Gift of the Golden Mountain

by Shirley Streshinsky

  "I understand that my friend has asked you to make this call for him," Hayes said in a firm voice, "but I will need to talk to my friend myself, to make the arrangements."

  There was a long pause. "That will be difficult," the voice said.

  Hayes did not answer.

  "Stay where you are," the voice ordered, "he will call within an hour."

  They sat at the long table in the kitchen, eating cheese and fruit and a cold asparagus soup May had discovered in the cooler, along with a fresh baguette. Hayes started to open a bottle of wine, then stopped and looked at May. "None for me," she said, "not yet." He put the bottle back. Their celebration had been interrupted, now they needed to think clearly.

  "Whoever the woman is, she's giving the orders," Hayes said. "She didn't have to ask anybody's permission, she said he would call."

  "Why didn't he call in the first place? Did he think our line would be tapped?"

  "No. I don't know why—logistics maybe. He can't move as easily as she, is my guess."

  She concentrated on cutting a slice of cheese. Hayes sat down, picked up a small piece of baguette, put it down again, got up and paced.

  The ring of the telephone stopped him in his tracks.

  A familiar smile spread over Hayes's face, so she knew it was Eli on the other end of the line.

  "Yes," Hayes said, "she's right here."

  May called out, "Hello old buddy!"

  Though an echo on the line seemed to indicate it was a longdistance call, Eli seemed not to be in any hurry. "Tell me about the wedding," he said. "Who all came? Karin was there, right? And Sam and Israel?"

  "Karin was, not Sam. Israel was the preacher."

  Eli laughed. "Good for Israel. How about Rags? Did he make it?"

  Hayes frowned. "Afraid not, couldn't make it," he said.

  "Well that's too bad, I know he would've wanted to be there. Just like me. But let's talk about us now. Do you think you could drive to the Spanish border—a little place called Cerbere tomorrow evening? I surely am homesick to see you, Bro," he added. He started to give directions then, but Hayes interrupted.

  "Listen, friend, as much as I want to see you I have to say it doesn't look too probable. May's not feeling too well—she's running a fever and we think she may have a recurrence of a bug she picked up in Fiji. She's going to see a doctor tomorrow. Anyway you look at it, she won't feel up to it for tomorrow evening. Maybe we could make it day after tomorrow, if the doctor says it's okay."

  Static filled the line, and for a long minute neither could make themselves heard. Hayes shouted, "Are you still there?" and a voice shouted back, "Can you come by yourself?"

  "I don't want to leave her," Hayes said, but the connection had broken.

  May took the receiver from Hayes and returned it to its place. His face had gone stone gray, stunned.

  "What is it?" May asked. "Tell me."

  "Rags Wegman."

  "Yes?" she prodded.

  "Eli asked if Rags was at the wedding. Rags was a civil rights worker Eli and I knew in Mississippi in the summer of 1961. He was arrested and thrown into jail, all his ribs were broken. We got him out, and two days later we found him hanging from a rafter in his cabin. He left behind a note that said, 'It isn't worth it. We will never be free.' It haunted Eli, that message."

  "And you think that's the message he was sending you now?"

  "He was telling us not to come, that something is wrong."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think it's probably a kidnap attempt. If they know about this house, they know about Kit. She could afford a hefty ransom."

  May stumbled when she said, "Eli knows about the Paris Match article, where I was named one of the ten richest women in America."

  "That's why they were willing to let me come on my own. Two would have been better than one, but they figured you would come through for me."

  "Don't say it, Hayes. Don't tell me my money is already making problems for us."

  "I'm not going to say that, wife," he told her, smoothing her hair back from her face. "It's not your money that is making problems for us. It's Eli. Our friend." The last word was uttered with an edge of bitterness.

  "What now?" May asked.

  "They know where we are, May. Right now they want us to come to them because it will be safer for them that way. But if they begin to think we aren't going to come, they might come for us. We're at risk, and I think I have to get in touch with someone I know in Paris. He works in some sort of deep-secret agency that deals with terrorists."

