Rafael giggled and shifted the barrel to aim at Turi’s chest. “What ever.”
Before he could blink, the boy found himself pinned to the tree behind him, a wicked blade pinning his pants to the bark, dangerously near his crotch. When the boy looked as though he would retaliate, Enzo spoke.
“Behave, Rafe. Turi can do things with a blade that would make Satan tremble. I would not like to have him demonstrate. Understand?” Enzo spoke in a calm, reasonable tenor that sent shivers along Rafe’s spine and scared him worse than the knife protruding from between his legs.
“Yes, sir,” he muttered, prying the blade from the bark.
The sat phone chirped, signaling that Enzo’s call had connected. Into the silence, he said, “Reporting in.”
“Yes?” Helen reclined in her office chair, her nails drumming the arm impatiently. She’d expected his call hours ago. Waiting was her least favorite activity. “Do you have it?”
Enzo straightened his shoulders, forgetting that the woman couldn’t see him. “Not yet.”
“Then why are you calling?” The question was brittle and loaded with threat.
“I tracked Caine to a hotel in the south. He refused our help.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Yes.” Enzo touched his throat, his breathing still difficult. “The woman is with him. I told him I would help break her, but he insists on working alone. He said he hasn’t found the Cinchona.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Not really,” Enzo replied tersely. “He’s very protective of the girl. I think he knows something.”
“Where is he now?”
“We followed them back to Canete.” Enzo didn’t add that they’d been ditched by the woman’s driving. “We’ll keep an eye on them.”
“No more waiting. Bring them in. Use our police contacts.”
“I will.” He signaled Turi, who came to his side, tucking the knife he’d taken from Rafe back into its sheath. At Enzo’s motion, he pressed his ear to the opposite side of the phone.
Helen spoke briskly, turning over the plans in her mind. “Return to the town. Let the locals know that this man and woman are responsible for Estrada’s death. I’ll send you their photos shortly.” She ended the call and swiveled around to face Marguerite Seraphin.
Helen had chosen her cohorts carefully, selecting three men and one woman who possessed the daring and the resources to share her vision. Clifton Burge was likely sitting in the dank hole where he spent most of his waking hours, fretting about an outcome she had already assured. For their parts, Jeremy Holbrook and Vincent Palgrave had retired to their hotel rooms hours before, each claiming work.
A shrewd judge of men, Helen had learned from the security details assigned to the men that neither had stayed in his suite. Holbrook, it seemed, possessed a weakness for the whorehouses of London’s West End and a particular proclivity for redheads. Palgrave was given to equally prurient adventures, but in bath houses rather than brothels. London offered anonymity to the American and the Kenyan businessmen that neither could find at home. Still, Helen mused, they should have realized that anonymity was a luxury no amount of currency could purchase.
She slid the minutes-old surveillance of them across the slick marble, its black sheen dully reflecting the light, but Marguerite merely tapped the glossy paper with a blunt forefinger. “Blackmail.”
“Insurance,” Helen corrected. Her smile was razor-thin and knowing. “They seem to be anxious, and we cannot risk attacks of conscience.”
“Call it what you will. But if I discover a telephoto lens or a tail, I have my own insurance.” Marguerite sipped at a cup of iced coffee. “What is the status?”
“We have one casualty,” Helen announced grimly. Only in the way long fingers clamped down on the ceramic handle of the Miessen did she reveal her frustration. “And the manuscript is still missing.”
“What of your recovery specialist? And why the second team?”
“As much as I value Sebastian’s skills, this project requires a brutality that has never been his strong suit. I cannot afford to count on his avarice this time.”
“Do you anticipate more collateral damage?”
“Yes. My guess is that Estrada’s niece will prove to be a hindrance.” Feeling generous, Helen turned her chair slightly and tapped a few keys on the terminal. A photo of Katelyn Lyda appeared on the screen. A fall of mahogany tied into a ponytail curved down a slender back encased in rough khaki. Clear brown eyes took no notice of the camera or anything as she knelt in a wildflower bed, unaware of the surveillance. Stained work gloves covered the hands that dug into earth with relish. “An ethnobotanist. She studies plants and native pharmacology. An unfortunate connection, I think.”
