Black Widow (23 page)

Firth’s chin lifted as she took a butter knife into her hand and began drumming the tip on her place mat. “Unfortunately, I can’t answer that question with any certainty. That’s one of the hurdles Sir James and I have been dealing with.”

“I don’t understand.”

Looking pained, Montbard interceded, “Senegal was going through a very rough patch in her marriage. You’d been married to Harold for how long?”

In a flat voice, the woman answered, “Fourteen years.”

“Fourteen years, right. She was just putting together her campaign team when Senny discovered her husband was . . .” He turned to the woman. “Do you mind if I share the story, dear? I think we can trust Dr. Ford. It’s important that he have all the data, but if you’d rather I not—”

Firth didn’t look up from her teacup. “Go ahead. Doesn’t bother me in the least now.”

Clearly, it did.

Montbard and I exchanged looks before he continued, “Turned out, her husband was having an affair with one of her old college chums. It was a terrible shock, as you can imagine. I was the one who advised her to take a couple of weeks off and fly to the Caribbean.” He looked at the woman. “A bit of punk advice, that. Sorry, love.”

Firth said, “I make no apologies for the decisions I’ve made in my life. What I deeply regret is putting myself in a position where I have no control — and that’s what happened.

“I cannot describe the man I was with with any clarity, Dr. Ford. I was hurt and angry and alone. He knocked on the door, asking for directions. I invited him in. It was after sunset, but it wasn’t late. We started chatting. He spoke French, which made the situation feel safer for some reason. I hesitated when he offered to make drinks, and he must have sensed what I was thinking, because he laughed and told me I was being silly. I don’t know why in the world I didn’t order him out of the house then! But I didn’t. That’s the last thing I remember clearly. I was an idiot. My marriage had ended long before I vacationed on Saint Arc. But I still feel like an idiot.”

I said, “You aren’t. You were targeted. Sir James is right — they’re expert at what they do. They demanded a quarter million dollars from my goddaughter. She doesn’t have that kind of money personally. But she’s successful enough, she can pay it off in installments, and that’s what they’re now demanding. I think they research their targets carefully. What about you? Four million pounds is, what? About eight million U.S.?”

Firth nodded. “I couldn’t possibly come up with that much money — not in a month, not in a year, not in twenty years.”

“Then the blackmailer didn’t really expect you to pay. He timed it to sabotage your campaign. Why?”

Firth gave me a look that seemed to say,
Smart
. But I wasn’t asking anything she hadn’t already thought about.

“Either to sabotage my career, or to guarantee a hold over me if I was elected. As I think you are now aware, I’m passionate about certain social issues — the right to privacy; child pornography; punishing people who break those laws.

“Good laws cross boundaries. Even a freshman MP could affect the economy of a corrupt island such as Saint Arc. I think the blackmailers saw an opportunity to secure influence over my career, and took it. They never expected me to pay the money.”

Further proof, she said, was that they didn’t carry out their threat to make the video public when she refused to pay or negotiate.

“The last e-mail I received was—” She turned to Montbard. “ — three months ago?”

He nodded.

“And it’s been three months of absolute hell. It was impossible to push out of my mind. The constant fear. The sense of impending doom. And I was too embarrassed to go to Scotland Yard or even share the problem with a therapist. I am not a dramatic person, Dr. Ford, but I feel it’s accurate to say I was on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown. Dealing with a divorce, withdrawing from the election—” Her voice began to waver.

Montbard took over. “Senny hadn’t contacted me for months, and I began to wonder if something was wrong. So I called and called until she rang me back. That was . . . about three weeks ago, right, dear?” The man reached and patted Firth’s hand affectionately. “She didn’t realize that, thanks to my previous line of work, I was qualified to help with her problem. No one would, I suppose. Best thing about it is, I conned this beautiful creature into abandoning London and spending the summer at Bluestone while I track the bastards.”

Firth had regained her composure. “I feel anything but wonderful. Their last e-mail gave the impression they were holding my video as a trump card in the event I stood for election again. That’s why I feel like such a damn fool. I ruined my career, the chance to do real service, because of one incredibly stupid decision made in a moment of . . .” I watched her face turn pale rose, just as Montbard had described it. “. . . during a moment of emotional instability. I would do anything to make it right again.”

