by Tom Savage
She’d tolerated his verbal and occasional physical abuse for the ten long years of their marriage, to say nothing of his constant infidelity. She told Cecile that she’d actually been relieved when he’d returned from a business trip to Madrid with the news that he was in love with another woman, and that he wanted a divorce. Her solicitors went to work with a vengeance, forcing Claude to waive their prenuptial agreement before she relented. She quit her job at Compagnie Mistral and walked away with an impressive chunk of his fortune.
As the interview in the Lyon café was concluding, Yvette Marchand had confided to Cecile that Claude’s new wife, the beautiful nightclub hostess from Madrid, was apparently helping him oversee the money at Compagnie Mistral. According to Yvette’s spies in the company, Carmen Lamont was a shrewd businesswoman and the power behind Claude’s throne, which Yvette didn’t understand. She’d been told that Carmen was a peasant from a village in coastal Spain with little formal education, so where had she obtained all this knowledge of high finance? That’s what Yvette Marchand wanted to know.
Nora thought about that: She wanted to know, too. This woman she was following—this abused, neglected trophy wife—was evidently a lot more complex than she’d first appeared to be. Even the bitter, alcoholic woman she’d replaced in Claude’s life spoke of her with grudging admiration. Ham Green had mentioned Claude’s constantly rising and falling personal fortune, all in the last few years. Did Carmen have a hand in that as well? Was she involved in his illegal activities?
Nora picked up the notepad and pen. She’d make her list now, but where to begin? After some thought, she decided to do a random series of facts and questions as they occurred to her. She wrote:
Carmen Lamont is the true CFO of Compagnie Mistral, as Yvette had been before her. Where did Carmen learn about big business?
Claude lends millions to terrorists and drug cartels, and the payback is enormous. These profits are invested in stocks and bonds or placed in offshore accounts. If Claude truly is an idiot when it comes to money, who oversees all this activity? Carmen?
Claude told Melanie Dunstan that he’s going to divorce Carmen and marry her. Will Melanie be able to run the Mistral finances and handle the profits from his illegal dealings? If not, who will do the job for him? The private wealth manager in Puerto Rico? Or is he planning on early retirement?
Why would Claude want to kill Carmen? Does she know something—perhaps too much—about his shady deals? About Diablo?
Yvette Marchand never once mentioned Claude’s illegal activities in her interview. An angry, drunk ex-wife would surely take advantage of that knowledge, but she didn’t. Conclusion: She doesn’t know about it. Why? When did Claude first start his lucrative sideline with the cartels and terror groups?
Who is the young woman with Carmen? (Relative?)
The message the CIA intercepted from the cartel thugs in South America said: “D meeting with CL tomorrow night 9PM IN. Watch and report.” “D” is Diablo and “CL” is Claude Lamont, but what does “IN” mean? (The meeting place? Another person?)
Nora sat on the big bed in the hotel room above the harbor of Fort-de-France, staring down at her notes. She’d ended all seven points with question marks. There were so many questions here. But there were answers here, too; she just had to look for them. She was tired; she couldn’t think clearly. She’d look at her list again after she slept.
It was nearly one in the morning. Jeff would be asleep now, and the Tropic Star was on its way southeast to Barbados, the easternmost island in the West Indian chain that arced down from Cuba to Trinidad. Tomorrow night—tonight—at nine o’clock, Claude Lamont was meeting Diablo in Barbados, and Jeff would be there to witness it. Jeff and his CIA colleague, Sam Friedman, would finally learn the identity of the notorious—and, so far, anonymous—terrorist.
Meanwhile, back in Martinique, Nora and Ellie Singer would be babysitting Carmen Lamont. Such a cute babysitter—Jeff would pay for that comment! She looked across the enormous bed, wishing he were here. She wanted this to be over—she wanted to bring Claude Lamont to justice and keep his current wife safe from further harm. Most of all, she wanted to avenge Mary Ross, the tragic young woman whose misguided love for a killer had sparked this whole operation. Nora wanted Mary Ross to rest in peace.