“Has she been working with Estrada?”
“Before flying to Bahia? Not to my knowledge. Records put her in touch with him before he died, so she may know what the manuscript is. What it can do.”
“Does she have the Cinchona?” Marguerite asked.
Helen steepled her fingers on the sweep of desk. “I don’t know what Dr. Lyda has or what she knows, but it’s a good bet that she didn’t arrive in Canete by accident. Neither Sebastian nor my other team found the manuscript. Unfortunately, the first team found Estrada difficult to persuade and more fragile than they realized.” She shifted against the soft caramel leather at her back. “As soon as Sebastian reports success, we can proceed.”
“What will you do with him? With Sebastian? You’ve utilized his talents for quite a while.”
“I have, but I don’t enjoy loose ends. Anywhere.”
The next morning, Katelyn hurriedly brushed past a burro nuzzling a basket of overripe plantains. Her steps were quick, determined. From a yard behind, Sebastian ambled along at a more sedate pace and enjoyed the view. Fascinating, he thought ruefully. He’d never considered how the sway of a woman’s hips could be so, well, eloquent. The woman he followed managed to berate him for his prior life, demand his current attention, and promise retribution in the same loping, graceful gait. He’d had nearly an hour to absorb her communications as she dragged him from a hovel disguised as a hardware store to a rustic pharmacia with both aspirin and morphine available over the counter to their present locale in the open-air marketplace.
After their three stops, he labored much like the burro they passed, packed down with medical supplies, twine and rope, a hand shovel, pickax, and a gadget that resembled a cross between an olive press and a thumbscrew. During their trek through the market, she’d purchased twigs and leaves and bark with no discernible purpose, as well as foodstuffs he did recognize. The bounty was slung across his shoulders in a handwoven pack offered by Senora Martinez. They’d stored their gear and the Jeep in her barn. Sebastian assumed they’d return for it once Katelyn had finished her shopping expedition.
He’d selected a few items himself, usually when she ranged ahead. “Plan to stop for air soon, sweetheart?” Sebastian drawled the mock endearment and stopped in his tracks.
Not breaking her stride, Katelyn tossed back, “If we are going to follow the Cinchona, we need to be prepared.” Because they spoke in English, a few heads turned to observe their progress.
Closing the space between them, he fell into stride with her. “For what? I’ve read the diary too, and I’m still not sure what it is we’re looking for. He mentions a treasure, but nothing about gold.”
Katelyn quickened her steps, leaning forward slightly to pick up momentum and avoid his scrutiny. “I haven’t finished translating the Quecha,” she equivocated. Soon, though, he’d realize there was no gold. When he did, she’d be on her own.
“Tell me what’s going on, Kat,” he demanded. “Either fill me in, or I’ll get the answers I need from Senora Martinez.”
Her stride hesitated for an instant, then redoubled. “She told us everything she knows.”
“Could have fooled me.” Sebastian adjusted the canvas strap that dug into his flesh. He easily kept pace with
her, a fact that seemed to tighten the already taut skin at her cheekbones. To test, he asked in an undertone, “You swear you’ve told me everything?”
The pause was lengthy and damning. “Yes.”
“Liar.” Seeing a break in the throng, he hooked a hand under her elbow. Katelyn jerked against his possession, but he merely tightened his grip. They were going to have this out here and now.
Without a word, Sebastian pulled her in between two stalls whose owners stood yelling and gesticulating wildly at each other. Neither paid any notice to them as Sebastian pulled her into the shadowed space. “What is the Cinchona? And don’t tell me any more stories about Incan gold.”
Katelyn stared at him, eyes cool. “That’s what it is.”
“I don’t play well in the dark.” Releasing her arm, he took a step away. “And I thought we’d gotten past the bald-faced lie stage of our relationship. Or do you kiss every man the way you kiss me?”