I sat forward in my chair to stress a point. “Ms. Firth, the camera was set up, ready to go, before the man who seduced you arrived. The drinks he fed you were drugged. Same with my goddaughter, same with the women last night. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Drugged? I suspected that. I felt so strange . . . rather giddy and dreamy and . . .”

“Amorous?” I used Montbard’s word.

The woman looked away. "Hardly that.”

“You didn’t feel unusually affectionate? Or at least behave with an unusual feeling of . . . let’s say, willingness.”

“I told you how I felt — strange, and not at all myself. That’s all I remember. Excuse me, please, gentlemen.” She stood.

I said, “I’m sorry. I was only trying to discuss the drug they may have used.”

“Not a problem. I’ll be back,” she said, placing her napkin on the table. “Please wait, won’t you? Just need to freshen up a bit.”

OVER COFFEE, I explained what I’d learned about the party drug, MDA, and the effects of similar amphetamine-based chemicals.

The woman and the Englishman listened attentively, but Montbard became interested when I asked, “Have you heard of something locals call Icebreaker?”

“A potion? I haven’t heard of that one, but the locals use all sorts of potions. They don’t talk about it openly, but obeah dominates the culture. I began a personal study, actually, years before I started getting into this blackmail business.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a powerful historical force. The knowledge is useful to me now because I believe the blackmailer uses obeah to control the organization.

“I’ve been able to identify the men you dealt with last night — Richard Bonaparte, Dirk Van Susterin, Clovis Desmond. I have photos of the fourth man, too, Deepak Wulfelund, originally from Suriname. He does the camerawork at the beach cottage, and—” Montbard glanced at the woman. " — presumably, at the rental villa, too.”

Deepak Wulfelund.
Wolfie
.

“Three of the four are employed by one of the major landholders on Saint Arc, a woman who’s considered an obeah
gajé
— a sort of fortune-teller, priestess, and witch all rolled into one. Her name’s Isabelle Toussaint. Madame Toussaint has a tremendous amount of power. Money, too. Some people on Saint Arc believe she’s the Maji Blanc — a sort of she-devil in obeah folklore.”

I said, “Do they call her the Widow?” I hadn’t told him about what I’d overheard.

“Sometimes, yes. I’m impressed you know. Years ago, she married one of the wealthiest man in the Caribbean, but he died in an accident. Left her a bundle. More often, though, she’s referred to as the ‘White Lady’ because of the double meaning — it’s considered bad luck to speak the Maji Blanc’s name, you see.

“It’s all an act, of course. Toussaint plays the role, I’m sure, to keep the locals in line. The more I find out about her, the more I’m convinced she’s utterly ruthless. Her late husband, for instance — he was thirty years older than she. A few days after the wedding, he supposedly got drunk and stumbled off a cliff. And Madame Toussaint is . . . well, let’s just say she’s not the marrying type.” He smiled as he lit his pipe, sending a message about the woman’s sexuality.

“You’re convinced she’s the blackmailer?”

“Yes. I think it’s possible she’s involved with every profitable criminal activity that takes place on the island. Surprised?”

I was. From the beginning, I’d operated under the assumption it was a man. It was difficult to shift gears now and imagine a female extortionist — especially one who made it a point to humiliate her victims.

“I say again, the power this woman has over her followers can hardly be exaggerated. Are you a religious man, Ford?”

“No.”

“Nor am I. So I have no pious illusions of superiority when I discuss obeah. In fact, in many ways, I think it’s a more sensible religion than the major religions. They all use fear, one way or another, to keep believers in line. But obeah is proactive. You don’t simply kneel down and pray for your heart’s desire, you go out and
get it
by making a potion or paying someone like the
gajé
to provide you with a lucky fetish.

“Traditional religions tend to be wishy-washy when it comes to dealing with one’s enemies. Turn the other cheek, that sort of nonsense. Not obeah. It encourages believers to take the offensive. A properly done curse can banish an enemy, or even kill him.

