by Tom Savage
The streets and sidewalks in this part of San Juan were from an earlier era, and all of it was in dramatic contrast to the modern buildings of the new city, occasionally glimpsed through gaps in the scenery. Nora and Jeff snapped photos and pointed out things to each other, reminding her of their first few dates years ago.
The bus stopped at noon, depositing everyone into a quiet side street near a large square. The plaza was packed with tourists being accosted by hawkers, buskers, sidewalk artists, and vendors in kiosks selling every imaginable type of Latin food. As she and Jeff followed the Lamonts down the bus steps, Nora feared that they might lose sight of them, but the other couple veered away from the action and entered a restaurant on the side street. Nora commandeered one of the shaded tables for two on the sidewalk in front of the picture window.
“We’ll live without air-conditioning while we eat, right? We can see them from here, so if they make contact with anyone, we’ll already be on the street, and we can follow them.”
“Spoken like a seasoned field agent,” Jeff said. “We don’t stand out, as we would if we took a table near them. Of course, we can’t hear what they’re saying at their table in there, but I don’t think we’ll miss anything.”
Nora nodded. “That’s for sure! They’ve barely spoken to each other all morning.” She glanced in through the window to see the couple ordering lunch. As soon as the waiter was gone, Claude took out his phone and began speaking into it. His wife seemed to ignore this, looking around the room instead. The waiter brought coffee for Claude and tea for Carmen.
“That reminds me,” Jeff said, producing his own phone. He punched in a number and waited, then spoke Spanish in a rapid whisper. Nora watched, fascinated, but she didn’t understand a word except that he was speaking to someone named Lino. The waiter arrived with menus.
Jeff ended the call and perused his menu. Nora said, “What was that all about?”
He grinned. “Later. Hmm…pollo con salsa verde sounds good. Let’s try it!”
Chapter 5
Castillo San Felipe del Morro, commonly known simply as El Morro, is set on a promontory 140 feet above the northwestern tip of the harbor in Old San Juan, with panoramic views of the city and the Atlantic Ocean. It is the oldest military fortress in the area, begun in 1539 and finished in 1786, a mazelike stronghold of barracks, magazines, tunnels, cannon bays, turrets, and sentry boxes. The rounded stone guard posts are built into the thick outer walls of the castle, suspended precipitously above the ocean. These sentry boxes at El Morro are world-famous, their familiar silhouettes adorning travel posters and guidebook covers advertising the island. They are among the first images many people summon when they think of Puerto Rico.
Jeff told Nora his plan on the bus ride from the square to the old fortress on the bay. She was learning on the job; first the careful placement of the observer to better see the subject, and now this. Her husband always arranged everything one step ahead, and she would strive to do that as well. Her impulsive nature wasn’t always a good fit with covert ops.
And yet, there was something to be said for spur-of-the-moment decisions, she thought as the group filed out of the bus and walked toward the entrance of El Morro. It was pure impulse that had seen her through her first experience in the field—impulse and adrenaline. She’d been flying blind, unaware of the scope of the situation she was in, not to mention its dangers. She’d managed to succeed that first time, but there was no guarantee that she’d always be so lucky.
Her second adventure, in Venice last January, had presented a different set of problems, mainly how to keep the op going when everything in it goes wrong. As for her most recent assignment, in Paris and Switzerland—well, she was still recovering from the embarrassment caused by that one, even though it hadn’t been her fault. She’d have to learn to make provisions for the lies and deceptions of others, including her own teammates.
Conclusion: CIA work was like acting, a mix of the scripted and the unexpected. And—like actors—the best agents knew when to follow the scenario and when to improvise. Nora was glad for this chance to watch Jeff work; it was similar to getting personal acting lessons from Daniel Day-Lewis.
The Lamonts were distinctively dressed today, she in a hot pink blouse with matching shorts and sandals and he in a loud yellow-and-orange Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Keeping track of them wouldn’t be difficult, even if they were a fair distance from Nora and Jeff. This turned out to be a good thing, as the Barons discovered when they were led into the deeper recesses of the castle. Much of it was underground, built into the cliff itself, with subdued lighting in the long passageways.
