“Surely you wouldn’t address the president of the United States in that tone of voice, Miss Gibson.”
“If he insulted me, I certainly would. As surely as I’d terminate his contract, too.” She stood up in a quick, fluid motion. “I’ll be leaving now, and I’ll be leaving the island as soon as I can arrange transportation.”
“But you said you’d remain! I don’t understand!”
“I said I’d remain with your assurance, Mr. President, that construction would halt immediately on the school and the clinic and begin just as immediately on the road to the interior, and I haven’t heard that assurance.”
Philippe Collette sighed with exaggerated exasperation and nodded his head at her. “You have my assurance, Miss Gibson, though it may not be possible to do so with the immediacy you suggest.”
“Why not?” she asked.
He shrugged and pursed his lips. “It is not so easy to return a gift, especially to Hubert de Villages. I must visit him personally to explain and that could require several days.”
Carole Ann shook her head. “Not acceptable. Either construction begins on that road first thing tomorrow morning, as scheduled, or we abrogate our contract. Please understand, Mr. President, that many factors hinge upon the timely execution of the GGI contract with Isle de Paix, not the least of which is other GGI business. I’m committed to being here for six weeks to oversee the initial stages of the projects, and not one day longer. Additionally, I’ve made certain representations to other agencies and organizations that depend upon meeting the various deadlines of the contract. For example, the Agency for International Development and the World Bank will not respond positively to knowing that you decided to build and school and a clinic instead of the governmental center and tourist bureau GGI promised when we solicited their assistance.” She paused and allowed the gravity of the implied threat to sink in. She saw that it did, and then allowed time for him to process it all.
She turned away from him and crossed the long room, her feet making no sound on the Persian-carpeted floor, to stand before the French doors which were open to the balcony and the view of the harbor beyond. It was the opposite scene of the one that greeted her just two days previously: The two pastel colored rows of shops and stores projecting spoke-like from the government buildings down to the harbor where the glittering white yachts and cabin cruisers bobbed gently up and down, the craft, even at this distance, imposing and magnificent and elegant. But it was the tourists, strolling the cobblestone street, wandering in and out of the shops and cafes, relaxed and easy and aimless, that returned Carole Ann to the other end of the room to resolve the dilemma with Philippe Collette.
“You make your points excellently, Miss Gibson,” he said with a tight smile, “which, of course, accounts for your presence here. I must honestly admit that I’d be disappointed in you if you behaved otherwise. Very well, then: We begin the road construction tomorrow morning.” He gave her the tight smile again, though this time the humor reached his eyes, and he bowed slightly in her direction.
“I’m relieved to hear it, Mr. President. And since you’re being so magnanimous, I’ve another request.” His eyes narrowed and his shoulders tightened and he looked at her from beneath raised eyebrows, but he did not speak. “Please stay away from your boat and whatever other public places you habitually frequent until David Messenger arrives. Don’t you or Marie-Ange open the door to your home, don’t drive yourselves anywhere alone or allow yourselves to be alone in a public place. Keep your office door closed and locked.”
“My God, Carole Ann, I’ll be a virtual prisoner!” he exclaimed, hurt and anger and a bit of fear, finally, in his voice.
“Yes, Sir, Mr. President, but you’ll be alive, and right now, that’s my raison d’etre: Keeping you alive.”
She walked out of Government House into the square teeming with tourists. The large number of people not withstanding, the atmosphere was calm and relaxed. It seemed that vacationers did not bring the intensity of their daily lives to the Caribbean with them. The sky was brilliantly blue and the sun reflected and shimmered off the azure sea. She walked across the square and stopped, turned, and let her gaze wander over the arches and curves of the building she’d just left. It was a lovely structure— old and graceful, a prima ballerina in the jazz age. Not that they ever, in any age, were anything less than magisterial, C.A. mused, but even the greatest of them, even Marakova and Kirkland and Jamison, knew when it was time to stop dancing. And it was time for Government House to serve purely ceremonial functions.
She turned away from the three-storied stucco building with is double-wide marble staircases and floor-to-ceiling louvered windows and began the short walk to her house. She had to stop and close her eyes for a moment. Even though she was wearing sunglasses, staring at the pristine white building in the glaring sun was blinding. Government House shimmered on her cornea, stunningly beautiful and impossible to secure or protect. She opened her eyes and began walking, paying careful attention to the condition of the buildings she passed, remembering from her car trip with Jackie the previous day that renovation on the back side of the square had seemed sketchy, and it was. All of the buildings behind Government House were residential: A dozen, by her count, were hotels or bed-and-breakfasts or hostels. Most were well-kept; two obviously were luxury accommodations; and another two just as obviously little more than flop houses, with sagging shutters and peeling paint.
The private residences— including the one Carole Ann would call home— were further away, at the ends of the spokes, where the sidewalks ended and the road took hard, ninety-degree turns. The right turn road would lead, eventually, to the coast road and to the enclaves and communities of permanent and semi-permanent residents who lived and worked near the Caribbean. The left turn road wound up into the hills and fed the private roads to the villas of the wealthy overlooking the Atlantic.