“Obeah isn’t about the afterlife. It deals with the here and now. If a believer gets out of line? There are creatures who come out at night and punish — vampire witches and flesh-eating spirits. No waiting for Judgment Day.”

“Adults really believe that?”

Montbard signaled impatience by striking another match. “Are you telling me you have no secret superstitions? Aren’t we all absolutely certain that what we believe is right and real? It’s true of all faiths. I think it’s true of people like you and me, as well. Science is your religion. Archaeology, history — tradition, too, I suppose — are mine.”

I shrugged —
Valid point
— remembering Ritchie telling Dirk the Widow would punish him for his disrespect.

“Obeah isn’t fantasy-based. It’s as real as blood and bones. I think you’d have a better understanding if you had a chat with Lucien St. John, a man who was employed by my family for years. He was my source for much of what I’ve just told you. Lucien is in his nineties now and doesn’t mind talking about it. Only fair that we share intelligence assets.”

Turning to Senegal, Sir James said, “Last night, Dr. Ford told me that his sources have linked the blackmailer with that spa we were discussing, the one on Saint Arc. The place called the Orchid — so exclusive the waiting list is months. But Ford must have friends in high places, because he somehow finagled a reservation, starting tomorrow. Quite a coincidence, eh, Senny?”

Over drinks at Jade Mountain, Montbard had been poker-faced when I mentioned the spa, but now he was being facetious. I said, “You already knew about it?”

The man was nodding. “Quite. The spa includes the ruins of a monastery that I’ve been interested in for years because of its archaeological importance. The place is ancient. Built by French Carthusian monks — an order that dates back to the eleventh century. The maternal branch of Toussaint’s family has done business in the islands even longer than my own. That’s how she came to own the place.”

Toussaint owned many other properties on the island, Montbard told me, including the beach cottage that Shay had rented, and the mountain villa where they’d entrapped Senegal. The woman used corporate fronts, he said, but he’d finally tracked the titles to her.

“Privately, Madame Toussaint oversees her holdings as ruthlessly as a dictator. Publicly, she’s rarely seen. She raises orchids — has an international reputation in the field — and one of her companies markets a line of boutique beauty concoctions. She also fancies herself a jet-set hostess, even though she seldom attends her own parties. Didn’t you tell me that, Senny? I suppose some people crave any association with power.”

Senegal said, “I heard it from a member of parliament who’s been to the spa — a particularly unsavory member, by the way. Part of the woman’s mystique, I guess. Makes people want to meet her all the more. A year ago, she upped her stock with that crowd when she bought the Midnight Star — among the world’s most famous star sapphires. Had it set as a necklace.”

I said, “An obeah priestess who hosts parties?”

Montbard said, “Oh, she would never admit she practices obeah, just as she would never admit she promotes the rumor she’s the Maji Blanc. Most islanders won’t even acknowledge that obeah exists. Secrecy is one of the religion’s tenets.

“I met the old girl only twice — at an embassy function in Kingston, then again two years ago when I asked permission to spend a day or two photographing the monastery ruins. She looks like a bit of a flake — rouge and lipstick, turbans and kaftans, that sort of business. Her overall appearance is . . . memorable. And her breath! My God.”

“She refused?”

“Screamed like a crazy woman. Ran me off the place. Ever since, I’ve wanted an excuse to slip back there. Now Senegal has provided me an excellent reason. But it’s not an easy nut to crack. The woman’s château and the staff quarters adjoin the spa grounds, which includes the monastery. The property sits atop a peak similar to our smallest piton, and she controls the only road. Security is better than you might expect.”

“Sounds remote.”

“Everything on these bloody islands is remote unless you travel by water.”

“Does she ever leave?”

“She keeps an apartment in Paris, I’ve been told. Goes there for two months in the autumn for an international orchid competition. Otherwise, she stays on her mountain.”

I said, “It’s my experience that the reclusive types keep their valuables close at hand. They’re pathological about it in some cases.”

Montbard caught the inference. He turned to address Senegal. “Give us the female perspective. If you had to hide illegal videotapes potentially worth millions of pounds — or the Midnight Star — would you choose a trusted bank and lock everything away in a safe-deposit box?”