Twice a Spy dc-2

by Keith Thomson

  “Great to meet you,” DeSoto said. “This happens to be the first slow day I’ve had since Thanksgiving.” If only. “I could take you to the island this morning if you’d like.”

  McDonough looked to old Larsen, who nodded his consent, though grudgingly. Maybe he would have preferred a nap first. Or a Bloody Mary.

  “The agency just has a minor security requirement,” said DeSoto. “I need to have my assistant photocopy either your passports or your driver’s licenses. Then I can call down to the dock and have Marcel ready the motor launch.”

  Licenses in hand, DeSoto proceeded to the copier in the back room, glancing at his BlackBerry en route. Just the usual boasts from colleagues. Bettina Ludington was showing the old Delacorte estate to a Goldman Sachs senior partner. DeSoto replied with an insincere wish of good luck and btw, i’m showing ceron to a couple of whales.

  But were they really whales?

  Taking a few moments longer than necessary at the photocopier, DeSoto used an array of Internet tools to search for his prospective clients’ occupations, real estate holdings, and credit histories; Realtors were as adept as private investigators at getting the lowdown, and, by necessity, they were faster. If DeSoto’s digging indicated that his men were in fact whales, he would immediately plunk down fifty euros to rent a Riva Aquarama, a vintage mahogany runabout known alternately as the maritime version of a Ferrari and the Stradivarius of the sea. Should he discover that they were plankton, getting rid of them would be a simple matter of requesting a fax from a bank stating that they had the financial wherewithal to close on such an expensive property. Plankton usually claimed that they had to return to their hotels to get their bank information. Invariably they were never seen again.

  It turned out that Larsen was CEO of New England Capital Management, LLC, about which DeSoto could find no useful information. He hoped that it was one of those ultradiscreet hedge funds. Larsen’s address was 259 Cherry Valley Lane in Greenwich, Connecticut. DeSoto knew Greenwich was a Manhattan suburb where two million got you a house in the part of town that formerly quartered the servants. Cherry Valley Lane was located in Greenwich’s lushly forested “Back Country.” According to a Web site that generated instant appraisals, the eight-acre property was worth $10.5 million.

  McDonough lived on the other side of Greenwich’s proverbial tracks in a $3.2 million converted barn. He popped up on DeSoto’s computer as the proprietor of the nearby McDonough Thoroughbred Farm, whose Web site offered only the most rudimentary information. Like good restaurants and colleges, successful horse breeders had no need to advertise.

  It was enough to go on, DeSoto decided.

  If worse came to worst, he always had his Beretta.

  24

  It was a bright morning with a colorful array of spinnakers in bloom on the Baie de Fort-de-France. The Riva Aquarama runabout skipped across the waves at an exhilarating forty knots, its chrome trim sparkling. Just stepping aboard the iconic craft had made Charlie feel like a movie star.

  In the next seat, adding to the illusion, DeSoto steered the boat with one hand and held a thermos of espresso in the other. Sure his tan was too orange, his teeth were too white, and his hair was too fake, but when Charlie squinted against the sun’s glare off the water, the real estate agent passed for Cary Grant.

  Charlie might have enjoyed the experience except for the police cutter bobbing ahead, a monstrous black thirty-caliber machine gun mounted on its foredeck. If the policemen glanced at the Riva through binoculars and recognized the fugitive Marvin Lesser-or if the forest of instruments sprouting from the cutter’s wheelhouse included a camera with facial recognition software-Charlie would wind up in a cell. Then things would get bad.

  Drummond lay behind Charlie and DeSoto on the sundeck, his recently Clairol-ed black hair flapping aft; Charlie had gone “Golden Sunshine” himself. Drummond’s lethargy was genuine, the side effect of his medication. Charlie thought the attendant crankiness added a bit of plausibility to his role as a man reluctant to part with twenty-eight million of his hard-earned greenbacks.

  “So what do you think of the Empress Josephine?” DeSoto asked.

  Preoccupied by the policemen, Charlie struggled to find a response. “Terrific golf course, underrated empress.”

