The young woman looked up from the list almost immediately. “Mr. von Mansfeld booked two seats on flight 27, which just arrived.”
“That's the flight we watched disembark. He wasn't on it.”
“I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps he changed his mind.”
“Would it be possible to talk to one of the flight crew?”
“I don't know if I can find them.”
Another two hundred changed hands.
“I'll page the crew; someone may still be in the terminal.”
“I'd be happy to pay for any information they might have.” Carey's heart was thudding rapidly. There were endless possibilities why Egon booked two seats, then never showed up at the flight's destination. And most of the possibilities were unpleasant, with Rifat figuring very largely in them.
Egon and Mariel were seated in the backseat of a '66 Impala careening down the coastal highway to Ocho Rios. Egon was feeling fine, and the blue-green ocean on his left sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Mariel was cheerfully chatting beside him about the small children selling shells or the bucolic beauty of the occasional herd of cattle grazing on the coastal plain.
Their driver was keeping beat to the radio with one hand, steering with the other. Visibility around the curves on the coast road was limited, but he'd simply pull out, honk his horn, and accelerate around anything in his path. Even a large bus didn't slow him down. After that, Mariel clung to Egon.
“Want to stop for a beer or a Pepsi?” the driver asked in his British-accented Jamaican.
Egon knew that the residents in the shacks along the road lived off the tourists. “Sure, why not,” Egon answered, content to be so near to home. When they stopped, Egon gave him a bill and said, “Why don't you get one, too.”
Resuming their journey a few minutes later, they each had a cool Red-Stripe beer to sip on while the music played and the scenery unfolded for them like a travelogue for an ocean paradise. A few miles later on a portion of straight road, their driver turned round, took off his dark glasses, and inquired, “Looking for any ganja?”
“No, but I'm looking for something a bit stronger,” Egon casually replied.
“My cousin can help you, mon.”
“Good. No rush. Maybe tomorrow.” Egon had his own supply at Le Retour, but he never passed up an opportunity to acquire more. He felt safe when his supply was comfortably large.
They passed Rose Hall. When Mariel mentioned that she'd never seen it, Egon promised to show it to her tomorrow.
“Is this your first time here?”
When she nodded yes, he said he'd have to show her the sights. They'd do the tour tomorrow. He pointed out Green Grotto Cave where pirates had hidden their contraband, and as they sped along the road he directed her attention to Runaway Bay where Columbus had landed.
They stopped for dinner at the Ruins just west of Ocho Rios. Seated at a secluded table with the view of the waterfall and tropical forest, they were served by two solicitous waiters. Egon dined regularly at the Ruins when he was at Le Retour, and he was known for his generosity. Feeling relaxed, Egon entertained Mariel with stories of his last trip to Paris when Sylvie had used him as buffer against Bernhardt. His descriptions of Bernhardt made her laugh, while his portrayal of the couturiers' inner sanctums, the models, and gowns were so perfect Mariel felt as though she'd been shopping with Sylvie herself.
“You'll have to join me sometime in Paris,” Egon said. He looked lean and at ease sprawled in an empire armchair. “I'll show you my favorite playgrounds.” He was dressed in buff and charcoal linen, his sport coat a small houndstooth check, his slacks a pale shade of charcoal, his natural colored shirt open at the neck. His long-fingered hands fascinated Mariel… elegant and aristocratic was her first thought. But he moved them with a restless mercurial energy that drew the eye, she was mesmerized by his compelling presence.
As their dessert soufflйs were taken away, she reached out and lightly touched the pale golden hair growing in a thick pattern toward his wrist. She felt taut muscle beneath the silky golden hair and bronzed skin, and it surprised her momentarily. “Your hands are strong,” she murmured without thinking.
“I ride,” Egon said. “When the mood strikes me,” he added with a grin. “Do you ride?” he asked.
“No, I'm afraid not.”
“Would you like me to show you? I keep several horses at Le Retour.”
She smiled, liking his sincerity and his utter lack of arrogance. “I'd like that,” she said.
