She stepped in and disarmed the alarm pad. The silence was a blessing. She stood counting her several others, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal, deciding on an immediate course of action. She re-armed the system, pulled the door closed, and returned to the front to retrieve her purse, which was laying where she dropped it. She shouldered it and walked to the gate, noticing that a crowd had gathered across the street. She waved to them, calling out that everything was fine. They must not be Americans, she thought, since they immediately returned their attention to their own business. She stepped out of the gate, holding the gun down close to her leg, and walked around the side of the house, following the lane that led to the back yard. The area was dense with trees and shrubbery, obscuring the house as well as anyone who might be concealed in there.
She inhaled deeply and stepped on to the path that led to the lap pool. She followed it all the way back and ducked into the vines that overhung the latticework that served as a fence, understanding for the first time how obsession with personal security occurs. College presidents lived in more secure environments than this. Hell, elementary school principals in some cities probably lived more securely, and no doubt needed to. And the president of an entire nation had lived here!
She had crept far enough through the vines to have a clear view of the yard and the back of the house. She didn’t see anyone, and the alarm hadn’t sounded again. She didn’t go so far as to consider herself safe, but she did think that she was the only thing that walked on two legs in the back yard. She sprinted for the door and pushed it open. She unarmed the system, then hurriedly re-armed it and leaned against the wall, once again to allow her heart rate to return to normal. Then she checked the interior of the house as thoroughly as she’d checked outside, looking in every closet and behind every shower curtain.
She fixed the events of the last few minutes clearly and firmly in her mind. She had passed no cars on the short ride from the construction site home, and she had seen no cars on the street when she drove up...correction: She had seen the green van that shuttled tourists to and from the airstrip. It was leaving as she arrived, but nobody had crossed the road in front of her, and the tourists still were standing in the yards of the guest houses across the street when she got out of the Jeep. So, whoever her assailants were, they were here when she arrived. Had they been here when she left, or had they merely known that she would have been at the construction site and had not anticipated her unusually quick return?
Her heart still was thudding loudly and her breath still was ragged. She pushed herself to continue to clarify events in her mind. While she hadn’t clearly seen the face of the attacker in the front yard, she had a sense that he could resemble the pirates— the men who had held her and Roland at gunpoint on the bow of their boat. He was dark, and his hair was straight and dark. Like Osborne. She had seen nothing of the one in the back, the one who had shot at her. Her heart increased its pounding. He had shot at her and had intended to hit her. He had not aimed wide. “You son of a bitch,” she muttered, and her heart, which had begun to slow, accelerated again, and a wave of fear washed over her. She almost gave in to the urge to run outside, jump in the Jeep, speed up the road, and tell Yvette what had happened. And accomplish what, except to give the over-burdened chief one more thing to worry about? Besides, if she started talking to Yvette, she’d have to continue until she told all, and that she wasn’t ready to do. Not yet. Not until she knew precisely what hold Osborne had over Marie-Ange Collette, and to what extent her knowledge of Osborne’s activities had resulted in her being shot at. “You son of bitch,” she said again, and she continued to cuss as she stomped down the hall to the office.
She rushed over to the fax machine when she saw the pile of papers on the floor. She bent to scoop them up and realized that she still was gripping the gun. Her initial instinct was to hurl the thing across the room. Instead, she un-chambered the round and set the safety. Then she dropped it into her purse, and hurled the purse across the room to the love seat. Then she gathered the papers off the floor and took them to the desk. She read for a long time. When she finally stood and stretched, she realized that she was hungry. She cooked and ate scrambled eggs with cheese, toast, and two mangoes. Then she took another shower. She gave longer than usual consideration to what to wear, finally settling on a pair of baggy beige linen slacks with deep pockets and a matching blazer. She added a coral silk tee shirt and a multi-colored scarf and slipped her feet into brown flats.
