Twice a Spy (17 page)

“Hibbett can
help,” Ernet said after Charlie had filled in the remaining blanks.

Mathilde explained that Alston Hibbett III’s trust fund enabled the young Californian to vacation permanently in the tropics and pursue his passion, tropical drinks. At some point every night, their cumulative effect sent him sliding off his accustomed bar stool at Chez Odelette. The utility room in back, with its battered couch, had become his second home. Most of the time, he didn’t stir until Mathilde or Ernet unbolted the club’s door the following afternoon.

Tonight, with the help of four shots of Jägermeister, on the house—Mathilde’s idea—Hibbett plunged off his bar stool earlier than usual.

After laying him down on the couch, Ernet exited the utility room with the keys to Hibbett’s lesser-used first home on Boulevard Alfassa, a few blocks away, where Charlie and Drummond could stay the night.

Ernet also took Hibbett’s distinctive green and gold Oakland A’s cap, with which Charlie might pass in a blink for the similarly built Californian.

“It would also help if you stumble a lot,” Ernet told Charlie.

Charlie staggered every now and then, as Drummond played Good Samaritan helping him home. They used Alice’s technique of stair-stepping through the Pointe Simon grid. It turned the two-block walk into six blocks, but allowed Charlie to check the reflections in car and storefront windows to see if anyone was following.

Rounding the corner to Boulevard Alfassa, Charlie spotted Hibbett’s building, an only-in-the-tropics Creamsicle orange, four stories trimmed in spearmint green and overlooking the Baie de Fort-de-France. Up and down the block, a light crowd bopped into and out of lively clubs. Across the street, a similar number meandered along the bayside promenade and ferry docks.

At Hibbett’s well-lit entrance, Drummond stopped and gazed at the starlight at play on the wave tops. Eager to limit their exposure, Charlie hurriedly produced the keys and opened the door. “Come on, the view’s even better from upstairs.”

Drummond remained planted on the sidewalk, turning his focus to the sky.

Had he detected something? A surveillance drone? Charlie’s stomach clenched. “What is it?”

“An interesting piece of information is that Mozart was just five years old when he wrote the music for ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’ ”

“Interesting really isn’t the best term.” With a tug at his elbow, Charlie led his father into a small foyer furnished with contemporary flair. Best of all, it was unpopulated. “I’m in 3-A, kind sir,” he said with a Dean Martin slur, in case anyone was listening.

As they reached the stairs, the door to 1-C, a few feet to their left, swung inward. Out darted a heavily made up young blonde in a low-cut satin dress. Her cherry perfume devoured much of the oxygen in the lobby.

“Hey,” she said, eyeing Charlie with recognition and, he hoped, mistaking him for Hibbett.

He grabbed onto Drummond as if to prop himself up, but really to hide his face. “Hey,” he replied into Drummond’s sleeve.

The blonde turned to say thank you to the man in 1-C, but found herself facing a hastily shut door. The man, evidently her customer, seemed disinclined to encounter any of his fellow residents at this juncture. With a self-conscious air, the young woman fled the building.

Helping Charlie up the stairs, Drummond said, “That was lucky, wasn’t it?”

“I guess,” said Charlie, thinking of the old horseplayer expression:
Luck never gives; she only lends
.

Apartment 3A was a spacious loft with a collection of curvy Plexiglas furniture that, from the standpoint of functionality, might be more aptly considered art. Charlie imagined Hibbett buying the whole lot in an effort to win over a modern furniture store saleswoman.

The living room bolstered the theory. This room probably reflected the real Hibbett: just a single piece of furniture, a soft, black sofa made to look like a baseball mitt from Ty Cobb’s day. It faced an enormous plasma television mounted on the wall. Littered on the hardwood floor were two laptop computers, three game systems, and too many game cartridges to count. And in the corner was an antique Coke bottle vending machine retrofitted to dispense cans of Red Bull.

“Think we’re safe here?” Charlie asked Drummond.

Drummond sank into the baseball mitt. “From what?”

