Black Widow (38 page)

Outside, I heard mumbled conversation — at least two men — and the guttural breathing of a dog straining against its leash. Sounded as if they were approaching from the front of Toussaint’s home. I could also hear a motor vehicle coming from the same direction, up the long drive to Toussaint’s home. I touched my thumb to the SIG’s hammer, whispering, “I thought you said one of the guards went into the house.”

“He did. Maybe he came back out . . . or they’ve added another man.”

I said, “If they open the door, you shoot the dog. I’ll jump the men.”

Montbard didn’t reply. We waited as the men neared, close enough now to hear one say, “Who’s that getting outta the van?”

I couldn’t make out the response, but heard the first voice say: “Yeah, one of the maids, probably. The Widow got her a big night planned, man.” Their laughter moved with them away from the house, toward the garden.

Montbard exhaled a long, slow breath, nervous for the first time. “I agree, Ford. Lethal force — last resort only. I don’t need any more nightmares.”

I smiled — the man was human. But I also knew I could count on him to pull the trigger. The nightmares told me he’d pulled the trigger before.

THE ENGLISHMAN had the door cracked again, looking out as I finished dressing. He told me there was a white van parked near the château now. Said the upstairs lights were off even though it was getting dark enough; someone should have turned them on by now. The maid, Isabelle Toussaint . . . someone.

I was going through the backpack — a flashlight, the night-vision monocular, rubber surgical gloves, rope. Holding up my old silk sports coat, I said, “I thought you were kidding about this.”

“The Orchid’s cocktail party started fifteen minutes ago. Would you prefer to be mistaken for a guest or correctly identified as a burglar?”

I said, “You just convinced me. Maybe that’s why the house is dark — she’s at the party.”

“I didn’t see her. But, if she’s in the house, I’ve arranged another diversion that should lure her out. In half an hour, her beloved orchid house will catch fire. Appear to catch fire, anyway, if the timers work — no guarantees. It’s not easy to find reliable detonators in the islands. I expected to be operating alone, so I went heavy on the fireworks.”

“What kind?”

“Exactly what I said — fireworks. People love them in the islands, and they’re easy to get. In the confusion, we’ll pop into the house, nick Madame Toussaint’s video collection, then it’s back to Saint Lucia in time for a late supper. Your friend Beryl is absolutely stunning, by the way. I wish she would have accepted my invitation to stay with us at Bluestone.”

I was putting on the jacket, but stopped. “Beryl’s not staying with you? Don’t tell me she came back to Saint Arc.”

“Nothing I could do. She took the ferry. Supposed to meet a friend who flew in this afternoon. I overheard the friend’s surname — Money. Impossible to forget. Beryl said they had a lovely place rented, and that you approved. Senegal was thinking about joining them for dinner.”

Like in the old silent films: Step carefully over the banana peel, then fall down an open manhole.
Damn it
.

I could hear Beryl saying,
I bet the party boys are hanging out at the resort. They’ll scout the beach house at sunset, like before
.

I said, “Shay Money is my goddaughter. Beryl didn’t tell you?”

“No. If she had, I would’ve never allowed her to leave.”

“That’s why she didn’t tell you. They’ve gone back to the rental house on the beach. Shay and Beryl have talked themselves into believing they can handle the guys who conned them. We’ve got to get down there.”

Montbard said, “Sorry, Ford, I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You’re sure it’s the same house?”

“Yes. Ritchie Bonaparte and Clovis what’s-his-name are the ones who slapped me around this morning, then locked me in here. They talked about cruising the bars tonight. I heard them.” Ritchie had taken my Rolex — a watch I’d owned for two decades — so I had to ask, “What time is it?”

“Six forty-five.”

The sun was setting now. “And you set the detonators for . . . ?”

“Seven-thirty, but I used bloody egg timers — all I could manage — so it’s not exact.”

I said, “Screw the videos, we’ve got to get down to the beach. There’s too much at risk.”

Montbard remained matter-of-fact. “Yes, there’s some risk, I agree. But there’s even more risk if we don’t get the tapes, not only for Senegal and your friends, but for dozens — maybe hundreds — of others. We’ll never get this opportunity again.”

I thought about it.
Damn
. I hated that he was right. I said, “Okay. Then let’s make it quick.”

