by Tom Savage
“Good morning, Mrs. Baron,” Jeff’s young assistant said. Ralph Johnson was one of those people who always sounded alert and well rested. “Isn’t that a beautiful harbor?”
Nora blinked, then stared at the scene in front of her, oddly comforted that Ralph—nearly two thousand miles northwest of her—knew exactly where she was and what she was seeing at this moment. Her phone’s GPS was on the job, and so was Ralph.
“Yes, it’s very pretty—but it’s hotter here than it was in Puerto Rico yesterday. I’m in town for the day, following the lady, and Jeff is—”
She heard a low chuckle. “Yes, I know where he’s going; we spoke earlier this morning. The exercise will be good for him. He said you’d probably be calling me. What can I do for you?”
Nora arranged her list in her mind. “I need to know anything you can find out about Brian and Melanie Dunstan of London. I’m specifically looking for a connection between them and Claude Lamont.”
“Okay. What else?”
“This is a long shot,” Nora told him, “but I could use any information about Yvette Lamont, Claude’s ex-wife. I don’t know if she’s still with Compagnie Mistral in Lyon. If you have any contacts there, maybe someone could approach her and…Wait a minute.” Nora paused, thinking. “No—scratch that, Ralph. I have contacts in France, and one of them would be perfect for this. Never mind.”
“Okay,” Ralph said again. “What else?”
“The young woman in the photos Jeff sent you yesterday, the woman at El Morro with Carmen Lamont. Any word on her?”
“Not yet, but we’re looking. As soon as we know who she is, you’ll know. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all for now, Ralph. Thank you for doing this.”
“Of course. But may I ask, Mrs. Baron, what exactly are you looking for?”
Nora gazed out at the waterfront city gleaming in the morning sunlight. “I’m trying to establish who’s who in Claude Lamont’s life. He has this apparent connection to Diablo, and I want to know if any of these other people could be involved in some way.”
“Okay,” Ralph said. “I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Ralph.” Nora was about to sign off when she remembered that she didn’t have her personal phone with her. “One more thing. Do you happen to have a phone number for my friend Jacques Lanier in France?”
Ralph chuckled again. “I thought that’s who you meant when you mentioned contacts over there. Yes, I have it right here.” He read the number to her, and she entered it in her phone.
“Great,” Nora said. “I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”
She broke the connection and called the number in Paris. Jacques Lanier was an old friend of Jeff’s, a former agent with the French equivalent of the CIA—the Sous-Direction Anti-Terroriste, or SDAT. He was also a particular friend of Nora’s: He’d saved her life on her first mission, and he’d helped her again on her most recent one. Jacques was retired now, with two sons in their thirties who were second-generation French agents. And he had a daughter-in-law, Cecile, who was also an active French operative—and the reason Nora was calling.
“Bonjour?” the familiar voice said on the other end of the line. He sounded wary; he would have gotten the screen message Appelant Inconnu.
“Bonjour, Jacques, c’est Nora Baron,” she said.
He laughed and used the familiar nickname he always used with her, a private joke between them. “Mademoiselle Hugs! How joyful to be hearing you! But what is this telephone you are using?”
“It’s not my usual one. I’m on the job again.”
“Ah, I see. Is Jeff with you?”
“Yes, but not at the moment. He’s—out in the field, as it were.”
“Vraimant? He is not behind the desk in New York? You are working an op together, oui? He must be very happy. Can you tell me where you are?”
Nora smiled at this. Spoken like a top agent of long standing: In their profession, locations couldn’t always be shared, especially on phones.
“We can talk freely, Jacques. This is one of Ham Green’s phones. I’m in France, in a manner of speaking. Guadeloupe.”
“Ah, you are in les îles de France! I have been in Guadeloupe once, years ago. It is pretty there, but Marianne says Martinique is prettier.”
