“Where what happened?”
“The murders, of course! It’s the favorite tourist attraction of the locals, you know? Though I don’t think the tourists understand all the fuss. They’re all Americans and Europeans and have such a different view of crime.” And she clambered into the VW, slammed the door, started the engine, and roared off, bumping up and down on the cobblestones so violently as to make C.A. grit her teeth. She swung out on to the Coast Road and turned toward the sea. Carole Ann frowned her confusion but did not speak. The road wound down close to the harbor, then angled in so that is was directly beneath Government Square, and here it reached its end. Down here, behind Government House, where the private yacht’s and craft of government officials were moored. Jackie eased the VW into a non-existent space beside a grey Peugeot that Carole Ann believed to belong to Marie-Ange Collette, and cut the engine. “This is it.”
“This is...?” Carole Ann’s mouth dropped open in surprise and a shudder crawled up her spine. “They were killed here, Jackie? Isn’t that Philippe’s boat? Isn’t that Marie-Ange’s Peugeot?” She jumped out of the car and ran around it to stand in the middle of the road, her back almost against the cliff wall, the sea sparkling before her. On the ground— rutted, ragged asphalt— rusty splotches were evident. Blood stains. She shuddered again and realized that she was perspiring heavily.
Jackie eyed her strangely. “You didn’t know? He didn’t tell you?”
“Didn’t know what? Didn’t tell me what?” Carole Ann paced back and forth a couple of steps. “What, Jackie?” she demanded.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t...” Jackie hedged.
“You’d damn well better, and right now,” Carole Ann snapped.
The young woman stiffened. “I can’t, Carole Ann. It’s not my place. If he didn’t tell you, then surely I cannot.”
“Then tell me this, Jackie: Were they here, on the boat?”
Jackie gave a slight nod of her head and replied in a quiet voice, “He was. Uncle Philippe. The constables were on board with him. And the...the men with the guns tried to board and the constables stopped them.”
Carole Ann’s mouth went dry. She whirled around and sprinted for the VW, snatching open the door and sliding in. “I need to see him right away. Come on, Jackie! Let’s go!”
“He’s not here,” Jackie said, starting the engine. “He’s not even on the island.”
“Goddammit! Is he trying to get himself killed?! Wait! Stop! Is Marie-Ange on the boat?”
Jackie looked puzzled but she stopped the car in the middle of the road. “Why would she be on the boat?”
“Isn’t that her car?” Carole Ann asked, point toward the Peugeot.
Jackie nodded. “But it’s been here since...since that night. She’s with Philippe on Martinique.”
“All right,” C.A. sighed. “You’d better get me home, Jackie. I need to call Jake and tell him...something.”
Jackie put the car into gear and rumbled up the hill. C.A. turned around for a look at Government House, this time seeing not is historical significance or its pristine beauty, but its total inappropriateness as a seat and center of government. Any hurricane blowing up the Caribbean could veer inland and flatten it in a matter of moments. And any bush-league terrorist could park a boat down the hill and blow the entire governmental complex to smithereens and disappear before the dust settled. Not to mention the fact that any body could walk in the front door and have practically complete access to every government official, including the president. Who, at the moment, wasn’t even on the island. “Oh, Christ, what a mess,” Carole Ann muttered to herself.
“But aren’t you accustomed to it, Carole Ann?”
“Sane people don’t get accustomed to murder, Jackie.”
“But it seemed that way to me, when I lived in Washington. There was so much crime and people just went about their business as if it were normal. Isn’t that what you do, too, Carole Ann? Isn’t that what you must do?”
Carole Ann stifled a sigh of frustration and wished she could ignore the question, but she knew that it was born of a desire to understand, and therefore deserved a response. She recalled how her own husband was gunned down on the sidewalk in D.C., walking home from a business dinner, and she told the girl about Steve Campos. “I knew him and I respected him and I’ll never consider murder normal. Every victim belongs to somebody, and for the sake of those people, I won’t ever consider murder normal. But go on? Yes.” She executed a perfect Gallic shrug. “That is exactly what we must do.”
