It wasn’t a tease. The subject had changed her breathing. But why tell me? Was she granting permission? Or was she suggesting something . . . ?
Buzz.
I jumped, startled. My pocket was vibrating. It took a long, weird second to remember I was carrying Vance’s phone. I took it and checked caller ID without answering.
The brain converts thought waves into electrical energy, Tomlinson often tells me. Like-minded people communicate without saying a word. On the same wavelength is the cliché that proves how common it is.
At times, I secretly believe him. Like now. The name “Beryl” was flashing on the tiny screen.
Vance had Beryl Woodward logged in his phone book. But why was she calling him? At breakfast, she’d told me how much she distrusted the guy.
I waited for the vibration to stop, feeling ridiculous because I was so tempted to answer. I didn’t.
Instead, I gave it an ungentlemanly-like minute, then punched in the four-digit code to find out if Beryl had left a message.
She didn’t.
I HAD A LIST OF my old contacts in front of me while I used the office phone. The satellite phone was on the desk, too, but it didn’t work. Deactivated, said a computer-generated voice.
Fitting. I’d been deactivated, too.
The list included deep-cover spooks, and State Department suits of the clandestine variety. They can be found in embassies worldwide— Fifth Floor men, they are sometimes called, because it’s the traditional office space. When career staffers use the phrase “He’s a Fifth Floor guy,” they sometimes give it a chiding, insider’s twist because it’s a way of voicing disapproval without risking transfer.
The names included men I’d known and trusted for years.
I dialed Donald Piao Cheng, now one of the top execs in U.S. Customs. Donald couldn’t disguise his surprise, or his discomfort, when he recognized my voice. He said he couldn’t talk, but would call me back. Instinct told me he wouldn’t.
It took several tries, but I finally located Harry Bernstein, a Texan who spoke Spanish with a drawl so Southern he sounded like one of the Beverly Hillbillies in a badly dubbed movie. We weren’t friends, but we’d worked together in Central America. I wondered if Harry’s Spanish had improved.
I didn’t find out. Harry refused to take my call.
I tried a couple more names before skipping to the end of the list. There were two men I felt sure would help . . . or at least explain why they couldn’t.
General Juan Rivera was an old adversary who’d become a friend. He played baseball, wore a Castro beard, and maintained homes (and wives) at several jungle camps in Central America. The man had power and he could pull a lot of strings, as he’d proven to me more than once.
Living in the jungle, though, makes communication unreliable, so I didn’t expect Rivera to answer his phone. He didn’t. I left a message telling him it was urgent, and that I would also send an e-mail.
Next on the list was Bernie Yager, an elite member of the U.S. intelligence community whose specialty was electronic warfare. He lived in desert, not jungle—Scottsdale, Arizona.
Bernie would answer if he was at home. He would be eager to help.
I was half right.
"MARION, OH, MARION,” Yager said in a tone that was scolding but also sad. “Why did you wait to contact me? You need advice, you don’t call. Such a big decision, you don’t call. So name one person who is better qualified than Bernie. You can’t. Now you call.”
I asked, “Does that mean we can’t talk?”
“For you? A friend I would stick an arm into fire up to here for. Of course we can talk. But we can’t talk. Understand what I’m saying? You, of all people, understand how the rules work in our world.”
“I don’t remember any rules. It’s one of the reasons I left.”
Yager’s voice changed. “Don’t lecture me about rules, Marion. When barbarians crash the gate, they bring the rules with them. Adapt or die. Apologize and die. Same thing. So maybe I’m not so happy to talk all of a sudden. The Marion Ford I know wouldn’t say such a thing.”
In fifteen years, the man had never spoken to me that way.
I said, “Sorry, Bernie. I was off-base.”
There was a long silence before he replied. “There you go again. Apologizing. So say a few words because Bernie’s starting to wonder who I’m really talking to.”
