by Allan Topol
Allison gathered up the guidebooks and the map and went down to the beach. On a chaise, on the deserted pure white sand, she identified the four top restaurants: CuisinArt Resort, Cap Juluca, Viceroy, and Hibernia. I’ll wait until they open for dinner, she thought.
* * *
Better for John Burt not to know where she was going. So when he was on the phone, she slipped out a side door. On her way to the car, she noticed a familiar beige LIME van with two men inside who appeared to be sleeping.
CuisinArt reminded her of Beverly Hills transplanted to the Caribbean. She showed the maître d’ Vanessa’s picture and received only a blank stare. After repeating that scene at Cap Juluca and Viceroy, she felt so tense she had to stop and take deep breaths. Maybe this was not a great idea. But she would not give up, not yet.
Hibernia was about half an hour away, she estimated, on the eastern side of the island. Night had fallen and the wind was whipping up the trees. Without any warning, the skies opened and a torrential downpour pounded on the little car. It rained harder than any time she could ever remember. She slowed to a crawl, the road a watery blur.
Thinking it too dangerous to keep going, she pulled over to wait for a break in the rain. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw another set of headlights pull over behind her. After fifteen minutes, the rain still hadn’t abated. The wind was now blowing hard enough to rock the car. She hoped to hell this wasn’t the hurricane the taxi driver had been predicting. She turned on the radio for weather news. All she heard was crackling static.
Switching on the overhead light, she checked the map. The turn-off should be about half a mile ahead on the left. She decided to chance it. No telling how long the storm would last. Pulling out, she checked the mirror. The vehicle she’d seen behind her was moving, too. Hey, don’t get paranoid, she told herself. Another driver could have reached the same decision she did.
Just ahead, she saw a sign with green letters against an orange background. “Hibernia.” An arrow pointed left. She exhaled a sigh of relief, her good feeling evaporating when the vehicle behind her turned left as well. They were following her! Shit!
Through the fast moving windshield wipers, she barely discerned a fallen tree in the road. At the last possible instant, she swerved around it. Clutching the wheel, her palms were moist, the defroster and A/C running full blast, her legs shaking. Perspiration dripped from her forehead and soaked her blouse.
At last, she saw it. There’s the restaurant, she thought, with sudden relief. It was a small stone house, painted in pastel colors, as if it were in Provence. Allison pulled into the empty parking lot, now a muddy bog with the rain still coming down in sheets.
She parked adjacent to the building and dashed from the car. By the time she reached the door, her clothes were soaked. Immediately she pivoted, looking back toward the parking lot. The van from LIME was pulling in.
Will they stay in their vehicle, she wondered, at least until she spoke to whomever’s inside. After that, God only knows what.
Allison rushed into the ladies room to dry her face and hair. Above the sink, she noticed photographs of a horse named Mary Pat in a winner’s circle. Emerging, she smelled the aroma of roast duck. An attractive dark haired woman in her late thirties was waiting. “I’m Mary Pat,” the woman said in an Irish accent. “May I help you?”
Allison took out Vanessa’s passport and showed her the picture. “I’m Allison Boyd. She’s my twin sister, Vanessa. Have you ever seen her?”
Mary Pat studied the photo. “Yes, she was here last Saturday for dinner. Wearing a yellow print dress with blue butterflies. And thin straps.”
Vanessa had a dress like that. She’d bought it when they were in Italy last summer.
“Whom was she with?”
Mary Pat hesitated. “Will I create problems for myself? Is this a marital situation?”
“Please. My twin sister died the next day. When she was still here in Anguilla.”
“She died!” Mary Pat sounded incredulous. “You said she died?”
Allison nodded.
“What a pity. Oh, I’m sorry. Why didn’t I hear about it? This is a small island.”
“That’s what I need to know. Please, will you help me?”
Mary Pat appeared to be studying her. “At first, I couldn’t believe she was your sister. You look so different. But now in the lines of the face I see the resemblance.”
“Please help me. Tell me everything you can about her.”
“She was here with a man. Just the two of them. They sat there.” She pointed to a table next to the wall. If the wind hadn’t been blowing away from it, the table would have been drenched.
Finally she was cutting through all the bullshit.
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. I got a call from him that afternoon for a reservation. He said he was John Smith and he was calling from a boat. But I don’t believe that was his name because when he got to the restaurant, he said the reservation was for Richard Smith.”
“What about a credit card receipt?”
Mary Pat shook her head. “He paid with cash. They seemed romantic together.”
Mary Pat paused.
“What else?”
“He had a wedding ring. She didn’t. I notice that sort of thing.”
Allison took a small pad and pencil from her purse. “Can you describe him?”
Mary Pat closed her eyes. “An American. White. In his fifties. About six one. Maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. Short dark brown hair, graying on the sides. A pleasant round face. No mustache or beard. No eye glasses. Dressed smartly in a blue blazer and white slacks. He acted like he was powerful and important. He complimented the staff and me. Picked two very good wines. Both burgundies. A white and a red. Corton. He asked me to tell my husband, who’s in the kitchen, how much they enjoyed the meal, particularly the duck from France.”
