Black Widow (25 page)

I whispered, “You mean drugged with MDA?”

“The love potion you mentioned. Whatever it was they slipped Senny.”

I said, “No. I think they’d have the robes off by now, hugging, talking loud, laughing — something.”

Sir James said, “Quite,” and pressed binoculars to his eyes again. After several seconds, he said, “Why eleven? Five men, six women. If they accept only couples, shouldn’t it be an even number?”

I had called the Hooded Orchid earlier and confirmed that Marion W. North and friend did have reservations starting tomorrow. In Montbard’s mind, for some reason, that made me an expert.

I said, “They make exceptions, I guess. Or maybe the couples were given a choice: do meditation here, or hang out at the pool bar next door.”

Montbard swung the binoculars toward the lodge. “That makes sense. Looks a bit more interesting over there among the heathens — often the case in my travels. Folks are chatting, not chanting, at least. More like a cocktail party than this dreary business.”

He was looking to the west, where the retreat’s modern facilities were layered into the mountain with elevated walkways, subdued lighting, a four-lane lap pool and dip pools glowing blue beneath the rental suites. There were three white vans in the tiny parking lot, only a couple of cars.

Sir James had told me the road up the mountain was a private one-lane, with two security checkpoints on the hour drive to the top. The maximum number of guests was less than thirty, and most arrived via helicopter from Saint Lucia’s Hewanorra Airport. Because of repeat clientele, there was no need for the lodge to advertise. Judging from the scarcity of articles, it also did not offer journalists a free stay in exchange for stories.

Montbard did find a piece on international spas in a magazine that mentioned the place. He’d shared the clip.

HOODED ORCHID q ETREAT AND rPA, rAINT iOAN OF ’ RC hSLAND, dASTERN bARIBBEAN
Called simply the “Orchid” by its devotees, and named for a rare wild orchid that grows on the island, this spa claims to offer “rare elixirs” made from local fruits and herbs, as well as purifying ceremonies that slow the aging process and rechannel libido.
Incorporating the ruins of a French Cistercian monastery, spa operators make up for limited amenities by maintaining the monastic spirit. The operation caters to “betrothed or wedded couples.” Even so, guests are assigned separate quarters and are expected to remain celibate during their stay, while following a strict schedule that includes exercise, meditation, and “purification.”
Here, sex is considered toxic, and sin is taboo — but money still counts for something at this cultish retreat. Despite a three-star rating, the Orchid is a favorite dry-out spot for bad-boy rockers, royalty, and Hollywood film stars, whether they are “betrothed” or arrive alone. But don’t rush to make plane reservations. “We are not actively seeking new clientele,” a spa spokesperson said.

Along with the article, Sir James had made a detailed map of the area by printing a satellite photo onto sketch paper, then labeling it. He’d also created a rough diagram of the monastery’s layout.

He took out the diagram now and compared what he saw with what he’d drawn.

“Not bad for guesswork,” he told me as I looked over his shoulder. “Got most of it right.”

I said, “There was no data available?”

“Very little. But I suspected the design was similar to a template created by the Knights Templar. The Templars were warrior monks. They returned from the Crusades with drawings of Solomon’s Temple. See here—” He touched a finger to the diagram. “ — here’s the portico that borders the courtyard, then the second courtyard where those dreary people are chanting. The roofed walkway . . . the cloister. The doors leading off the portico are dormitories where the monks slept. It’s all joined by arcades and passageways.”

I said, “Passageways?”

“When Mother Church was burning her critics at the stake, underground tunnels were a sensible addition. You’ve spent time in Central America. Supposedly, they’re a fixture in the old churches there.”

A tunnel dug during the Inquisition had once saved my life. I said, “I’ve heard rumors. How do you know all this?”

He began to toy with the Masonic ring on his right hand: skull and crossbones; squares and dividers. “I belong to a sort of fraternity that studies the subject. If I told you how many years the group’s been collecting information, you wouldn’t believe me.”

I said, “You’re a Freemason. I noticed your ring last night.”

“I’m surprised you made the connection. Very few associate the Masons with this symbol.” He held the ring toward me even though it was too dark to decipher detail. “The Knights Templar were the original pirates of the Caribbean. Their ships flew the skull and bones long before Hollywood got the idea. When we get back to Saint Lucia, I’ll give you an article to read.”

