Venom: A Thriller in Paradise (The Thriller in Paradise Series Book 3)

by Swigart, Rob

  “I’m sure that means prevent illegal or deceptive data from leaving Polynesia,” Sangier said. “It says as much.”

  “In a different cable, though. You may believe that, if you wish. But I’m afraid I do not, and when we present this information, the world will not think it either.”

  Sangier leaned back in his chair, a wooden armchair with a plush seat in sea blue that matched the carpet and the walls. He tented his fingers before his lips. “Allow me to make a suggestion,” he said softly, and Vincent felt the first flurry of alarm. The French did not usually make suggestions. The French told people what to do; that was Vincent’s experience. It was not good when they took to suggesting.

  He kept his smile in place. “Yes?”

  “Perhaps there is another interpretation: A radical environmental group, one not unlike yours, M. Meissner, wants to, what is the quaint expression? give France a black eye. Such an organization might— oh, I know this is farfetched, ridiculous, even— but such an organization just might engineer the deaths of an entire crew of their own. If radical enough, dedicated enough, fanatical enough, death is sometimes a small price. Look at the Islamic zealots, M. Meissner. They drive truck bombs to certain death, believing they will wake up in paradise, is it not so? Perhaps a group such as yours would be willing to do such a thing?”

  “That’s absurd. Environmentalists are not Islamic fundamentalists, M. Sangier. No one would believe it.”

  “Ah, but if we could provide some evidence of such a thing? Evidence, say, similar to what you just showed me? Would not the knife cut the other way?”

  “I don’t see how.” Vincent felt a line of perspiration forming along his hairline despite the air-conditioning.

  “I’m sure you will when you have considered it.” Sangier leaned forward to prod the folder with a long finger. “I do not believe in these cables, Monsieur Meissner.”

  “But we have the originals, Monsieur Sangier. Back in Vancouver. They are coded French diplomatic cables, and they clearly indicate…”

  “Nothing. They indicate nothing. Diplomatic codes are not particularly secure. These are forged.” Sangier pushed gently at his upper lip with tented forefingers. He shrugged. “I have spoken also with Commander Shafton of the United States Coast Guard about your ship. You will get no help from them. He tells me there is no evidence of foul play, as far as the United States Coast Guard is concerned.”

  “They are not concerned,” Vincent said.

  Sangier spread his hands, palms up. “They are concerned, Monsieur. France and the United States are allies. We have mutual interests in the Pacific. We desire the same things, the maintenance of the balance of power.”

  “France is detonating hydrogen bombs in an unstable basalt atoll in the South Pacific, storing waste plutonium in the ground. The ground is cracking open. Ciguatera poisoning is endemic in the fish of the area. There are human lives at stake, not to mention the long term effects of radiation leaks into the sea and air.”

  “I appreciate your sentiments, Monsieur Meissner, believe me. I may even agree with them. But our test program is safe. Independent international commissions of scientists have declared it so. We have the only atomic testing program in the world open to qualified observers from any allied nation. We take more than adequate safeguards.”

  “That is not what the evidence collected by the Ocean Mother tells us.” Vincent wasn’t sure that was true, but his last communications from the ship, from Raïatéa, suggested there was some radiation leakage, within the margin of error for the instruments she carried. “We have the telemetry data in Vancouver.”

  “Really?” The question was so drenched in skepticism Meissner was almost fooled. But he knew better, he was on safer ground here. They did have telemetry, although the data was ambiguous. Like all data. In this business you never felt completely confident. You only acted it. Wheels in wheels. Each had an agenda. They turned together, like gears. Meissner was devoid of inspiration. His cards were on the table.

  “Really,” he said. Sangier watched him, impassive. “We do have the data, and we are going to spread it all over the world along with evidence that the French government sponsored the assassination of the crew of a peaceful environmental research ship in violation of all international law and common human decency.” Vincent could feel his heart leaping like a hooked fish. The strain stitched across his forehead in a line of drops.

  It felt good to go on the offensive, though.