Tony marched forward, admonishing everyone in his group to keep up with him, from the lowest dungeons to the rooftop battle stations. He maintained a running lecture about the Spanish occupation of the area and the frequent battles fought with foreign navy ships seeking to claim Puerto Rico for their countries, not to mention the pirates and renegades who had preyed on all the islands in the West Indies for plunder.
Nora barely paid attention to the history lesson, but she saw that Jeff was able to take in Tony’s every word while never once averting his attention from the Lamonts. He also kept looking at his watch. They’d arrived here just after two o’clock, and they’d been led around the place for more than an hour already, so it seemed logical that whatever Claude Lamont was planning—if he was indeed planning anything—would happen soon.
Their group was in the little museum, examining old Spanish weapons, armor, and coins in glass cases and studying the ancient maps on the walls, when Claude Lamont whispered something to his wife. She shrugged, and the two of them abruptly left the room, walking toward the stairs to the battlements at the seaward side of the fort where the cannons were.
Nora looked around at their fellow tourists. Everyone appeared to be engrossed, and Tony was pointing to a map and giving yet another lecture. Jeff took her hand, and they slipped unobtrusively out of the museum, heading down the corridor the Lamonts had taken. They climbed the stone steps and stopped in the shadows of an archway that opened onto the battlements and a sunlit space. Claude and his wife stood in the center of the wide area, heads together, surrounded by a few tourists from other groups who were inspecting the big guns in their niches at the parapets. Claude said something to Carmen and walked back toward the archway where the Barons were concealed, and Carmen wandered over to the parapet near a mounted cannon.
Nora and Jeff moved out onto the roof terrace just as Claude reentered the castle. He never even glanced at them as he passed by, reinforcing Nora’s impression that he was unaware of their existence. Neither of the Lamonts seemed to have shown an interest in the Barons so far, on the ship or today on the island.
When Claude was gone, Jeff said, “Okay, I’ll follow him. You stay on her.” He slipped back through the archway and vanished.
Nora studied the woman at the parapet thirty feet in front of her. Ham Green had suggested that Nora try to get to know Carmen Lamont, even befriend her, but Nora had nixed that idea after observing her for two days. Whether Carmen was an accomplice or a mere victim remained to be seen, but, either way, Nora was certain that she wouldn’t get any information about Claude Lamont from her. Accomplices had every reason to be silent, and frightened wives didn’t tend to confide in strangers. In fact, they frequently concocted elaborate fantasies about their perfect marriages and wonderful husbands to share with acquaintances. Nora had met enough of these women to automatically distrust anything they said.
Well, she couldn’t stay here, in the archway between the battlements and the building’s interior; she was conspicuous. She looked around the rooftop. At the farthest end from her, perched atop the cliff, was a wide, raised stone platform ringed by a jarringly modern, chest-high steel fence. Nora walked forward across the open space, never glancing over at Carmen Lamont. She climbed the steps to the platform and went to the high railin
g, gazing out at the vast expanse of ocean.
She was alone here; the other tourists were clustered around the cannons on the lower level behind her. Only the muffled crash of waves far below and the occasional cry of a gull could be heard from this vantage. She breathed in the fresh sea air, such a welcome relief from the dank, close atmosphere of the interior. She thought it was fitting that she was admiring the stunning vista: This was a vacation, after all, no matter the assignment that went with it. Perhaps they’d discover the elusive terrorist soon, and then she and Jeff could truly enjoy the rest of the cruise to Rio.
In the meantime, she had a job to do. She turned her head to look back at the castle behind her. Carmen Lamont hadn’t moved, but now she pulled a phone from her purse and spoke into it, then looked over at the archway. Nora guessed from the woman’s body language that she was waiting for something to happen. After a moment, a dark-haired young woman in jeans and a white blouse, possibly a Puerto Rican native, arrived through the archway, looked around the battlements, and then walked directly over to Carmen.