Allison carefully wrote everything down. “Did they drive or come by cab?”
“I watched them leave in a big car. An SUV.”
“Did you notice the license plate?”
Mary Pat shook her head.
Outside, it was still pouring. No one else had arrived. The lights flickered momentarily, but stayed on.
“Don’t worry about the power going out in here. We have our own generator.”
Allison now thought about the van that had followed her. “Do you have any idea why a van from LIME is parked outside?”
Mary Pat looked into the parking lot. “All that’s out there now is a little gray car, which I assume is yours. This time of year, rain like this can last for hours. You’re welcome to stay here, inside with me. We live upstairs. My husband, my daughter, and I. I could lend you some dry clothes. You could even sleep here tonight.”
Her offer was enticing, but Allison had been busy formulating a plan. The van might be coming back. So before that happened, she would drive as fast as she could to police headquarters. She could get there, hopefully, before the van caught up. Then she would confront Stevens with what Mary Pat had said. Now he’d have to tell her the truth.
Mary Pat insisted that Allison change into dry clothes, going upstairs and returning with a pink cotton blouse and khaki slacks. “They’ll be a little large for you, but if you tighten the belt, the trousers should stay up.” She handed Allison an umbrella. “Please drive carefully.”
Allison gunned the engine and shot out of the parking lot, hunching over the steering wheel, driving as fast as she could. Every few seconds she glanced back. Nobody there. So far, so good.
Five miles later, she spotted headlights, approaching from the rear. The van? She couldn’t tell. God, what should she do? She’d stop, see if it passed. She pulled over. The headlights pulled over, right behind her. It was the van!
In the mirror, she saw a man getting out on the passenger side, walking toward her. She thought about flooring the accelerator and racing off, but they’d still come after her, and they knew the roads better. This crap
has to end, she decided.
She got out of her car and moved toward him. He kept coming, the outline of his body glowing in the van’s headlights. At maybe ten yards, she saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a knife.
He extended his right arm closing in and eying her.
She wanted to scream, to run, to flee, as she watched him raise his arm. Then she darted to one side and grabbed his arm. Taking advantage of his surprise, she swung him by the arm over her body, and thank God, heard the crunching sound of his arm breaking. He lay on the ground, writhing and screaming in pain, the knife next to him. She picked it up and charged the van.
Again, she counted on surprise. Ferociously, she slashed two tires on the right side. The driver, cursing through the open window, tried to drive right at her. But with two flat tires, his van leaned to one side and could barely clunk forward.
She grabbed a rock and tossed it at the front windshield. Flying glass and the rock made him lose control. The van careened into a ditch.
Heart pounding, almost totally out of breath, she got back into her car and roared off. Now what? Go to the police? Bad idea. Better if she left all her stuff in the hotel room. She had her wallet, Vanessa’s vault key, and their two passports in her bag. That was all she needed. She’d drive to the dock in town. Find somebody with a boat to take her to St. Martin, and get the hell off this island.
* * *
She checked into The Palms, a small hotel near the airport in St. Martin. Her teeth chattering, goose bumps on her arms, she turned the deadbolt and put the chain on the door. After a long shower, she fixed hot tea from a machine on the counter.
To warm up, she climbed under the covers.
One thought kept racing through her mind: My God, they were trying to kill me.
What in the world was happening? she asked herself.
But it was a rhetorical question. She was getting close to learning whom Vanessa had gone with to Anguilla and they were determined to kill her rather than have her discover that information.
Thinking about her experience that evening made her whole body shake.
She had to talk to someone about what had happened.
Paul. He was her only choice.
She reached for her cell phone.
“Where are you?” he asked.
She was unbelievably relieved to hear his voice. “St. Martin. I’m flying back to Washington in the morning.” Her voice was coming out in short bursts.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I’m terrible. On Anguilla some men followed me and tried to kill me. I managed to escape.”
“Holy shit! Did you go to the police?”
“They’re running the cover-up. Vanessa had to be involved with a man who’s getting support from the police.”
“Did you get any information on his identity?”
“I’m getting close. I have a description.”
“What’s he look like?”
She read him her notes from the conversation with Mary Pat.
“That description fits lots of men in Washington. Let me think about how we can narrow it down. As soon as you land in Washington, come right to my house. You’ll be safe here. I’ll be at the office. Call me on my cell and I’ll come home.”
Allison had no intention of doing that. The first thing she had to do when she returned to Washington was go to Vanessa’s bank vault.
Washington
Martin came home at nine in the evening. To his surprise, he found Francis there and in bed.
“Hey, I thought you were going to the Kennedy Center for chamber music with Sharon.”
“Stomach virus,” she muttered. “Leave me alone.”
And he did until almost eleven thirty in the evening when she called to him. “I’ve rejoined the living.”
He went upstairs and found her in bed, propped up against the headboard.
“Wow! It just hit me all at once. Sorry to kick you out, Andrew.”
“You okay?”
“For sure. Now I want to hear about your meeting with President Braddock and Arthur. And I want the whole nine yards.”