  Sangier was thinking. “Perhaps we have a mutual interest here.”

  “Oh. And what might that be?” Too good to be true, he knew that. Mutual interest was impossible. Wheels in wheels. He wished Takamura were back from Tahiti. It would have helped to have something definite.

  “We both know that there is the public agenda and the private agenda. Our public agendas are in conflict, Monsieur Meissner. But perhaps our private interests coincide.”

  A diplomat to the end.

  Meissner risked a pass of his hand across his forehead as he leaned back. “I’m listening.”

  “Jacqueline Guillaume’s death is going to cause a problem in France. For the government and for certain forces. Political forces. Perhaps those responsible for her death are our mutual enemies.”

  “Someone trying to put both of us in an awkward position?” Vincent tried to maintain a neutral tone. “Destroy Gaia’s team, and our data, and embarrass the French government at the same time?”

  “Two birds, I believe you say in English. With one rock.”

  “Stone,” Vincent said automatically. “Who?”

  Sangier smiled. “Conservative elements,” he said softly. “A determined right wing that does not care for the socialist government and its policies of reconciliation. Those who would have us cut off diplomatic relations with, say, New Zealand and resume atmospheric testing. You know the people.”

  Vincent nodded. People like Shafton. Obstructive. Narrow vision, narrow minds. They were everywhere.

  He could not trust Sangier. The man was an actor— everything he said was fake— a lie, and a cheat. He would betray Vincent in a second if it moved him a step closer to his goal.

  Sangier was a representative of the French government, and the French government wanted to discredit Gaia and everything it had done. He must remember that. The consular official was holding out an olive branch. If Vincent took it, it could easily turn out to be toxic.

  “I know the people,” Vincent said.

  “These are people,” Sangier continued, “who are implacably hostile to what you do.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Good. We have a who. We do not have as yet a how.”

  “A rogue agent.”

  “Probably, yes. They are unscrupulous fanatics.”

  “Do you have any evidence, anything to give to the press?” Vincent thought he saw a way to use this new development. It was all a matter of interpretation.

  Sangier waved this objection away. “No,” he said frankly, and this time Vincent thought he might even be telling the truth. “But I do know someone who can… acquire such evidence.”

  “Oh?”

  “A man with many resources.”

  “Resources?”

  “Yes. He once worked for the Ministry of Justice, I believe. I don’t know what name he will use, but I’ll have him contact you.”

  EIGHTEEN

  MANIFEST

  The rain had stopped, and slight twists of mist rose from the asphalt of the main road. Cobb watched it rise for a moment. It vanished within seconds as the road dried.

  “Winter in Polynesia, Lieutenant.” Charlie Song was large, wide, muscular, and happy. He was always happy. The black mustache drooping along the sides of his mouth did nothing to dispel the impression of good humor. “Rain, then sun. Sometimes wind. Hurricanes, that sort of thing. Not today, though.”

  “No.” They stood on the stoop in front of the Chinese store. The store sold everything from mops to maps, from Sony Walkmen to Sei
ko watches. Today was Sunday, and it was afternoon, and everyone was asleep somewhere. The store was closed.

  “I asked around,” Charlie Song said. His English was lilting, musical like his name.

  “Mmm?”

  “I found someone for you. He spent time with the Frenchman, before the boat left. A lot of time. He has interesting things to say.”

  “Mmm.” Cobb pushed his porkpie hat brim back away from his eyes and squinted up at the clouds melting in the sky like ice cream on a hot day.

  Neither man made a move to go. It was a lazy afternoon, a Sunday. There was no hurry. Aita pe’ape’a.

  They began to stroll along the boards. The town was like a toy, a pretend town. Nothing happened until the movie company brought in all the extras. It was a fake. Cobb glanced down the side streets toward the harbor. The boats sat on the smooth water, reflected upside down. They did not move. He was in the landscape of a model train set, everything miniature, with all the details.

  “Duvalois,” Cobb Takamura said.

  “Yes?”

  “He is not a policeman.”