Nora already had her phone out by the time the two women clasped hands and began speaking. It was a brief meeting, and the women weren’t smiling. The other woman did all the talking, and Carmen looked anxious. Nora got off several discreet shots of them, but mentally kicked herself for having wandered so far away from Carmen. Had she been closer, she might have heard some of this conversation.
It was over in minutes. The woman stopped talking, Carmen said something, and they clasped hands again. The young woman turned and headed back toward the archway. Then she suddenly stopped in her tracks, pivoted, and walked over to the nearest parapet, apparently arrested by the beautiful view. Seconds later, the reason for her odd detour became apparent: Claude Lamont stepped forward through the archway and walked over to his wife. The woman had obviously seen him coming and was trying to avoid being seen by him.
Jeff appeared in the archway moments after Claude Lamont. He glanced idly around the battlements until he spotted Nora waving to him from the steel fence on the platform. He ambled ever-so-casually across the terrace and up the stone steps to join her there. They watched as the Lamonts went back inside the castle.
“Hello,” Jeff said. “This is a great view! I have some news.”
“So have I,” Nora replied. She waved vaguely in the direction of the young woman, who was now inspecting a cannon. “That woman over there just met with Carmen, and it was an arranged meeting. I don’t know what they said, but I have a few pictures of them. What’s your news?”
Jeff looked over at the young woman, then produced the irritating expression Nora always thought of as his slow grin. It inevitably meant that he was pleased with himself.
“Claude went to the snack bar near the entrance, where he was met by a man.”
Nora stared. “Diablo?”
“Uh, no, not Diablo. A local man—portly, mustache, florid complexion, in an expensive suit. He looked for all the world like a banker. They had coffee and talked for a few minutes—I couldn’t get close enough to hear anything—and then they parted. The man went out to the parking lot, got in an expensive car, and drove away.”
Nora continued to stare. “He got away? So, why are you smiling, darling?”
He gave her the slow grin again. “Because, ‘darling,’ my man Lino is following him.”
Now Nora smiled. So, Jeff’s plan had been activated in time. Lino, the man her husband had called from the restaurant, was a local operative of the CIA. Ham Green had given Jeff a list of contacts, American agents-in-place at nearly every stop along their route, just in case backup was needed. Lino, a native Puerto Rican, would presumably tail the stranger and report his activities to Jeff.
“What about her?” Nora asked, tilting her head toward the young woman at the parapet. “Can we get someone to watch her, or maybe follow her ourselves?”
Jeff looked over at the woman again and shook his head. “No, the wife isn’t our priority. That banker—or whatever he is—could lead us to something, maybe even Diablo. Let’s just stay on schedule and wait for word from Lino.”
“Okay,” Nora said. “In that case, I think it’s almost time to return to the ship. Shall we?”
“We shall,” he said, and they went back inside to join the other tourists.
Chapter 6
When Jeff’s phone buzzed, Nora was seated at the dressing table in their stateroom, contemplating her reflection in the mirror and working on a theory. Jeff was lying on the bed behind her, having stripped off his clothes and thrown himself across the neatly downturned sheets the moment they’d arrived from the Club Room. The Lamonts had finally retired to their suite after a late dinner and even later drinks, and Jeff had gratefully called it a night. He was half asleep when the call came, and he fumbled for the phone on the night table.
It was just after midnight, so this was now, technically, the fourth day of their voyage. Three long, loud blasts of the ship’s horn had announced their departure from Puerto Rico a few minutes ago. Tomorrow they would dock in Guadeloupe, and from there they would continue down the island chain to Martinique, Barbados, and Trinidad. Then came Devil’s Island and three port cities along coastal Brazil before they’d arrive at their final destination, Rio, two weeks from today.
Nora glanced at her husband in the mirror. He was talking to Lino. Nora hadn’t met the man, hadn’t even laid eyes on him, but Jeff had described him well enough for Nora to form an impression: thirtyish, wiry, eager; the sort of young recruit Jeff called a lifer. This was high praise in the Company.