“That aspect of Washington and the States I don’t miss at all. My God! It sounds like Colombia or Mexico, where even the judges aren’t safe from the drug dealers.”
Jackie had slowed the car, allowing Carole Ann to notice that the town’s face-lift had not yet extended beyond the dock and the buildings immediately adjacent to government square. Most of the buildings and houses on the adjoining streets just beyond the four spokes extending from the square still were weathered and worn, though the streets themselves were clean and the grass and shrubbery were deep green and neatly pruned. Newly installed street signs and historical markers stood like proud sentries on corners and in the round-abouts.
Carole Ann let pass, again, the commentary on American violence and remarked, instead, on the obvious civic improvements, receiving an oddly dismissive shrug from Jackie, who had retreated into a stiff silence. Unperturbed, Carole Ann focused her attention on her surroundings, quickly re-acquainting herself with the lay-out of the island and realizing that Jackie was not taking her directly to the house that would be her home for the next six weeks, for she had turned south on the Coast Road.
Ville de Paix was almost exactly in the middle of Isle de Paix, on its west coast— the Caribbean side of the island. In addition to the being the seat of government and the largest town on the island, Ville de Paix encompassed four miles of the most spectacular white sand beach in the Caribbean and a coral reef that attracted divers from all over the world. On most days, the town teemed with bare-legged, bare-footed, and often bare-chested tourists of both genders, who, in season, filled the shops and bars and cafes and restaurants and hotels and guest houses. The other town, Deauville, was on the island’s northeast or Atlantic Ocean coast, where the luxury hotels and villas and the equally posh homes of the permanent residents perched on a steep hill overlooking the rough, rocky waters of the Atlantic, the structures as imperious and unapproachable as the sea itself.
It was the case throughout the Caribbean islands that the most exclusive resorts were constructed on the Atlantic coast, safe from the marauding hurricanes that spawned in the Caribbean and churned up the sea and quite often destroyed large chunks of the islands on an annual basis. Not every island was damaged every year, and not all the damage was devastating, but damage occurred often enough and significantly enough that on those islands large enough to support dual economies, the richest enclaves— which also tended to be private enclaves inhabited by movie legends and rock stars and corporate magnates— were constructed on the Atlantic side. It also was a fact of island life that permanent residents who were legal descendants of the original colonizers and conquerors and therefore tended to be white, also lived on the Atlantic side, while the “other” descendants— who tended not to be white— lived and worked on the Caribbean side. Isle de Paix was no exception.
Then, completely different from Ville Paix and Deauville, there was the town of Petit Haiti— the teeming enclave of refugees from the decades of horror that the Caribbean’s first independent island nation had endured. Miami was a haven for thousands of Haitians, as were other French-speaking islands of the Caribbean, Isle de Paix included. Petit Haiti was south of Ville Paix, and inland, up a narrow rutted road that was due to be paved early next year, Carole Ann recalled. And the sooner the better, she thought, remembering how excruciating the drive up that road on her pervious trip. The road out of town rose slightly, then leveled out as the smattering of weather-beaten, tin-roofed houses ga
ve way to dense, tropical foliage. Here and there a house appeared within the underbrush, and when the road curved, the sea sparkled like a gem of rare quality. Carole Ann remembered that the island was seven or eight miles across at its widest point, and about fifteen miles long, making it one of the larger islands in the region. Yet, there existed but a single paved road into the island’s interior, and it was a private road.
One of Carole Ann and Jake’s first recommendations to the new president was that the government undertake the immediate construction of a road at least three miles into the island’s interior, and that the road be secured and guarded at all times. Eventually, it would lead to the new executive office building and police headquarters and political and diplomatic offices. The government’s central computer system and its support satellites would be located here, safe from hurricane damage or the possibility of internal or external sabotage. Given recent events, construction on that road should have begun yesterday. So when Jackie slowed the car almost to a stop at a new-cut road, Carole Ann was both surprised and confused: This was not her road, nor was this her construction.
