After several moments, he said, “I think that answers my question.”
“But you haven’t answered mine. Are you the blackmailer?”
“Understood. Why don’t you come ’round to the house for tea in the morning. Nine-ish? I’d like to introduce you to someone who, I think, will answer that question for me.”
He snapped his fingers to get the waiter’s attention, then pointed at me-Another drink here.
“Singapore Sling, Dr. North? Got the recipe from the barman at Raffles personally.” He looked up from his glass, studying my face. “Or may I start calling you by your real name… Dr. Ford?”
19
MONDAY, JUNE 24TH
Sir James Montbard’s estate was named Bluestone, maybe because of the slate blue rock used to build the main house. The place was fully staffed- armed guard at the gate, gardeners, maids in bright plaid skirts sweeping around the veranda’s rock pillars-so I was momentarily flustered when the photogenic woman on the cover of Paris Match opened the door.
I didn’t recognize her at first, but that’s who it was.
“Welcome to Bluestone, Dr. Ford. I was expecting you.”
I’d assumed a maid would answer, not this attractive fortyish female wearing crisp morning clothing, white blouse and jodhpurs, brown hair tied back from her face, just a touch of lipstick. Looked dressed for a morning ride.
The woman’s hair was lighter, she had aged a year, but those weren’t the reasons I didn’t recognize her right away. There are a few rare people whom the camera lens sees more clearly than the human eye. Perhaps it has to do with bone construction, the angles of cheek, chin, and nose. Whatever the reason, the lens loves them. They photograph differently than they appear in person. I’ve read that some of the classic film stars were examples: Bogart, Hepburn, Gable.
Here was another. It wasn’t until the woman thrust out a firm hand and said, “I’m Senegal, a pal of Hooker’s. So nice of you to come,” that I realized I was speaking to Senegal Firth, former candidate for British Parliament, who’d been featured in the magazine: the unflattering shots of a photogenic woman with interesting eyes, who looked good in her revealing swimsuit.
The pictures had been taken while she was vacationing on Saint Arc, according to the article, and she had threatened to sue the magazine.
I said, “Hooker?” to cover my surprise.
“Oh, sorry. That’s what chums call Sir James. His middle name is Hooks-from the maternal side.” She smiled. “You’re embarrassed because you didn’t recognize me. Don’t be. I’m flattered. Couldn’t be happier, actually. Hooker told me you’d seen the horrible photos the magazine published. I never really appreciated the value of privacy until I ran for public office. Now I revel in my anonymity. Tea?”
I followed her through a great hall, past a billiard room, then a library where walls were covered by framed, antique maps. The room smelled of books, pipe tobacco, the nutty musk of pecky cypress. When I stopped, Firth said, “Go ahead, have a walk around. Sir James is mad for this sort of thing.”
There were charts of the Caribbean, the early Americas, and ornate world maps with notations in Latin. I slid glasses to my forehead and said, “The plaque says this map was drawn in 1507.”
“That’s right. The Waldseemuller map.” There was a smile in her voice. “It’s not the original, of course. Notice something unusual about it?”
“Yes. It shows the western coast of South America, and the Baja Peninsula. Hudson Bay, too. All fairly accurate. I’m trying to remember my fifth-grade history-”
“Excellent catch, Dr. Ford. You’re thinking of Magellan. He didn’t reach the Pacific Coast until decades later, and he never really explored it. And explorer Henry Hudson didn’t arrive in the Americas until a hundred years later.”
I said, “So the map couldn’t have been made in 1507.”
“But it was-it’s been well documented. The maps on that wall represent some of history’s great mysteries. That’s what Sir James claims, anyway. The Stuttgart Map, for instance, is from the sixteenth century. It shows Antarctica in incredible detail-two hundred and fifty years before western explorers had laid eyes on it. Not only that, it’s the Antarctic as it would appear without ice. I checked for myself. It’s true.”
I compared the map to the world globe that sat beside a leather reading chair. She was right about the accuracy. The map was dated 1535.
