Black Widow df-15

by Randy Wayne White

  Was that a subtle barb? During the hike, I’d stopped a couple of times to catch my breath. Sir James had waited with exaggerated patience, breathing normally as he checked his watch and tapped his walking stick on the ground. With his tweed walking cap, trousers, dark shirt, and shooting jacket, he looked like a butterfly collector who’d lost his way- except for the night-vision goggles that were now pushed up on his forehead, and the Walther PPK semiautomatic pistol I’d gotten a glimpse of beneath his jacket, left armpit, in a shoulder holster, butt out.

  It was hard to believe the man was over seventy. He was aggressive, focused, and in better shape than I-and I’d been jogging and swimming twice a day, six days a week, since spring. But mountains are the curse of a Florida flatlander. Even in the tropics, it takes awhile to acclimate.

  I replied, “My endurance improves when I’m being chased. Always loop uphill when escaping down a mountain-I agree. I’ll try to keep up.”

  “That’s the spirit. One more thing-” He fitted his night-vision goggles into place. I did the same as he pointed toward the cemetery on the seaward side of the monastery. “-during your stay, if you do manage to grab the videotapes, we should have an emergency jettison spot. Prearranged. A place you can get rid of them quick, and collect later. What do you think? Might be a spot over there that’s just the ticket.”

  He used an infrared flashlight to indicate an area near the cemetery where the cliff wall dropped several hundred yards to the sea below. Earlier, we’d sat looking up at the same cliff from my boat.

  “Those people seem involved with their chanting-or whatever it is they call that nonsense. I don’t think they’d notice if we popped down for a quick look-see-but we’ll need a bit of billy goat in us to negotiate that ledge.” Montbard had been kneeling, but now stood as he tucked his map away. “You don’t have an aversion to heights, do you, Ford?”

  “Not at all,” I said, lying. “I live in a house that’s built on stilts.”

  “Excellent, then you’re an old hand. Off we go!”

  By 9:15 p.m., we had our three escape trails marked. We headed for the cliff.

  To get to the cemetery unseen, we had to inch our way along a ledge that was half the width of my shoulders, and several hundred feet above a rock field that inclined briefly before dropping into the sea. Sir James wasn’t joking about billy goats-it was a path used by feral goats that lived on the island.

  I dug fingers into the igneous rim above us, nose pressed close to the cliff so I wouldn’t be blinded by falling gravel, and also because I was scared shitless. I had looked down only once. Rocks were vague spires in the blackness; sparks of starlight communicated the movement of waves far below.

  The Englishman went first. He seemed oblivious to the danger; so unconcerned that halfway along the ledge he’d stopped and fished the penlight from his pocket, then shined it for an instant on a clump of bushes topped with dark flowers.

  “Here’re some rare beauties for you,” he’d whispered. “It’s a flowering sage-Divinorium, possibly. Ancient; very rare. Love to have this in the garden. Maybe we’ll come back for it when we put this business to bed.”

  When I only grunted in reply, the man had actually turned sideways on the ledge. “Are you all right, old man? Need a minute to regroup?”

  I’d hissed, “I’m fine. Keep moving!”

  I don’t have an irrational fear of heights, but I do have a healthy fear of falling. It’s an atavistic fear that, for me, was intensified a few years back when I was thrown from a helicopter just before it crashed. All the horrors of the unknown were condensed into those microseconds of free fall. By the time we reached the cemetery and I’d belly-crawled onto firm ground, I was soaked with sweat.

  No way in hell was I going back the way we’d come-not unless it was more secure-so the first thing I did was rig a rope handhold. I tied a hundred feet of braided anchor line around the base of a tree, then dropped the coil over the ledge so I could use it to traverse the goat path on our return. The tree jutted from the lip of the cliff, roots exposed, but felt solid enough to hold my weight.

  When Montbard misread my intent, I was too embarrassed to set him straight.

  “Damn smart of you,” he whispered. “Establish a secure base for rappelling. Bring more rope when you check in tomorrow. A few hundred feet and a couple of proper bowlines should do it. Hide the rope in your kit. Spa staff will be none the wiser.”

  I said, “That’s what I plan to do,” as my heart began to slow.

