Eye of the Storm (22 page)

She moved on to several other entries, and like Tate's, most of them had secondary comments, as if Maurice was using the calendar as a diary as well as a way to record appointments.

"What about right before the last notation," Tate said, reading over her shoulder. "Say the previous two days. Maybe that's what we're looking for. The meeting Maurice was talking about."

She moved the cursor forward, scanning the notations, stopping cold when she reached one, two days prior to the entry about Tate. "Oh, my God."

The entry read:
Isabella Ramirez
. And after that, with a different time stamp, Maurice had entered one word.

Trouble
.

"COME AND SIT. They'll be back when they're finished and not before." Marguerite materialized at Reece's elbow, her voice full of concern.

"I can't help myself. I just keep thinking if I stand here long enough, their car lights will show up in the drive." Reece turned to face the older woman, knowing his expression was sheepish.

Marguerite lived out in the country, in an old stone farmhouse more suited for the hills of Provence than the urban sprawl of Virginia. Yet somehow, she'd managed to find her little piece of heaven in the wake of the expanding D.C. metropolitan area.

"It's just over those hills," she said, following his train of thought. "You can sort of see the lights." Indeed, the sky appeared brighter along the upper line of the hills, but not enough to obliterate the stars. "So come with me and have something to eat. There's no telling when you'll have the time again."

They were all agreed that this was just a break in the storm, that Carlos, or whoever was chasing them, would find them again—and failing that, they'd find him, one way or the other eliciting a showdown.

Reece allowed Marguerite to guide him back to the table. Martin was already there, tucking into a simple meal of stew and French bread, the wine that accompanied it a superior vintage. French to her core, Marguerite was not the type to suffer bad wine, not even out here in the boonies.

"Tell us about Simone," Martin said, as usual oblivious to the undercurrents. "What was she like when you knew her?"

"You forget." Marguerite's smile was gentle. "I know her now." Her gaze met Reece's and he felt as if there were a message. One he was choosing to ignore.

"I know that." Martin's voice held a note of exasperation. "But I want to know what she was like in D-9."

"She was quiet. Always turned inward, that one. I'm certain that's why Maurice chose her."

"What do you mean 'chose her'?" Reece asked, curious despite himself.

"Maurice picked the members of D-9 very carefully. Always people who had nothing to lose. No family or friends. No connections, or perhaps unfavorable ones they would just as soon leave behind."

"And Simone fit the mold," Reece prompted, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"She must have. Otherwise I can't believe Maurice would have recruited her. But she never talked about her past, if that's what you're asking. I think maybe she confided in Bea. The two of them were close. But I'm not even certain of that, really."

"So there's nothing you can share." He sounded desperate and hated the fact.

"I'm afraid the answers you seek can only come from Simone."

Reece nodded, knowing that she was right. "You said that Maurice looked for outsiders. But surely there had to be more to it than that."

"There was." She paused, her expression thoughtful. "He also looked for certain talents. Natural tendencies he could fashion into useful tools for the division."

"And Simone's silence was one?" Martin asked, clearly not understanding.

"Perhaps not the silence itself. But what it said about her as a person. Simone feels things very deeply. Her childhood taught her to hide this, but never completely. She is sensitive to the world around her. And that makes her invaluable when it comes to infiltration."

"Infiltration?" They both asked, almost in unison.

"Yes. Simone was better than anyone I've ever seen at getting into and out of places that are seemingly inaccessible. She has an innate ability to read the environment and find clues that no one else could possibly see. She could access anything."

"And once she was inside?" Reece prompted.

"I am not sure you want the answer to that." Marguerite reached out to cover his hand.

"It's like hearing about a stranger. Someone I don't know at all."

"Perhaps so." Marguerite shrugged. "We all are different people at different moments in our lives. But inside. Here." She touched her heart. "We are always the same. It is our ability to love that keeps us human."

"Maybe. Or maybe it's the ability to keep some part of us sequestered away from everything around us. To keep a bit of our soul isolated from the disappointments of the world."

"Are you talking of Simone, or yourself?" Marguerite's eyebrows disappeared into her snow-white hair, her blue eyes knowing.

"Both, I suppose," he said, laughing at himself. "I'm not sure I know which way is up at the moment. Everything I thought I knew has been turned on its side."

"Or maybe you were looking at the world the wrong way to begin with, and now..." Again the Gallic shrug. "Now you are seeing it as it really is."

"Which leaves me where?"

"That is for you to decide. You and Simone."

Martin cleared his throat. "Uh, guys, before you dig any deeper into Reece's psyche, maybe I could have a little more stew?"

"There's more on the stove, cheri." Marguerite waved Martin in the direction of the kitchen, her eyes never leaving Reece's face.

Reece watched as his brother pushed away from the table, heading for the stew pot in the kitchen. "I'm not sure where to go from here. Some things, once broken, can never be repaired."

"Yes—" she nodded "—but the remnants can often be built into something entirely new."

It was the same thought he'd had last night. Although by the light of the day he hadn't been as certain of it. Simone, despite the intimacy of the night, seemed only to have pulled further away.

Martin stepped back into the dining room, the fragrance of beef and onions filling the air.

"But I am an old woman," Marguerite said, her eyes wrinkling as she smiled. "What do I know of such things?" She got up and went into the kitchen, and Reece spooned a bite of stew.

"She's right, you know." Apparently Martin was not as oblivious as he'd seemed.

"About what?"

"Starting over. Building something from what's left. It's obvious to me that you still care about Simone. You've never really stopped. And just because you have a few bumps in the road, it doesn't mean you should just hang up your driving gloves and call it a day."

"There's a message in all that, I take it? Something beyond the Indy 500 analogy?"