“Of course! The entire operation should take less than an hour. I suggest we move to the back garden and wait for the fireworks. When the old girl rushes out to save her precious orchids, we’ll have a solid block of time to search the house.”

I took the flashlight from my bag and shined it on the wall where I’d been prying rock with my fingers. “No need to wait. I found one of your passageways. I think it leads into the basement of Toussaint’s house.”

The Englishman went to the opening, knelt, and levered another rock free. “By God, you’re right.” He shined his light into the hole, then stood and removed his blazer. “Doesn’t look more than a few meters to where it exits. Rather narrow, though. A damn tight squeeze.”

I told him, “Heretics were smaller in those days—” then paused, head tilted, hearing men’s voices again, and the choleric rasp of a dog. Waited for several seconds, expecting to hear the jangle of keys. Instead, the voices faded, moving toward the front of the château. I continued, “Can you figure out a way to jam the door, so they can’t open it from the outside?”

He nudged the door closed with his knee. There was a metallic click. “Already done.”

I said, “Then let’s move. Isabelle will be sending someone for me soon.”

“Isabelle? On a first-name basis, are we?”

I told him, “I’ll explain later,” as I got down on hands and knees and pulled away more rock so my shoulders would fit through the opening.

THE MAJI BLANC’S château was built over the ruins of what Sir James Montbard believed was the original monastery. He said the architecture was older than the ruins where previous monks had lived and died. Told me this after scrutinizing masonry and twin columns that bordered steps leading up to a stone landing. He had also brought his grandfather’s journal — yellowed pages bound in leather.

The hidden entrance inside the château, I guessed, was just above the landing, where stairs disappeared into a modern section of basement. The modern section was walled off with brick and sealed with a steel door.

I’d already checked the door. Snapped on surgical gloves before I tested the knob. It wasn’t locked, but I didn’t open it.

Montbard wanted to search the oldest section first. We used flashlights. We whispered. Sometimes, we heard heavy footsteps overhead, and the occasional tap-shoe scrabble of a dog’s claws on a hardwood floor. Maybe Toussaint was up there stomping around, restless, moving from room to room. She sounded heavier than I would’ve guessed.

The western section of the monastery was intact. Montbard panned his flashlight slowly along the walls and remnants of two doorways before whispering, “The pointed arches . . . the tracery, everything — the way it’s laid out — all typical Gothic architecture. The dry stone masonry could be older. Just as Grandfather described it.”

I wanted to locate the tapes and run, not talk, but the man had switched into archaeology mode. “The Gothic dates from the Middle Ages — twelfth century to the early fifteen hundreds. Remember the rhyme about Columbus sailing the ocean blue? Work on this monastery could have begun before 1492. A hundred years or more.”

I thought,
Uh-oh
, thinking about the article on the Templars, their missing ships and treasure. I said, “Hooker, let’s stick to business.”

Montbard was standing between the twin columns, using his flashlight, scanning ornate carvings of monks praying, sheaves of wheat . . . a cross with four equal arms. He held the light on the cross for a moment, then moved it to the base of the column. He whispered, “This is what I’m talking about. Have a look.”

I knelt and used my own flashlight, seeing monks . . . oak clusters . . . a carpenter’s square . . . a silver-dollar-sized seal etched in rock, so worn I couldn’t be sure, but it might have been a skull and bones, the eyes oddly misaligned.

“It’s similar to my ring.”

“Maybe.”

“My grandfather gave this to me. His grandfather gave it to him. There’s only one other place I’ve seen that symbol carved in stone — in this hemisphere, anyway. An ancestor of ours was among the first—”

“He was a Templar,” I said. "I read the article. But I didn’t come here to prove your theory of relentless motion.”

“Quite right. Just five minutes. That’s all I ask. This stairway—” He used his flashlight to show rock steps concave from centuries of wear. “ — I know without looking there are three flights. Three steps, five steps, then seven steps. Those numbers are significant.” As if reciting by rote, he added, “Between two brazen pillars . . . a door strongly guarded,” whispering to himself.

I said, “Is there something in that journal you’re not telling me about? What the hell are you after?”

“History,” he said. “The truth.”

I told him, “Good luck. Take five minutes, take five hours. I’m not following you.”