Carole Ann was perspiring when she reached the last house on the street and opened the gate, and she sighed with relief when she stepped into the walled-in and tree shaded front garden. So dense was the foliage and so ancient and towering were the trees that very little sunlight— or heat— penetrated the leafy canopy overhead. The brick walkway was a straight line from the front gate through the garden to a second gate within an arched doorway that required key to open and which led to the courtyard around which the house was built. She opened it, stepped inside, and received a little push when the heavy-hinged spring on the gate closed it quickly behind her. Not very impressive by Western security standards, she thought, but then, Isle de Paix wasn’t Washington...nor was it Haiti or Mexico City or Bogotá’ or any of the places where officials habitually feared for their lives, and with good reason. Although, she thought as she followed the curved path around the interior garden toward the living quarters, had Henri LeRoi been as security-conscious as Philippe Collette, he might still be in charge here instead of in exile in Paris. Which is why GGI had designed and would implement state-of-the-art security for Philippe Collette. If he’d stop stonewalling and allow it to happen.
The house was lovely, though extremely modest in comparison to the luxurious residences of Philippe and Marie-Ange Collette and the other island aristocracy. Henri LeRoi had not lived like a king. It was a single-story stucco structure of vaguely Moorish influence built around a center courtyard. There were four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a library, an office, an impressively modern kitchen, a wine cellar, and, directly to the rear of the garden courtyard, a lap pool. The dictator’s one indulgence, perhaps? That and walking to work, a habit Carole Ann would share.
She opened a heavy wooden door set within an arched opening— noticing immediately the unarmed security pad to the left of the door— and stepped into a dark, cool, and fully furnished living room. The entire house was still furnished; the LeRoi family apparently took nothing with them but personal belongings, books, and art work, for the library shelves were practically naked and imprints were visible on the walls where obviou
sly art work had hung. The house and its furnishings had, however, been kept clean and well-maintained during its year-long abandonment, and it was that state of readiness, along with its proximity to Government Square, that made it an attractive base of operations for Carole Ann and GGI. That and the fact that in the former dictator’s former office there were three operational telephone lines, even if the computer, fax machine, copier and other office essentials were absent. Perhaps the escaping Henri LeRoi concluded that his PC had more long term value than the left-behind china and furniture.
Carole Ann quickly changed from white linen slacks and silk tee shirt into white cotton draw-string slacks and a white cotton tee shirt, and padded barefoot through the master bedroom, down the hall past two other bedrooms, and into the office. It was modestly sized and functionally furnished: The desk was in the center of the room in front of French doors that opened on to the courtyard. Three Moroccan leather armchairs were grouped in a semi-circle in front of the desk, and a half dozen identical chairs surrounded a table at one end of the room. A sofa and love seat upholstered in the same emerald fabric flanked a coffee table at the other end. A mahogany work table was positioned several feet behind the desk and though there was nothing on it, Carole Ann suspected that it once had held the computer and perhaps a fax machine and a couple of telephones, since a clear, hard plastic runner covered the floor space between the desk and the table.
She dropped into the deep leather desk chair, leaned back, propped her feet on the desk, and called Jake. “We’re still employed,” she said without preamble when he answered his phone, and she grinned at his “We damn well better be” response before launching into the explanation of why they very well could not be, omitting her deliberate antagonism of the client as a possible reason, and emphasizing his own complicity in what easily could have been his assassination. Jake cussed for a good while then, when he was spent, Carole Ann told him about the school and the clinic. He didn’t react at all for a moment; then, in his inimitable fashion, he termed the island president’s inability or unwillingness to tell the island’s oldest and richest resident that he didn’t want his gifts “goddamn silly,” and the fact of the gift itself “even goddamn sillier.” But he accepted her proffer that elderly rich people tended toward impracticalities that bordered on the eccentric if not the ridiculous. They also expected, she added, to be catered to and obeyed.
He agreed that she should spend the remainder of the day memorizing the particulars of the engineering design that would cut a two-lane road into the interior of the island, and backing up the mental work with a hands-on survey of the terrain. She assured him that she had the topographical, geological, and oceanographic maps of the area and would study them. He also agreed to speed up the arrival of the justice minister, the police chief, and the first uniformed officers. And he warned her to follow the same self-safety and security measures she had proscribed for Philippe Collette.
“You just remember, C.A.,” he said, “that an island is nothing but a little country town surrounded by water. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. Everybody on that floating mole hill knows who you are and why you’re there. Don’t forget that there was a revolution down there just a year ago, and not every Henri LeRoi supporter tucked tail and ran to France.” Jake called the exiled dictator Henry Lee-Roy and even as she giggled at his non-French, she acknowledged the necessity of the warning behind the words. And of that implied by his next words: A GGI technology specialist would arrive that evening, he reminded her, bringing with him a computer, fax machine, copier and shredder, and the security devices to protect them from invasion.
