by Tom Savage
“Hey!” he cried.
Across the field, the two men who were about to reenter the guard station turned around. They saw the man, and they saw Nora. They looked at each other, and then they both sprang into action, racing across the open space toward her, pulling their weapons from their holsters as they ran. Zeb shouted something to the other man, who nodded and ran off toward the other end of the camp. The big man thirty feet from her burst forward, lunging at her, reaching out to grab her.
Nora ran. She took off down the alley behind the main building, running past all the windows she was going to look through to count the troops. She had to get up the hill, out of the circus tent, back to the boat. Where had she and Ralph come down? She searched the base of the hill on her right as she ran, looking for a landmark, but everything was a blur. The man was close behind her; she could hear the pounding of his bare feet on the wet earth. Oh God, she’d have to try climbing anyway, anything to get away from—
She was brutally halted in her flight. The big man behind her reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her back against his chest. She didn’t even have time to feel the pain before she made an instinctive move, bending her right arm at the elbow and stabbing it backward with all her strength. The pressure on her hair abruptly ceased.
Nora took one step forward and whirled around to face the man. He’d let go of her hair to clutch his stomach, doubling over in pain. Nora didn’t hesitate; she drew back her right leg and executed a high kick she’d learned in a theatrical dance class a hundred years ago, right between the man’s legs, and her sneaker hit its mark.
With a sharp cry, the big man doubled over even farther. Nora took one more step back, drew back the same leg, and kicked again, aiming directly at his nose. This time she missed her mark—the toe of her sneaker smashed into his left eye with a sickening sound. The man’s head jerked up, and he toppled over onto his back and lay still.
Nora didn’t pause to see if he was dead or alive. She didn’t care—she had to move. Beyond the fallen man, she saw Zeb arrive at the other end of the building and run toward her. Pulling in a deep breath, she whirled around and took off again.
She didn’t get three steps. The other sentry materialized in front of her, and she ran right into his fist, which struck her squarely on the jaw. She saw a flash of blinding light, and then she was falling slowly backward into darkness. By the time she hit the ground, she didn’t feel anything at all.
Chapter 38
Nora regained consciousness slowly, which turned out to be a good thing. In fact, it probably saved her life.
She was lying on her side on a cold, hard surface. Wood? Concrete? Metal? She couldn’t tell. Her arms were stretched back, wrists together behind her, securely bound. There was more tight binding at her ankles. The slick poncho had been removed; she wore the linen pants suit, and she could feel that the phone was no longer in her pants pocket. Her jacket was unbuttoned, loose; she couldn’t tell whether or not she still had the other phone in her inside jacket pocket. Probably not.
Her jaw throbbed, beating a steady tattoo of pain. It might be broken, but she wouldn’t know for sure until she could move. Every actor’s instinct she possessed told her not to do that; she must remain still. As the world gradually came back to her, she became aware of the voices above her: two men and a woman. The woman was Carmen Lamont, and one of the men was probably Zeb.
The other man in the room had a deep, sonorous voice, and he was speaking in Spanish. Nora couldn’t understand the words, but something in the way he spoke reminded her of the New York Globe production of The Tempest she’d been in many years ago, one of her first Shakespeare gigs. She’d been cast as Miranda, and Prospero, her father the deposed duke and self-exile, had been played by a ripe old star of what Nora called the Ham-and-Cheese School of Acting. His imperious, commanding tone of voice had shaken the walls of the theater. That’s how this man above her sounded, like an outraged nobleman demanding the return of his title and property.
Diablo.
She remained still on the floor, not daring to open her eyes. She wondered if the man had put some clothes on, or if he was parading around the compound in the nude. Either way, he sure as hell wasn’t dancing a rumba now. Under normal circumstances, this thought would have made her laugh, but that wasn’t an option at present. She didn’t know how long she would have to lie here being unconscious, but she was prepared to outwait Diablo. She relaxed her body and kept her breathing low and even.