“How can that be?”
The woman shrugged.
The library’s shelves were stacked from floor to ceiling, and there was a glass display case containing jade carvings similar to those I’d seen during my years in Central America. There were a dozen wedge-shaped amulets-owl motifs, archaeologists had told me-with Vs carved into the necks, representing beaks. In a corner, mounted on a pedestal, was a piece of what looked to be a stone wheel. Carved into it were what might have been pre-Colombian glyphs. Part of a Mayan calendar, possibly.
“Mind if I take a look at that?”
“Not at all. But I warn you, if you ask James about it, he’ll bore you to tears with the details and his pet theories about world history. Same with the maps.”
I crossed the room and leaned to look. A chunk of gray stone… a fifteen-degree section of a stone circle. I was puzzling over the glyphs as the woman said, “His grandfather, General Henry Montbard, found that years ago. James claims it’s ancient-probably Mayan or Olmec. Sir James’s father didn’t catch the bug, but personality traits skip a generation, don’t they? Archaeology is in his blood.”
Only one of the glyphs had the Asian-flavored, geometrical complexity I associate with Mayan writing. Looked like a rooster, with a cross on its breast. Tomlinson would have remembered the name of the glyph and what it symbolized-he’d been with me in Guatemala and Masagua a few years back, tracking artifact smugglers.
The other glyphs, however-if they were glyphs-were simple, openended rectangles and Vs similar to those on the owl pendants. Some had dots drilled in the center. Because I thought Tomlinson might recognize them, I took out a pocket notebook and copied them.
Along the stone’s broken edge was a fragment of a glyph. I copied that, too.
As I sketched, I said to the woman, “Sir James is a man with eclectic interests.”
“Oh, just wait until you get to know him better. He’s more like a precocious boy who wants to learn everything about everything. A regular wizard when it comes to history. Warfare, too, I suspect, but he only hints at that.”
“I hope I’m half as active when I’m his age.”
Her tone wry, Firth said, “Funny thing about Hooker-only men comment on his age. Women never seem to notice… or care.”
She motioned with her hand, and I followed her through a sitting room-antique furniture, dark wood, coat of arms above the fireplaceto a terrace that faced the sea. A tunnel created by sea grape trees led to a croquet court, an orchid house, a manicured garden filled with roses and ornamentals, then to the bluff overlooking the bay. Three hundred and eighty-one stone steps to the dock, Sir James had told me.
A wrought-iron table had been set for breakfast: sliced fruit, silver serving dishes, rashers of bacon, poached eggs, kippers; frangipani blossoms afloat in a bowl.
The woman said, “Hooker rallied long enough this morning to tell me you two had a great chat last night. Turns out you have a mutual friend or two. He said I should treat you like one of his colleagueswhich I take to mean you’re mysterious, you’re obsessive, you’re a gentleman, and you drink gin tonics or whiskey neat.”
I said, “I think you’re confusing me with another sort of colleague,” amused because it was the kind of thing Shay would say.
It was true that Montbard and I had mutual friends, probably more than either of us would ever know. Despite our age difference, there was a sufficient overlap in our careers to create ties.
With British PSYOPS, the man had spent time in Borneo, Hong Kong, and also Belize, where he’d worked with the Gurkha contingent stationed there.
“Got my first look at Tikal while T-D-Y,” he’d told me. “Brilliant pyramids, simply brilliant. My little Gurkha friends scampered up and down them like they were nothing.”
In the Falklands, he’d helped get Radio Atlantic del Sur operational. In Iraq, he’d been involved in a psy-war night operation that had used “the voice of Allah” to frighten several hundred sleeping Iraqis into surrendering-an operation I’d heard about. Sir James enjoyed telling the story, because it allowed him to segue into stories about digs he’d worked on in Egypt, Cyprus, and the Syrian Desert.