Nora smiled again, picturing Jacques’s wonderful wife. Marianne Lanier was a civilian, not in her family’s business, but she, too, had once come to Nora’s aid on a mission. In fact, Nora had spent several days impersonating her. “We’ll be in Martinique tomorrow, so I’ll see for myself, but I’ll take Marianne’s word for it. Send her my love.”
“Oui, and she sends you her best wishes. But why are you racing from the island to the island like the cat out of hell?”
Nora laughed. Jacques loved to use American slang, but he nearly always got it wrong, and she always corrected him. “Bat out of hell. We’re on a cruise ship, bound for Rio de Janeiro with several stops along the way.”
“Ah, I see. This cruise—it is a mission?”
“Yes. I don’t have time to explain now, but I must ask another favor of you—or, rather, of your daughter-in-law.”
“Cecile? Ah, but this is the happy chance! Cecile is here, in my house! She and Pierre are leaving today to drive to Lyon to be with her sister. Monique is any day to have the baby, and—”
Nora cut him off. “Wait—did you say, Lyon? This is a happy chance! May I speak with her?”
“But of course! You tell her what you want, and I will speak again with you soon, oui?”
“Yes, I’ll call you,” Nora said. “Thank you, Jacques.”
“De rien, mademoiselle. Cecile!”
As Jacques’s daughter-in-law came on the line, Nora saw Carmen Lamont arrive at the gangway and descend to the dock. Nora followed, speaking into the phone as she moved, hoping the CIA’s Wi-Fi setup wouldn’t hit a dead spot on the island and cut her off. When Cecile began to ask after Jeff and Dana, Nora changed the subject and came to the point.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have much time, Cecile,” she said as she followed Carmen past the cruise ship passenger terminal. “I’m actually tailing someone on foot in a crowded waterfront city. Here’s what I need…”
She explained the job to the young French agent. Cecile Lanier was quick on the uptake; Nora was grateful for that. She immediately understood what Nora wanted, and promised to do it as soon as she arrived in Lyon and could get away from her family for a while. Nora thanked her, telling her that she’d be paid off the books for the favor.
“Oh, no,” Cecile said in her beautiful French-accented English. “That will not be necessary, Nora. It is a matter of one hour, two at the most. It is nothing. You follow Madame Lamont number two, and I shall approach Madame Lamont number one. I will call you as soon as I can. Au revoir!”
“Au revoir, Cecile.” Nora dropped the phone in her bag and concentrated on her quarry. Carmen Lamont was crossing the wide, busy street in front of the passenger terminal toward what looked to be the main part of town.
Nora followed her.
Chapter 10
Carmen wandered slowly through the busy streets with her guidebook in hand. She tended to pick the sidewalks that were covered by second-story balconies, a common feature in many of the buildings here, and Nora appreciated her choice. Both of them wore light dresses and sandals, but the tropical heat was fierce. It was cooler in the shadows, of course, but it also made Nora feel somewhat less conspicuous should Carmen turn to look behind her. She didn’t.
Their first stop was Cathédrale de St-Pierre et St-Paul, an imposing yellow-and-white edifice a few blocks away from the dock where the Tropic Star and another cruise ship were berthed. When Carmen went into the cathedral, Nora waited outside.
Nora used the time to look around the square in front of the church. Her own guidebook informed her that most of
the buildings in Guadeloupe were fairly new because much of it had been destroyed several times over the years by hurricanes, fires, and major eruptions of La Grande Soufrière, where Jeff was headed this afternoon. Nora studied the odd mix of architectural styles and historical periods in buildings that stood side by side but were often separated by centuries. There was a haphazard look to much of what she saw; the jumble of old and new wasn’t always pleasing. She remembered that Marianne Lanier preferred Martinique.
After the church, Carmen visited a crowded open marketplace of fruits, vegetables, coffee, tea, and spices. She perused the long tables, examining jars and bottles and boxes, finally selecting a packet of ground local coffee—probably a gift for Claude, who was always drinking coffee. She paid the grumpy vendor, but not before haggling over the price. Nora wasn’t close enough to hear it—she was pretending to inspect a table of fruit ten yards away—but the pantomime was obvious.