  DeSoto laughed as only someone hoping to sell a $28 million property could.

  Charlie watched the policeman at the machine gun crane his neck to speak to the pilot. Eyes glued to the Riva, the pilot reached for the controls. Water began lathering around the cutter’s stern and, sure enough, the craft launched onto a course to intercept the runabout.

  Intolerant of gaps in conversation, DeSoto said, “I always say that golf is the only game where you strive for a subpar performance.”

  Charlie faked a laugh. And asked himself why he and Drummond hadn’t simply chartered a dive boat, taken it to within a mile of Fielding’s island, then swum the rest of the way underwater. Anyone who’d seen a Saturday morning cartoon knew that was the way to go.

  He reached back and nudged Drummond from his slumber. “Hey look, Mr. Larsen, a police boat with a thirty-caliber machine gun.” He hoped the reminder of the gift to the police, if not the imminent danger it posed, would spur his father’s mind.

  Drummond looked up. “Oh,” he said. Getting comfortable again, he closed his eyes.

  The police cutter chugged to within a hundred yards.

  DeSoto cut his engines, bringing the runabout to a skidding stop. His only concern seemed to be his appearance, which he checked in the control panel. “As opposed to a lot of the other Caribbean islands, one thing you won’t have to worry about here in Martinique is crime,” he said. “The police don’t miss a trick.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Charlie. If he could grab hold of DeSoto’s thermos, he might heave its steaming contents at the policeman on deck and gain control of the machine gun.

  The cutter pulled to a halt, paralleling the Riva. Both the machine gunner and the pilot were young Martinicans with muscles that swelled their dark blue uniforms.

  “Ca va, Monsieur DeSoto?” asked the pilot.

  “Ca va, Sergent Francois,” DeSoto said, a little New Jersey evident in his French. He dug an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it across the three-foot-wide lane to the pilot. “Ca va?”

  “Ca va.” Stuffing the envelope into his own breast pocket, the cop offered a crisp salute and returned to the controls.

  DeSoto then threw the throttle and the Riva was off. “The toll,” he explained to Charlie.

  Charlie felt no relief. If experience was any teacher, that wasn’t the last they’d see of the police cutter.

  “So what’s your first impression?” DeSoto asked.

  “It depends on how much the toll is.”

  Laughing, the real estate agent pointed at the mass of land looming before them like a low-lying thunderhead. As they drew closer, it turned greener and sharpened into picturesque, sprawling meadows.

  “Originally Ilet Ceron was home to a rum distillery.” DeSoto waved at the ruins of a long warehouse coated in moss. “That was the factory.”

  “Oh, good, I was worried that was the chateau,” Charlie said.

  With a belly laugh, DeSoto drove the boat around a stretch of coast, bringing them into a small cove. A long, weather-grayed pier terminated at a gorgeous beach.

  To tie up, the Riva had to gain admission. DeSoto slowed alongside a guard post resembling a prison watchtower. Atop it, in a small roundhouse, a man stood, shadows obscuring his features but not his machine-gun barrel.

  “Why are there guards here?” Charlie asked DeSoto under his breath.

  “The seller’s concerned about looters.”

  Certainly it was a better answer than The security staff has been retained in hope of preventing anyone from retrieving the bomb disguised as a washing machine. Charlie suspected that the latter was the case, however.

  “Who’s the seller?” he asked.

  “I ought to have
mentioned that before,” DeSoto said. “Mr. Fielding had no marital partner or descendants. His closest living relative is an uncle in the States who’s motivated to unload everything and collect the proceeds ASAP.” He nodded at Drummond, now sleeping on his stomach. “From his point of view, the ideal seller.”

  The uncle in the States was in fact none other than Uncle Sam, Charlie speculated. Without Fielding, the CIA was probably eager to roll up its operation here. Charlie hoped that the island included no new personnel who would recognize him and Drummond. According to Alice, Fielding’s staff had had no idea that he was a spy. In fact, to add to his criminal cover, the Cavalry hired heavies from the Colombian Bucaga drug cartel.

