Dru looked at Theron, then at the officer again. Her jaw worked from side to side as she struggled to make up her mind. She could see that the officer was itching for a physical confrontation with Theron. As for Theron, he had not taken his eyes off her. There was no mistaking his fury.
“Tell him, Dru.”
Dru blinked, swallowed, took a deep breath. “No, officer. He’s not bothering me. It’s a private matter.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Are you sure, Miss? You don’t want me to escort you to your room? Place a guard at your room for de night? Is not a problem, you know.”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll be fine, thank you.”
Without so much as a glance at the officer, Theron seized Dru firmly by the elbow, marched her to the elevator and pressed the UP button. The few curious onlookers who had drifted toward them began to disperse. Dru held her head high and looked straight ahead.
The elevator chimed its arrival and the doors slid open. Theron tightened his grip on her elbow and ushered her into the car. No one else entered. The elevator pinged again and closed its door.
Theron released Dru’s elbow the moment the door closed. Dru moved swiftly to the far corner, braced her back against the wall, and folded her arms. She stared at Theron with smoldering eyes. She wasn’t afraid. St. Cyr would be a fool to try to harm her. If anything happened to her, there were enough people, including the hotel’s very own security officer, who had witnessed the scene in the lobby. Any one of them could finger him. She was sure the security officer would watch to see when St. Cyr left the hotel and would come to her room to make sure she was all right. He hadn’t look convinced when she told him everything was fine.
So what was St. Cyr doing at her hotel? And why was he carrying the same bag that he had arrived with at the airport?
By now she was almost certain he did not kill Andrew Goodings. No killer would want to draw attention to himself the way he had with that display in the lobby.
The scene in the lobby replayed itself in her mind and she became more infuriated. No one had ever bullied her like that. No one. Not in public. Not in private. Who the hell did he think he was? Well, she had fixed his business with MacPherson. The thought gave her a perverse feeling of glee and she rolled her neck.
St. Cyr looked at her through narrowed eyes and shook his head. “You know, Dru, you are so obstinate and suspicious that one day you will cause yourself great harm.”
“The kind of harm that Andrew Goodings caused himself, I suppose!” St. Cyr glared at her. Dru glared back.
“What floor?”
“Why do you want to know? You’re not coming to my room.”
“Yes, I am. What floor?”
She could tell from his tone and the granite clench of his jaw that it was futile to argue.”Seven!” She hurled the word at him, wishing it was a mallet that could smash his head into tiny pieces.
St. Cyr swung away from her to face the door and pressed the button for the seventh floor. He remained facing forward, silent, angled against the wall, arms folded, ankles crossed.
They rode in silence. The elevator ascended slowly. Dru stared straight ahead, but stole glances at St. Cyr surreptitiously. With each glance she seemed to read more into him. What was it that made him seem more than just angry? Was it the droop in his shoulders instead of the straight back of defiance? The bowed head instead of a stubborn tilt to his chin? That almost imperceptible sigh that had escaped on a breath without his realizing it? It was as though he carried a heavy ache in him, a big, deep hurt that rose up and caught him off guard and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
But wasn’t that to be expected with the death of Goodings? They seemed to have been good friends. True. But this was something older than the death of Goodings. She had felt it, seen it, that day in Marseille, too. She had dismissed it at the time. Back then she was riding one hell of a whirlwind and he was a stranger she probably would never see again, so she had pushed it away.
In spite of herself, Dru smiled, softening her face as memories of those heady days whizzed by. That amazing old lady on the train, on her way back to France after visiting her daughter in Italy. I wonder if she’s still alive. Why shouldn’t she be? She seemed old then, but she couldn’t have been more than fifty. When you’re twenty-two, anyone over forty is old. Besides, with the kind of life she lived and her peace of mind, the old bird was probably healthier than a lot of people far younger. Twelve years isn’t such a long time. She—
St. Cyr suddenly shifted his weight from one foot to the other and sighed again. The sigh was louder this time, though he seemed unaware of it.