“Good. Can you stay over a few days?” In the pleasure of Mariel's company, Egon had forgotten he was on the run. He was losing himself in the sense of security Le Retour always instilled in him.
“I've a three day layover.”
“I'll have you riding out on the trail in two days. Wait and see… you'll love it.”
She laughed at his enthusiasm. “Just a warning… I'm a lousy athlete. Don't be disappointed if I fall off.”
“You can have Sylvie's Mannerheim. He's as gentle as a lamb. My sister doesn't like riding very much.”
“Why does she ride, then?”
“Well, first Mama insisted she learn. Mama was from a Junker family which prided itself on its hunting lands. And secondly, Sylvie's ex-husband is a world-class rider; she pretended she adored horses for him. Carey realized how deep that affection went the first time he saw her ride. Anyway, Sylvie's old Mannerheim is like sitting in a padded rocking chair, I promise.”
“In that case, I won't mind riding lessons. But don't feel you have to teach me to ride if it's an inconvenience.” Mariel had never so instantly liked someone in her life, but she remembered her manners and also remembered Egon was from a very different world.
“No inconvenience,” Egon assured her, reaching for his grappa. “I've all the time in the world.”
CHAPTER 34
R ifat was infuriated by the wire his batman had brought him. Seated at his desk in the bedroom of his Rome villa, his bearing military even in a silk robe, he expressed his anger in a terse expletive. Rifat's man Yalcin, ignored his master's comment as any good servant would.
“Do you care to return an answer, master?” he inquired.
“No,” Rifat retorted. “Wake me if there's any further message.”
Yalcin knew enough to do that in any event, but the fact Rifat had mentioned it made this particular mission an important one. “Very well, sir.” And he bowed deferentially before leaving.
“Jamaica,” Rifat snorted in disgust, his hooded eyes dark with rage. Egon had eluded his men again. He crumpled the telex in an uncharacteristic show of anger. Flinging the ball of paper across the dimly lit room, he cursed Egon in several languages-and reached for the phone. Maybe it was time to consider the sister as a possible hostage. He wouldn't allow the prototype to slip through his hands, and if Egon proved evasive, the countess would be a bargaining chip of equal importance. Meanwhile the countess should be put under surveillance in the event she needed to be picked up. When the call went through, he spoke curtly into the phone, relaying his message in ciphered language. He was assured he would receive a report of her whereabouts by morning.
While Rifat was bristling in Rome and Ceci was drumming his fingers on the window of their chartered plane, waiting for it to touch down at Montego Bay, Carey was tracking down the third member of the crew and hoping she'd know more than the pilot and copilot. They had no idea of Egon's whereabouts, but they'd suggested Danielle, one of the stewardesses in first class. She and some friends were staying at a beach house in Ocho Rios.
Jess hadn't had any luck with the cab drivers. No one had seen a man of Egon's description. Now Egon was either ahead of him, not yet arrived, or in an entirely different part of the world. They would have to split up. Jess would cover arrivals, and Carey and Molly would proceed to Le Retour with a short detour to talk to Danielle. If it would have been possible to leave Molly with Jess, he would have, but short of tying her to a seat, he didn't see it as a feasible option. So while
Jess stayed behind with orders to leave for Bernadotte's immediately if he found Egon, Carey and Molly took a cab to Ocho Rios.
“An extra fifty if we make it to Ocho Rios in record time,” Carey told the cabbie.
“No problem, mon,” the smiling man replied, turning up the volume on his radio.
“You might want to shut your eyes,” Carey warned Molly.
And she did for the first two minutes, but curved roads and high speeds were stomach-churning with her eyes shut. Gritting her teeth, she braced her hands on the seat and watched the driver defy death a score of times in the next half-hour.
As they sped by the Ruins, Egon and Mariel were just beginning their dessert. They jolted to a tire-squealing halt at the Hertz rental in Ocho Rios, an old red brick building with a large plate-glass window and worn wooden door.
Carey casually remarked, “Great driving, thanks,” and paid the driver as though he were a passenger near death every day of his life. Pulling Molly from the car, he indicated the rental sign and asked, “Care to take over as driver?”
