The Shores of Spain (18 page)

“Yes,” Duilio said.

“I’m getting two images from this. One is close, on this beach, I think.”

Duilio’s jaw clenched. “He’s on the beach? Is he dead?”

Joaquim pinched the bridge of his nose. He had never had any training in doing this, and his talent was as much a mystery to him as it had been six months ago. “I think if he was dead I wouldn’t see him at all.”

“Why don’t we step outside?” Duilio said. “You can point out which direction to look.”

Joaquim followed Duilio through the halls to the deck that overlooked the beach. After taking another moment to orient himself, he repeated his mental search and pointed. “In that house,” he said, “or along a straight line with it. I’m sure he’s alive.”

Duilio puffed out his cheeks as he gazed at the house to which Joaquim was pointing. “That’s the Guerra home. Grandmother already questioned the head of that household.”

“That’s where you should look. Can we not just walk over there?”

Duilio gave him an expression of exaggerated shock. “Two males, intruding on another woman’s household? No, that wouldn’t work out well.”

Joaquim had to bow to his greater knowledge of the culture here. “So, what do we do?”

“We wait until Oriana and Grandmother can make a respectful call on the home.”

“Wait? That’s all you can do?”

“The Guerra family is almost as politically influential as the Monteiros. If we go over there and demand that they produce Costa, they’ll refuse.”

Joaquim closed his eyes and concentrated again, checking his sense of the lieutenant. “I’m sure he’s there.”

“Damnation.”
Duilio ran a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately, much of our information about the thieves came from them. The Guerra household, I mean, so Costa must have been involved.”

Joaquim didn’t protest Duilio’s profanity. Instead he followed that second shadowy presence his gift had tracked, far to the east. So far that he couldn’t guess the distance, similar to his sense of Duilio two mornings ago on the ship. “I think the boy was touching this shirt,” he said to Duilio. “I’ve captured a sense of him just from this.”

Joaquim opened his eyes to find Duilio regarding him quizzically. He glanced down at the silk garment in his hand. His mother had never even admitted she had a gift. And he had no idea to whom he could go for training, although once he returned to the Golden City, he was going to do his best to find someone to teach him. If he could do
this
—pick up a sense of the boy from an item he’d touched—he’d bypassed far too many opportunities to locate missing people in the past. He owed it to them to learn his gift better.

*   *   *

M
arina and Oriana had returned from a trip to the harbor with new garments for Marina to wear, a trio of dark skirts and shirtwaists with embroidery around the neck and placket and cuffs. The islands were apparently known for their excellent embroidery. Joaquim couldn’t help smiling at Marina’s obvious relief in having something more
proper
to wear, even if it wasn’t the most fashionable garb.

The priest—a serious man of middling years—joined them for lunch. Interestingly he was deaf and had to watch their lips to understand what they were saying. At last the Jesuits had discovered a way not to lose their priests to sereia magic.

They gathered in the front courtyard, and Joaquim faced the man squarely, responding properly when required during the ceremony. Afterward the others left Joaquim and Marina alone with only the tinkling of the fountain and the cries of the gulls.

Joaquim gazed down at his new wife, who flushed and smiled softly. Being married in the eyes of the Church had been terribly important to him just a few days ago. It
was
still important to him, but little had actually changed with those words. The agreement between them the previous day, this ceremony, and the one that would follow eventually in their parish church back in the Golden City: they were merely the formalization of their union. His marriage to her, that was in his heart.

Before he had a chance to tell her that, though, one of the servants rang the bells at the edge of the courtyard. “Lady Monteiro has sent me to tell you a guest has arrived—the visitor from the American embassy. She would like you to join them in the back courtyard.”

Marina took Joaquim’s hand. He let her draw him along the halls until they entered the other courtyard, the one with all the chairs and pillows.

Their visitor walked in just as Joaquim sat down at Marina’s side. He rose when the woman entered only to wonder if that was done here
. Perhaps the women rise when a man enters
. Unfortunately, Duilio stood against the plastered wall, so Joaquim couldn’t use his actions for guidance.