  We found a good place to drop the videotapes. I would need a waterproof bag and a buoy, but it was okay. There was a spot on the leeward edge of the cliff where monks had sculpted a Gaelic cross out of rock. There were prayer benches shielded by bushes… an iron safety railing… nothing below but sea.

  Montbard was fascinated by the cross. Same with the headstones in the cemetery. He lingered, using the infrared light to reveal details, until I said, “This isn’t an Explorers Club outing, okay?”

  It got him moving. “Sorry, sorry. I really must come back and give the place a thorough going-over.” He grunted, frustrated. “You’re right, of course. Back to business. Here-come have a look.” He knelt, picked up a rock the size of a grapefruit, and walked to the lip of the precipice. I followed on hands and knees.

  “Listen.” The Englishman reached out and dropped the rock. A blast of warm sea air nearly blew my watch cap off when I peeked over the edge. It was like looking down into a wind tunnel. The rock melted into darkness without striking the cliff face. The roaring updraft muted the splash.

  “Bloody perfect, eh? Now all we must do is find out where the old girl keeps her valuables. Any thoughts about how to manage it?”

  I said, “Maybe. It would be nice to confirm she has the tapes.. . but with only three more days-”

  “There’s a difference between rushing and acting on sound data. I think it’s time to act. What’s your idea?”

  “How hot are you prepared to go?”

  “Go hot or go cold-” His voice communicated a nasty appreciation. “-it’s been awhile since I’ve heard those terms. I find it heartening. I’m fully willing to go hot-rob Madame Toussaint at gunpoint, or persuade a member of her staff to tell us what we need to know. But I would prefer not to give my neighbors more fodder for gossip unless absolutely required.”

  More fodder? I was smiling. “Then we take the soft approach. Get the woman to show us where the tapes are hidden without knowing we’re interested. Last night, the guy they call ‘Wolfie,’ the guy who runs the camera-”

  “Wulfelund,” Montbard said, “he’s originally from Suriname.”

  “Right. Last night, he shot a few tapes-nothing incriminating, but maybe she expects the tapes to be delivered anyway. Hide a couple of your motion-sensing cameras in the right place-”

  “Cameras, right-which I didn’t happen to bring,” the man interrupted, not impressed. “It’s an idea. Perhaps we’re putting the cart before the horse. Let’s give it some thought, then discuss it later, after we’re finished with our little look-see-”

  “I’m not done,” I said. “Even without your cameras, I think we can get the woman to show us where she keeps the tapes.”

  “How, pray tell?”

  “We create an emergency. Convince her she’s in danger of losing the tapes-cops are coming with a search warrant, the threat of a robbery, a fire. We watch her reaction.”

  Montbard said, “Without her knowing she’s being watched.”

  I said, “That’s why I suggested the cameras. A couple of nights ago, I thought my house was on fire. It was a false alarm, but my first instinct was to run straight to where I keep my valuables-things I won’t risk keeping in a bank.”

  Sir James said, “Humph,” thinking about it. “Yes… interesting.”A few seconds later, he said, “Ford? I think the idea has merit. A variation on one of the psy-war stunts we pulled in the Falklands, but original in its way. Madame Toussaint unknowingly reveals where the tapes are hid
den. You nick the lot of them later, after you’ve checked into the spa.”

  “It could work.”

  “Yes,” he said, warming to the idea. “It just might. After you and Senny check in, we’ll make radio contact at assigned times. When you’ve got the tapes, I can be standing by in the boat, waiting for your drop. Very tidy operation if things go our way. Nothing to find if authorities search you as you leave the spa.”

  "Tidy,” I agreed, aware that no black-bag operation-a theft, a kidnapping, an assassination-ever goes as planned.

  I began to back away from the precipice, but Sir James remained where he was, the toes of his boots extended slightly over the rim of the cliff, hands on hips, breathing deeply as if the warm upward thermal contained helium, and made him immune to gravity. “You ever do any jumps, Ford?”

  It took me a moment to realize he was talking about parachuting. “Seven. Six with a static line, one without.”