She felt like kissing the ground in thanksgiving, but in her best grown-up voice she said casually, “Sure.”
“Good, cuz I've some chasing to do.”
She lifted her brows in query.
“Looking for Egon.”
“I knew that.”
He grinned. “Women. You shouldn't even be here.”
“No chauvinist remarks. I'm not sufficiently recovered from the jaws of death to be in fighting form.”
He touched her cheek with a quick, brushing fingertip. “You're such a darling.”
“No patronizing remarks, either. If I'm about to become your driver, I demand the respect due that position. We are not darlings. We are shooter associates.”
For a moment he wondered if she was serious-but decided in the next moment she was not. “Where did you hear that?”
“On TV-where else?”
And for a second Carey wished he could turn off this program.
They drove out on the eastern tip of the bay to find Danielle. At least the beach cottage wasn't out of the way. Egon's villa was only another few miles down the road.
Over twenty-four hours had passed since Carey had decided to bring Egon in and fatigue was beginning to pervade his senses. Adrenaline could only sustain one so long. He'd hardly slept last night, his mind looping full speed on Egon's problem, and the hours today had been fraught with problems.
“I hope she saw him,” Carey said as Molly pulled up to the hotel entrance.
“And if she didn't?”
“We'll go to Le Retour and hope he arrived before us. I'll be back in a few minutes. Why don't you wait in that parking lot across the way?”
“Yes, sir, captain, sir,” Molly replied facetiously with a brisk salute.
“Now why didn't you do that back at Dad's when I wanted you to stay there?” he asked.
“Wanted to see the world, sir.”
“Hope like hell you don't see more than you care to, soldier.”
“Don't worry, sir.”
“Shit,” Carey muttered, but his smile was warm. How could she be so damn cheerful? And beautiful. Probably because she didn't have the slightest inkling of the danger involved. Which meant he'd better move his ass so Rifat didn't get too close to her. “Ciao,” he said. “Don't move.” And he was gone.
As he entered the main lobby, a small area the size of his bedroom with a ceiling soaring three-stories high, Carey passed a hundred-dollar bill to the manager, then asked for Danielle Garzin's cottage number.
The beach cottages faced the bay. He took the stairs down a floor to the open-air bar at poolside and, walking through, strode past the pool and out onto the sand. The temperature had diminished slightly with evening, and the breeze off the bay wasn't hot any longer. All the patios facing the beach were deserted, not only because of the off-season, but because late afternoon brought most guests inside to prepare for dinner.
At number 121, his knock on the glass door was loud and insistent but no one answered. He looked at his watch. Dammit, an hour and a half had passed since they'd landed, and time was a precious commodity. He peered through the glass doors for some sign of life, then checked out the two adjoining units in the hopes someone had seen her. They, too, were empty, but a radio was softly playing on a small table set between two cabana chairs on 121's patio, and a half-finished drink rested beside the radio.
Shielding his eyes against the setting sun, he glanced up and down the beach. With the exception of the young children who were beaching their jet-skis, he saw only two groups of people who could be tourists. And he hoped that the person who left the unfinished drink was one of the tourists on the beach.
He descended the steps to the beach, and strode swiftly toward the two women walking at the water's edge. “I'm looking for Danielle,” he said as he approached them, but they shook their heads and answered in Spanish.
The second group consisted of two retired couples who looked like British tourists. They were collecting shells in a small, woven basket, and he turned back without speaking to them.
Standing on the nearly deserted beach, he gazed up and down its length once again while a wave of hopelessness overcame him. He'd been so sure when he'd left his father's, so sure he'd read Egon's mind correctly, so sure he understood Egon's feelings, certain he was on his way to Le Retour.
Now doubts were beginning to assail him, and if he were wrong, he'd be too late to help Egon. Rifat's men would get to him before he did. He shut his eyes briefly against the desolation sweeping him and took a deep sustaining breath.