  The guard stepped onto the square platform surrounding the roundhouse. He was a tall Hispanic with the build of a Greek statue. He peered down through binoculars. Thankfully Drummond’s face was pressed against the cushioned sundeck.

  Flashing a toothy smile, the guard waved the Riva ahead.

  25

  “It would seem we had one margarita too many, and three or four after that,” Hadley said as soon as Kyle loosed her gag. “As for our friend who left us tied up here like this, I don’t think there is any earthly explanation for her behavior.”

  “It happens,” said Kyle, the amiable aquatics director.

  Stanley hoped that Kyle was sincere, or, at least, that any curiosity the hardy Australian harbored would go no further than war stories the staff shared at happy hour. Although young-twenty-seven or twenty-eight-he had probably seen his share of oddities on the resorts circuit. Certainly he’d never opened up shop to find a couple bound and gagged. Yet he exhibited no surprise beyond the natural shock of discovery, nor any misgivings after hearing Hadley’s yarn. He asked only, “You folks want a Powerade-get some electrolyte action going?”

  “That would be wonderful,” Hadley said. “Anything would be, except a margarita.”

  “A margarita might not be such a bad idea, actually.” Kyle regarded Stanley. “You look like you could stand some hair of the dog, mate.”

  Stanley decided to leave Kyle’s recommendation out of the report he would write Eskridge, who had never been in the field and would have enough trouble digesting the rest of the events at Hotel L’Imperatrice.

  On return to their hotel room, Stanley took a seat at the rolltop desk. Blocking out the postcard view of the Caribbean through the balcony window, he clicked a featureless area of his computer screen four times in rapid succession, opening a fresh cable form. He filled it with a blow-by-blow account of the past fifteen hours. If adversaries were to intercept the transmission, they would view only an e-mail from Colin Atchison to his secretary asking her to call some other fictitious person and reschedule the morning’s round of golf.

  Then Stanley launched into putative next steps: PERMISSION FOR OVERT ACTION. OBJECTIVE: DEBRIEF CARTHAGE

  He heard Hadley turn off the shower. He did not hear her approach. The pile carpet was so thick, she might have long-jumped into the bedroom and he would have been none the wiser if it were not for the pleasing perfume of honey and lavender. He didn’t turn around, largely to avoid gawking, not until he felt her standing just inches from his back.

  “Overt action?” she said. “In other words, we call up Carthage and say, ‘Actually, Mr. Bream, we’re professional spies from the CIA.’ ”

  “Breaking cover is the most expedient way I can think of,” said Stanley.

  “Why would a couple of spooks-spooks with a track record of deceiving him-be the people best able to get the truth from him?”

  “Because we’ll best be able to convince him that he’ll be in deep kimchi otherwise.”

  She took a seat on the nearest corner of the bed, crossing one glowing dancer’s thigh over the other. “I know a really good way that won’t leave any marks,” she said with an enthusiasm that transformed her in Stanley’s perception from a sensuous woman into something darker and colder.

  He was troubled already by her rush to slash Drummond’s jugular last night with her switchblade ring-which would have certainly come in handy after they were tied up. Their track record notwithstanding, the Clarks very obviously were not bent on murder. It would have been more expedient for Drummond to snuff them than to tie them up. Also Charlie’s assertion that they had acted in self-defense seemed free of artifice.

  Stanley wondered if Hadley had her own agenda.

  26

  DeSoto had been to Ilet Ceron twice before, first to view the property himself, then to show it to a couple from Dubai who ended up buying a Bettina Ludington listing, an Italianate mansion with no business on a French island. Both times here, on ascending the crushed clamshell pathway from the pier he had halted abruptly when the chateau came into view. The structure was breathtaking.

  As its limestone facade appeared now, the crotchety Larsen didn’t even pause. If DeSoto didn’t know better, he would have thought the old man had already seen the place.

  McDonough slowed, but only to allow DeSoto to catch up.

  “Wow,” McDonough exclaimed.

  After eleven years hustling houses, DeSoto knew wows the way a jeweler knows diamonds. The kid’s was pure zirconium. Possibly he lacked education. New money often didn’t aspire beyond a McMansion with superfluous turrets, their sensibilities shaped by Donald Trump.

