Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

  I made a hushing motion with my hand—Get down. Quiet.

  “Oh,” he said, unaware. “Got carried away for a moment.”

  I crawled toward the cemetery until I felt it was safe to stand.

  23

  JAMES MONTBARD WAS an exceptional man, no question. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d impressed me as much as anyone I’d ever met. How was it possible that we’d been in the same shadowy trade yet I’d never heard of him?

  Or maybe I had . . .

  False names and passports are standard in the field. Great Britain has produced many dark stars on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Montbard had all the necessary qualities, along with certain quirks that I associate with the trade’s best. He was obsessive, focused, and detached when violence was discussed. He was adrenaline-driven, devoutly disciplined, and, when off-duty, he redirected his gifts into a public persona that was affable and unremarkable. Hobbies provided a vent—archaeology, in his case. For others, it was stamp collecting, model planes, astronomy, cross-word puzzles, Scrabble.

  As Senegal had said, the man was mad for history. She’d also warned me not to ask about the stone artifact I’d seen in the library—so I did, of course, during our boat trip to Saint Arc.

  “Yes, the stone is Mayan or Olmec,” he began. “The Yaxkin glyph is unmistakable. But my grandfather didn’t find it in Central America. He found it there.” He pointed to the volcanic peaks of Saint Arc. “Surprised?”

  I was. We were more than a thousand miles from the Mayan ruins of Central America.

  “Where?”

  Montbard had smiled. “In the monastery. One day, Dr. Ford, when this business is behind us, I’ll tell you the source of the other glyphs on that artifact. You won’t be surprised, you’ll be shocked. My grandfather was convinced there was trade between these islands—Europe and Africa, too—long before Columbus. Wouldn’t it be lovely to prove it?”

  An hour later, the man was still talking about archaeology, and what he called his theory of “relentless human motion.” Man is genetically driven to wander—that was the premise.

  “Senegal showed you the maps in my library. Most of history’s so-called inexplicable mysteries are hoaxes. Those maps are not.

  “Spare me the ridiculous fairy stories of quasi-archaeologists. Peru wasn’t a landing strip for extraterrestrials, Quetzalcoatl wasn’t Jesus in disguise. Inca stones depicting men fighting dinosaurs are fakes, for God’s sake, and—speaking of God—if He actually did impart supernatural powers to the Ark of the Covenant, or the chalice that caught Christ’s blood, or to the four nails that held Christ on the cross, why did He hide the damn things where no one can find them?”

  Archaeology, Montbard told me, was the study of human movement using stationary materials. He had no interest in fairy tales.

  Yes, the man had all the obsessive quirks—a righteous certainty, too— that I associate with the best in our business. We had exchanged enough information to know we had mutual acquaintances in the trade—names weren’t used, of course. I suspected that Bernie Yager was among them. Had Bernie told the man I was coming?

  I thought about it as we returned along the goat path toward the cemetery—something to take my mind off falling. It was easier now because of the rope, but I was still sweat-soaked by the time we arrived at the rock base where we’d started—a clear view down onto the monastery where the eleven men and women had concluded their chanting and were now walking single file toward what may have been stone dormitories on opposite sides of the quadrangle. Men went one way; women the other.

  “The article was right about that celibacy business,” Montbard whispered, binoculars to his eyes. “Senny will be relieved, I dare say.”

  He’d made the inference more than once, so I decided to ask, “No interest in men?”

  “Occasionally. If she wasn’t open about it, I wouldn’t compromise the girl by telling you. Something to do with her bastard of a father and her ex-husband who wasn’t . . . well, let’s just say he wasn’t attentive. But maybe a few nights here will set her right. Magic elixirs, secret herbs. Who knows? You and Senegal have chemistry—oppositional, true. But that’s how many passionate relationships begin. I would heartily approve, by the way.”

  When I didn’t respond, he added, “Reticent—I understand. But don’t dismiss the girl. She’s magnificent in her way. Brilliant and true as steel. She’ll relax a bit when I confirm you two will be in separate quarters.”