“The usual: getting killed. Or getting arrested, then getting killed.”

Drummond luxuriated in the cool leather. “Why did we come here again?”

“We decided it would be too conspicuous to row out to Fielding’s island in the middle of the night.”

“Right, right.” Drummond sat up with an air of determination. “So we can find the device.”

“First we need a better way to get there than rowing.”

“Well …” Drummond thought. The exertion seemed to have sapped him. His head fell back onto an Oakland Raiders throw pillow. His eyes burned with frustration. “I’m so sorry, Charles …”

“Did you remember to take your medicine?”

“Of course,” Drummond said, indignant.

“That explains it.”

Drummond was supposed to take a pill before bedtime, and he did so with the reliability of a Swiss train. Drowsiness invariably followed. Drummond yawned. “What was it you needed to know again?”

“How to get to Fielding’s island.”

“Oh, right. You know who might know?”

“No. Who?”

“Odelette’s children.”

“Mathilde and Ernet?”

“How many children does she have?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said. Nor did his father, he realized, at least not now. “I figured it would be best not to tell them what we were up to.”

“That sounds about right.”

“So any idea how to get out there?”

“Where?”

“The island where Fielding lives. Or lived, I should say.”

“Oh, right, right. I don’t know.” Drummond stretched out on the sofa.

Charlie rushed to capitalize on his father’s last moments of consciousness. “What if some other organization figured out what Fielding was doing with washing machines, then tried to storm the island?”

“They’d be in trouble. Police patrol boats would open fire on them once they got within a mile. And there are armed guards there as well. Everyone is scared to go out there, by design.”

“Let me guess? The chief of police got a boxful of money?”

“Rings.” Drummond studied the blank plasma TV as if it were playing a thriller.

“A boxful of rings?”

“Rings a bell.” Drummond said, his lids lowering. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“Dad, what rings a bell? Please, we have to get out there somehow.”

Drummond opened his eyes. “We donated thirty-caliber machine guns to the police department. Whatever you do, do not try to go to that island.”

“But—” Charlie stopped short. Drummond was out.

Maybe for the best. Rest was his Red Bull. Charlie could try again in a few hours.

Now, careful not to make too much noise, Charlie sat on the floor and hit the space bar on one of the laptops, bringing the computer to life and flashing its display image on the plasma screen. The system was already open to the Web, a site selling coin-operated air hockey tables.

Charlie debated entering as little as FIELDING into a search engine, let alone HOW TO COVERTLY REACH NICK FIELDING’S PRIVATE
ISLAND. What if the CIA had programmed its house-sized computers to set off alarms if anyone did? Wouldn’t that person’s location flash at once onto the agency’s computer screens or cell phones or tricked-out wristwatches?

Charlie was willing to bet against that happening. Fielding’s cover as a dashing and colorful hunter of pirate gold had made him a worldwide celebrity. Teams of his divers were still combing the Caribbean in search of the sunken ship containing the legendary treasure of San Isidro. Charlie’s horseplayer cronies, who regarded treasure hunting as gambling’s highest form, kept track of the San Isidro expedition team with the same dedication with which other people followed athletic teams. In reality, according to Alice, the treasure of San Isidro was the maritime equivalent of an urban legend.

Thinking of her, Charlie considered for the first time that the expression “missing someone like crazy” wasn’t entirely hyperbole.

Clicking to a search engine, he entered what he considered a relatively innocuous FIELDING ISLAND MARTINIQUE. The screen filled with 10 of the 871,222 results, the first being a computer-generated map of Fielding’s private island, Îlet Céron, located a few miles northwest of Fort-de-France.

Charlie opted for the satellite picture of the island. He gaped at the pentagonal swimming pool, so big that it was probably visible from outer space without satellite assistance. He also made out the slate roof of the sprawling château and what appeared to be a wall around the entire island, topped by bushels of barbed wire.

His eye fell to the search engine’s automatically generated advertisements, all but one from online stores selling replica gold doubloons and pirate swag. The exception was a real estate listing of a thirty-room château on Îlet Céron. The ad had been placed by the Pointe du Bout, Martinique, office of Caribbean Realty Solutions.