Yes, he was a traveler. I didn’t doubt he had long service with the British military. I also suspected he had worked for MI6, the U.K.’s equivalent of our CIA. Possibly still did. Saint Lucia was only a few hundred miles from intelligence-gathering hot spots in South America. And even though Sir James was in his seventies, he was sharp, tough, and so physically fit that, for me, he’d already become one of those people that I file away in memory for inspiration later.
A man in a white tunic and white slacks appeared at the table-member of the staff. He nodded first to me, then the woman, and said, “Mornin’, sir. Mornin’, Miz Senny,” without making eye contact as he pulled out the lady’s chair.
I answered, “Good morning. Nice day, huh?”
The man replied, “Aw’right, aw’right,” turning toward the kitchen to bring our tea.
Senegal Firth was explaining why Sir James probably wouldn’t join us for breakfast, but would come around later for a Bloody Mary in the library. “He sleeps in on Mondays. Always has, for as long as I’ve known him.”
“What’s special about Mondays?”
“He didn’t tell you about his workout routine? I’m surprised. He’s very proud of himself. Six days a week, he does swimming, jumping jacks, and stretches, then marches up and down those terrible steps an incredible number of times. I’m not exaggerating, Dr. Ford, when I say my legs are absolutely on fire after just one trip from the beach to the house. But Hooker does it every morning of his life, when he’s in residence… except for Mondays.”
I asked again, “Why Mondays?” because her emphasis invited the question.
Firth had a nice laugh: eyes closed, nodding her head, white teeth showing as she touched a hand to her lips.
“Because Hooker’s a man of precise habits. He doesn’t take exercise on Mondays because Sunday night is ‘grog night.’ It’s something that goes back to the regimental mess when he was in K.L. It’s the only night of the week he allows himself to drink to excess. And he does! The old dear gets happily, song-singing pissed on whiskey. So he sleeps in Monday mornings, steels himself with a Bloody Mary, then spends the day in his smoking jacket working in the garden-he’s crackers about gardening and plants, particularly orchids. But come Tuesday, bright and early, his regimen of discipline and exercise starts all over again.
“I’ve known him since I was a little girl, and I adore him,” she continued. “More important, I’d trust him with my life. My father was an artillery officer stationed at Ouakam Military Base in Dakar, Senegal- this was back when Senegal was still a French colony. Hooker and father met there, and they became chums-” She chuckled, buttering a piece of toast. “-despite Hooker’s bias against all things French. Or maybe it was because of it.”
I said, “You’re French?”
“My namesake’s African because I was born there. But I lived in France until I couldn’t stand it anymore-nothing against the country, I love France. Family problems, I’m afraid.”
Her father was a difficult man, she explained. She was the youngest of six children, and never got along with the man.
“When I was seventeen, I moved to London and worked as an au pair. Hooker became a sort of Dutch uncle. He and his late wife were great advocates of mine. By that time, my father was aide to the mayor of Champagne. Father had a live-in mistress, yet he refused to divorce my mother, or pay child support. So I brought suit against him. I was at university by then. It took years, but I finally won the case.”
I said, “You sued your own father?” and immediately regretted my tone.
Firth had been uncharacteristically outgoing for a Brit, but now her eyes changed. It was like two chestnut windows slamming closed.
“Dr. Ford, I’ve spent my political life fighting for the rights of children, and for people who’ve been disenfranchised by traditions that should have been abandoned back in the days when floggings were outlawed.
“As an aide to a member of Parliament, I helped write the Parental Rights and Obligations Act. I personally championed the Prostitution of Minors Act, which provides penal measures for child predators. Yet you find it surprising that as a university student I was willing to fight for the rights of my brothers and sisters?”
I said, “I apologize, Ms. Firth. I spoke without thinking.”
Her shield remained in place. “No, Dr. Ford, your reaction was instinctive-and very typical of men. Fortunately, not all men are typical.”
We sat facing the sea. I was fumbling for a response when, thankfully, a voice from behind us said, “Already on the subject of male domination and politics, are we? Dear girl, will you do me the greatest of favors and please delay the discussion until staff brings me my medicine?”