She cleared the notepad and phones from the bed, switched off the bedside lamp, and settled back against the pillow, but sleep eluded her for a while. She finally drifted off while chasing a shadow in her mind: the unformed, unnamed, ungraspable phantom behind all this intrigue.
Diablo…
Chapter 21
The buzzing of a phone woke her. She’d been dreaming an actor’s dream, and her daughter had been in it. She and Dana were having a conversation, a heated argument, and she gradually realized that they were onstage, in heavy nineteenth-century costumes and wigs and makeup, under hot lights. A silent crowd was watching them from the surrounding darkness, and Dana was watching her expectantly, waiting for her to speak her next line, and—buzz, buzz, buzz.
Nora sat up in the bed, blinking. It took a moment to orient herself in the strange room, but then she remembered: Martinique. She fumbled on the bedside table, picking up the wrong phone before finding the right one, the new one. “Hello?”
“Good morning,” Ellie Singer sang into her ear. “I hope I haven’t called too early, but I’ve just arrived at the office, so—”
“No, that’s fine,” Nora assured her. She pulled the phone from her ear and glanced at the top corner of the screen: 9:07. She’d slept for eight hours. “Good morning, Ellie. Have you checked on our subject?”
“Both trackers are in the same places; nothing’s moved. She ordered breakfast in her room about half an hour ago, and she made an appointment for a massage, facial, and manicure at eleven o’clock in the hotel spa.”
Nora was out of bed now. “How do you know all that?”
Ellie laughed. “I called the hotel switchboard and told them I was Madame Lamont’s personal assistant in Lyon, checking her schedule there. I said I was having trouble getting through to her by phone, and the woman offered to connect me to her hotel room phone. I said no, let’s not bother Madame Lamont, but has she made any plans for the day? And the woman told me. It’s amazing what you can make people believe if you’re sincere.”
“Yes, I know,” Nora said. “I’m an actor; I do it for a living. Good work! Now we know where she’ll be for the next few hours. Have you had breakfast?”
“I was about to order croissants and coffee from the bakery next door, but I can always—”
“That sounds wonderful,” Nora said. “May I join you there? I need some exercise, and I’d like to get out of this freezing hotel for a while.”
“I have the car here,” Ellie said. “I can be there in two minutes.”
“Two minutes? Is your office that close to here?”
Ellie laughed again. “Your room faces inland, right? Go to your window.”
Nora crossed the room and raised the shade on a window, revealing the hill behind the hotel. The buildings receded up the hill, with streets crisscrossing and palms and vegetation everywhere. Cars and pedestrians went about their business, bathed in the bright sunlight. Beyond the rooftops at the crest of the hill, lush green mountains rose into the blue sky. Nora stared, delighted: morning on a tropical island.
“You just rolled up your shade,” Ellie said. “I can see you. Look up the avenue beside the hotel, on your right. Up the hill three blocks, there’s a big pink building at the intersection, a guesthouse. See that?”
“Yes,” Nora said.
“Now look beyond the guesthouse on the same side of the avenue. The yellow building next door to it is the bakery, then there’s a white, two-story building with a second-story porch.”
“I see you!” Nora said. “You’r
e waving from the porch. I can walk there faster than you can get the car; I just need to get dressed. Order croissants and coffee for me, too, please. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. Boutique Minerva is the dress shop downstairs; we’re upstairs. Use the outdoor staircase at the side of the building. Bye.”
Nora put on the beige sundress, scarf, and sandals from Guadeloupe two days ago—the clothes she’d been wearing when the bus accident had occurred. She grabbed her shoulder bag and the new phone and hurried to the elevator. The lobby was packed with groups gathering for various excursions and tours. She politely maneuvered her way through the crowds to the glass entrance and out into the warm morning.