Nora’s reflection was as it always was: a good face with prominent cheekbones, bright green eyes, shoulder-length russet hair that she cheated into a lighter chestnut shade, and a creamy complexion. Well, it was naturally creamy, the legacy of her Irish-American parents, but her constant exposure to the sun gave her skin a golden glow. She kept herself in shape with twice-weekly trips to her health club, not to mention wrangling hordes of college students for two semesters every year. She decided that she looked okay, and she was relieved that she seemed to be adapting to the reality of turning fifty.
She lowered her gaze from the mirror to the neatly typed paper file on the table in front of her. Ralph Johnson was a big believer in paper, as opposed to electronic, files for fieldwork. A computer entry is basically forever, whereas with paper from a good old-fashioned typewriter, all you need is a match or a lighter to destroy it. He’d provided the Barons with a fairly detailed account of Claude Lamont’s life, emphasizing his recent financial activities, but this wasn’t what held Nora’s attention now. She was studying the few wispy facts the Company had compiled about Carmen Lamont, née Mendoza.
And they were definitely wispy. As far as the CIA could tell, the woman might as well have been born in Spain five years ago, when she’d met and married Claude Lamont at the age of twenty-seven. Her life up to that point had apparently been spent in a seaside village in the southern region of Andalusia with an aunt who was the widow of a fisherman. Nothing was known of her parents, or any particulars of her education. When her aunt died, she moved to Madrid and got a hostess job in an upscale gentlemen’s club that catered to top international businessmen, and where Claude was a member.
Nora wondered what the word hostess implied. Had Carmen Mendoza been a prostitute, or was she simply a greeter-and-seater at the club? It was impossible to tell from Ralph’s notes. At any rate, Claude had removed her from the job not long after they met. He’d gone back to Lyon, divorced Yvette, his wife of ten years, and married Carmen on his next trip to Spain.
The following five years, up to the present, were dismissed in a couple of sentences in Ralph’s notes. Carmen settled in as the trophy wife of the Mistral executive, occasionally traveling with him on business trips and hosting business-related parties, but rarely seen in public. She didn’t seem to have any friends of her own; her husban
d was evidently her whole world.
Nora frowned at this; it was such an outmoded concept. Nora’s female friends were actors, teachers, businesswomen of one kind or another. Even the few homemakers she knew had garden clubs, book clubs, bridge clubs, the PTA, or they were soccer moms—they did something. She wondered how Carmen Lamont filled her long days and weeks alone at home. She wondered why the Lamonts hadn’t started a family.
Carmen’s minimal history fitted into Nora’s developing idea about her. Ever since she’d observed Carmen’s meeting with the young woman at El Morro, she’d been working on a suspicion. Jeff had forwarded her photos to Lino Ortega, and now Jeff was talking to him. Perhaps the San Juan office of the CIA had identified the young woman. Nora glanced over at Jeff, who was still deep in Spanish conversation on the phone.
As little as there was about Carmen Lamont in Ralph’s dossier, there was even less about Mary Ross, the murder victim in Miami. Ralph and Ham Green had told the Barons virtually everything they knew about her, and nothing else was in the file except that she’d been born and raised in Ohio and gone to Miami for the job teaching art in a grammar school shortly after obtaining art and teaching degrees at OSU. She’d been an only child, and both her parents were dead. No surprise there; Nora had figured as much when she’d learned that no one had reported the woman missing for three months. No family and no friends: Mary Ross and Carmen Lamont seemed to have that in common.
Jeff ended his call and looked over at Nora. “Okay, the man from El Morro is one Jorge Escobar, and I was right about his being a banker. Well, a banker of sorts—private wealth management. He handles a lot of Lamont’s money, and the meeting today was evidently because the two men have never met face-to-face before. Lamont told Escobar he’d be in Puerto Rico for a few hours, and Escobar came to the castle to meet him. They were discussing possible future investments. Lino learned all this by flirting with a friendly receptionist at Escobar’s business. It sounds pretty routine, nothing to do with Diablo or—”