Carole Ann mentally strategized her meeting with Jackie as she packed her briefcase. She unlocked the desk and withdrew hew own gun from the drawer, dropping it into her pants pocket. The she grabbed her purse from the love seat and found herself comforted by its weight: She intended the keep the automatic, at least for the time being. She stopped in the bedroom and studied her reflection in the long mirror: The gun in her pocket was not noticeable and she almost didn’t care if it were. She had no intention of being an unarmed target again. Then, realizing that she was on the verge of being late, she rushed down the hall to the kitchen. She disarmed the alarm pad and opened the door. She stuck her head out and looked both ways, like a kid about to cross the street. She re-armed the system, stepped outside, and closed the door. She hung her purse on her shoulder, transferred her briefcase and carry-all to her left hand, and stuck her right hand into her pants pocket. Then she walked around the side of the house, through the first gate into the front courtyard, through the front gate to the street. She again looked both ways, and then at her watch. “If I break the speed limit and run a couple of red lights, I’ll be on time for my meeting,” she muttered.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Well, dammit, it’s not fair, Carole Ann! It’s wrong! And it’s wrong of you to expect me to accept this...this...well, it’s an affront is what it is!” Jackie LaBelle was having a tantrum. Carole Ann sat quietly, extending both personal and professional courtesy. In an ideal world, the young woman would be entitled to her rage. In the real world, the sooner she got over her anger and settled down to make a deal, the better. Still, Carole Ann vividly recalled being young and idealistic. In fact, she still, occasionally, was guilty of idealistic-like thoughts and behavior, though she usually could manage to return to reality in a matter of seconds.
Jackie’s tirade already had exceeded that limit, the cause of her ire the realization that the U.S. Government’s Agency for International Development was withholding approval for Isle de Paix’s much-needed satellites pending the outcome of the GGI report on the island’s drug interdiction program.
“If you could settle down, Jackie—”
“Don’t talk to me as if I were a child!”
“Then stop behaving like one,” Carole Ann snapped, “and let’s get down to business.”
“We’re supposed to do business with you while you’re holding us hostage? How’s that work, Carole Ann?”
“Oh, grow up, Jackie! If we hadn’t intervened, you’d be sitting here five years from now wondering why AID hadn’t approved your request for the satellites and Isle de Paix still would be waiting to join the twenty-first century. Instead, you’ll most likely have your satellites and the ensuing links to the rest of the world by year’s end. Now. Would you rather learn how to go about picking up the phone and getting the most useful, most truthful answers to your questions, or sit here playing at diplomacy?”
Jackie’s expression alternated between appalled and pained; she couldn’t decide whether to be furious or wounded. Carole Ann didn’t care. The anger that she thought she had suppressed— the anger at having been shot at— had grown. She was furious, and in no mood to placate Jackie LaBelle. “Tell me exactly how you learned of AID’s position,” Jackie demanded to know.
“We called ‘em up and asked ‘em where the hell were the satellites we asked for months ago,” Carole Ann drawled, thinking that it wasn’t a complete lie, and that nobody associated with the Isle de Paix government ever would know the truth.
“
And somebody at AID just said, ‘Oh, we won’t give any satellites to Isle de Paix until we’re certain they don’t condone drug trafficking.’ Is that what I’m supposed to believe?” Jackie’s lips curled as she spat the words out.
“It wasn’t just ‘somebody,’ it was a high muckety-muck on the Caribbean desk who just happens to be a good buddy of one of our technology experts, the one who’s whining and moaning about not being able to finish her work on the Isle de Paix contract until the satellites exist. She’s worked in Washington for thirty years. So, she called her buddy and asked the right question and got the right answer. Now, I’ll ask my question again: What do you want to do about it.?”
“What is there to do?” Jackie snapped, not willing to be so easily placated.
Carole Ann stood up. “You can make a formal complaint through diplomatic channels, Jackie. That’s always an option. And you’ll have a white Christmas here before you get a satellite link from the U.S. Government.” She turned to leave. Jackie stopped her.