  "But it is an agency of the French government?"

  "Yes."

  "So it is likely they will know about it in Washington?"

  "I'm not sure. The French don't like to share very much, and this is a good friend—Jacques Benoist."

  "Marie-Claire's brother?"

  Hayes nodded, watching her.

  She sighed, looking at him. "What will happen to Eli?"

  "Eli warned us, remember?"

  She put her hand on his shoulder, and said, "Make the call."

  They sat in the darkened sitting room that gave a view of the walkway that led to the house, waiting.

  "Is this how you planned to spend our honeymoon?" Hayes asked.

  She tried to laugh. "Do you realize how much we've been through together? I don't remember anything ever going smoothly. If you wanted smooth, you should have . . ." She stopped herself, and he squeezed her hand for it.

  "I don't want smooth," he said, "but I do want safe. I put us in jeopardy by sending Eli that letter."

  "We don't know that Eli was part of any kidnapping attempt. We don't even know for sure about the attempt."

  "He might not have been part of it, but he was the instrument. There is no way we can absolve him of that, May. And I promise you, there was going to be some kind of plan to extort money."

  At that moment a man approached the gate. In the shadows they could only see that he was alone, that he was wearing a light jacket of some sort and took long, quick strides so he was at the door almost before they could move to the hallway. "I am Jean-Claude," the man said in husky French.

  They spoke in the kitchen, situated in the center of the house, without windows. "Benoist sent me." You are to move about the village in a normal way, doing what you would ordinarily do," he told them. "But first you must call this number and say exactly where you are going and what route you will take. If you get another of the calls, you must put them off, give them excuses but do not say you will not come. Pretend instead that you want to, it is only madame's malaise that keeps you away. You will let us know, immediately, if there is another call and what exactly is said. Am I clear? Do you have questions?"

  "Can you tell me," Hayes asked, "if Eli Barnes's name is on any of your lists?"

  "No, Monsieur Diehl, I cannot," Jean-Claude said.

  "Could you tell us if he was not?" May added.

  He shrugged, apologetically.

  The call came late in the afternoon. "Your friend hopes your wife is feeling better now that she has seen the doctor," the same female voice said, this time with a surfeit of good will. "He is very much hoping you can come to see him this evening, or tomorrow. Will that be possible?" Hayes could imagine her gums pulled tight over her lips in a cobra smile.

  "I'm afraid the doctor says my wife cannot travel today or tomorrow, he thinks she can come with me on the following day. Will my friend still be able to meet us?"

  "Your friend is beginning to think perhaps that you do not wish to meet him, that you are making excuses."

  "My friend would never believe that," Hayes said. "We have been as close as brothers."

  "Then you must come to your brother, today. He has asked to see you, you should not deny your brother."

  "I am sorry, I cannot leave my wife. Tomorrow . . ."

  "Remember," the voice spat, all pretense of charm gone, "we delivered the Tree of Life. You should remember that we know where you are."

  Hayes stoo
d holding the phone, the line was dead.

  "Call Jean-Claude," May told him, then added with sudden fear, "Quickly."

  At precisely 3:11 the next afternoon May was standing in the foyer, resetting her watch when the phone rang and a voice ordered in rapid-fire French, "Go to the wine vault and stay there, move!"

  Hayes pushed her ahead of him down the stairs, they were pulling back the heavy door when they heard the three shots ring out in rapid succession. "Stay in there," he told her, shoving her in.

  He reached the top of the stairs, slammed open the door, and ran point-blank into a man with a gun.

  "Jean-Claude," he said with relief.

  "You don't follow orders well, do you?" the Frenchman answered, drily. "We got both of them, one is dead. Our men are exploding the bomb in your garden right now."

  The explosion brought May crashing out of the wine cellar. "It's over," Hayes called to her.

  They stood staring at the smoldering hole the bomb had blown in the middle of Kit's garden. Bits of honeysuckle and columbine and a few stray rose petals marked the scene.