  Senegal Firth would be relieved—so would I. The woman was attractive, productive, and independent, but she was also carrying emotional baggage that I had no interest in shouldering. We all acquire scars over the years, but adults who wince at the thought of intimacy—particularly sexual intimacy—are a bad risk even to those of us who are rescuers by nature. I’ve learned to keep my distance.

  Montbard was still looking through the binoculars. “What a blasted waste—some damned attractive women in that group.”

  I realized he was back on the subject of celibacy.

  “And those surgical scrubs some are wearing; more like night dresses, wouldn’t you say? Revealing enough to test any man . . . and all of a type, like uniforms. Why would management forbid conjugal relations yet issue that sort of attire?”

  I said, “Forbidden fruit?”

  Sounding distracted, he said, “Suppose so. Makes more sense than magic potions.” Then his tone freshened. “Have a look, Ford. The one with the angelic hair . . . auburn, I think. Scandinavian features—isn’t she an American film actress? Yes . . . yes, I think she is. By God, she’s exquisite.”

  I took the binoculars, beginning to suspect that the man’s list of hobbies included beautiful women. I removed my glasses, touched my finger to the zoom focus . . .

  The woman he was describing was the last of six women and men walking single file along a path toward the monastery’s inland cloister. The remaining five people filed toward the cloister on the opposite side of the quadrangle. Dormitories weren’t segregated by sex, apparently. They walked at a ceremonial pace, heads down like monks—all but the woman Montbard had described. She was alert, eyes moving, taking in the surroundings.

  When I saw her face, I pulled the binoculars away for several seconds, looked again, and said without thinking, “What the hell’s she doing here . . . ?”

  “A film actress—I was right!” Sir James whispered, enjoying himself. “Thought so. Don’t tell me her name—it’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

  I said, “If you insist,” relieved he was giving me time to collect myself. Should I trust him? Should I wait?

  I had to trust him, but I’d tell him later. The woman was Beryl Woodward.

  24

  ISABELLE TOUSSAINT was holding court on the pool terrace, hosting a cocktail party for guests. A rare appearance at one of her own parties.

  “Lovely stroke of luck, eh, Ford?”

  I was so preoccupied, thinking about Beryl, that Sir James had to repeat himself before I replied, “Sure, lucky. But let’s keep a little in reserve for later.”

  We had traversed the face of the bluff above the lodge, then moved downhill to a fence that screened the terrace, pool, and dining room. The lighted pool was a rectangle of black tile. The dining room, visible through open French doors, was done in bamboo and dark wood, with traditional plaid curtains—common in the islands.

  “I may have misplaced the actress’s name,” Sir James whispered, “but I can identify the woman you’re looking at beyond doubt. That’s the Maji Blanc herself. Dressed for the part . . . and wearing her famous necklace, too. As a gentleman, I will only point out that her famous sapphire isn’t the sole reason she’s memorable.”

  My glasses were pushed up on my head, and I was looking through the binoculars. Silently, I filled in the blank . . . She’s memorable because there’s so much of her to remember. Something like that.

  I was still thinking about Beryl—how the hell had she gotten into this place? I’d told her I might be
staying at the Orchid, but there was no way for her to know I’d be registered under a different name. I hadn’t been near a computer to check if she or Shay had replied to my e-mails, true, but . . .

  “You do see the woman, old boy. Or have you dozed off?”

  I refocused the binoculars, and forced myself to concentrate.

  Madame Toussaint was a linebacker-sized woman. Sunken cheeks blushed with rouge, a heart-shaped mouth made girlish with lipstick, and wide, dark eyes that moved with tactical precision from guest to guest, even while engaged in conversation.

  She was dressed in white robes with a white gabled hood trimmed in scarlet. The robe was the white of a hospital hallway, not the silken white of gowns issued to female guests. The hood was a starched rectangle that framed her face—a monastic touch that attempted stylishness with a shoulder veil that was knotted as if it were a ponytail. The Midnight Star, worn high on her neck, was a blue sapphire the size of a robin’s egg. No risk of exposed cleavage. A convent nun with Madonna affectations— that was the impression.