It was Sir James, crossing the terrace in slippers and a silk bathrobe, with a towel around his neck. The towel, I realized, was packed with ice. He gave us both a sharp look. “I would have bet the treasury that you two would either trust each other or hate each other at first sniff. Appears I was right.”
The woman said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, James.”
“Really? Then why the flushed face?” He looked at me. “Senegal turns the color of a pale rose whenever she’s excited-”
“Hooker!”
“I was about to say, when you’re excited and upset, if you’d only let me finish. At any rate, I strongly advise that you two postpone further sniffing until we’ve discussed our mutual problem. Afterward, we can talk about-” He abandoned the sentence, and smiled as our server approached, carrying a drink on a tray. “Oh, God bless you for this, Rafick. Hair of the dog-exactly what the doctor ordered.”
Two Bloody Marys later, Sir James dropped his napkin on the table and picked up his pipe. “All righty, then! Dr. Ford, I suggest you tell Senny what you’re doing on Saint Lucia. Hear him out, dear girl, then you can decide whether to hate him and send him away, or to trust him and let him help with our little problem.”
20
Senegal Firth’s little problem had nothing to do with the photos published in a French magazine. Her problem was that a hidden camera had filmed her during an “injudicious evening” inside the mountain villa she’d rented while vacationing alone on Saint Arc less than a year ago.
The blackmailer had contacted her a month before the elections and threatened to send a copy of the video to her husband, another to the London Times, and also to post it on Internet pornography sites if she didn’t pay four million pounds into a Bank of Aruba account.
“It’s the same blackmailer who went after your goddaughter,” Sir James said. “Same modus operandi. I’m assembling a list of victims. Senny certainly was not the first, and your goddaughter will not be the last. That’s why we have to nail the buggers to the wall and cut their heads off.”
The woman said, “Hooker,” with an expression of distaste. “No need to be gruesome, is there?”
Montbard said, “There’s every reason to be gruesome. We are dealing with people who are absolutely ruthless. Ford? Tell her what would’ve happened to those four American women last night if you hadn’t come along.”
I said, “Honestly? I think the women would’ve scared the guys off without my help. They were a tough bunch.”
“Frighten three men who were armed with knives? Please.”
Senegal looked sickened, asking, “Men with knives?” as Montbard said, “Bullocks. I saw what happened with my own eyes. If you won’t tell her, I wil
l.”
He did, minus a few details I hadn’t shared with him last night on Jade Mountain as he’d sipped his third whiskey, and I’d switched from Singapore Slings to the local Piton Beer over ice.
When he was done, Firth said, “They would’ve murdered the women? You’re serious.”
I weighed the probabilities before saying, “Were they capable of murder? That’s tough to say. Murder’s the sort of thing that’s easy to talk about, but very few people can actually do.”
“Do you really believe that?”
I looked at Sir James to see his reaction-it would tell me a lot about him. I realized he was looking at me for the same reason. “Dr. Ford clearly has some knowledge of the subject-” The man cleared his throat. “-the academic sort, of course. The military has done studies. In the second war, fewer than twenty percent of our boys could bring themselves to pull the trigger even when under attack. One percent of our pilots accounted for forty percent of enemy planes shot down. It’s a rare bird who can truly do the deed. But some people seem born to it.”
I looked at Senegal. “Maybe they were. From what I overheard, it wouldn’t be the first time. I think it would’ve depended on how the women reacted. Sexual predators in a pack behave differently than a predator operating alone.”
“That’s true,” she said, interested, but also evaluating my words-she was the expert, not me. She’d helped draft laws on the subject.
“Packs target the weak. If the women had tried to humor them, we might be reading about a multiple homicide in tomorrow’s paper. But if they’d fought back, I think the men would’ve found an excuse to run. There was nothing to gain financially. It was all ego.”
Firth said, “Three men. Unusual,” as if processing new information. “Could you describe the men if you had to?”
“I can describe them whether I have to or not. But Sir James has photos. You haven’t seen them?”
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