  “You noticed that.”

  “Yes. He carries a gun. I have heard that guns are not necessary in Polynesia, especially in the Leeward Islands, where everything is peaceful. Aita pe’ape’a, no problem? So why does he need a gun?”

  “Ah.” Charlie Song laid a thick blunt finger alongside his nose. “Why?”

  “Because he is in a different line of work. But he gets cooperation from the authorities. Dr Rathé, for example. He knows who the players are. Queneau, the others. So he is security. Like FBI.”

  “We think so, yes. Elusive.”

  “Is he?”

  “He comes and goes. When he goes, some of us are not sorry.”

  “A traveling man.”

  “Yes.”

  They reached the end of the covered walk and turned around. There was no more mist on the roadway, only a sheen here and there.

  A car came down the street, passed them, disappeared to the south. Silence fell like a curtain.

  “You found someone?” Cobb urged after a moment. “Someone for me to talk to?”

  “A tabua. Some of the Tahitian revival movement. There are such movements all over the Pacific. A hunger for the past, before the popaa came. White man.” Charlie Song laughed. The sound was pleasing. “They include us, the Chinese. It is funny. They would include you too. Do you have such people in Hawaii?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. They should be everywhere. Otherwise it doesn’t mean anything. This was one wild culture down here. Canoes sailing all over this empty space, launched out into nowhere and finding land. How many died on the way, drowned, starved to death? Many, I think. But they kept doing it. They found every island in the Pacific and settled it. Amazing, really. Just canoes. No instruments but stars and wind and birds and eyes and knowledge. It impresses me.”

  “Yes. It impresses me also.” Cobb smiled at Charlie Song.

  “The Chinese built ships in the fourteenth century. Did you know? The rudders were fifty feet high. The ships the Portuguese built to explore the world could sit sideways on a Chinese ship’s deck. The Chinese discovered India, east Africa, sailed all around, explored. Before the Portuguese, the Spanish. Before the white man. Then they stopped. They pulled all the ships up on the beach and left them to rot.”

  “Why?”

  “They thought about the consequences, the bureaucrats in Peking. They thought all this knowledge would change them. So they stopped.”

  “What is a tabua?” Cobb asked. They were in front of the Chinese store again.

  “A priest, a healer.”

  “A kahuna. Yes.”

  “His name is Ari. It’s short for ari’i, a sort of king or priest or something. A leader. It’s not his real name.”

  “No, I can see that. Ali’i in Hawaiian. Same word.”

  “We can talk to him, if you like.”

  “Okay. I was waiting…”

  “For the other one, the big man?”

  “Chazz Koenig. He is a… friend. A colleague, too, though he is not a policeman.”

  “Not a policeman the way Duvalois is not a policeman?”

  “No. Just not a policeman. He’s a scientist. He helps out.”

  “Ah. You have a scientific problem, then.” Charlie smiled. His teeth were very white and even. He was young and had a lot of energy. It made Cobb Takamura feel old, seeing him smile like that.

  “I don’t think he’s coming,” Cobb said after a time. “Let’s go.”

  They got in Charlie Song’s car, an ancient Renault wagon with strips of the lining dangling from the roof. The car had once been green; now it was gray.

  The shocks were gone. Cobb bounced wildly, holding on to the door. “Wait’ll we hit the dirt,” Charlie laughed.

  The pavement ended, and the dirt was worse. Fortunately, they did not have far to go on the unpaved road.

  Ari was a thin young man in torn jeans and a T-shirt that announced he was in favor of protecting mollusks. The picture showed an oyster displaying a large black pearl. He did not look like a priest.

  He shook Cobb’s hand by leaning forward from the waist and grasping it. His hand was dry and strong. When he let go, he leaned back again, upright. He did not smile, but Charlie Song never stopped.

  “This is the American policeman,” Charlie told him. The young man nodded. He was tall and broad shouldered, thin.

  “He is interested in the man you met.”

  The tabua nodded again. “Narcisse,” he said. His voice was very low, as if he was unsure of his English.