He'd begun to turn away when out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of shocking yellow between the spokes of the jet-skis chained to a palm. And as he focused on the tiny patch of brilliant color, a woman in a yellow bikini turned over so her oiled shoulder glistened in the setting sun. Walking closer, he noticed the Air France flight bag partially concealed by her beach wrap.
“Danielle?” he inquired.
Looking up at him over her left shoulder, the dark-haired woman said, “Yes?”
Bingo.
“Egon was on the flight,” Carey announced, satisfaction evident in his voice as he entered the car and pointed eastward with a nod. “Danielle said her fellow stewardess Mariel took an interest in Egon and left the airport with him. So we're getting back on the coast highway,” he explained as Molly backed up and turned out of the parking lot overlooking the tennis courts.
“So where's Egon? Does she know?”
“No, but my guess is he's playing kissy-face with his new friend up at Le Retour. I hate to break up a pleasant interlude, but Rifat's not likely to wait. Whoa! You need to drive on the left side of the road, darling, or we'll be a traffic statistic.”
“Sorry.”
“Want me to drive?”
“No, you give me directions. This I can do.”
But when they'd covered the winding uphill miles to Egon's home high above the bay, the small staff he kept at the house hadn't heard from him.
Frustrated, Carey paced the large entrance hall on the main floor while Egon's steward looked on nervously. Awed, Molly eyed a statue reminiscent of a hellenistic sculpture she'd seen in a museum. The pale yellow and white color scheme complemented the cream exterior of the villa, one of the finest examples of colonial Palladian she'd ever seen.
Symmetrical stairways met on the main floor veranda and the entire facade faced the sea with enormous pilastered and pedimented windows exposed to the view and breeze.
“If we had time,” Carey said, checking his watch, “we could afford to wait here for him.”
“Could I have dinner served for you and the lady, Count Fersten?” the steward courteously inquired, moving away from the doorway enough to enter Carey's line of vision.
“Thank you no, David,” he said, shoving his hands in his shorts pockets and standing still for a contemplative moment. “Now where the hell would he go with a little French stewarde
ss?” he muttered. Carey exhaled suddenly, his mind a muddle from trying to second-guess Egon, who at the best of times was erratic. On drugs, he was undirected impulse. In the meantime though, he'd better clear the house because sooner or later Rifat's men would show up and terrorize whomever was here.
“By the way, David, there's a bit of trouble following Count von Mansfeld. I'd suggest the staff sleep elsewhere tonight.” He began pacing again, as if the physical activity promoted thought.
“But, sir, what if Master Egon arrives?”
“He'll understand, trust me. Now go pack what you need for a couple of nights and get everyone the hell out.”
“But, sir, we're familiar with the master's scrapes. If the constable comes, we can deal with him.”
Carey stopped midpace and swung around slowly until he faced Egon's steward who'd served Egon's father before him. Without terrifying David or being too explicit in front of Molly, he had to make David aware of the danger. “Egon's in more trouble than usual. Sylvie suggested you take a few days off and visit your family in the Blue Mountains like cook did once.”
David and the servants had left once during the colonial upheavals of the fifties when some of the independence advocates had taken to the streets with machetes. Sylvie still talked about the stories old cook would relate of the bloody course of events.
“Truly, sir?” David carefully inquired, understanding the extent of the danger now.
“As soon as possible.”
“And Master Egon?”
“I'm going back to find him and take him to my father's. He's somewhere between here and Montego Bay.”
“Might I suggest-?”
“Rosie's?”
“Yes.”
“He's with a woman already.”
“Anyone from the island, sir?” David asked. Egon's companion might dictate the style of entertainment.
“No, an Air France stewardess.”
“You might try the Ruins. Master Egon favors it.”
“Good idea. Thanks, David.” He smiled then, in both apology and understanding. Over the years he and David had seen to Egon's best interests on numerous occasions. “Remember,” he softly said, his inflection suggesting the seriousness of the situation, “be out of here as soon as possible.” And, striding toward Molly, he took her hand and pulled her out the door. “I'll drive.” They were down the staircase and into the car with efficiency and dispatch.
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