The heat on her skin was like a balm after the arctic conditions inside the hotel. The sun’s glare had her reaching into her bag for her sunglasses within seconds of leaving the building, but she was fine with that. She frequently took long morning walks on the beach below her house, and in summer it could be as warm as this. She walked around the corner from the entrance and headed north, up the hill toward the CIA office.
Shops and businesses were just opening for the day, and there were quite a few people on the sidewalks, most of them natives. Nora noticed the smiles on everyone who passed by, and she smiled and returned their automatic “Bonjour.” The hill was somewhat steeper than it had appeared to be from her hotel window, so she walked slowly, crossing the avenue from west to east when she came to the intersection with the pink building. When she moved north again across the intersecting street to arrive at the pink guesthouse, she paused and turned around to look back down the hill at the panoramic view of the waterfront and the glittering bay beyond it.
The sidewalks on both sides of the avenue below her were bustling. Nora watched with great admiration as an older native woman on this side sailed regally up the hill toward her with a big basket balanced on her head. A young tourist couple passing the woman stopped her at the corner and said something to her. She smiled in assent. They snapped photos of her, and she grinned for the camera.
A tough-looking young man in an olive-drab camo shirt and cap who’d just crossed the avenue had to stop for the photo op, and he glared at the woman and the tourists. Then he turned his head to stare directly at Nora on the opposite corner, into her eyes. Nora stared back. The man blinked, pivoted, and vanished through the door of the corner shop. Nora glanced up at the shop’s sign: MONDES DES BÉBÉS.
Odd, Nora thought. That’s definitely odd. She turned around and continued up the hill, past the bakery. Now she was at the white building with the balcony. She looked up to see Ellie Singer at the end of the porch, almost directly above her, phone in hand, gazing down at her.
“Good morning,” Nora called.
“Hi,” Ellie said, and she pointed toward the side of the building, at the outside staircase. “C’mon up. Hurry!”
Nora glanced at the picture window of Boutique Minerva, and saw a headless mannequin wearing a pretty floral gown. She turned to the wooden staircase, noting the sign at the bottom: AGENCIE NELSON, DÉTECTIVE PRIVÉ, with an arrow pointing up the stairs. By the time she reached the top, Ellie was standing in the open doorway. She wasn’t smiling.
“Come in, quickly,” Ellie said, and Nora moved past her into the room. Ellie glanced down the stairs before shutting the door and leaning back against it. “Hi. Sorry for the rush, but I think someone might have been following you.” She held up her phone. “I got a picture of him.”
Nora looked around the little outer office, with its one desk and a door leading to what was obviously the main room of the agency. “Yes, Gangsta Guy—I named him that the moment I saw him. Late twenties, probably Latino, curly brown hair, dark eyes, mustache, olive-drab camo shirt and matching cap, baggy jeans, silver high-tops. When I turned around and spotted him, he ducked into a shop called Baby World. What are the chances that he’s looking for the perfect onesie?”
Ellie grinned, dispelling the tension. “Yes, I noticed him behind you almost as soon as I saw you coming up the hill from the hotel; he doesn’t exactly blend in. He crossed the avenue where you did, and I thought he might be tailing you, so I took his picture. Who is he?”
Nora shook her head. “I have no idea. Give me some strong coffee and something to eat, and we’ll figure it out.”
Chapter 22
Nora had been to Jeff’s office in New York a few times, but she’d never seen a field station before. The New York offices of the CIA took up several floors in a big modern building, and Jeff and his assistant, Ralph Johnson, had adjoining cubicles. But that was a central location; this was an outpost on a relatively quiet Caribbean island. It looked like what it was: a modest, one-man detective agency above a dress shop, next door to a bakery.
The bakery was exceptional, judging by its croissants and coffee. The two women sat across from each other at Ken Nelson’s big oak desk, Nora in Mr. Nelson’s padded executive seat and Ellie in a visitor’s chair, making short work of two flaky pastries apiece. Nora sat back in the big chair, sipping the delicious coffee as she gazed around the room.