“What is this, Jackie?”
“The proposed new primary school,” Jackie replied tonelessly, making a u-turn and gunning the engine before Carole Ann could comment. “And just around this next bend,” Jackie added in the same flat voice, “the proposed new health clinic.” And she slowed the car long enough for Carole Ann to view a cleared and leveled lot fronted by an architect’s drawing on a post of an L-shaped, white stucco structure with a red tiled roof.
“When did this happen?” Carole Ann asked, working to keep her tone neutral.
“Two weeks ago,” Jackie answered, and gunned the VW’s little engine, preparing to take off. Carole Ann stopped her with an upraised hand and Jackie pulled the car off the road on to the shoulder, cut the engine, and opened her door. A warm, wet sea breeze wafted in, bringing with it the distant cry of a gull and the gentle lapping of the ocean breaking against the cliffs across the road. Carole Ann was oblivious.
Philippe Collette had never mentioned this construction and he hadn’t mentioned his proximity to the two murdered constables; and though, under the circumstances, she didn’t wonder why, Carole Ann did wonder what he hoped to accomplish by concealing these events.
“Something else Philippe didn’t mention,” Jackie said, and when Carole Ann didn’t respond, she continued, “Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“Yes,” Carole Ann responded, “I certainly intend to ask ‘why,’ but I’ll ask the president.”
“Hah!” Jackie snorted. “He won’t tell you. Or at least he won’t tell you the truth,” she added, the dull, flat tone of voice replaced by something close to a sneer, which surprised Carole Ann. Jackie usually was quite respectful of her uncle, even if she did occasionally tweak his stuffiness, and Carole Ann knew that she genuinely liked him.
“Well, you obviously want to tell me the truth, Jackie, so out with it.”
“This is all Marie-Ange. Her idea, her scheme,” she said, the bitterness she’d been suppressing rising to the surface.
Carole Ann frowned. She knew very well how committed Marie-Ange Collette had been to the notion that Isle de Paix was in dire need of more modern health care and educational facilities, and she knew that the president’s wife blamed Gibson, Graham International— blamed Carole Ann and Jake— when Philippe Collette agreed that the initial projects to be funded would be a road to the interior of the island, a new government center, satellites, and a computer system linking all the agencies of the government. Carole Ann knew that Marie-Ange had been disappointed, had been angry, but she also believed that she had accepted the decision to strengthen the government first, to provide some much needed basic services to the people, like paved roads, and to schedule the big-ticket social service agenda items for later, for the time when the tourist dollars were flowing plentifully and would fund an elementary school and a hospital.
Carole Ann peered through the VW’s windscreen at the new cut road and at the architect’s rendering of the proposed new health clinic and felt the anger rise, and with it, the words that would express that anger but she held them tight in her throat. Jacqueline LaBelle was not the appropriate recipient of her anger. Philippe Collette is who Carole Ann wanted to excoriate, for Philippe Collette, as president of Isle de Paix and the executive who signed the contract with Gibson, Graham International, surely must be the one held responsible for so flagrant a violation of both the letter and the intent of that contract, no matter what his wife wanted. What the hell was Collette doing!? Carole Ann looked over at Jackie, the tiny distance between them in the tiny vehicle compressed by the emotion they both were containing. She wanted to ask Jackie why Philippe had changed his mind. She knew that Jackie wanted her to ask. She knew also that to ask would be inappropriate. Philippe Collette was the president of Isle de Paix and their employer. She’d ask him herself what the hell was wrong with him! And if she didn’t like the answer, she’d be back at her desk in Washington on Monday morning instead of at a desk down the hall from Philippe Collette in the hundred-year old white government building overlooking the Caribbean.
CHAPTER FIVE
Carole Ann and Philippe alternated blowing hot and cold with each other, and as both were masters of offensive and defensive maneuvering, their argument didn’t progress very far or very quickly. The president grudgingly admitted his error in not informing his hired security specialists of his proximity to the murdered cops, but he was more angry at Jackie for having revealed the information than remorseful toward Carole Ann, which further angered her.