  "Jacques said they've identified the two men who planted the bomb. The dead one was Mahmoud el-Asmar, the one that's in the hospital here is Abu ben Sharif. He's the brother of Sofia."

  "Who is she?" May asked.

  "Eli's wife."

  THIRTY

  SHE KNEW SHE was driving too fast for the winding road. She heard the bags of groceries shift and tip over in the trunk but she didn't care. She was late, it was getting close to noon, and Thea didn't like to come home to an empty house.

  The hurry was for nothing. Thea wasn't home.

  Karin put the groceries away, opened a can of tuna, and began to mince celery, very fine, to put in it. She glanced at the clock; Thea had been out of class for an hour, she had never been this late.

  She dried her hands and called the Browns, no answer. She walked out to the lanai, shielded her eyes and looked down at the path that Thea would take if she had walked. But she would not have walked, she never did. One of her friends always drove her home. She went into Thea's room and found the little book decorated with pictures of yellow and blue balloons which held her telephone numbers. She was not at the Robinsons and no one answered at the Yungs. Karin let the phone ring eight times, ten. Her hand was shaking when she gave up, her heart seemed to be skipping beats.

  Something had gone wrong, she could feel it.

  She turned the pages of the book slowly. E, F, G, H. Alex Hollowell. Thea had drawn little stars around his name and outlined his address in red and blue pen. Ferdinand Street, Manoa. Karin lifted the phone, her hand poised over the dial, then she put it down again.

  It was a big frame house, hidden in a grove of kiawe trees. A small Japanese woman opened the door and motioned her into the dark, cool interior. Karin looked at the woman's feet. She was wearing old felt slippers. Somebody else had worn slippers like that, but she couldn't remember who. And now, for an instant, she couldn't remember what she was doing here.

  "Alex," she blurted, "is he here?"

  The woman stepped back, wary. "Alex is away."

  "Can you tell me where he is?" she pressed. "I'm Thea Ward's stepmother, and I don't seem to be able to find her . . . I thought maybe . . ."

  The woman's face arranged itself into a mask of disapproval. "I can't tell you nothing about that. You have to talk to his father at the boatyard."

  "Thank you," Karin said feebly as the woman shuffled back into the cool dimness of the house.

  Karin knew the turnoff to Sand Island and she had no trouble finding the cafe with a crude, handmade sign that said, "Hot Malasadas." The owner, a large man in an undershirt that failed to cover his stomach, gave her directions. From a pay phone that perched at a precarious angle, as if it had been nudged by one of the trucks that rumbled along the industrial avenue, she called her house and let it ring twenty times before giving up.

  Paul Hollowell saw her before she saw him. He was perched on the spreader of the mast of a large sailboat, and he watched her walk toward him—tentatively, as if she might turn back. He called out to her, moving into the open so she could see him.

  "I'm sorry . . ." she began, and then laughed, embarrassed at having started that way. "I mean," she began again, "I'm sorry to interrupt you at work . . ." She could feel herself flush, and wondered why she was doing this . . . Thea was probably at home right now, waiting for her. She lifted her hand in the air . . . it had been a mistake to come here, a silly mistake . . .

  "What can I do for you?" he smiled, swinging easily off the boat.

  "I can't seem to locate Thea, and I thought she might be with Alex. Your housekeeper said I'd have to ask you."

  He frowned. "Didn't Sadame tell you Alex was at my cousin's, working in the pineapple fields?"

  She shook her head.

  "I guess she wouldn't," he added. "She's mad at me for sending him away. I apologize for her."

  "No," Karin said, in a voice that sounded feeble, "it's all right . . . Thea's probably just out with a girlfriend and forgot . . . I didn't mean to . . . it was silly of me . . ."

  He was already moving, his hand on her elbow, guiding her through sliding glass doors into an office. "If you'll just wait a minute while I tell the secretary, I'll help you find her."

  She started to object, then stopped herself. He hadn't said, "I'll help you look," he had said, "I'll help you find." She needed help, she knew that. If she didn't find Thea, and soon, she was going to shatter, she knew that too.