“You’ve missed your calling, you know. You’d be right at home in diplomatic circles, the way you’ve mastered the art of the bluff.”
Carole Ann sat back down and faced Jackie across the desk. “Practicing criminal law relies heavily on mastering the art of the bluff, Jackie, and I’m a very good criminal defense attorney. What I’m not good at is diplomacy, as you no doubt can tell.” And they both relaxed as Jackie smiled.
“At least you’re acquainted with your faults,” she said, unable to resist the tiny jibe. “What do you want to know?”
“I need to know how the islands relate to each other on the matter of illegal drugs, and I need to understand the legal aspect as well as the diplomatic one.” As she listened, she realized that the young woman seated across from her one day really would be a tremendous asset to her government. She possessed a vast store of knowledge, and, when she was calm, she presented her facts in an orderly, concise, and precise manner.
“So,” Carole Ann said slowly, when Jackie was finished, “let’s imagine that there’s a Jamaican drug dealer hiding out here who’s wanted both in Jamaica and in the U.S. What do we do? What can we do?”
“That depends,” Jackie said slowly, taking her bottom lip in her teeth and twirling a pen round and round in her fingers. She stopped her thinking behavior and met Carole Ann’s gaze. “Has he violated any laws here?”
C.A. nodded. “He’s trafficking in drugs, using Isle de Paix as his base of operations, and maybe you could attach a first class felony or two to him.”
“Well, Yvette could lock him up and toss the key into the sea.”
“Which uses up half your jail capacity.”
“Or our Internal Affairs Minister could notify their Internal Affairs Minister, and our Minister could agree to permit Jamaican authorities make an arrest here, provided, of course, that we know where this... fictional character resides.”
“And,” Carole Ann asked, ignoring the snide tone of Jackie’s voice, “how would the Jamaican authorities explain their capture of this fugitive?”
“Explain to whom?” Jackie asked dryily. “He’s a fugitive, didn’t you say? He’d be the one doing the explaining.”
“Suppose Yvette arrested him. Could Isle de Paix notify the Jamaicans after the fact?”
Jackie nodded. “Certainly, and there are circumstances where that would be preferable. For example, assume the recovery of contraband associated with the arrest: Illegal narcotics and cash and weapons and...and...a bag of diamonds. The drugs we’d turn over to their government, the cash, weapons, and diamonds we could retain as reparations. Now, perhaps you wouldn’t mind explaining what a fictitious Jamaican drug dealer has to do with our satellite up-links?”
Carole Ann grinned at the young woman across the desk, gathered her belongings, and stood up. “There’s an old saying: If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit. AID will be baffled by the time we finish with them.”
“I’m baffled now,” Jackie managed through a howl of laughter, and the sound followed Carole Ann half way down the hall.
She was met at the entrance to Philippe Collette’s suite by a uniformed officer who smiled and saluted her, and asked whether she had an appointment. Apologizing that she did not, she turned to go, terrified that Yvette may have installed a metal detector in the president’s suite that she didn’t know about. “Miss Gibson. Ma’am,” the officer said a little sheepishly, “I’m supposed to ask but I know he’ll want to see you. Will you wait a minute?” And he opened one of the double doors and disappeared inside, leaving Carole Ann more and more impressed with Yvette Casson, if nervously caressing the gun in her pocket and wishing that she didn’t have the one in her purse.
The door opened and the officer stepped out into the hall and a secretary stepped into the opening.
“Bonjour, Madame. Comment ca va?”
“Ca va bien, merci. Et vu?” Carole Ann exchanged pleasantries with the woman and followed her into Philippe’s inner sanctum, and he stood to greet her. “I’m so sorry to drop in without an appointment.”
“I’m glad for the respite from the paperwork. Do you have time to sit?”
She shook her head. “I just came to tell you that Henri LeRoi is recovering...” She paused, noting that he needed a moment to compose himself.