He sound chastened, not relieved, saying, “I won’t let you down. Promise. We’ll search separately — might be for the best. Remember our signals. Use the flashlight.”

I said, “I remember,” and left as Montbard started up the steps.

I OPENED THE STEEL DOOR just enough to peek into the basement’s modern section: well-lit office, air-conditioned, a desk, file cabinets, a computer, paintings of orchids on every wall. The room was small enough. I could read the signature of the artist:
Georgia O’Keeffe
. There was another stairway, and a wooden door — maybe a bathroom, maybe a closet, or an adjoining room. The door was closed.

On the desk was an ashtray full of black stubs, the smell of tobacco strong. Toussaint had either just gone up the stairs or she was on the other side of the wooden door. I waited, still hearing footsteps overhead, then I slipped into the office and used a book to block the steel door from closing.

Yes . . . the woman had just left. She’d been working, very busy. A drawer was open, papers scattered on the desk. Receipts and bills, letters addressed to her post-office box. A book,
The Pictorial Encyclopedia of Oncidium
, lay open next to the computer.

One of the envelopes caught my eye. It was addressed by hand. On the upper left corner, the return address read:
Mrs. Ida Jonquil/Cape Coral, FLA
.

I looked in the envelope. Empty.

Ida and Isabelle: two sisters staying in touch, looking out for the welfare of the family’s good name, and their saintly progeny, Michael.

Near the desk was a wall safe, door open. Big — almost as large as the painting that had covered it but was now on the floor. From where I stood, the safe looked stuffed with blocks of cash. I glanced inside as I passed: euros and U.S. dollars, not the Monopoly bills of the Eastern Caribbean. Tomlinson had nailed it: Blackmail was a boutique industry on the island, and business was booming.

Covering most of the opposite wall was a rotating file made of aluminum and steel. It was unlocked, doors open, like the safe. The file reminded me of a Ferris wheel. Its contents were efficiently organized, alphabetized with names and dates. The contents illustrated changes in technology over two decades. There were reels of 8 mm film. There were full-sized cassettes. There were minicassettes like the one Wolfie had given me. The woman had been in the blackmail business a long time.

I looked at the wooden door, ears alert, checked the stairway, then began to flip through the rotating racks. Tapes were stored like books, spines out. I recognized a few names: the wife of a former French president, the South African industrialist Sir James had mentioned, an actress, a rock star. There were a couple of surprises: an evangelist who was often in the news, and a popular member of the U.S. Senate.

Toussaint had said there was power in purity, but she’d proven the opposite. Each video represented money and power. And the woman was shrewd enough to be selective. There were fewer than five dozen tapes.

I dropped the senator’s video and the French first lady’s video into my backpack and continued searching.

Shay’s video was labeled:
Money/FloridaGirls/Michael’s Jezebel
. Jezebel, the biblical whore. It explained why Toussaint, who preyed on the super-rich, had bothered to entrap a redneck girl attempting to marry above her class.

There was nothing filed under the last names of Beryl, Liz, or Corey, but I found Senegal’s video under
F
. It was cross-referenced:
Politics/U.K
.

I was thinking about the desk computer — how could I destroy its memory files? — when I heard a banging, thumping commotion overhead. Sounded as if someone was moving furniture. Then, a dog began barking. Deep, wolfish roars. I stopped and listened . . . listened until the dog went silent and the thumping stopped. I happened to be standing near the wall safe. This time, I took a closer look.

Inside were stacks of hundreds and fifties banded into four-inch bricks of $10,000 and $5,000, bank notations on the wrappers. Bricks were layered five high, five wide, from the front to the safe’s back wall. Half a million cash. No . . . more.

Toussaint owed Shay and the girls money. I dropped eleven blocks of bills into my backpack — $110,000. Hesitated, then took another. Expenses.

There were two steel storage trays in the safe. One contained legal documents: deeds, the woman’s birth certificate (Isabelle Marie Raousset-Boulbon), her Catholic confirmation papers, a faded marriage certificate — something touching about that combination. I shut the drawer and opened the second. There were gold coins in plastic sleeves, and several black velvet boxes — jewelry. I opened the most ornate box and saw a sapphire the size of a robin’s egg. The Midnight Star.