The sound jerked Dru out of her reverie. Her face turned to stone again as she glanced at him. He was staring down at the floor.
St. Cyr must have felt her eyes on him for he straightened up all of a sudden and turned slightly toward her. Their eyes connected briefly before Dru cut hers away, tightening her jaw. But in that instant, in that tiny breath of connection, she had seen in his eyes the full measure of his mysterious pain.
Her heart quickened as she skimmed through every exchange, every encounter she had ever had with him. That day in Marseille—his arm around her waist, protective; his phone call just a few days ago—how excited and delighted he seemed to be talking to her again; his plea for understanding during the flight to Georgetown; the warmth with which Goodings embraced him at the airport; and now.
He’s no killer, she decided. A man with a lot of baggage, yes, but not a killer.
How about kidnapping! What about Paris? Did you carry around twelve years of vengeful thinking for nothing? What kind of fool does that make you?
The voice in her head was harsh and resentful. She closed her eyes tight against its barrage of questions. She did not want to answer those questions. Not just yet. There were more pressing ones to deal with. Like, if St. Cyr did not kill Goodings, who did? And why did St. Cyr come to her, anyway? Did he think that she, or her people, killed Goodings? Would MacPherson and others in the government—or anyone close to Goodings, for that matter—think that? If they did, did they send St. Cyr to find out for sure? To make sure she didn’t flee the country? Would they come after her in revenge?
Was her life in danger in Guyana?
§
The phone rang once. “Dígame!”
“The American woman from Pilgrim Boone was with Andrew Goodings’ friend today. The man he met at the airport.”
There was a long pause.
“What were they talking about?”
“I couldn’t hear. I was in the lobby of the Pegasus for a last-minute meeting with a friend at the same time they were there. They didn’t arrive at the hotel together. Dalrymple took her there. He told me this morning that the two of them had a meeting with MacPherson. She was walking toward the elevators when Goodings’s friend approached her. She backed away from him as if she was afraid he would hurt her or something. Then it looked as if they were having some sort of quarrel. A security man went over to them but he left them alone after a few minutes. They went into the elevator together. She didn’t seem afraid of him anymore. Just angry. Really angry. I’d say those two have known each other for a long time.”
“Is the man staying at the hotel, too?”
“So I was told. A friend of mine works at Reception. She told me he had just checked in today.”
“Do you know his name? What does he look like?”
Leila described St. Cyr.”My friend at Reception told me his name is Theron St. Cyr.”
The pause stretched into a full minute.
Leila smiled. She knew what was coming. A new assignment. Another twenty thousand dollars minimum. It would put her almost at her target. If Alejandro kept giving her assignments at this pace she would reach it in less than a year. She would retire, tell Compton she was tired of him, and move to America. Out West. Somewhere in the mountains. She would build a fabulous house on acres of land and maybe find a man to live with, a sexy young stud. No m
arriage. No kids. Ever. She liked being detached. That’s why it was perfect with Compton. He had no intention of leaving his wife and he knew that she knew this. So there was never any stupid talk about commitment or marriage. Yes, she liked things uncomplicated. Life came and went too easily. She should know.
“So! You know this Theron St. Cyr,” she said softly into the phone. “What do you want me to do about him?”
“No. I do not know this man,” Bernat said, his voice slow and far away. “And there is nothing I want you to do right now. Nothing just yet. I will let you know when I am ready.” He disconnected the call.
Leila closed her eyes and watched her dream wisp away. Maybe he was lying, maybe he was not, about his not knowing Theron St. Cyr. There could be any number of reasons why it took him so long to speak after she gave him the name. He could have been trying to place the name, or he could have been thinking through his next step. Maybe he was coming down from a high and just drifted off. She knew he snorted coke. She was sixteen the first time she saw him do it. It was on his ranch in Venezuela. She had been working in the kitchen and, thinking no one else was in the house, had wandered about only to come across him in his study. She had managed to sneak out before he saw her.