“I feel responsible. It never occurred to me that the telephone lines in my home could be compromised. Or that I would need an armed escort everywhere I go. In Paris, perhaps, or in London or in Washington and New York. But in Ville Paix? In Deauville? In Petit Haiti?” He shook his head and walked to the French doors that overlooked the harbor.
“You’re not responsible, Philippe.”
“Then who is?” His anger flashed sharply and dissipated quickly. “I apologize. Of course you can’t possibly know that.”
She smiled and shrugged noncommittally. “I just wanted to let you know that in case you were concerned that you or the government had any lingering obligation to the DEA, rest your mind. Monsieur LeRoi’s, ah, shall we say, arrangement, was unofficial and therefore has no standing.” She turned away from him, not wanting to be privy to the naked relief that washed over his face. She turned back when she reached the door to find him composed. “By the way, how is Marie-Ange? I’ve wanted to stop in and say hello, but time keeps getting away from me.”
His expression was closed, guarded almost. “I’m sure that Marie-Ange would be delighted to see you,” he replied stiffly, and looked down at the papers on his desk.
There was no guard posted at the door of the Finance Minister, though there was one at the end of the hall who saluted Carole Ann as she passed by. She returned the greeting with a wave of her hand and opened the door, expecting to see Nicole Collette, and finding herself slightly disappointed that she wasn’t one of the occupants of the four desks in the room. She identified herself to the woman who stood and came forward, apologized for not having an appointment, and asked if Madame le Minister could spare a few moments. While she waited, she perused the room. It was large and square and brightly lit— there were tall lamps in all four corners of the room, halogen lamps on each of the desks, and fluorescent strips in the ceiling. She finally understood that this was one of the few interior rooms in the building— a wise choice for the finance ministry. She noticed also a computer at each of the desks. Another wise choice.
“Miss Gibson.”
She looked up to see the imposing figure of the Finance Minister in the doorway and crossed quickly to greet her. “Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Anderson,” she said, and followed the woman into the office of a popular, over-burdened, absent-minded college professor, which is exactly what she was.
Carmen Anderson was a retired economics professor and an economist of note, who had served three American presidents between tenured stints at Columbia University and Boston College. She was the only non-French speaker in the government and the only high-ranking official without a connection, direct or indirect, to I
sle de Paix or any Caribbean island. Carmen Anderson was here because, at the age of seventy-two, she still knew more about finance and economics— about money and where it comes from and where it goes— than most people, and she had grown bored with retirement.
“I’m certain this is no social call, Miss Gibson, but I’m delighted to see you. The entire government is abuzz with your activities and exploits and I’m all a-flutter that you’ve come to see me! Sit down! Sit down!” she chirped, waving an arm in the direction of several arm chairs, all of them piled high with papers and books.
Carole Ann grinned at the thought of Carmen Anderson a-flutter. She conjured up visions of Washington’s power women: Madeline Albright, Condoleezza Rice, Alice Rivlin, Alexis Herman, Janet Reno— and tried to imagine any of them a-flutter. She looked from chair to chair and, remaining standing, delivered her message. The professor listened, her face a mask of impassivity. Pity the poor doctoral candidate defending a thesis before her! As she finished, Carmen Anderson’s eyes narrowed slightly— Carole Ann could tell because her thick lenses magnified them— and she leaned back in her chair, silent and impassive. Carole Ann stood the same way. It was like waiting for a jury to return: Nothing else to do but wait.
“Are you sure we can keep it?” the Finance Minister asked after her long silence, and Carole Ann laughed out loud. She couldn’t help herself. Here she’d just laid out a money laundering scheme that involved both the banks on Isle de Paix and the finance ministry itself, and detailed a plan for stealing the bad guys’ money, and one of the most erudite scholars in the world wanted to know only if she legally could keep the money! Carole Ann nodded and received a warm embrace from the professor, and left Government House in a better frame of mind than when she had arrived.
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