Where was Ralph? They hadn’t captured him, had they? Dear God, she hoped not. She wanted Ralph to be safe, and at this point he was her only ticket out of here. Of course, the Spanish dialogue above her could be all about killing her now and concealing her body somewhere, but she doubted it. Diablo would think twice before executing two CIA operatives, assuming Ken Nelson was dead—and she wasn’t sure about that, either. Carmen Lamont had spared her life once, but would she do it again?
No, she wouldn’t think about death. She’d concentrate on living and getting away from this place. She had to live for Jeff; he’d be lost without her, as she’d be lost without him. They were more than mere lovers—they were used to each other, a necessary component of each other’s lives. She had to live for Dana, and her friends, her students, her—
Something was happening in the room. Diablo was issuing orders of some kind, and now he was leaving. His voice faded as he moved, and another set of footsteps went with him: Zeb’s. Carmen Lamont remained standing above her. She uttered what sounded like a sigh and spoke to someone else in the room.
“¿Por qué, Carmen?” she said, and her voice was filled with sorrow.
The next voice Nora heard emanated from the floor behind her. Andalusian Carmen, Other Carmen, Carmen Mendoza—whichever name applied—let loose with a swift, fierce tirade in Spanish. Again, Nora couldn’t follow the text, but she got the theme of it, and she definitely understood the word the woman on the floor hissed at Carmen Lamont several times: puta.
After several deafening seconds of this verbal abuse, Nora heard Carmen Lamont’s shoes as she marched past her and over to the woman on the floor behind her. Nora braced herself for the logical next sound, so she didn’t react when the loud slap occurred. It was followed by sudden silence, and then the thump of a body toppling over sideways. Carmen Mendoza was probably tied up as Nora was, so she wouldn’t be able to defend herself or give as good as she got. She’d just have to lie there.
For her part, Carmen Lamont never uttered a word. She stood still over the fallen woman for several seconds, and then her shoes came clicking briskly back across the floor, past Nora toward what she figured must be the doorway. A door opened and slammed. Silence.
Nora waited before she moved. She listened, straining to hear any sounds around her. The woman behind her was breathing raggedly, and after a while she began to weep softly, making little snuffling sounds of despair. A low hum from the other end of the space indicated an electric appliance, and Nora recognized it as the sound of a freezer. Two freezers: This was the storage room, and the whispering voice she’d heard under the window was probably Carmen Mendoza’s. But whom had she been whispering to? Herself?
No. Now that she listened carefully, Nora became aware of another sound nearby. Someone else was here, breathing. So, there were three of them here, three prisoners. If the mystery breather was Ralph Johnson, then they were all in serious trouble. On the other hand…
The thought that suddenly occurred to Nora caused her to drop her unconscious act. With an effort and a jolt of pain, she rolled over onto her back and sat up—not easy to accomplish with her hands tied behind her back. She ignored the stabs of agony in her shoulders and the throbbing on the left side of her jaw as she blinked, adjusting her eyes to the dim light. She was indeed in the storehouse, at one end of the room, and there was Carmen Mendoza stretched out on her side by the wall a few feet away. A
single low-wattage bulb hung from the center of the ceiling. The stacked boxes and the two freezers were right behind her, and—she peered around the walls—yes!
A man lay on his back in the corner near Carmen Mendoza. He was tall and husky, or would have been if he’d been standing, and he wore a business suit, shirt, and loose tie. His slate gray suit and iron gray hair were rumpled, as though he’d been manhandled. She couldn’t see his face, which was turned toward the wall, but she was willing to bet on his identity. She squinted to be sure—yes, the shallow breathing she’d heard emanated from him. His chest rose and fell with slow, painful regularity.
Ken Nelson was alive! Nora smiled, thinking how relieved Ellie Singer would be when she learned this. Her smile vanished as she reminded herself that now she would have to get him—and herself, and possibly Carmen Mendoza—away from here. Where the hell was Ralph?
“So, you’re awake,” Carmen Mendoza said.