  “Yes, Narcisse.”

  Ari’s house was lost in foliage behind them. They sat around a small table in flimsy aluminum folding chairs with tattered plastic straps on the seat and back. Ari had disappeared into the house, which showed only fragments in the trees: a window, half a door, a slope of roof, all green like the leaves, hidden and secretive. He came back with a plastic pitcher of a liquid he claimed was kava. Cobb tasted it. It was not good.

  “It is made by chewing a root,” Charlie Song said. Laughing again. “Ferments, you see, with saliva. Tasty.”

  “Narcisse,” Cobb urged.

  “A strange man,” Ari said. He told them about Narcisse, how he came from Papeete using another name, Jean Prévert, then another name, Cal something, he could not remember, because to Ari the man was Narcisse. Ari used a name he was not born with also, it did not matter. Names were important to a man’s work, not in themselves.

  But Narcisse was dark. Ari could see the darkness around him, like a cloud over the sun. He was interested in Ari’s work.

  Cobb asked how he met Narcisse. “Teavai,” he said. “She was a student too. Healing. She was interested in healing, because she could not have children, and she was a little crazy too. She met the man down on the south side of the island, and she was drawn to him because she said he had a power.”

  Ari thought so too, yes. He had a power. Drawing people to him, he was interested in Ari, in what Ari did, in what Teavai did. They studied the old ways, the religions, the power of Oro. There were old family or clan gods in the hills and along the coast. Oro was the most important when this was Havai’i.

  At first it went well. He helped them. He knew about plants, could find them, pick them out. From time to time, he would say mix this with water and let it stand three days, and it can kill. Things like that. Ari thought it was strange he would be so interested in killing, but that was what knowing about plants meant, sometimes. And he would say this is good for the toothache, this for the belly.

  Then he started telling them, always in French, about how it was possible to take over a man’s soul. He said it in French, âme, but then he changed it a little. Ti bon ange, he said. It meant the little good angel. What was this? He said he could make something that would take over ti bon ange, make it his creature, and the person so taken would do what he said. Always and forever, for they would be dead, and broug
ht back to life through his power.

  Takamura looked at the trees, the slanting sunlight, and was cold. He thought Chazz should have returned. Probably he was at the hotel.

  Ari went on. The man wanted to find some special plants, some animals. He was angry because he could not find some of the animals. What kind of animals? Toads, mainly. Some others. They don’t live here.

  Then he asked about human bones.

  Ari could see Teavai falling under the man’s spell. She said te metua tane faaamu had died and they had just buried him in the hills. There would be bones there, and Ari was shocked when he heard this. It was not good that she should say such a thing; they were also Christians here. But it is for Oro she told him, and he admitted he said nothing then. What was there to say? She was under the man’s spell, she could see his darkness and she embraced it, but it would trouble her, as it troubled Ari.

  Could Ari see it too?

  Yes, but it did not touch him. He had his own power. He grew to dislike this man, yet he was flattered. He believed any time a Frenchman was interested in the old Tahitian ways, it would be a help. They would get government support; that is what Ari hoped. Now he understood that was foolish. Tahitians must find their own support. They did without the Farani a thousand years before there were Farani. They could do without them again. They must.

  He thought that the man and the woman went into the hills, because that was when Teavai disappeared. The man came back after a few days, but she did not. The man said she was studying in the hills for him. She was looking for certain plants, certain small things. But the man was lying. Ari knew she was not studying, she was doing his bidding. She had lost her ti bon ange. She was the creature of Narcisse.

  Yes, he heard M. Queneau was dead. He had heard that Teavai had killed him. It was not her, of course; it was Narcisse. He was glad to see the dark man leave.

  A darkness gathered like spider webs in the trees, woven strand by strand of haze, an indistinct and repellent absence of light. Cobb Takamura shook his head. What would Charlie Chan say about all this talk of souls and creatures and killing? Cobb had no ready aphorism. It was dark superstition and foolishness.