Refusing the flush that crept along her skin, Katelyn retorted impatiently, “You kissed me. And nothing happened.”
“Be careful, Katelyn.” Sebastian locked his gaze on hers, irritation rising. In marked contrast, his voice grew softer, almost contemplative. “Where is the Cinchona?”
“In my bag.”
“No, the real Cinchona.”
Caught, she denied it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But Sebastian did. She had the Cinchona, had retrieved it when she left camp. And spun a tale of Incan gold to keep him with her. Giving a hard laugh, he folded his arms across his chest. One of the packets she bought in a stall poked at his stiffened spine and his pride. Willing to play it out for a while longer, he asked, “What’s the plan, Kat?”
“I don’t know yet,” she muttered with perturbed honesty. “I can’t figure you out.”
“Need a category for me, don’t you? Saint or sinner. Scoundrel, wastrel, thief?” He felt a tendril of sympathy, mixed with the nagging need to impress her that had become more familiar since they met. Battling both away, he gave her a look of derision. “People aren’t one thing or another. We are a nasty mix of mistakes and poor judgments and selfish, baser urges that struggle against our better angels.”
Which had her confused, Kat acknowledged silently. “I don’t know you, Sebastian. I don’t know what to do with you.”
“I have an idea.”
Kat ignored the entendre and plowed ahead. “Other than the fact that you might protect me, I don’t know what I’m doing here with you.”
“Then why do you stay? Why haven’t you run off with the Cinchona?”
“Because your lies and your truth sound exactly the same.” She advanced then, head up, eyes bright. “I have no idea what you believe in, but I know there is something. By your own admission, you’re not helping me out of loyalty, still you saved my life.”
“Stop being melodramatic.”
“Then tell me the truth. Why are you helping me?”
Their argument was broken by the sound of approaching men. In the cacophony of the marketplace, the familiar sound of police sirens blared, cutting through the noise. It halted just beyond their position in the alley. Listening intently, Sebastian placed a cautious hand on Kat’s arm, his sixth sense in overdrive.
Inching closer to the dueling owners, he heard the rough voice of an officer asking in strident Spanish, “Have you seen these two? They are wanted for the murder of Senor Felix Estrada.”
Kat peered around Sebastian’s restraining arm and caught a gasp. Not more than five feet away, an officer waved a flyer with two photographs nestled side by side.
Sebastian’s sly grin stared back, side by side with her unsmiling face.
Chapter 10
“What are we going to do?” whispered Kat, her voice low and steady despite the trepidation that had become an almost familiar sensation. The sight of herself on a wanted poster was almost surreal. The police had her picture, and they thought she’d killed her uncle. “We have to get out of here.”
“I know.” Sebastian spoke almost too low for sound. The only clear route of escape lay behind them, where another aisle shot through the open market. A few dozen passersby stood between them and the nearest cop. Because it was nearly noon, siesta had not begun, and the marketplace was not overcrowded. What he’d give for a carnival right now, Sebastian thought disgustedly.
“We can sneak out that way,” Kat murmured, pointing to the exit that lay behind them. When Sebastian said nothing more. “Let’s go.”
“Hold on,” he instructed, and he clasped her arm tightly, to keep her in place. On cue, two more police officers strode past, more posters clutched in their hands. They paused at each stand. He could hear snippets of conversation as the officers described the gruesome death of Senor Estrada. More than once, a horrified gasp followed their announcement, and tears poured from one shop keep er who had to be helped to her stool. Soon, the news spread through the market, a lightning version of telephone that had Estrada murdered in his home by Bahia’s version of Bonnie and Clyde.
Pressed to his side, Kat tensed at every repetition of the story, at every mention of her uncle’s name. They were trapped between two stalls, unable to slip out and run to safety. He parted the heavy curtains and scanned the market. With a cautious peek over the crates, he could see rows of stalls in front of them, but only two behind them. The phalanx of police would be heavier if they went out the way they came, so they probably would be safest exiting into the rear aisle and melting into the throng. Apparently, the law enforcement of Bahia would have officers patrolling the market, handing out flyers, but the crowds were thinner on the last two aisles.