A computer monitor stood off to the side on the desk beside a classic, leather-edged green blotter and a huge ashtray. A shabby couch and two matching armchairs were clustered around a coffee table at one end of the room, which Nora assumed was used for larger meetings. A framed detective’s license on the wall behind her, an old-fashioned file cabinet, and a big cork bulletin board with papers and photos pinned haphazardly around its surface completed the décor. An archway in the corner near the bulletin board led to a bathroom, a storage closet, and Ken Nelson’s studio apartment at the back of the building.
Nora smiled, thinking of Raymond Chandler and Ross MacDonald: She’d imagined this reality many times when reading some of her favorite mystery novels. The computer and a sleek ink-jet printer on the file cabinet were the only concessions to the current century; air-conditioning was the only concession to luxury; and a ceiling fan and wood-shuttered French doors leading out to the balcony porch behind her were the only variations on the theme.
“Should I send the photo to Mr. Green?” Ellie asked.
Nora thought a moment, then shook her head. “Not yet. First, let’s make sure he’s really following me. Is he still down there?”
Ellie rose and went over to a shuttered window, where she peered through the slats. “I can’t see much from here, and I don’t want to go out onto the porch. He was inside the shop when you came up here, but who knows? He might have watched through their front window. And he could have been watching you last night, which means he saw me with you. Hang on a sec.” She came back to the desk, picked up her phone, and placed a call. “Bonjour, Minerva.” She spoke in French for a minute before turning to Nora. “Okay, I sent Minerva the photo, and she’s sending one of her salesgirls outside to look around.”
Two minutes later, Ellie’s phone buzzed. Ellie spoke and listened, then thanked her downstairs neighbor and ended the call.
“He’s there,” she said to Nora, “at the corner by the guesthouse. He’s watching this building, so he knows you’re here. I’d say he’s definitely following you.”
Nora frowned. “He must be working for Claude Lamont. If Claude Lamont knows about me, then—” She pulled her phone from her shoulder bag and called Jeff. He answered immediately.
“Hey, Pal. We just pulled in to Barbados. What’s up?”
“Good morning,” Nora said. “We may have a problem…” She filled him in on the situation and sent him the photo.
Jeff was silent a moment. Then he said, “Okay, put me on speaker.”
Nora placed the phone on the desk, and the two women listened as Jeff gave his instructions. When he was through, he said, “Pal, call me when you get there. Ellie, pick up the phone and take me off speaker.”
Nora watched as Ellie listened.
“Yes,” Ellie said into the p
hone. “Yes, in the safe. Do you want me to do that now?…Okay…Yes, Mr. Green said anything you need, so…I understand. The car is in a lot just up the hill from here. It’s an Audi RS 5—Nora tells me you want one.” She laughed. “Yes, she’ll call you as soon as we’re there.” She ended the call and handed Nora the phone. “Give me a few minutes, and then we’ll be on our way.”
Ellie went off through the archway in the corner. Nora got up from the desk, shouldered her bag, and wandered over to the crowded bulletin board. She smiled at all the photocopied newspaper reports and rap sheets, not to mention photos and mug shots of various shady characters. There were even a RECHERCHÉ! poster for a creepy-looking man and a DISPARU! flyer for a cute dog. All this would be available on any computer or mobile device with just a few clicks, but Ken Nelson clearly had his own way of doing things. Nora wondered if he smoked Lucky Strikes and wore a fedora—
She froze, arrested by an image in the center of the board. The eight-by-ten printout was a shot of a man in a black coat. Beside it was another photo, a closer view of the same man’s head and shoulders. The two pictures were grainy and blurred, probably cellphone shots of the moving figure. The man was striding along a waterfront walkway with boats in the harbor behind him, and he wasn’t directly facing the camera in either shot. The black hair was shorter and the chin was clean-shaven, but the dark eyes, the strong nose and mouth, and the mustache were familiar. Now Nora saw that one of the two pictures was covering a third picture. Slowly, as if in a trance, she reached up, took out the pushpins, and removed the picture from the board, revealing the one under it.