She had grown up on Bernat’s ranch. There was a group that took care of Amerindians who fled to Venezuela after the rebellion and that group had sent her entire family to Bernat to work. In exchange for their labor they got a small amount of money, a tiny cabin in the village where all the other workers lived, and a small plot of land that they could use as they pleased once they had finished their chores for el Señor Bernat. Her family farmed the little plot and sold their excess produce to the lazy ones and the ones who drank away their money.
She saw Alejandro snort several times after that. When he finally realized that she had been watching him, he’d given it to her. Forced her to take it. And forced her to become his lover. Once she had resigned herself to being his lover, she began to enjoy it. She began to enjoy the cocaine, too.
Alejandro kept telling her how smart she was. He trained her to do special assignments, and those assignments took her to the United States and sometimes to Europe. Sometimes it was delivering drugs or cash. Other times it was spying on someone. The first time she killed for Alejandro was five years ago, in France.
She didn’t mind any of it, though it had broken her parents’ hearts. She liked the money, the clothing, the jewelry, the jungle-green Jeep Cherokee, the trips abroad. And the way Alejandro made her feel beautiful and important even though he never introduced her to any of his friends or took her with him when he traveled. She told herself she would enjoy whatever she got so that when it disappeared—she was sure that it would one day—she could say without regret that she knew what it was like to be rich and pampered.
Just as she had predicted, Alejandro grew tired of her. The expensive gifts, the free cocaine, the high life, all of it stopped the day Alejandro told her that the beautiful white woman he had brought home from Caracas was the mistress of his house. She really didn’t mind, she told herself. She never wanted to end up hooked on cocaine for the rest of her life. She ignored Alejandro’s edict that she would have to buy the stuff if she wanted it, and stayed clean.
And the rest of it? Well, it would have been easy to find other men to give her whatever she wanted. She was Amerindian, but she was beautiful and desirable in her own way. Alejandro had proved that to her and she would always be grateful to him for that.
Alejandro didn’t release her or her family from their bondage to him. He still needed her for work. She was his best agent, he said. He paid her well. Extremely well. She could take care of herself. Soon, she would be free, but perhaps not as soon as she would like.
She shrugged, gave a little laugh, opened her eyes, flicked the phone shut. The memories, along with the last wisp of her dream, faded.
She shrugged again.
Whatever. Life played games like that.
18
“What’s going on in Guyana, Grant?”
Lawton Pilgrim kept his back to Grant Featherhorn. He hadn’t bothered to turn around when Grant walked into his office, and closed the door even though Grant had found it open. Instead, he had smiled to himself. It was so typical of Grant. He liked to give the impression to the people outside that his discussions with the big man were confidential.
Lawton was standing at his favorite spot at the huge plate glass window overlooking the East River, his hands clasped behind him, watching a seagull sail on the wind. If he was weighed down by the knowledge that he was dying, he didn’t show it. He held himself as erect as he always did. “What do you mean, Lawton?” Featherhorn’s voice was languid.
Lawton swung around abruptly. He stared at Featherhorn for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. He walked slowly to his desk, sat down, and leaned back in the chair, his fingers forming a steeple on his stomach. He drummed his thumbs against his stomach, momentarily delighting in the flat, rock-hard return on his investment in an exacting exercise routine. Then his eyes clouded and for a while he concentrated on the Tiffany light fixture in the ceiling.
Finally, he lowered his eyes to meet Featherhorn’s.
“What’s going on in Guyana, Grant?” He posed the question in the same voice as before, not a decibel higher, not a decibel lower, not a trace of anything other than curiosity, pure and simple, in his question.
Featherhorn’s guard shot up instantly. After thirty years with the man, he knew his ways. “That’s a question we should be asking Dru, don’t you think? Believe me, I myself would dearly love to know what’s going on. But she hasn’t contacted me since she arrived in Guyana. As far as I know, she hasn’t contacted anyone since she left.”