He hesitated before asking carefully, “You mentioned that you’re a traveling man. Are you?”

Strange question. I said, “Of course.”

The man suspected I was confused, but he wanted to confirm it. “You’re here for the sake of the widow’s son? You came from the east, traveling west.”

Stranger questions. I realized I was being tested. I had the feeling that I would’ve become the man’s instant confidant if I had provided the correct responses. But there could be no faking it.

It was like a shield rising into place when I replied, “No, I came from Florida, to the north. My uncle was a Freemason. A man named Tucker Gatrell. He had a ring similar to yours.”

“Tucker Gatrell — the name’s curiously familiar. Did he spend time in the Caribbean?”

“He was a tropical bum.”

Sir James said, "Yes, familiar,” interested, but it was time to move on. End of test.

THE OLD ENGLISHMAN had picked up his thread about the monastery’s layout. I listened, but was getting impatient. It was 8:30 p.m. We still had a lot to do. There was no guarantee they’d wait until midnight to let the guard dogs out on this moonless Monday night.

“See those ruins beyond the courtyard wall?” Montbard whispered. “They might be the remains of a convent, or a distillery. Monasteries from the period often made herbal liquors as a source of income. Benedictine — a good example. Chartreuse and soda — Senny’s favorite. Secret recipes hundreds of years old. But what I’m looking for is a smallish stone structure that was called the Misericord. It’s where punishment was doled out to the monks. I picture it a chamber built of slabs — Stonehenge but without spaces. A secure place, if you get my meaning.”

Secure
. I understood. A place to keep valuables.

“Let’s look for it.”

“Capital idea, Ford, but first things first.” He slipped the blueprint into his backpack, then unrolled the map and used a red penlight as a pointer.

“It’s nearly twenty-one-hundred hours. I suggest the first thing we do is mark our escape routes with your infrared tape. If they set the dogs on us, we want the fastest route to the fence. It’s tempting to string a couple of trip wires along the way. Dogs might see them, but it could also save our bacon. What do you think?”

I said, “Your story about the beggar on the mechanic’s dolly has made me a believer.”

“Good.” He was into his backpack again, confirming he’d brought wire. “Now . . . if we are pursued by guards, my feeling is we should lay a trail that first takes us
up
the mountain, because they’ll expect just the opposite. How do you feel about that? Think you can manage a few hundred yards uphill, triple time, without getting knackered?”

Was that a subtle barb? During the hike, I’d stopped a couple of times to catch my breath. Sir James had waited with exaggerated patience, breathing normally as he checked his watch and tapped his walking stick on the ground. With his tweed walking cap, trousers, dark shirt, and shooting jacket, he looked like a butterfly collector who’d lost his way — except for the night-vision goggles that were now pushed up on his forehead, and the Walther PPK semiautomatic pistol I’d gotten a glimpse of beneath his jacket, left armpit, in a shoulder holster, butt out.

It was hard to believe the man was over seventy. He was aggressive, focused, and in better shape than I — and I’d been jogging and swimming twice a day, six days a week, since spring. But mountains are the curse of a Florida flatlander. Even in the tropics, it takes awhile to acclimate.

I replied, “My endurance improves when I’m being chased. Always loop uphill when escaping down a mountain — I agree. I’ll
try
to keep up.”

“That’s the spirit. One more thing—” He fitted his night-vision goggles into place. I did the same as he pointed toward the cemetery on the seaward side of the monastery. “ — during your stay, if you do manage to grab the videotapes, we should have an emergency jettison spot. Prearranged. A place you can get rid of them quick, and collect later. What do you think? Might be a spot over there that’s just the ticket.”

He used an infrared flashlight to indicate an area near the cemetery where the cliff wall dropped several hundred yards to the sea below. Earlier, we’d sat looking up at the same cliff from my boat.

“Those people seem involved with their chanting — or whatever it is they call that nonsense. I don’t think they’d notice if we popped down for a quick look-see — but we’ll need a bit of billy goat in us to negotiate that ledge.” Montbard had been kneeling, but now stood as he tucked his map away. “You don’t have an aversion to heights, do you, Ford?”

“Not at all,” I said, lying. “I live in a house that’s built on stilts.”