  I asked Montbard, “Are you sure Isabelle Toussaint’s a woman?” The conical breasts and eyelashes were unavoidable, but I had also noted the masculine larynx and slim hips.

  “I don’t presume anything I’m not willing to confirm personally,” Montbard said, taking the binoculars. “My curiosity has limits. I’d sooner risk the Himalayas.”

  I said, “Understood. Even so, she—or he—is damn popular with the guests.”

  Two dozen men and women dressed for cocktail hour in the tropics had formed a loose line, drinks in hand. They mingled with an aloof, A-list poise as they awaited their turn to speak with Toussaint, who was sitting between male attendants near the pool. The cheery indifference of some guests reminded me of fans waiting to meet an oddball celebrity—an amusing story they could share with friends. Others, though, wore the congenial masks that signal uneasiness or hostility.

  More blackmail victims?

  Toussaint handled the attention with a less careful indifference. She affected regal gestures that seemed an intentional parody. She nodded and smiled when introduced, holding out her hand to be kissed. It was an old familiar role, yet Toussaint made it clear she rarely interacted with clients. They knew it. Some didn’t want to miss the opportunity. Others seemed resigned.

  Montbard whispered, “I told you she looked a bit daft, but don’t be misled. Do you recognize any of those people?”

  “More actors? I don’t go to many movies.”

  “Nor do I. But I read the London Times. One of the men is a South African industrialist said to be among the wealthiest men in the world. The svelte women in the red dress? She’s the wife of a former French president. Rumors aplenty about her!

  “There’s a lot of power and wealth down there, Ford. Toussaint’s no fool. She’s earned a certain European vogue—orchids; her herbal lotions, now the Midnight Star. The woman’s also a legendary bitch. For some reason, artistic types find sexually ambiguous snobs alluring.

  “I dare say most of those people fancy themselves artists of one sort or another. I’m referring to their flamboyant attire. Who else would come to a place such as this?”

  Flamboyant? Compared to Sir James, the staff was dressed flamboyantly in their white shirts, white slacks, and plaid headpieces, carrying trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, serving with fixed, Third World smiles on their faces.

  I took the binoculars and studied the guests more carefully. I saw horn-rimmed glasses and John Lennon glasses, a few wild scarves, and . . . a Nehru jacket? Yes—a Nehru jacket. A man with spiked hair wore his shirttails outside his slacks despite a beige blazer. Ages from late twenties into the sixties or seventies. People with money, but not obsessively health-oriented. Several smoked cigarettes. They drank red wine and martinis—not the sickening sweet punches most tropical resorts serve—while patiently waiting to get what I realized was the house specialty. The drink was a mix of fruits, vegetable greens, and something else—flower petals?—liquefied in a blender. It took the bartender several minutes to produce a champagne-sized glassful, so the drinks were served sparingly. Guests put aside everything else, though, when the specialty drink was offered.

  Artistic sensibilities—Montbard was probably right about the guests. Now, though, I was paying more attention to the staff. There was something familiar about two employees near the kitchen entrance at the rear of the dining room.

  I continued to use the binoculars as I listened to Sir James say, "Rumors that Madame Toussaint practices obeah adds to her mystique. Same’s true of her ambiguous sexuality. I’ve heard that she was once a man. I’ve also heard that her personal kit includes the complete assortment—male and female. Some orchids are that way, you know.”

  I said, “You lost me.”

  “There are species of orchids that are sexually self-sufficient. Quite literally, the flower’s blossom twists and turns until it fertilizes itself. What would Freud make of Madame Toussaint’s fascination for orchids? Care to speculate? Why . . . the old girl looks like an orchid in that hooded white gown.”

  He added, “Is it any wonder that locals fear the Maji Blanc sneaking into their bed at night? . . . or into their dreams? By God, Ford, just the thought of that woman in my bed has earned me a stiff whiskey!”

  The man was still enjoying himself.

  I wasn’t.

  BEYOND THE POOL was a forested incline where the fence turned sharply uphill. The area between was landscaped with birds of paradise, Japanese bamboo, sections of medieval rock wall. White Christmas lights spiraled through the forest canopy—a fairyland effect—while hidden LEDs panned from tree to tree, spotlighting orchids that were framed on wood, like paintings.