Nora bought two bananas from an extremely pregnant young woman, but between her schoolbook French and the woman’s incomprehensible Creole, she couldn’t haggle. She noted the woman’s patched clothing and careworn expression, and she deliberately overpaid with two euros. The woman stared at her in astonishment and then smiled. Nora smiled back before hurrying away to catch up with her quarry.
Lunch was next on Carmen’s agenda, and she looked around at several restaurants she passed before choosing an outdoor café in Place de la Victoire, the main square in Pointe-à-Pitre. The big plaza was crowded with natives and tourists, so Nora could monitor the woman at the table from just about anywhere. She wasn’t particularly hungry after her big breakfast on the ship. She considered the bananas in her shoulder bag, but finally decided to take an umbrella-topped table at the next café along the same side of the square.
She ordered thé glacé and the salade du jour from a girl who spoke French slowly for her benefit, Nora all the while straining to watch Carmen through the constant swirl of bodies. The hot midday sun poured down on the open space, and she was grateful for the umbrella. Carmen, in the shade under a balcony, sipped rosé wine and picked at a plate of fruit and cheese.
Nora thought of Jeff, wondering if he was having more luck with the husband than she was having with the wife. She didn’t know what was on this woman’s mind, but it seemed to her that Carmen was drifting, killing time, with no immediate plans other than to eventually return to the ship. She didn’t appear to be waiting to meet anyone. Looking at her now, Nora wondered if she might as well have gone on the hiking tour and seen the wilder side of Guadeloupe; she wasn’t at all sure that she was needed here. With a sigh, she looked away from her quarry and gazed idly out at the crowds in front of her.
Nora leaned forward in her chair, her attention drawn to one incongruous figure. A big, bearded, powerfully built black man stood perfectly still in the bustling throng near the center of the square, looking over in the direction where Carmen Lamont sat. He wore dark clothes: an untucked, long-sleeved denim shirt, a T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. He was overdressed for this hot day, but was apparently unfazed by the heat, which made Nora decide he was a local. She studied his fleshy face, noting his scowl of concentration as he watched Carmen.
Well, Nora thought he was watching Carmen; she couldn’t really be sure. There were so many people here: walking, laughing, pointing, taking selfies, entering and leaving the buildings around the big square. The visitors’ center was just over there, and the sidewalk restaurants and occasional stalls with food or souvenirs were swamped. Nora was reminded of Disney World, where she and Jeff had taken seven-year-old Dana for a week. Every tourist town was a theme park, and sometimes it was difficult to distinguish the natives from the visitors.
This man could be anybody, she told herself. He might not be looking at her quarry, and even if he were, what of it? Carmen Lamont was a gorgeous woman; she stood out in any crowd. His stare—if it was aimed at her—could easily be explained.
Moments later, Nora was disabused of that notion. Carmen waved to her waiter for her check, so Nora quickly summoned her waitress. Carmen paid with a credit card, and Nora did the same. Carmen’s waiter returned from inside the other café with her receipt before Nora’s waitress did, and Nora felt a tremor of unease as she watched her quarry stand up from the table and head back toward the same corner of the square where she’d entered. Nora didn’t want to lose her.
The big man immediately left the center of the square and moved slowly but purposefully through the crowds after Carmen Lamont. He was definitely following her, Nora realized. And he didn’t look friendly.
Chapter 11
Nora leaped to her feet, turning to peer inside her café just as the girl emerged from it with her card and receipt. Nora snatched them from her, scribbled a tip and a signature, thanked the girl, dropped her Visa card into her shoulder bag, and took off running through the crowd, craning her neck to see ahead of her. She arrived at the corner of the square where the other two had vanished, then she stopped, removed her sunglasses, and caught her breath as she scanned the street before her.