Pilgrim raised an eyebrow. “That’s unlike her, isn’t it? What about Roopnaraine and Dalrymple? Have you talked to either of them?”
“No, I haven’t. They haven’t called.”
Pilgrim looked at him coldly. “And I suppose you did not see fit to call either one of them. What are you trying to do to her, Grant? Set her up for failure? Put her in harm’s way in that godforsaken little republic? You never could get over the fact that she turned us down for that internship, could you? College kids, especially black college kids, aren’t supposed to say no to a chance to intern at one of the world’s most reputable consulting firms, are they? And especially when it’s Grant Featherhorn himself who writes the letter, makes the phone call. You never got over it, did you?”
Featherhorn returned his icy gaze with a smile. “You must be very tired, Lawton. You’re not making any sense. Come to think of it, you don’t look yourself at all.”
Lawton sprang forward in his chair and slammed both palms on his desk. “Don’t give me any of your patronizing bullshit, Grant!” he said between clenched teeth. “Something stinks in Guyana and you know it. They’re stringing us along and I want to know why. You should be talking to Dru every minute of every goddamned day she’s there!”
He grabbed the phone and punched furiously at the intercom button. Miss Hatherby’s voice, loyal, prim, and unflappable, sailed through immediately. “Yes, Mr. Pilgrim?”
“Get me Dru Durane in Guyana!” Pilgrim barked.
“Certainly, Mr. Pilgrim.”
Pilgrim stabbed the button off and picked up his conversation with Featherhorn. “And there’s another reason why you should be talking to her. The place is a goddamned crime pit! It’s our responsibility to make sure she’s safe.”
He threw himself back in his chair and steepled his fingers on his stomach again, breathing heavily.
Featherhorn knew better than to speak. He knew he had gone too far this time.
“What do we know about Andrew Goodings’ death?” Pilgrim’s voice was once again calm. Typically, his anger had dissipated as abruptly as it had arisen.
Here it comes, Featherhorn thought nervously. As much as he had anticipated the question, his heart still skipped a beat. He feigned disinterest to hide his
nervousness. “Heart failure, I heard.”
“Bull. It’s too damned convenient, that’s what it is.”
Featherhorn shrugged. “He wasn’t a young man.”
“That’s neither here nor there. I don’t like it, Grant. It puts us in a compromising position. Someone down there’s bound to start pointing fingers in our direction soon.”
Miss Hatherby’s voice, a wee bit pinched, clipped the air. “Miss Durane is on the line, Mr. Pilgrim.”
Pilgrim sprang forward and hit the speaker button. “Dru?”
“Hello, Lawton. So you’ve heard.” She sounded guarded, uptight.
“Are you all right? What the hell is going on down there? Why haven’t we heard from you?”
Featherhorn leaned forward, all ears, though his face remained inscrutable. “I had nothing to report, Lawton. I met with Minister MacPherson today and it didn’t go well at all. I’m convinced he thinks there’s more to Savoy’s proposal than a mere desire to bring air transport to Guyana. Why? I have no idea. And the sudden death of his man Goodings makes matters worse.”
“Why? What are people saying?”
“That Goodings was killed.”
“I knew it! I knew it!” Pilgrim exploded, jumping to his feet and pacing the floor.
Featherhorn sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“There won’t be any decisions until the reason for his death has been determined,” Dru continued.
“Do you think they’re linking it to us?” It was Featherhorn who asked the question.
A long moment passed. The sudden silence made Pilgrim stop pacing. He stared at the phone. The silence stretched out until Lawton Pilgrim could stand it no longer.
“I need an answer, Dru. Now!”
“It’s possible,” Dru said quietly.
Pilgrim strode over to his desk and leaned on it, his bony, manicured fingers splayed in two perfect semicircles. He leaned into the phone, his face red with outrage.
The Guyana Contract Page 20