Their visitor was a slender, dark-haired woman not quite Lady Ferreira’s age, with delicate features and a demure attitude portrayed in her stance that was completely belied by her coolly calculating eyes. She wore a white lace-trimmed gown that displayed her figure well, and carried a parasol in one gloved hand. She nodded her head to Oriana first, then to her grandmother. “Madam Ambassador, Lady Monteiro.”

“You are welcome in my home, Ambassador Norton,” Grandmother said.

Aha!
This was the American ambassador herself, not one of her people. Joaquim gave her a sharper perusal, curious that a mere theft demanded her personal attention.

“I am grateful, Lady Monteiro,” the American said with a slight
bow. “Please forgive me, but I am unable to prostrate myself appropriately in my people’s native clothing.”

“And yet you chose to wear it,” Grandmother pointed out.

The American inclined her head, as if granting that point. “Unfortunately, my government lacks the grasp of the situation here that the Portuguese so clearly possess. If I were to, as Mr. Kipling calls it, ‘go native,’ my government would believe my mind had turned and recall me.”

They reminded Joaquim of circling cats, trying to decide whether to fight. Or perhaps they were merely taking the measure of each other. Grandmother Monteiro’s white hair and kindly face hid the mind of a shrewd politician. The American, on the other hand, struck Joaquim as hardened, an adventurer.

“May I introduce you, Madam Ambassador,” Oriana said, “to my sister, Marina, and her husband, Joaquim Tavares? He is with the police in the Golden City, and they’ll be tracking the thief to her destination.”

The ambassador smiled up at Joaquim, who was still standing. “Inspector Tavares, I am pleased to meet you,” she said in a low, melodic voice. She turned to Marina. “And you as well, Mrs. Tavares. Congratulations on your marriage.”

Joaquim stole a quick glance at Duilio, who shrugged. The ambassador hadn’t been told his rank. The woman must have very good sources of information. After a few more pleasantries, they settled, the ambassador sitting almost knee to knee with Oriana. The ambassador flicked a glance over her shoulder and, spotting Captain Vas Neves kneeling at the edge of the roof, gave her a smart salute.

“I’m glad you’re taking precautions,” the ambassador said to Oriana. “You may be young, but I can see you understand there’s something odd about this situation, something higher powers may find . . . awkward. Now, shall we get down to business? My presence here
will
be remarked, so the less time I take, the better.”

“Yes, since you came yourself,” Oriana noted. “Why, madam?”

“Officially, I’m here to pay my respects. I’m planning to spend the afternoon shopping at the harbor, as I’m preparing gifts to send to my nieces in New Jersey. I could buy them garments on Quitos, but they’d never be able to wear a
pareu
back home.” She opened up her handbag, produced a photograph, and handed it to Oriana. “Here are your thieves, as seen early Tuesday morning on the docks of Porto Novo.”

Oriana angled the photograph and from behind her, Joaquim got a clear look at it. On the bustling dock, a woman in a dark shirtwaist and skirt stood with one hand on the shoulder of a young boy wearing oversized trousers, a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a tweed cap. His face was turned away, but the woman’s was clearly visible. She had large dark eyes, dark hair pulled back in the requisite chignon, and pale skin. She looked frightened.
Hunted,
Joaquim reckoned.

Madam Norton continued, speaking to Oriana. “I beg your pardon for making you wait, but on seeing this photograph, I realized the situation is more complicated than I’d previously guessed.”

“How so?”

The ambassador pointed at the picture. “She’s dead.”

Oriana’s eyes lifted. “Someone killed her?”

“Your government did,” Madam Norton said coolly. “About a decade ago.”

Joaquim glanced over at Duilio. He stood against one wall, his eyes closed. He was trying to get his gift to give him an answer, anything that could verify that claim.

“How is that possible?” Oriana asked.

“That she died years ago yet this photograph was taken of her only Tuesday? I don’t know yet. However, I can tell you a bit about her. Her name is—or was—Leandra Rocha. When I first arrived here, she worked in the American embassy on Quitos. She was one of the household staff, in charge of the maids, only twenty-four then.”

Oriana’s brows drew together. “Was she a native of Quitos?”