“Excellent, then you’re an old hand. Off we go!”

By 9:15 p.m., we had our three escape trails marked. We headed for the cliff.

TO GET TO THE CEMETERY UNSEEN, we had to inch our way along a ledge that was half the width of my shoulders, and several hundred feet above a rock field that inclined briefly before dropping into the sea. Sir James wasn’t joking about billy goats — it was a path used by feral goats that lived on the island.

I dug fingers into the igneous rim above us, nose pressed close to the cliff so I wouldn’t be blinded by falling gravel, and also because I was scared shitless. I had looked down only once. Rocks were vague spires in the blackness; sparks of starlight communicated the movement of waves far below.

The Englishman went first. He seemed oblivious to the danger; so unconcerned that halfway along the ledge he’d stopped and fished the penlight from his pocket, then shined it for an instant on a clump of bushes topped with dark flowers.

“Here’re some rare beauties for you,” he’d whispered. “It’s a flowering sage — Divinorium, possibly. Ancient; very rare. Love to have this in the garden. Maybe we’ll come back for it when we put this business to bed.”

When I only grunted in reply, the man had actually turned sideways on the ledge. “Are you all right, old man? Need a minute to regroup?”

I’d hissed, “I’m fine. Keep moving!”

I don’t have an irrational fear of heights, but I do have a healthy fear of falling. It’s an atavistic fear that, for me, was intensified a few years back when I was thrown from a helicopter just before it crashed. All the horrors of the unknown were condensed into those microseconds of free fall. By the time we reached the cemetery and I’d belly-crawled onto firm ground, I was soaked with sweat.

No way in hell was I going back the way we’d come — not unless it was more secure — so the first thing I did was rig a rope handhold. I tied a hundred feet of braided anchor line around the base of a tree, then dropped the coil over the ledge so I could use it to traverse the goat path on our return. The tree jutted from the lip of the cliff, roots exposed, but felt solid enough to hold my weight.

When Montbard misread my intent, I was too embarrassed to set him straight.

“Damn smart of you,” he whispered. “Establish a secure base for rappelling. Bring more rope when you check in tomorrow. A few hundred feet and a couple of proper bowlines should do it. Hide the rope in your kit. Spa staff will be none the wiser.”

I said, “That’s what I plan to do,” as my heart began to slow.

WE FOUND A GOOD PLACE to drop the videotapes. I would need a waterproof bag and a buoy, but it was okay. There was a spot on the leeward edge of the cliff where monks had sculpted a Gaelic cross out of rock. There were prayer benches shielded by bushes . . . an iron safety railing . . . nothing below but sea.

Montbard was fascinated by the cross. Same with the headstones in the cemetery. He lingered, using the infrared light to reveal details, until I said, “This isn’t an Explorers Club outing, okay?”

It got him moving. “Sorry, sorry. I really must come back and give the place a thorough going-over.” He grunted, frustrated. “You’re right, of course. Back to business. Here — come have a look.” He knelt, picked up a rock the size of a grapefruit, and walked to the lip of the precipice. I followed on hands and knees.

“
Listen
.” The Englishman reached out and dropped the rock. A blast of warm sea air nearly blew my watch cap off when I peeked over the edge. It was like looking down into a wind tunnel. The rock melted into darkness without striking the cliff face. The roaring updraft muted the splash.

“Bloody perfect, eh? Now all we must do is find out where the old girl keeps her valuables. Any thoughts about how to manage it?”

I said, “Maybe. It would be nice to confirm she has the tapes . . . but with only three more days—”

“There’s a difference between rushing and acting on sound data. I think it’s time to act. What’s your idea?”

“How hot are you prepared to go?”

“Go hot or go cold—” His voice communicated a nasty appreciation. “ — it’s been awhile since I’ve heard those terms. I find it heartening. I’m fully willing to go hot — rob Madame Toussaint at gunpoint, or persuade a member of her staff to tell us what we need to know. But I would prefer not to give my neighbors more fodder for gossip unless absolutely required.”

More fodder? I was smiling. “Then we take the soft approach. Get the woman to show us where the tapes are hidden without knowing we’re interested. Last night, the guy they call ‘Wolfie,’ the guy who runs the camera—”