Martin laughed. "So I'm not as good with the turn of the phrase as Marguerite. But I am your brother. Which means I know you. And you still want Simone. It's as simple as that."

"Nothing is ever that simple, Martin. Especially in a marriage."

"Only because both of you are so determined to make it complex. The way I see it, it's pretty damn straightforward. You love her. She loves you. And life is too damn short to piss that kind of thing away. How's that for to the point?"

Reece sighed, wondering when his little brother had become a man. Clearly, he'd spent too many hours trying to right the wrongs of the world and not enough time seeing his wife and brother for who they really were.

"You're a great attorney, Reece," Martin continued. "So you, more than most, know that the answer is sometimes right there in plain sight. At least think about it. All right?"

"Yeah." He nodded, his thoughts on Simone. "I will. As soon as we're done with all this."

"No. Think about it now. Before there is no more
this
."

He looked up to meet his brother's somber gaze, and then broke off to look out the window again. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was as simple as recognizing what was in front of him and grabbing on to it.

But the truth was, it wasn't up to him. At least not entirely.

Simone had to want it, too.

*****

"SO YOU HAVE a reference to Isabella Ramirez, and missing parts of D-9's personnel files. Anything else?" They were all sitting in the dining room, the old oak table having been witness to many such conversations.

Simone sat by Reece. Martin sat on her left, next to Tate, with Marguerite sitting between Tate and Reece. They looked for all the world like any other dinner party, except that this one was about life and death.

"We brought home copies of a few more files. A couple that appear to be Maurice's take on events happening around him. But I don't believe they contain anything of real importance." Simone met Tate's gaze across the table and he nodded his agreement

"But at least we know now that Isabella is behind what's happening," Tate added.

"You don't know that," Marguerite said. "You only know that Maurice saw the woman. And that something worried him enough to send the postcards."

"But surely if you connect the dots. With Carlos in the country and Isabella meeting with Maurice..." Martin said.

"No." Reece nodded toward the older woman. "Marguerite is correct. There is logic certainly that would make it seem likely that Isabella is involved. Maybe even pulling the strings. But there isn't enough evidence to give us any degree of certainty."

"Well, this isn't a court of law, Reece, and I'm not sure we have the luxury of waiting for absolutes." Tate crossed his arms, glaring at them all. "I, for one, don't much like the idea of sitting around here waiting for definitive answers while that bastard out there closes the noose."

"So what are you proposing we do?" Simone asked, more inclined to action than waiting.

"I think we need to go to the source."

"Nicaragua?" Simone asked, following his train of thought from force of habit.

"Yeah. Isabella. I say we confront her with what we know." He paused, looking at each of them in turn. "And then we put an end to it."

"But wouldn't it make more sense to try to find Carlos? After all, if we're right, he's the one who has been hunting us," Reece said.

"If we go to Nicaragua, I guarantee you, Carlos will follow." Tate crossed his arms, his gaze encompassing them all.

"That actually makes sense. I mean, if he's tracking us, why not lead him where we want him to go?" Simone said.

"But you don't even know where Isabella is," Reece protested.

"Actually, I have a little information," Martin said. "I was doing some surfing earlier. And I came across a news story. Apparently there was a minor uproar in Managua last night. The news is sketchy, but basically they're saying there was an attempted coup. The Ramirez junta is being blamed, specifically Isabella."

"Is she still in Managua?" Tate asked.

"I don't know." Martin shook his head.

"What else do we know?"

"Just that Antonio Montoya is counted among the dead. He was one of Hector's henchmen, right?"

"Yeah." Tate frowned. "But none of this feels right. If Isabella was going to stage a coup, my guess is it wouldn't be in Managua. She'd know that Ortega and his supporters are strongest on their home territory."

"You're saying that if she was going to try and overthrow the government, she'd wait to do it from her own position of strength," Simone said.

"Exactly. So that means something else is going on here."

"Maybe the Nicaraguan government got wind of her interaction with Maurice." Simone considered the idea, realizing that it had validity.

"Aren't we really saying she murdered him?" Martin asked.

"We're saying it's possible," Marguerite conceded. "But we still have no proof."

"Doesn't matter if she did or didn't do it," Reece speculated, once again sounding every inch the prosecutor. "If the Americans know she was here, they'll be putting pressure on Ortega's government for answers. Even a hint that the president's mistress was involved would be enough to threaten the current trade negotiations. And when you factor in who said mistress is, I cart see that there would be great pressure on Ortega to do something about it."

"So, what?" Simone asked, filtering through his thoughts for an answer. "The supposed coup is a cover- up?"

"I think it's possible. A way to save face. Mark her clearly as an enemy."

"But that could mean that Isabella is dead," Tate said.

"Not necessarily." Reece sat back, steepling his hands, considering the facts. "If she were dead, he'd have no reason not to report it. There'd be some repercussion from her followers, but not enough to threaten the government. And news of her death would leave him free to blame her for any misunderstanding with the Americans."

"You would have fit right into D-9, Reece," Marguerite said with approval. "But even if we assume that Isabella killed Maurice, what of the other murders? She is clearly no longer in the States."

"Carlos." Tate spat the name out. "Who better to do Isabella's dirty work than her brother? Maybe Isabella didn't kill Maurice at all. Maybe she was only here to get information to feed to her brother. And once that was accomplished, Maurice became a liability."

"And so Carlos killed him." Marguerite said the words out loud, trying them on for size.

"And then, using the locations Isabella stole, began hunting."

"Well, I can certainly buy that Isabella and Carlos would want revenge. But why now?" Marguerite reached for her wineglass and took a sip.

"I don't know," Tate said. "Maybe because Isabella finally had access to Maurice? Or maybe she only just now found out about D-9. Either way the point is that it would have taken time to gather enough information to be in a position to take action."