She hung up the phone feeling much calmer and more focused, though she retained a residual sense of unease from Jake’s warning. Certainly her presence on the island, and the reason for it, would be known, though by whom she couldn’t begin to imagine. Nor could she imagine that her presence would be considered threatening. Unless somebody didn’t want the Isle de Paix government secure and stable; didn’t want its president secure and safe. Denis St. Almain flashed into her mind. Was he here now? Could he have been here Saturday night? And if he did show up, how could she find him? The island wasn’t so large that he could disappear completely, but it was unfamiliar territory and, with the exception of the north coast, she had no idea where to look for him.
“Hellfire and damnation.” She stood up and stretched. Maybe instead of working she’d drive around, scouting out a good jogging route. “Bullshit, C.A.,” her self muttered, and she resumed her seat at the desk, picked up her briefcase and dumped out its contents, and got to work, poring over schematics and dry technical assessments and reports, after a brief time not minding that it was technical and dry. It was information, it was knowledge, and she thrived on learning. So she wasn’t surprised to realize that the hunger pangs that interrupted her concentration were due to the fact that it was after one o’clock and that she’d consumed nothing but coffee and a croissant more than five hours earlier.
The refrigerator, freezer, pantry and cabinets of the ultra-modern kitchen were stocked to over-flowing, but Carole Ann by now was too hungry to take the time to cook. Besides, there were, she knew from previous visits, excellent restaurants on the island, three of them within walking distance. But even as she was remembering the places near the harbor where she and Jake had dined, she was deciding to drive along the coast road instead. She’d be sure to find a stretch of beach suitable for jogging, and good food at one of the smaller places that catered to the beach trade and to the locals. After all, she reasoned, she was a local and therefore in need of a hang-out, a place in which to be recognized and accepted as a regular. A place in which to find, if not friends, at least people who would be comfortable talking to her and sharing island lore with her, if not island secrets.
“Dream on,” she chided herself, knowing the chances of that occurring were remote. She was no more likely to fall privy to secrets here than in any town, large or small, as long as she was an outsider. But there was an up side to outsider status: Locals always were curious about newcomers, and often would accidentally reveal information. So, for those curiosity seekers who didn’t know who she was and what she was doing on the island, she’d happily share tidbits of information about herself in exchange for tidbits of island information. Like, did any of them know Denis St. Almain? Did any of them know any drug traffickers? Was Isle de Paix a hotbed of illegal drug activity? Or of any kind of illegal activity?
She rounded a bend in the road and found the Caribbean stretched out before her, a gently rippling pale green silk scarf spread out endlessly against a backdrop of cloudless blue sky. She slowed and eased the car on to the verge and stopped. Certainly a view of the ocean was not a novel occurrence; she was a native of Los Angeles and had spent the formative years of her life observing the behavior of the Pacific Ocean. But this was different. As magnificent and as stirring and as awesome as her hometown ocean was, she’d never been tempted to confuse it with paradise. Here, the temptation was strong. This vista was as beautiful as anything she’d ever seen. Then she recalled the word of the GGI report prepared for her on drug trafficking in the islands: The Caribbean sea lanes are the primary paths for the transport of illegal drugs into the United States. And she recalled here conversation with Le Splendide captain Lionel Métier.
“Shit,” she muttered to the view, and swung the Jeep back out onto the road, alternating her gaze: Right, toward the beach, for a good place for running and left, toward the road-side businesses, for a good place to eat. Her mind was busy formulating a cover story to use when introducing herself around town. She need not have expended the energy. She slowed at the sight of the first buildings that signaled her arrival in Ville de Mer: A dive shop and boat rental place that was little more than a shack with side boards that let up and down; a bar of quite modest proportions bearing the impressive name, Eiffel Sud; and a string of tiny shops, obviously new and painted pastel colors in an impressive imitation of the Government Square
establishments. Then two car horns sounded simultaneously and Carole Ann started, thinking perhaps that she was driving too slowly and holding up the flow of traffic. Then came the hands raised in greeting and the blast of several other car horns— greetings, too, and all directed at her.
“Damn you, Jake Graham, for always being right!” She smiled and tapped her car horn twice and stuck her left arm out of the car window in a wave that she hoped acknowledged all the greetings directed at her. Then she spied a long, low-slung, clapboard structure set further back from the road than the other buildings, in better repair than the dive shop and the Eiffel Sud, though not as spiffy as the pastel-colored boutiques. There were a dozen cars parked haphazardly in front of the building, and a new neon sign above it that glowed Aux Fruits de Mer in bright yellow, flanked by bright blue fish on either side. Without hesitation, Carole Ann swung into the lot and parked precariously near the edge of the road between an ancient, battered Citroen and a shiny new Peugeot.
She knew when she opened the door to the restaurant that the food would be wonderful. Nina Simone was on the jukebox, the place was packed, and the young waitress who passed before her just as she stepped into the room was carrying a tray of Jax beer, the bottles so cold that the ice was dripping down the sides. It was the kind of place that one would have been expected to be dark and smoky, but which was anything but, owing to the fact that the back of the place opened on to a patio— the back of the place was a patio— and the slatted front shutters were angled open so as to permit plenty of light and ocean breeze. She suddenly was so hungry that she felt faint and her eyes roamed the room— including the back patio— in search of an empty table.
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