“As far as I could tell,” Madam Norton said. “But tell me, when you were a spy in Northern Portugal, did they know you weren’t native to their shores?”

“Very few did,” Oriana said with an inclination of her head as if awarding the older woman a point. “Then you don’t know for whom she was working.”

Madam Norton smiled slyly. “My government has, especially in the past few years, acted in ways that prompt other nations to fear we have expansionist ideas. Therefore, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that every member of the household staff was a spy for one government or another. Given Leandra’s familiarity with the locale, I assumed she worked for your Ministry of Intelligence.”

“And how did she end up dead?”

“She was arrested. Grabbed while out at the market, thrown in prison, and then handed over for execution. Left to die of dehydration on some tiny island. Traditional execution, I’m told.”

Her eyes locked with Oriana’s. She obviously knew Oriana had nearly died that way. Joaquim watched them.
What is the ambassador daring her to say? Or ask, perhaps?

“Do you have any idea why they arrested her?” Oriana asked after a moment.

“Yes,” Madam Norton said. “After a couple of months, she became friendly with me. I often sought her advice concerning local customs. Simple things: how to address elders, what manner of gift to give, what restaurant had the best food. I don’t believe she ever revealed anything of a vital nature to me, but in the game of adventure, trust is dangerous. It is possible that she was taken up because of her interactions with me. I felt responsible for her death.”

“And now you know she’s not dead after all.”

Madam Norton absently twirled her closed parasol. “Yes. When showed this photograph, our people watching the Spanish embassy recognized her. They saw her leaving the embassy with the boy Thursday morning. They don’t recall seeing either before that, so they
must not have come and gone from the embassy grounds often. But it leads me to question whether she was an agent of Spain all along.”

“You might check with anyone who was there concurrent with her,” Oriana suggested. “If someone noted that she had stripes on her thighs—perhaps if they’d caught her bathing—that would reveal she was a Canary rather than a sereia. They have different markings than we do, and a dorsal fin, although that can be removed.”

“A dorsal fin? How interesting.” The ambassador sat back, a speculative gleam in her eyes. “I will ask about that.”

“Is it possible this is someone who merely looks like her?” Joaquim asked. “It has been a decade, after all.”

The ambassador turned to him. “We keep photographs of all staff on file, Inspector. When compared against the old photograph, there’s no doubt. It’s either her or her twin, and I understand that twins are exceedingly rare among sereia.”

Joaquim glanced down at the photograph again. The woman on the docks—Leandra Rocha—didn’t seem like a hardened spy. Appearances were often deceiving, though.

“Our inquiries about Leandra Rocha haven’t gotten very far, but my investigator ran across something interesting. She’s not the only one who’s been asking about Leandra. Several people she talked to mentioned having been quizzed about Leandra recently, within the last two months, by someone they assumed was a member of the Ministry of Intelligence. My woman there, though, says there’s not any record of an agent with that name.”

“Who?” Oriana asked.

“Inês Palmeira,” the ambassador said. “She was, by the way, also asking questions about you, Madam Paredes, and several other women.”

Oriana sat back, her expression unreadable. “I see.”

“An oddity,” Madam Norton said with a wave of her hand, “but worth mentioning.”

“What about the boy?” Duilio asked. “Do you know who he is?”

“I’m afraid not. As I said, our people hadn’t noticed him before.”

Oriana leaned forward. “Have you heard whether she turned the missing book over to the Ministry of Intelligence? Or to the Spanish embassy?”

“My sources say neither,” Madam Norton said. “Given the current hornet’s nest of activity over at the Spanish embassy, I don’t think they have your book. They sent out most of their staff to hunt Leandra. I suspect she took that book with her.”

“To Spain?” Duilio asked.

Madam Norton tilted her head to gaze at him. “Yes, I heard you were on the docks asking questions, Mr. Ferreira. While the Spanish were searching for Leandra Rocha, she was in hiding somewhere in Porto Novo. She booked passage on the
Confraria,
which sailed for Barcelona two days ago. It should arrive there within the next day or so, and my people will be watching for her to disembark with the boy.”

Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face. It would take
them
more than just two days to reach Barcelona. Leandra had at least three or four days’ lead on them.