Charlie hoped that the company would have a solution for him.

Located on
the ground floor of a three-story tangerine French Colonial building on Pointe du Bout’s ritzy yet quaint main street, Caribbean Realty Solutions filled its broad front window with striking color photographs of the best listings. “Bait,” the Realtors called these pictures. “Fish” often stopped and lingered, openmouthed. Frank DeSoto, an eleven-year veteran of the realty game, sat at the reception desk, watching two such prospective catches, men wearing expensive polo shirts and Bermuda shorts, crossing the street. Without a glance at the bait, they entered the agency.

Fabulous, DeSoto thought. They know what they want.

Filled with the exhilaration a fisherman feels at a tug on his line, DeSoto did a five-second check of his hairpiece and breath.

The men approached the desk. Striking the proper balance between deference and social equality, DeSoto asked, “What can I do for you?”

The younger of the two men, who looked moneyed enough, said, “We’re interested in seeing the Céron Island property.”

DeSoto’s exhilaration evaporated, although he continued smiling. Chances were these men were GCs—gate-crashers, a minor-league brand of thrill-seeker whose idea of a thrill was wandering around a property they couldn’t afford.

GCs were normally couples, however, and tended to dress as if they’d just stepped off a yacht. Like the authentic rich, this duo placed comfort ahead of appearance. The key was their footwear. The younger man wore the distinctive boat-shaped Bettanin & Venturi loafers, handmade in Italy. And he wore them without socks, as if he didn’t care whether
they fell victim to sweat, sand, or saltwater. The other man, although at least twenty years DeSoto’s senior, wore a pair of Day-Glo orange Crocs, the overpriced neoprene beach clogs that were cute on little kids. Anyone over the age of eight wearing a pair of kiddie clogs didn’t give a hoot what others thought. He was loaded, DeSoto suspected.

He decided to find out for sure. “I would love to share Îlet Céron with you,” he said, extending his hand, rattling his eighteen-karat gold Rolex. “I am Franklin DeSoto.”

The young man’s grip was firm and his eyes never wavered. “Brad McDonough,” he said. Then he cocked his head at the older man, who hovered by the entry. “And this is Mr. Larsen.”

Larsen stepped forward, bumping his young companion without apology. He placed his hand in DeSoto’s and let the Realtor do the work. “
John
Larsen,” he said as though it were some sort of secret.

“Great to meet you,” DeSoto said. “This happens to be the first slow day I’ve had since Thanksgiving.”
If only
. “I could take you to the island this morning if you’d like.”

McDonough looked to old Larsen, who nodded his consent, though grudgingly. Maybe he would have preferred a nap first. Or a Bloody Mary.

“The agency just has a minor security requirement,” said DeSoto. “I need to have my assistant photocopy either your passports or your driver’s licenses. Then I can call down to the dock and have Marcel ready the motor launch.”

Licenses in hand, DeSoto proceeded to the copier in the back room, glancing at his BlackBerry en route. Just the usual boasts from colleagues. Bettina Ludington was showing the old Delacorte estate to a Goldman Sachs senior partner. DeSoto replied with an insincere wish of good luck and
btw, i’m showing ceron to a couple of whales
.

But were they really whales?

Taking a few moments longer than necessary at the photocopier, DeSoto used an array of Internet tools to search for his prospective clients’ occupations, real estate holdings, and credit histories; Realtors were as adept as private investigators at getting the lowdown, and, by
necessity, they were faster. If DeSoto’s digging indicated that his men were in fact whales, he would immediately plunk down fifty euros to rent a Riva Aquarama, a vintage mahogany runabout known alternately as the maritime version of a Ferrari and the Stradivarius of the sea. Should he discover that they were plankton, getting rid of them would be a simple matter of requesting a fax from a bank stating that they had the financial wherewithal to close on such an expensive property. Plankton usually claimed that they had to return to their hotels to get their bank information. Invariably they were never seen again.