I smiled. It wasn’t an insult. I pictured the tough little man in the office of his adobe complex, scrambler phone on speaker now. The phone was linked to a computer system that he’d assembled lovingly. He was probably studying the monitor, comparing vocal prints, old and fresh, all seismic renderings of my voice.
Not unexpected. Bernie is legendary in the small, secret community of Electronic Warfare Information Operations. It was Bernie who invaded and compromised computer communications between Managua and Havana. It was Bernie who consistently intercepted communications between the Taliban and terrorist cells worldwide.
The man works obsessively. He’d lost his parents in a Nazi concentration camp and considered Islamists the Nazis of a new century. No wonder he’d bristled at my crack about rules. No wonder he was now confirming I was who I claimed to be.
I helped him out, saying, “It’s me, Bernie. Promise. I was a friend of your sister, remember? Eve was a good and decent lady, but sometimes things don’t turn out the way we plan.”
Yager came on the phone again, sounding friendlier but still wary. “The world is a crazy place, Marion. These are dangerous times.”
“All times are dangerous times. Especially for women like Eve. Trust the wrong man; make one bad choice at the wrong time, the wrong place. The same thing’s happening to some female friends of mine, Bernie. I’m trying to help them.”
“Drugs?”
“No, but it could ruin their lives. They could end up just as dead.”
I heard the man sigh. “Okay, okay. Tell me about it. But it’s not the same, you know. Maybe I can help. But I can’t really help. Understand?”
I said, “No. This time, I don’t understand.” With the man’s electronic surveillance capabilities, locating an extortionist on a small island would not have been difficult.
“Don’t make this harder than it is, Marion! You quit. You’re not one of us anymore. That makes you poison; part of the outside world. I’ll listen to your problem. As a friend, I’ll suggest this, discourage that. But I can’t help. So go ahead and tell me before I have a coronary—that’s how upset this is making me!”
So I told him, but only alluded to the information I needed from Saint Arc.
When I’d finished, he asked a question or two before saying, “What I think you should do is contact a man I’m not going to mention. You know the name. Talk to him, make things right again. Then you talk to me.”
He meant Hal Harrington. In my old job, Harrington was as close as I came to having a supervisor. He was a U.S. State Department intelligence consultant, and much, much more. Harrington was confidant and adviser to the military elite as well as senators and, sometimes, presidents. Hal had been a friend, he’d been an adversary. Now, I wasn’t sure where we stood.
I replied, “Bernie, I’m going to tell you something I can barely admit to myself. I did call him. More than three weeks ago.”
“You said your friends went on their vacation less than two weeks ago.”
“That’s right.” I sat through a long silence before I added, “I called the man before my friends needed help. I called twice and left messages.”
“Why? Just to chat? What are you telling me here?”
“No. Because . . . it’s not the way I thought it would be. The outside world, you nailed it. That’s the way it feels—outside of things. Not that I’m willing to go back and do what I was doing. A modified version, that’s what I wanted to discuss with the man. But maybe it’s too late.”
“You haven’t heard from him?”
“Nope. Almost a month it’s been.”
&n
bsp; Sounding more distant, Bernie told me, “Then there’s your answer.”
10
AN ELECTRONIC CLATTER awoke me at a little after 4 p.m. Vance’s phone. It was on the nightstand with my glasses.
Caller ID flashed Beryl ... Beryl ... Beryl.
A determined woman.
I gave her time to leave a message, then checked. None from Beryl, but four I’d missed during my short run and swim. One from Michael, two from Elliot, all brief: Call me!
The fourth was longer. A woman’s voice, furtive, talking as if she feared being overheard. “Hey, it’s me. I just heard about your wife. My God, it’s terrible and all, but they say she’s gonna be okay. So maybe we can actually, like, spend some time together, you know? Call me at the club.”
Georgia accent. Valley Girl rhythms. Club was a nightclub. The word becomes a proper noun when referring to a country club, spoken with affected emphasis. So she was a waitress, a hostess, a stripper, or a regular at a favorite bar. A woman Vance knew well enough that her name should have been logged in caller ID. But it wasn’t.