  Thankfully, such clients could still be educated. “Le Chateau d’Ilet Ceron is celebrated for perfectly capturing the period of architectural transition from the rococo of the mid-eighteenth century to the more refined neoclassical style,” DeSoto said. “As Architectural Digest put it, ‘The palatial limestone facade dazzles new arrivals with its towering Corinthian pilasters and detached pillars while at the same time heeding simplicity in order to capitalize on sunlight bouncing from passing waves.’ ”

  McDonough slowed at the marble staircase leading to the entry. “Dazzling,” he agreed. Larsen took in the facade and was no more dazzled than if it were a split-level in Sheboygan.

  A young chambermaid heaved open one of the monolithic copper-faced French doors. In lieu of a greeting, the old man nodded. He shot inside before she had a chance to open the other door. McDonough hurried after him.

  The grand reception hall was like a skating rink made of marble. Elephantine columns supported a gilded and improbably high ceiling, the painted sun and clouds realistic enough to be mistaken for a skylight view.

  “DuVal, one of the greatest living realists,” DeSoto began, pointing up at the work.

  But his clients were on their way into the den.

  A Realtor is supposed to precede his clients, but these two were bloody racewalkers. DeSoto hurried in pursuit. Greenwich, he reminded himself, was a bedroom community of New York City. New Yorkers rushed even through cheesecake.

  If the den was a den, then the White House was just a house. The giant room was still furnished, including sofas and chaises and divans dating back to Louis XIV, restored and reupholstered well beyond Versailles standards. The best part was the far wall, which opened onto a golden beach.

  “Mr. Fielding had the sand imported from Venezuela’s Paria Peninsula,” DeSoto said.

  Too late. The clients were out the far door.

  He labored to keep pace, calling after them, “The lower level includes an old-fashioned billiards room as well as a tavern with an authentic mahogany Victorian bar. There’s also a squash court, a gym, a marble steam room resembling an ancient Roman bathhouse, and a game room with enough arcade games to keep grandchildren occupied for a whole weekend.”

  Larsen and McDonough gave the lower level maybe a minute before going out to the pool deck. Mopping his forehead with his ascot, DeSoto resumed the chase.

  McDonough stopped and waited for him. Although the waves and wind made such discretion superfluous, the young man said, sotto voce, “The house is lovely, but old Mrs. Larsen’s going to redo everything regardless of what Mr. Larsen thinks.”

  “I’m sure she has wonderful taste,” DeSoto said,
dabbing his brow again.

  “Hey, how about we give you a breather while the boss checks out the pool house?” McDonough waved at the building. “That will be his; Mrs. L. doesn’t go into water-hairdo-related reasons.”

  “I look forward to recommending decorators,” DeSoto said, thinking of his $1,120,000 commission.

  The dutiful McDonough hurried after Larsen, who was rounding the enormous pool. Plopping onto a chaise lounge, DeSoto checked his BlackBerry. There was a text message from Bettina Ludington: “CHECK UR EMAIL!!! URGENT!!!”

  The cellular reception was poor. While waiting for the e-mail message to appear, DeSoto chewed away a good part of a thumbnail.

  Finally:

  Frank: if ur 2 whales r these 2, u can get a 10K bonus …

  Attached were photographs of two men wanted by the Martinique Police for multiple counts of fraud and racketeering.

  27

  Charlie slid open a door leading to the enormous pool house. The living room looked like a nightclub, not only because of its size, but also because of the mirrored walls, expensive erotic art, and enough low-slung, Euro-posh furniture to accommodate half the jet set. The giant bar was stocked with, it seemed, every spirit known to man, in every possible configuration of decanter. The pale morning light set the crystal and fluids aglow.

  “Been here before?” Charlie asked Drummond.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “My guess would be that a lot of the people who’ve been here don’t remember it.”

  “Oh.” Drummond blinked at his reflection on the mirrored back wall, as if expecting something altogether different. He pressed his palms against the mirror.

  A door sprung inward.

  Charlie felt a charge of excitement. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”