Nora looked over at the woman. She’d managed to right herself, and was sitting up and leaning against the metal back wall directly under the open space that served as the building’s only window, her hands behind her back, her legs stretched straight out in front of her. Her big dark eyes were wet with tears, and the left side of her face was still bright red from the slap. She stared at Nora with an expression of disdain.
“How long have you been here?” Nora asked her.
Carmen Mendoza frowned. “What difference does that make? They’re going to kill us, you know—unless that husband of yours is nearby?”
“Sorry,” Nora said. “He’s busy elsewhere.” She nodded toward Ken Nelson. “How is he doing?”
Carmen shrugged. “He’s alive, but he’s not very talkative. He wakes up from time to time, but I can never keep him awake for long. I try talking to him, but he doesn’t seem to hear. He was shot in his left side below his rib cage, and I think his leg is broken. He fell while he was trying to get away from them. He’s been here for three days; I’ve been here since yesterday.”
“Yes,” Nora said, looking the woman directly in the eyes. “Since they found out that you tried to murder your cousin in Guadeloupe. If you want me to help you get out of here, you’d better start talking.”
Chapter 39
Nora decided to play the Bad Cop. She’d put together a lot of Carmen Mendoza’s story, and she knew the woman wouldn’t be forthcoming unless she was threatened, or unless she was promised something she wanted. In this case, that would be the chance to live. But Nora wouldn’t forget for a moment that this woman was the enemy.
They had to escape, but it wouldn’t be by untying each other. That was impossible: The moment Nora tried to move over toward the wall where Carmen sat, she discovered that one of her ropes was looped through the handle of the nearest freezer. She was stuck here on this side of the room. Carmen was similarly restrained with a rope tied to a thick pipe that ran along the wall behind her. A glance over at Ken Nelson showed her that he wasn’t going anywhere without help.
Nora could only hope that Ralph knew what had happened to her and was working on a plan, wherever he was concealed. Had he called someone? If not, Ellie could trace their phones when she woke and learned they were missing from the guesthouse, and Jeff would be in Martinique tomorrow. Ham Green in New York would be frantic, calling in the NSA and the State Department and maybe even the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He’d alert MI6 and Jacques Lanier’s SDAT and Interpol as well. He had three missing agents, one of them a regional director, at the mercy of a legendary international terrorist. That ought to get everyone’s attention. Until someone found them, Nora would proceed with the only constructive thing she could do here: She’d get as much intel as possible from this woman.
“Let me tell you a story,” Nora said, “about a pretty girl in a fishing village in southern Spain. She is raised by a beloved aunt and uncle, but where are her parents? They were killed in their home country, Colombia. And this girl goes from being the daughter of rich, well-to-do people to being the ward of a penniless fisherman and his wife.
“The fisherman dies, and the aunt is left to raise her alone, But years later the aunt falls ill. When she dies, a beautiful cousin from Colombia—a girl who even has the same name, Carmen Mendoza—arrives for the funeral, but it’s more than that. She’s running from the people who murdered her entire family—just as the other girl’s family was murdered years before. And the beautiful cousin from Colombia has an idea: Why don’t they switch places? She will become the Spanish Carmen, and the Spanish Carmen can go off to see the world with a great deal of money that Colombian Carmen pays her.”
Nora paused here, looking over at Carmen. She’d made an impression; the woman was staring off into space, a look of great sadness on her face. After a moment, Carmen took up the story, recounting it in a flat, affectless voice.
Colombian Carmen took her identification and went off to Madrid, to work in a club where she’d heard the richest businessmen in Europe could be found. She snagged Claude Lamont and married him. Meanwhile, Spanish Carmen went to Colombia to find what was left of their family, and she was invited to live with a rich uncle who headed the local cartel. That’s how she met Colombian Carmen’s boyfriend, Diablo. He was a soldier for the cartels, part of a security service called Nuestra Familia, but he had his own agenda—he wanted to change the world. His girlfriend had gone to Spain to find a rich husband to help finance his dream of power.