Glancing down, he examined his outfit of khakis and a black T-shirt, complemented by Kat’s sawed-off shorts and white tee. Yes, they could join the dwindling stream of shoppers, except for the fact that they clearly stood out as gringos. Around them, villagers wore clothes cut from rougher cloth than his designer pants. Add to that his pecan brown skin, darker than the morenito shades that were common in the area, and his unusual height—not to mention the willowy Katelyn, and they might as well be wearing bull’s-eyes.
Frustration rose quickly, directed squarely at himself. He knew better than to stride into a village without adopting the local dress or adopting some disguise that allowed him to go incognito. His was a rookie mistake, unforgivable. And it imperiled both of them.
Sebastian hissed out a curse and cast about for another alternative. At the edge of the stall, the fight between the owners had resumed, indicating that the police had moved on. The flyers bearing the damning photos fluttered into their hiding place, forgotten by the combatants. A church bell pealed out, ringing the time as noon. In a moment, the marketplace would empty until after siesta. They had to move now or risk discovery by the stall owners shutting down for the morning.
As he formulated a plan, Kat tugged at his arm. Obeying the silent command, he turned to look down at her. When he saw the curve of a smile, he grinned in response. He had to love a woman who could laugh in the face of certain danger. He followed the path of her gaze and nodded with satisfaction. Behind them, the burro had wandered into their hideway and nuzzled aside the canvas wall of the male shopkeeper’s stall. The invasion revealed their salvation. Sombreros had been stacked tall, the wide brims framed by vibrant cloth. Lying beside the hats were ponchos. Because of the temperate weather that could give way to chill, the wearing of a poncho would not be completely out of place and would help them blend, at least temporarily.
The noise of the crowd began to thin, and Sebastian decided it was time to go. He nimbly slipped beside the burro and retrieved two of the hats and the ponchos. When he turned to hand her a hat, Kat tucked a wad of money into his hand.
“Pay for them,” she hissed.
Quickly, they dressed in their newly purchased finery. Kat wore a poncho of dulled brown, which did nothing to distract from the toned, tanned length of leg that emerged from beneath the fringed hem. Their disguis
es would provide only momentary protection, but he hoped it would be enough. Especially if he added a diversion.
Draping an arm across Kat, he whispered his plan. Kat crouched low and hooked an arm around the neck of the burro, who was silently munching on the brim of a hat. At Sebastian’s signal, she turned the beast, using his purloined hat as a treat. Sebastian moved into position behind the donkey and with a silent three count, gave the burro a vicious shove.
The animal bleated at the rough treatment and sidled away, careening into the stall owned by the martinet. Canvas caught beneath the flailing hooves and snagged. Frightened, annoyed, the burro tried to rear away, and the material followed. Unable to evade the falling wares from the stall, the burro turned and butted the man’s shop, dislodging the poles that held the rows of hats aloft. Cries rose from both booths, followed by the bleating of the burro, as he struggled to free himself from the mess he’d created.
The collapse of the stall elicited screams of irritation and the perfect opportunity. Sebastian and Kat, faces shielded, merged into the gathering crowd. While the burro continued his reign of terror, they rushed into the aisle, weaving between the shoppers. When Sebastian would have run, Kat hissed at him to slow down. “Only Americans run. We do it, and we’ll draw attention.”
Leaning down, he assented. “Fine. Watch your left side. Keep your head down and an eye out for the police. If you see one of them, squeeze my hand.” Sebastian linked their fingers, as much for his signal system as for support.
Her hand was cool but steady in his, and she gripped his fingers tight. They allowed themselves to be swept along, moving with the crowd, shoulders hunched to mask their height. Katelyn absorbed the chatter in lyrical Spanish, picking up snippets of quotidian conversation—mothers chiding bouncy kids to stop running; old men discussing the state of crops and the latest gossip. The swirl of words flowed around her, soothing with their familiarity. Memories of days spent in this very market with Tio Felix settled like a balm.
Secrets and Lies Page 11