Vance, who was desperately jealous of his wife, had a girlfriend on the side. An opportunist. She was looking forward to the free time Corey’s near-suicide provided them.
As I wrote the number in the Medusa notebook, the phone next to my bookshelf began to ring. It’s an old black desk model with buttons. No caller ID—same as the cheap answering machine. But because I recognized the woman’s voice when she began her message, I rushed to answer.
It was Beryl. She couldn’t get Vance, so she was calling me.
I answered, “Beryl?”
She said, “Why the surprise? You knew it was me, or you wouldn’t have picked up. Eavesdropped on any good conversations lately, Dr. Ford?”
I replied, “Nope. But not because I haven’t tried,” pleased with the secret honesty. She caught it.
“I believe you. I think you’re one of those people who ducks the truth by telling the truth. The innocent-looking type. You know the kind I mean? When actually they’re hell-raisers.”
“This morning you accused me of being a drug mobster. Now I’m an innocent type? I feel like I let you down.”
“What I said was, ‘drug lord or government assassin.’ ” Beryl listened a beat, as if I might reply. When I didn’t, she added, “And I don’t know you well enough to be disappointed. Shay gave me your number. Hope you don’t mind.”
I didn’t.
Beryl had just left the hospital, she said. Corey was conscious and doing better. Corey’s mother and father also were doing better. Their attorney had delayed questioning by the police.
“They called their lawyer after talking to Shay. She—the lawyer—had a private talk with Corey. The overdose was accidental. Corey knows how important that is. Her parents are really relieved, but they’re also very pissed off at Vance—as in pushing for prosecution.”
Shay was doing well, too, Beryl added. She would be released soon, possibly tomorrow.
I said, “Smart girl, your pal, Shay. Savvy and tough.”
Beryl became more businesslike. “From what Shay tells me, she’s got a very savvy godfather, too. I hope it’s true, because she told me something surprising. It was something you could’ve told me at breakfast, but didn’t. I thought we were supposed to be confidants, Dr. Ford.”
“Drop the prefix,” I said. “Maybe it’ll help me open up.”
“Okay . . . Ford. I just found out you plan to pay a visit to our favorite island. That you’re going there to try and solve our little problem. You know—the thing that doesn’t exist, and the night that never happened?”
I replied, “I have to be in the area anyway, so why not?”
“Oh, please.”
“It happens to be true. I’m working on a project that has to do with jellyfish. There’s a rare species found in that section of the Caribbean, so I have to go anyway. Not very interesting, but it’s what I do.”
“True?” Her signature question, I realized.
I echoed, “True.”
“Then you are going.”
“Yes—but not for fun. When I’m not holed up working, reading journals and making notes, I’ll use the free time to talk to authorities and ask a few questions. I doubt if there’s much I can do.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow. Sunday at the latest.”
Beryl asked, “Do you want company?” She said it so coolly, it took a second to register.
“What?”
“You heard me. I can help. I know details you don’t. Who, what, when, where—it’ll save a lot of time. And I am motivated.”
“You sound mad, not motivated.”
“I’m both. You said Shay-shay’s tough? Have you ever asked her about me?”
“No. Should I?”
“I’ll leave that up to you. Maybe she’ll tell you the truth.” That hint of animus again—Beryl and Shay weren’t as buddy-buddy as I’d believed.
I said, “I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Okay. I’ll skip the personal history and give you the short version: I don’t like being manipulated, and I won’t tolerate being bullied. I’m not some naïve airhead. I’m a big girl, reasonably intelligent, and I’m good at getting what I want. Can’t we at least talk about it over drinks?”
Whew.
Tempting, but I couldn’t.
I said, “Sorry, Beryl. The problem is—”
“I know, I know, you always travel alone. Shay told me you’d say that. But know what else she said? She said your marina has a party every Friday night. And if I really wanted to convince you, I should show up whether you invited me or not, and have an honest talk. Shay says you’re big on honesty.”