But the girlfriend in France—Carmen Lamont—wanted only one thing: Diablo. She controlled her silly husband’s finances and secret offshore bank accounts, rerouting millions to her lover’s various causes. She financed his drug trade, and she financed his terrorism. Both concerns made them even richer. This would have been a happy ending, except for one problem—Spanish Carmen fell in love with Diablo, and he took up with her in the absence of his true love in far-off France.
Nora knew what was coming next—she’d already guessed as much—but she allowed Carmen Mendoza to tell the story.
Diablo had found a clever way to move Claude Lamont’s money around and make it disappear from all prying eyes, including Claude Lamont’s. He’d find a nice young woman of impeccable character and reputation who had no family or friends, and woo her. When he’d gained her confidence, he’d hold her prisoner in her own home. Spanish Carmen—Other Carmen—would then pose as the woman, using her passport and other identification, and go to the offshore banks to move the money. They did this three times in three years: in London, New York, and Miami. Diablo used the money for various projects, including this invisible camp.
Diablo was in the terrorist-training business, but he didn’t train the zealots who would ultimately cause the real damage. He worked with their handlers, the troublemakers and anarchists who would start these terror groups in the Middle East and South Asia. These men—and they were all men—were not idealists; they weren’t even religious or political. They craved power and money, and they formed terror groups to cause the destruction that would enrich their personal fortunes. They were taught how to do it right here, in Îlet Naufrage.
The men were trained in weapons, martial arts, hand-to-hand combat—and computer skills. They learned to manipulate banks and spread false intel through social media. Most of all, they learned how to find the true zealots and recruit them, add them to groups like ISIS and the Taliban, who paid top dollar for the service. Diablo was essentially a pimp for pimps.
The women whose identities were stolen were chained to their own beds and kept alive during the operation so they could be produced if necessary, and when it was over they were killed and buried. The first woman, in London, was found buried in her garden, and MI6 became involved. The second woman, in New York City, was never discovered. The third woman was Mary Ross.
“So, you were the woman who went to the Caymans, not Mary?” Nora asked her.
“Yes,” Carmen Mendoza said.
“A
nd Diablo got Claude and Carmen Lamont to join the Tropic Star cruise so Carmen could give her husband a bogus heart attack and inherit all his money?”
Carmen Mendoza nodded.
“You gave her the poison she needed to kill her husband at El Morro.”
Another nod.
Nora leaned forward. “So, why did you try to kill her in Guadeloupe, before she’d killed Claude?”
Carmen Mendoza frowned again, and Nora saw a flash of pure hatred in her eyes. “I didn’t give a damn about Claude Lamont or his money, or this training school, or anything else. He said he loved me. He promised me that we would be married and be together always. I am—I am carrying his child. He doesn’t know yet; nobody does. Then he called her back from France, and I soon saw why. He loves her, only her, never me. He sent me to give her the poison in Puerto Rico, and she told me there, in the castle, that they would be married as soon as Claude was dead. Married! He’d promised to marry me! And she didn’t even know about his relationship with me! He’d never told her! I knew there was only one way to stop this marriage.”
Enter Marcel Arvide, one of Diablo’s three trusted assistants. He had long lusted after her, and she promised him whatever he wanted—plus several thousand euros—on one condition: that he go to Guadeloupe to kill her rival, making it look like a random attack on a tourist. Nora had ruined that plan with her interference, and Marcel was killed. Carmen Mendoza had been devastated, but she couldn’t let Carmen Lamont or Diablo suspect her involvement. When Carmen Lamont called to report on the attack in Pointe-à-Pitre, Carmen Mendoza told her to wait on the beach in Ste-Marie the next day, and Diablo would arrive there by boat for a meeting.
Diablo knew nothing of this, of course. She’d told Carmen Lamont that he’d meet her on the beach and then made sure it didn’t happen, to prove to Carmen Lamont that Diablo didn’t really love her. When he didn’t show in Ste-Marie the next morning, Carmen Lamont was furious, just as Carmen Mendoza had hoped. If she broke them up, Diablo would come back to her.