“Please, Philippe, don’t chastise Jackie. She was concerned for you, and frightened.”
“She had no right to discuss my private affairs!” he thundered.
“You don’t have any private affairs!” Carole Ann thundered right back. “You’re the president of a nation. Everything you do, everywhere you go, is public.”
“This is not America! I’ll not have my private affairs put under a microscope, and I’ll not live like a prisoner, followed about by armed guards.”
“And what message do you wish to leave your grieving constituency?”
He frowned, thrown off balance, his stride broken. “What do you mean?” he practically snarled at her.
“When you’re assassinated on your boat or in your office or in your backyard swimming pool, wherever they catch you without your armed guards,” she tossed back, matching his snarl.
“This is not America!” he thundered. “Such things do not happen here!”
“Listen to yourself, Philippe! his is Isle de Paix and you were not a hundred yards from your office when two men armed with assault weapons boarded your unguarded boat and murdered two men. Unarmed and poorly trained men who died in service to you.”
“You don’t know they were after me!”
“I don’t care who they were after! They boarded your boat, which should never have been possible. That’s my point, Philippe. Don’t you understand that? It should never have been possible for drug dealers to board the yacht of the president.”
He made a strangled sound in his throat that brought Carole Ann up short. “Drug dealers? Drug dealers! Who said... what makes you think...”
She stopped his angry, frightened sputtering with a raised hand. “Philippe, please, calm down. Perhaps I shouldn’t have used that terminology. Habit, I suppose, given that assault weapons are the drug dealers signature weapon in the States.”
“There are no drug dealers on my island.” He had spoken quietly but with a controlled fury. “This is not, nor will it ever be, Haiti or Jamaica or Trinidad. There are not drug dealers on Isle de Paix, Miss Gibson. Is that clear?”
“But there are assassins with assault weapons who don’t mind using them to slaughter unarmed law officers, and that both concerns and frightens me, Mr. President. And it points up in much too dramatic fashion, the need for a secure environment for you and your government. Which,” sh
e said, adjusting her tone of voice and body language, “brings me to the other matter that you conveniently forgot to mention to us.”
“I already explained that,” he said hotly and impatiently.
“Yes, you did,” she replied coldly. A gift you neither want nor need. In the meantime, no work is being done on the new government road. I’m sorry, Philippe, but that just is not acceptable.”
“It was acceptable to me, Miss Gibson. When the wealthiest resident of the island wishes to make a gift of a school and a health clinic to its citizens, I find it acceptable. To refuse would be most ungracious, and certainly unforgivable.”
“Your good manners, Mr. President, are costing you time and ultimately will cost you money, which could result in a cost to GGI. I wish you’d discussed it with us first.”
“I’m not required to discuss my decisions with you.” The president of Isle de Paix straightened his already ramrod straight back, seeming to add additional height to his more than six foot stature. And he looked down his nose at Carole Ann Gibson.
“You most certainly are,” she snapped at him, “when your decisions affect me. And in the future, Mr. President, you will consult with GGI prior to violating the terms of our agreement or I will terminate the contract. You’ve already given me grounds and believe me, I won’t hesitate to do so. The only reason I haven’t yet is your assurance that we can proceed as agreed with construction of the road to the interior. I am correct that I have that assurance?” Carole Ann asked, fully expecting an answer, and, instead of stretching her five-foot-nine-inch frame in imitation of her adversary, she seated herself in a damask arm chair, crossed her long legs, draped her arms over the chair arms, and waited. Since she refused to look up at him, she studied the toe of her right shoe and tried not to imagine Jake’s response to her deliberate antagonizing of Philippe Collette and “risking a shitload of money” in the process. For Jake had been adamant in his insistence that she “treat the man like he’s some kind of French royalty,” and she had been just as adamant in her refusal, and their hour-long telephone call had not produced an inch of movement in either of their positions. And Jake was in Washington and she was in Ville Paix, seated mere feet away from the president of Isle de Paix.
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