For the next half hour he reported while she interrogated like a trial lawyer about small details. When he was finished, she said, “I think it all sounds positive.”
“I didn’t mention Jasper and Anguilla to Braddock. You think I should have?”
While she thought about it, he added, “It’s not too late. I can call Arthur first thing in the morning and inform him.”
“No, no. You made the right decision. I know Arthur. You’d be out. He’d tell the president. And Braddock would turn on you, concluding that he didn’t want someone sleazy on his short list.”
Martin winced.
“I didn’t say you were sleazy,” she continued, as if reading his mind. “What I said was Braddock might jump to that conclusion. No, no. You were smart. You had no choice.”
Later asleep, next to Francis, Martin dreamt he was walking through a field. He saw an electrified fence in the center with yellow neon lights on top. He knew he had better stay away from it, but the light became dim. Then, a searing jolt like electricity shot through his body.
The cell phone on the night table rang. It was Gorton. “You don’t have to worry about Allison Boyd. She never learned what actually happened.”
“What about Har Stevens? I was afraid he’d be a problem.”
“Fortunately, he was off island the night Vanessa drowned. His deputy and the two officers stuck with the story I created for them.”
Martin let out his breath in a sigh of relief. “Good work, Gorton.”
“But I have to tell you. She is one tough lady. Roughed up a couple of my guys.”
“I told you no violence,” Martin said sharply.
“She came after two of my men who were following her. They had all they could do to defend themselves. One has a broken arm and the other one cuts on his face from a broken windshield.”
Martin had never dealt with violence like this. Sure, he had represented criminals who were connected to violent crimes, generally in court appointed cases. But not in his own life. He felt as if he was rapidly losing control of the situation. “What about Allison?”
“I don’t think she had a scratch.”
“Has she left Anguilla?”
“She took a boat to St. Martin about an hour ago. My nephew’s. While she was on the boat, he heard her booking a plane on American Airlines to Washington for the morning.”
Great, Martin thought, she was coming back here to resume her investigation. But meantime, he had dodged a bullet in Anguilla.
Gorton added, “Good luck to you in dealing with that hellcat, Mr. Martin.”
“Thanks for everything, Gorton.”
Once Gorton clicked off, Martin decided to call Jasper. He didn’t want the senator doing anything foolish. Martin called him at home, waking Jasper.
“Good news, Wes. Anguilla was a dry hold for Allison.”
“How do you know that?”
“Gorton just called me.”
“Okay,” the senator said and hung up
“Thanks for the show of gratitude,” Martin said into the dead phone.
* * *
Xiang was in the computer room in the Chinese Embassy watching a technician deftly hack into airline computers. She started with United. “No record of Allison Boyd.” Then moved on to American.
Xiang was looking over her shoulder. He saw the name Allison Boyd appear on the screen followed by a flight number: American 220 from Miami. It showed an arrival time of 2:55 p.m. today into Reagan National.
Xiang decided that he and Han would wait at the exit for American on the lower level in a dark blue Civic, with Han driving. He expected Allison to take a cab. It would be too difficult to channel her into a cab with a driver working for him since it was impossible to control those cab lines. So he’d follow her cab.
If Xiang were a gambler, he’d bet heavily that if Allison hadn’t found the CD in Anguilla
, she would immediately go to the bank and Vanessa’s safe deposit box before the bank closed. So if she didn’t go to the bank, that meant she had the CD. He’d follow her cab and when she came to her destination, probably Vanessa’s apartment, he’d pull up behind her, jump out, and grab it. With the element of surprise that should be doable.
But suppose she retrieved the CD from the bank vault?
He tried to put himself into her mind. She would undoubtedly place the CD in her briefcase. He could try to snatch it from her on the street as she left the bank, but that would be too risky in broad daylight. Besides, as he learned two days ago, Allison was tough. She’d fight back and bystanders or a passing policeman might intervene.
He didn’t know where she’d be going with the CD, but suppose he arranged to have a cab waiting in front of the bank, with the driver working for him, and hopefully that was the cab Allison got into. That would be easy to arrange in front of the bank. Then it wouldn’t matter where Allison planned to go. The driver could take her to a destination that Xiang selected.
Getting control of a DC cab was easy. For enough cash, he was confident he could borrow one from a cab company. But the driver couldn’t be Chinese. Xiang was convinced Allison would never get into a cab with a Chinese driver after what she’d been through the last couple of days.
He came up with an idea for the cab and driver. Xiang had become friends with Kiro, a Nigerian intelligence agent attached to their embassy. The Nigerians were courting China for a large new trade agreement. Xiang was confident Kiro would help.
Xiang called Kiro. Half an hour later he was seated in the Nigerian Embassy telling Kiro, “I need a favor.”
“I’m listening,” the tall, thin Nigerian responded in English, spoken with a British accent, the result of four years at Oxford.
“You once told me that a number of Nigerian cab drivers in Washington were on your payroll.”
“That’s right. They supplement their income with drop-offs and pickups for me.”
“Can these men be trusted?”
Kiro’s head snapped back. He was scowling. I’ve insulted him, Xiang thought. Before Xiang had a chance to say anything, Kiro interjected.