  "I really shouldn't bother you with this," was what she finally said, her phrasing formal, her voice precariously close to breaking, "but I would very much appreciate your help."

  "We'll check your house," he answered, holding the door to his car for her, "in case she came and went out again. She might have left a note."

  It sounded reasonable. Yes, that was it. There would be a note waiting for her, all of this would be for nothing, she was sure of it.

  They checked the refrigerator, but there was nothing under the Minnie Mouse magnet where a note would have been. She looked on the gleaming koa wood dining table and on the coffee table and on Thea's dresser. All were empty, terribly empty. A T-shirt had been tossed on the bed; had it been there before? She was trying to remember when he called to her from the kitchen.

  He was kneeling on the floor in front of the refrigerator, grinning, holding a note out to her.

  "You've got a cross-draft blowing in here—I found it under the fridge."

  The note said: "Dear wonderful Karin, we're going to Janie's house to get some help with calculus from her jerky (but brilliant) brother, then I've been invited to spend the night and go with her family tomorrow to Kaneohe Bay. Could you call Mrs. C to say it's okay? Love ya, T." All of the i's were dotted with little o's.

  Karin sank against the cabinets, relief flooding through her. "Oh God," she laughed, "I feel so ludicrous."

  He squinted up, smiling now. "I wish my problems with my kid could be solved that easily." He pushed himself up, and for a long minute they stood awkwardly, each waiting for the other to say something, then both spoke at once.

  "Maybe you might . . ." he began, just as she said, "Can I at least offer you a tuna fish sandwich?"

  They laughed then. "Yes," he said, "except, I thought maybe . . . when you came to the boatyard just now, I wasn't really working, I was getting ready to take my cutter out to try a new jib. What would you think about packing a couple of sandwiches and coming along?"

  She hesitated, and he misunderstood.

  "But you probably have plans . . ." he said.

  "No," she came back, "no, I haven't. Really, there's nothing . . . I was just thinking how strange it feels, and how nice really, that Thea wants to spend the night at a friend's. She hasn't wanted to be anywhere but here since . . . since . . ."

  "Since Alex gave her acid," he finished, dully.

  She swallowed. "Yes, since then. I'll have to call and tell her it's fine, then
it will only take me a few minutes to put a lunch together. I think I'd love to go sailing."

  It was Paul Hollowell's turn to look surprised. "Point me to the tuna fish and I'll make the sandwiches while you make your call."

  She pulled on white shorts and rummaged in her dresser until she came across a soft, turquoise blouse with gold threads running through.

  "Good," he said when she came into the kitchen. She didn't know if he meant the way she looked, or that she had taken so little time or simply that he was glad she was going. She smiled to herself. It was an old blouse, one Philip had thought gaudy. She didn't know what had made her keep it, much less put it on today.

  "How much do you know about sailing?" Paul asked as he guided the boat out of the harbor.

  "Very little," she answered, "almost nothing." She thought about asking if that was a problem, but didn't. As soon as they had stepped onto the boat, words had begun to seem superfluous, she didn't know why. She positioned herself against the cabin, out of the way, and watched as he raised the sails and the wind caught in them and they were moving, free of the shore and heading out to sea. On land he seemed solid, almost awkward, but here, on his own deck, he moved with the grace of a gymnast.

  "This is perfect," she called to him, but the breeze caught her words and mingled them with the crackling of the sails and finally, spilled them out over the turquoise blue of the water which matched, almost, the blue of her blouse.

  They ate their tuna sandwiches, shared a beer, and exchanged a few words. She asked him about the boat.

  "It's a cutter," he said, pulling it a little closer to the wind, "thirty-six feet, built so I could handle her myself on the open ocean. She may not be as fast as some of these modem sleds, but then I don't need a crew the size of the city of New York to sail her."

  "You don't like racing?"

  He took a swig of beer, peered into the sky as if he were making some calculations and said, absently, "I've done my share." Then he added, "It's really calm—ordinarily we would have run into some fairly stiff winds by now . . . we're going to have to go out a ways into the channel."