When I started to speak, the woman interrupted again. “Tonight’s Friday. Maybe I’ll be at the party, maybe I won’t. But I’ll tell you this, Ford—I don’t need your permission to go to Saint Arc. If I decide to go, I’m going.”
“But, Beryl—”
She hung up.
I WANDERED AROUND the lab, too wired to sleep, too much on my mind to work. Tried different scenarios that included an auburn-haired female who left a wake of staring men when exiting a room, and whom the bad guys already knew.
Beryl was right. I travel alone. How could I explain carrying weapons and night-vision gear to a woman who’d grown up in a privileged, protected world?
No way.
To get my mind off it, I went to the computer, sat, and researched techniques for restoring charred paper. Found an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences that was useful, and e-mailed the two experts it quoted, and a third expert who was mentioned in the footnotes.
A handwritten letter of personal interest was damaged by fire before I had a chance to read it. I have no interest in restoration, but I would like to know the letter’s contents. Would you be willing to advise me on methods of data recovery . . . ?
Next, I compiled background material on Saint Arc.
Officially named Saint Joan of Arc, this tiny island in the Eastern Caribbean chain is eight miles long and four miles wide, and a member of the French Commonwealth. The island is one of four French overseas departments in the Caribbean. The others are Martinique, French Guiana, and Guadeloupe—all former French colonies.
Because of this, Saint Arc is governed by French law and its citizens are legally French citizens, although France seldom interferes with the local government.
First inhabitants were Arawak who mixed with escaped slaves called Maroons (derived from the Spanish, Cimarron, meaning “untamed” or “wild”). Later, pirates used the island as a base. Saint Arc remained unsettled by Europeans, and was a lawless stronghold until the mid-1700s, when a French weapons manufacturer began purchasing bird guano, used in the making of gunpowder.
In the 1770s, when England took control of nearby Saint Lucia, Loyalists fleeing the American Revolution were commonly awarded land grants by the crown as a reward. The growing population of Loyalists soo
n spilled over onto nearby Saint Arc. Today, tourists are often surprised to discover that a large percentage of native islanders are white . . .
Escaped slaves, pirates, gunpowder. On an island with that kind of history, blackmail would be considered a benign enterprise.
I went for a short run, stopped at the beach at the end of Tarpon Bay Road, and swam two laps around the NO WAKE buoys before returning to the computer. I still had to book a flight.
I could fly Air Jamaica out of Miami, switch planes in Montego Bay, and be on Saint Arc by early tomorrow afternoon, depending on whether I took a boat or a private plane from nearby Saint Lucia. Or there was an Avianca flight that stopped in Bogotá, but got in two hours later . . .
But how the hell could I take the weapons I needed on a commercial flight?
I’d figure out something, I decided, or buy what I needed locally— which meant taking another five thousand euros from the floor safe.
Because Jamaican airports are a nightmare, I booked a commuter flight to Miami, then a first-class seat on Avianca departing 12:35 a.m.
I’d have to be on the road early, so I finished packing, then cleaned up the mess left by Vance Varigono. As I did, I thought about Shay and her attempt to apologize for not asking me to give her away at the wedding. I hadn’t considered it a slight until Michael mentioned it.
Now, though, it made sense. There were reasons enough for a success-oriented woman like Shay to keep her distance. My occupation had to be guessed at, though never openly. To Shay’s friends, I was kindly, bookish, and weird.
But Shay was savvy enough to assemble the truth about me even without the help of concrete details. No wonder she’d asked another man to give her away. No wonder she’d never introduced me to her prospective in-laws. To finesse that without alienating anyone took a hell of a lot of thought and effort. I admired her unsentimental approach.
Hadn’t I constructed the woman’s caricature to reflect my own conceits?
It didn’t cause me to doubt her loyalty. I was the man she came running to when she needed help.
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