  Montbard, standing ahead of me, said, “It appears the electrical system is computer controlled. The low-voltage system, anyway. Emergency lights, fire alarms, and surveillance cameras all linked. I don’t see any sign of a generator, so it may be battery backup only. Just a guess. I’m not an expert, of course.”

  He’d seen all that from this distance? I said, “Of course,” not sure what to believe.

  “Not many cameras either, have you noticed? I think the old girl has more faith in her reputation as a witch when it comes to protecting her precious orchids from poachers. Amazing collection. I’ve seen varieties I’d love to have in my orchid house. For instance, that dark-petaled beauty near the fire pit? She developed it herself—highly coveted, especially by Japanese collectors.”

  An unattended fire smoldered in a nearby commons area—maybe there’d been a ceremony before the cocktail party. My eyes shifted to the fire’s smoke, noting the direction of the wind, as Montbard said, “She named the spa after that orchid. Or vice versa. I believe it’s a variety of Masdevallia. If I had the chance, I’d nick it in a flash. Next visit, eh?”

  The tiny LED lights shifted among dozens of blooms. The black orchid was spotlighted for fifteen seconds before the next orchid was illuminated. Hundreds more orchids decorated the patio and open dining room.

  The dining room—I had the binoculars zoomed tight on the place, watching the two staff members who stood shoulder to shoulder, talking intensely, gulping drinks, while their colleagues hustled trays. The men wore the white uniform, but they weren’t waiters. They held a more elevated position. Guests approached them occasionally and exchanged greetings. Mostly female guests, I noticed.

  The way they moved, their attitude, suggested it was Ritchie, Shay’s fashion model islander, and Clovis, the slick Peter Lorre look-alike. But the one I thought was Ritchie wasn’t wearing his signature bandanna, and Clovis looked bigger, fitter than I remembered.

  It wasn’t until the men moved into the light that I realized I was mistaken.

  I touched Montbard’s shoulder, and handed him the binoculars. “Do those two remind you of anyone?”

  “Hmm. Yes . . . I see the similarities. Late twenties . . . rather nasty-looking young chaps. Same cocksure swagger. On some islands, those types are
referred to as beach boys. Gigolos in many cases, not all.”

  “How’s Senegal going to react if the man who seduced her works here?” I was thinking about Beryl—the same could happen to her.

  “We’ve already discussed it. I told her to pretend as if she’s never seen the man before in her life. I’d be very surprised if he didn’t do the same. If spa management, or an employee, behave in any other way, it’s the same as admitting they’re the blackmailers. It won’t happen.”

  I wasn’t so sure. I still hadn’t told Montbard that his exquisite actress wasn’t an actress. Not a professional actress, anyway. It was unlikely Beryl would pretend she didn’t recognize Ritchie and Clovis if they worked here.

  Like the Englishman, I wore a battered old Rolex—a basic Submariner, stainless steel, no date—that I’d been given when I was nineteen. The radium-coated numerals of a Rolex have never been adequate for low light, and I had to put my eye to the crystal: 10:07 p.m.

  Getting late. I was about to remind Montbard that it was time to go, when a startling sound descended from the stars—a forlorn howling. A predacious howl, like ice on the spine. The note echoed through the tree canopy, then was absorbed by rain-forest gloom.

  “Dogs,” I whispered.

  “Worse than dogs,” Sir James replied, still using the binoculars. “They’re bloody young vipers if they’re anything like the others.”

  He was talking about gigolos, I realized. I also realized that Isabelle Toussaint was leaving the party, suddenly in a hurry.

  "SHE’S HEADING HOME,” I told Montbard. “We can follow her, but we have to start down the mountain no later than ten-thirty. That only gives us twenty minutes.” When he didn’t reply, I added, “Agreed?”

  The man was toying with his Freemason’s ring again. “You run along, old sweat. I have business to attend to here. Now that the Maji Blanc is leaving, I may take the opportunity to pop down to the lodge and have a look around.”