perhaps you noticed the place?”
I had: a mansion of rock and gray wood, yellow flamboyant trees in bloom, staff cottages with green tiled roofs, and steps winding down to a dock where a trawler was moored. I commented on the view he must have, and the long descent to the water.
He was proud of it. “There are precisely three hundred and eighty-one steps from my dock to the terrace of the main house-the equivalent of climbing twenty flights of stairs. Believe me, I’ve counted them enough times to know.
“Keeps a man fit, climbing up and down these mountains. When I hear visitors whining about all the steps, I’m tempted to ask them how much they paid for the exercise equipment in their homes. Every day but Monday, I do the hillside six times, quick march pace, then swim from my dock to the beach at Anse Chastanet.” He patted his flat stomach. “Daily PT is absolutely crucial, that’s my personal belief.”
I said, “Spoken like an officer in the Royal Marines. You didn’t mention where you served, Sir James.”
The man gave me a sly look as he poured more whiskey. “Didn’t I? I thought I had-the memory starts to slip a bit when you reach seventy. Bloody boring, I should think, listening to me ramble on about my days in harness. And we have more important matters to discuss.” He leaned to open a canvas shoulder bag he’d brought. “It’s time we got down to brass tacks. Very rude of me to invite you here at this hour, Dr. North, and not tell you the reason.”
The sly look narrowed as he took a stack of glossy photos from the bag and placed them on the table.
He asked, “Recognize that man?,” his eyes bright above his whiskey tumbler as he drank. “Quite a rough-looking character-when he’s not clomping around our beaches, pretending to be a biologist.”
The photos were of me.
18
The photographs were taken on Saturday, my first day on the island, as I explored the hillside above the beach house on Saint Arc.
There was a shot of me as I knelt to pick up a stick, then another of me probing the entrance of the camera blind, checking for booby traps.
I paused long enough to ask Montbard, “How did you get these?” He was no longer the warm and cheery host. “Keep going. We’ll discuss details later.”
The next photo was taken from outside the camera blind, looking in through the viewing window. I was holding up Paris Match, the issue with the attractive female politician on the cover. My face was only partially visible.
In the last two photos, I was looking downward from the viewing window, then I was reaching to drop the curtain-the twins had appeared, I remembered, and I was allowing them their privacy.
“Interesting,” I said. “Were they taken with some kind of remote-control camera?”
“Not exactly. I have an interest in what’s going on on that nasty little island. You were being shadowed.”
“I’m a relatively observant man. I didn’t see anyone shadowing me.”
Sir James said, “That’s what you may expect to see when I’m shadowing you. But you’re right, in a way. These photographs were taken by cameras equipped with motion detectors. I was higher up the mountain. I followed you as you marked your trail.”
I remembered parrots flushing from a stand of travelers palms.
I was about to say I suspected… as Montbard said, “Now you’re about to tell me you suspected someone was there all along.” He smiled, but there was no humor in his face. “They always do-once I confront them. You asked about my years with the Royal Marines? For part of the time, I was attached to Defence Intelligence and Security in Bedfordshire. PSYOPS. So I’ve had a bit of experience at the game.”
PSYOPS-psychological warfare operations.
I asked, “What about tonight? Did you have a quiet evening at home, watching for my boat to return? Or did you follow me again?” I was thinking about the infrared light I’d seen.
His severe expression faded. “Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we, Dr. North? It’s obvious that we’re both aware what’s going on at Saint Arc. A very shrewd operator is using the place as a filmset for black-mail-and not just that pretty little beach house. It’s quite a sophisticated operation. If you don’t mind, I’ll save the particulars for later.
“Saint Arc, along with Jamaica and Aruba, is the only island in the Caribbean corrupt enough to allow that sort of business. I have a personal interest in seeing the bastards hang, and I am quietly assembling their gallows. Forgive me for being frank, but what I don’t need is some amateur Yank mucking up all my work by tipping off the buggers in advance-or by calling in the authorities.”
He reached for the bottle of bourbon and freshened his drink before adding, “I’ve seen enough to know you’re
not working for the opposition. I therefore take it you have a personal interest in the matter-someone has hired you, perhaps, to investigate.”
With some people, the smart thing to do is keep your cards close to the chest until you have an idea what’s in their hand. Not this guy, though. I told him, “No. My goddaughter is a victim. She’s supposed to be married on Sunday. The blackmailers gave her until Friday to pay the balance on a quarter-million dollars.”
“The balance?”
“Yes. She made a deal to pay them a little over a hundred thousand, but they reneged the day after she transferred the money.”
“Really.” He appeared to find the information useful. “Well, I can empathize with the fact that you and your goddaughter are in a bit of a tight situation. Tomorrow’s Monday-only four days to deal with the problem. That’s all the more reason for me to worry you’re going to ruin all my work by rushing matters. Let’s be frank: Are you some bumbling amateur, Dr. North?”
I said, “I’ll answer that question honestly, if you’ll answer a question honestly for me. Are you the blackmailer, Sir James?”
I was reassured by his nodding look of approval. “Very smart. I would have followed the same chain of reasoning. Problem is, I checked with a few friends-State Department types; immigration people. They had some difficulty coming up with background information on you. North is such a common surname. According to your passport, the middle initial is W. If I knew your middle name, I might be more inclined to speak freely.”
“You found out all that about me?”
“Does that offend you? Perhaps you have something to hide.” Montbard had avoided eye contact in the comfortable way people do when they are busy eating and drinking, but now his eyes locked onto mine. Instinct told me he already knew the answer or he wouldn’t have asked the question.
I said, “My middle name doesn’t begin with a W.”
“A mistake on your passport?”
I shrugged as he stared at me. “Everything’s computerized. If someone hits the wrong letter on a keyboard, it’s better to live with the mistake than deal with all the bureaucracy getting it changed.”
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