Carmen was presumably returning to the docks the way she’d come, and now she was ambling away down the sidewalk, clearly in no hurry, looking in shop windows as she wandered. The man was about twenty feet behind her, keeping to her pace. Nora put the sunglasses back on and fell into step about twenty feet behind the man. The three of them proceeded this way down the pretty West Indian street, a bizarre little parade, stopping when Carmen paused to examine a window display, then starting again when she moved on.
Nora looked around. There weren’t many people on the sidewalks here at this lunchtime hour: occasional tourist couples, a local woman with heavy grocery bags, a trio of laughing children playing tag up and down the opposite walkway. Cars and vans and ancient-looking municipal buses passed by in both directions, but even the traffic seemed thin at this hour. Nora studied the back of the man ahead of her, wondering who he was and what he had in mind. She could think of only four possibilities, none of them good: spy, thief, rapist, or killer.
Rapist. This reminded Nora that she had an option. She reached down into her shoulder bag and felt around for her keys, thinking of Venice. During her recent op there, a female friend of hers had come to her aid with an unusual weapon, a small plastic canister of pepper spray disguised as a perfume atomizer, attached to a key chain. Nora had thought the device was so clever—and effective—that she’d bought similar ones for herself and her daughter when she returned home. Jeff had approved.
She detached the canister and dropped her keys into her bag just as the man halted. He’d stopped because Carmen had stopped; she was looking off to her left. Nora moved closer behind the man until she saw what had caught Carmen’s attention. There was an open space between buildings where Carmen stood, and it presumably led into a mall or courtyard, or perhaps a garden; Nora couldn’t see from this angle. Carmen moved off the sidewalk into the space, disappearing from view.
The man stood with his back to Nora, and now he reached under his untucked shirt and pulled out a knife. Nora saw it clearly for a brief, chilling moment. Black handle, silver blade about six inches long: a dagger. He held it down against his thigh as he looked around the street.
Nora’s first impulse was to scream, and to hell with the mission, but no one was close enough to help her—only a few people on the next block and the three children playing on the opposite sidewalk. Cars passed by in both directions, but he clearly wasn’t worried about them; if he left the sidewalk to follow Carmen, the drivers wouldn’t even see him. There was no time to alert the people in the nearby shops, either; he’d be done and gone before anyone could react. She had only one option.
Nora knew what the man was going to do next, and she was ready for it. By the time he turned to check behind him, she had turned around and was walking back the way she’d just come. The man would see her retreating figure and assume she’d just come ou
t of one of the shops here and was heading for Place de la Victoire—or so she fervently hoped. She counted to three and turned around again. Sure enough, the man had turned back around as well and was stealing slowly forward along the sidewalk toward the spot where Carmen had disappeared.
Nora moved. She kicked off her sandals, gripping the canister in her right hand as she rushed silently toward the man on her bare feet. When he was almost at the spot where Carmen had been, Nora arrived behind him. She could smell his sweat. She brought up the spray in front of her, covering her face with her left arm.
“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” she said.
The big man whirled around, startled. As he raised his knife hand, his eyes were flooded from six inches away. Then Nora sprayed into his mouth just as he opened it to cry out, and his potential shout became a sputtering cough. He bent forward at the waist, coughing uncontrollably, dropping the knife to the sidewalk as he brought both hands up to cover his face. Still hunched over, gasping for air, he staggered sideways toward the curb, trying to get away from the threat he no longer could see.
Nora had dropped the canister into her bag and was kneeling down to pick up the knife when she heard the awful sound of screeching brakes behind her. She whipped her head around in time to see it happen. The blinded man had stumbled over the curb and sprawled facedown in the street—directly into the path of a bus. The big vehicle rolled over his back, crushing him. The screech of brakes grew louder. The shout from a man on the next block, the sight of the twitching legs extended toward her from behind the huge tire, the smell of exhaust: Nora absorbed it all in one excruciating second that seemed to go on forever. As she watched, the legs stopped twitching and lay still.