  “Ran short of time at camp, did you? By God, I love the sound of silk! This is a peach of a spot for a base jump. I’d try it now if I had one packed and ready. Steady updraft; straight drop. I’d steer the chute seaward, cut loose at three meters, then an easy swim to shore.” He turned. “Wait ’til you’re my age-you’ll understand. The only real death we suffer is the things left undone!”

  I made a hushing motion with my hand-Get down. Quiet.

  “Oh,” he said, unaware. “Got carried away for a moment.”

  I crawled toward the cemetery until I felt it was safe to stand.

  Randy Wayne White

  Black Widow

  23

  James Montbard was an exceptional man, no question. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d impressed me as much as anyone I’d ever met. How was it possible that we’d been in the same shadowy trade yet I’d never heard of him?

  Or maybe I had…

  False names and passports are standard in the field. Great Britain has produced many dark stars on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Montbard had all the necessary qualities, along with certain quirks that I associate with the trade’s best. He was obsessive, focused, and detached when violence was discussed. He was adrenaline-driven, devoutly disciplined, and, when off-duty, he redirected his gifts into a public persona that was affable and unremarkable. Hobbies provided a vent-archaeology, in his case. For others, it was stamp collecting, model planes, astronomy, cross-word puzzles, Scrabble.

  As Senegal had said, the man was mad for history. She’d also warned me not to ask about the stone artifact I’d seen in the library-so I did, of course, during our boat trip to Saint Arc.

  “Yes, the stone is Mayan or Olmec,” he began. “The Yaxkin glyph is unmistakable. But my grandfather didn’t find it in Central America. He found it there.” He pointed to the volcanic peaks of Saint Arc. “Surprised?”

  I was. We were more than a thousand miles from the Mayan ruins of Central America.

  “Where?”

  Montbard had smiled. “In the monastery. One day, Dr. Ford, when this business is behind us, I’ll tell you the source of the other glyphs on that artifact. You won’t be surprised, you’ll be shocked. My grandfather was convinced there was trade between these islands-Europe and Africa, too-long before Columbus. Wouldn’t it be lovely to prove it?”

  An hour later, the man was still talking about archaeology, and what he called his theory of “relentless human motion.” Man is genetically driven to wander-that was the premise.

  “Senegal showed you the maps in my library. Most of history’s so-called inexplicable mysteries are hoaxes. Those maps are not.

  “Spare me the ridiculous fairy stories of quasi-archaeologists. Peru wasn’t a landing strip for extraterrestrials, Quetzalcoatl wasn’t Jesus in disguise. Inca stones depicting men fighting dinosaurs are fakes, for God’s sake, and-speaking of God-if He actually did impart supernatural powers to the Ark of the Covenant, or the chalice that caught Christ’s blood, or to the four nails that held Christ on the cross, why did He hide the damn things where no one can find them?”

  Archaeology, Montbard told me, was the study of human movement using stationary materials. He had no interest in fairy tales.

  Yes, the man had all the obsessive quirks-a righteous certainty, too- that I associate with the best in our business. We had exchanged enough information to know we had mutual acquaintances in the trade-names weren’t used, of course. I suspected that Bernie Yager was among them. Had Bernie told the man I was coming?

  I thought about it as we returned along the goat path toward the cemetery-something to take my mind off falling. It was easier now because of the rope, but I was still sweat-soaked by the time we arrived at the rock base where we’d started-a clear view down onto the monastery where the eleven men and women had concluded their chanting and were now walking single file toward what may have been stone dormitories on opposite sides of the quadrangle. Men went one way; women the other.

  “The article was right about that celibacy business,” Montbard whispered, binoculars to his eyes. “Senny will be relieved, I dare say.”

  He’d made the inference more than once, so I decided to ask, “No interest in men?”

  “Occasionally. If she wasn’t open about it, I wouldn’t compromise the girl by telling you. Something to do with her bastard of a father and her ex-husband who wasn’t… well, let’s just say he wasn’t attentive. But maybe a few nights here will set her right. Magic elixirs, secret herbs. Who knows? You and Senegal have chemistry-oppositional, true. But that’s how many passionate relationships begin. I would heartily approve, by the way.”

  When I didn’t respond, he added, “Reticent-I understand. But don’t dismiss the girl. She’s magnificent in her way. Brilliant and true as steel. She’ll relax a bit when I confirm you two will be in separate quarters.”

  Senegal Firth would be relieved-so would I. The woman was attractive, productive, and independent, but she was also carrying emotional baggage that I had no interest in shouldering. We all acquire scars over the years, but adults who wince at the thought of intimacy-particularly sexual intimacy-are a bad risk even to those of us who are rescuers by nature. I’ve learned to keep my distance.

  Montbard was still looking through the binoculars. “What a blasted waste-some damned attractive women in that group.”

  I realized he was back on the subject of celibacy.

  “And those surgical scrubs some are wearing; more like night dresses, wouldn’t you say? Revealing enough to test any man… and all of a type, like uniforms. Why would management forbid conjugal relations yet issue that sort of attire?”

  I said, “Forbidden fruit?”

  Sounding distracted, he said, “Suppose so. Makes more sense than magic potions.” Then his tone freshened. “Have a look, Ford. The one with the angelic hair… auburn, I think. Scandinavian features-isn’t she an American film actress? Yes… yes, I think she is. By God, she’s exquisite.”

  I took the binoculars, beginning to suspect that the man’s list of hobbies included beautiful women. I removed my glasses, touched my finger to the zoom focus…

  The woman he was describing was the last of six women and men walking single file along a path toward the monastery’s inland cloister. The remaining five people filed toward the cloister on the opposite side of the quadrangle. Dormitories weren’t segregated by sex, apparently. They walked at a ceremonial pace, heads down like monks-all but the woman Montbard had described. She was alert, eyes moving, taking in the surroundings.

  When I saw her face, I pulled the binoculars away for several seconds, looked again, and said without thinking, “What the hell’s she doing here…?”

  “A film actress-I was right!” Sir James whispered, enjoying himself. “Thought so. Don’t tell me her name-it’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

  I said, “If you insist,” relieved he was giving me time to collect myself. Should I trust him? Should I wait?

  I had to trust him, but I’d tell him later. The woman was Beryl Woodward.
/>   24

  Isabelle Toussaint was holding court on the pool terrace, hosting a cocktail party for guests. A rare appearance at one of her own parties.

  “Lovely stroke of luck, eh, Ford?”

  I was so preoccupied, thinking about Beryl, that Sir James had to repeat himself before I replied, “Sure, lucky. But let’s keep a little in reserve for later.”

  We had traversed the face of the bluff above the lodge, then moved downhill to a fence that screened the terrace, pool, and dining room. The lighted pool was a rectangle of black tile. The dining room, visible through open French doors, was done in bamboo and dark wood, with traditional plaid curtains-common in the islands.

  “I may have misplaced the actress’s name,” Sir James whispered, “but I can identify the woman you’re looking at beyond doubt. That’s the Maji Blanc herself. Dressed for the part… and wearing her famous necklace, too. As a gentleman, I will only point out that her famous sapphire isn’t the sole reason she’s memorable.”

  My glasses were pushed up on my head, and I was looking through the binoculars. Silently, I filled in the blank… She’s memorable because there’s so much of her to remember. Something like that.

  I was still thinking about Beryl-how the hell had she gotten into this place? I’d told her I might be staying at the Orchid, but there was no way for her to know I’d be registered under a different name. I hadn’t been near a computer to check if she or Shay had replied to my e-mails, true, but…

  “You do see the woman, old boy. Or have you dozed off?”

  I refocused the binoculars, and forced myself to concentrate.

  Madame Toussaint was a linebacker-sized woman. Sunken cheeks blushed with rouge, a heart-shaped mouth made girlish with lipstick, and wide, dark eyes that moved with tactical precision from guest to guest, even while engaged in conversation.

  She was dressed in white robes with a white gabled hood trimmed in scarlet. The robe was the white of a hospital hallway, not the silken white of gowns issued to female guests. The hood was a starched rectangle that framed her face-a monastic touch that attempted stylishness with a shoulder veil that was knotted as if it were a ponytail. The Midnight Star, worn high on her neck, was a blue sapphire the size of a robin’s egg. No risk of exposed cleavage. A convent nun with Madonna affectations- that was the impression.