Black Widow

18

The photographs were taken on Saturday, my first day on the island, as I explored the hillside above the beach house on Saint Arc.

There was a shot of me as I knelt to pick up a stick, then another of me probing the entrance of the camera blind, checking for booby traps.

I paused long enough to ask Montbard, “How did you get these?” He was no longer the warm and cheery host. “Keep going. We’ll discuss details later.”

The next photo was taken from outside the camera blind, looking in through the viewing window. I was holding up Paris Match, the issue with the attractive female politician on the cover. My face was only partially visible.

In the last two photos, I was looking downward from the viewing window, then I was reaching to drop the curtain-the twins had appeared, I remembered, and I was allowing them their privacy.

“Interesting,” I said. “Were they taken with some kind of remote-control camera?”

“Not exactly. I have an interest in what’s going on on that nasty little island. You were being shadowed.”

“I’m a relatively observant man. I didn’t see anyone shadowing me.”

Sir James said, “That’s what you may expect to see when I’m shadowing you. But you’re right, in a way. These photographs were taken by cameras equipped with motion detectors. I was higher up the mountain. I followed you as you marked your trail.”

I remembered parrots flushing from a stand of travelers palms.

I was about to say I suspected… as Montbard said, “Now you’re about to tell me you suspected someone was there all along.” He smiled, but there was no humor in his face. “They always do-once I confront them. You asked about my years with the Royal Marines? For part of the time, I was attached to Defence Intelligence and Security in Bedfordshire. PSYOPS. So I’ve had a bit of experience at the game.”

PSYOPS-psychological warfare operations.

I asked, “What about tonight? Did you have a quiet evening at home, watching for my boat to return? Or did you follow me again?” I was thinking about the infrared light I’d seen.

His severe expression faded. “Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we, Dr. North? It’s obvious that we’re both aware what’s going on at Saint Arc. A very shrewd operator is using the place as a filmset for black-mail-and not just that pretty little beach house. It’s quite a sophisticated operation. If you don’t mind, I’ll save the particulars for later.

“Saint Arc, along with Jamaica and Aruba, is the only island in the Caribbean corrupt enough to allow that sort of business. I have a personal interest in seeing the bastards hang, and I am quietly assembling their gallows. Forgive me for being frank, but what I don’t need is some amateur Yank mucking up all my work by tipping off the buggers in advance-or by calling in the authorities.”

He reached for the bottle of bourbon and freshened his drink before adding, “I’ve seen enough to know you’re not working for the opposition. I therefore take it you have a personal interest in the matter-someone has hired you, perhaps, to investigate.”

With some people, the smart thing to do is keep your cards close to the chest until you have an idea what’s in their hand. Not this guy, though. I told him, “No. My goddaughter is a victim. She’s supposed to be married on Sunday. The blackmailers gave her until Friday to pay the balance on a quarter-million dollars.”

“The balance?”

“Yes. She made a deal to pay them a little over a hundred thousand, but they reneged the day after she transferred the money.”

“Really.” He appeared to find the information useful. “Well, I can empathize with the fact that you and your goddaughter are in a bit of a tight situation. Tomorrow’s Monday-only four days to deal with the problem. That’s all the more reason for me to worry you’re going to ruin all my work by rushing matters. Let’s be frank: Are you some bumbling amateur, Dr. North?”

I said, “I’ll answer that question honestly, if you’ll answer a question honestly for me. Are you the blackmailer, Sir James?”

I was reassured by his nodding look of approval. “Very smart. I would have followed the same chain of reasoning. Problem is, I checked with a few friends-State Department types; immigration people. They had some difficulty coming up with background information on you. North is such a common surname. According to your passport, the middle initial is W. If I knew your middle name, I might be more inclined to speak freely.”

“You found out all that about me?”

“Does that offend you? Perhaps you have something to hide.” Montbard had avoided eye contact in the comfortable way people do when they are busy eating and drinking, but now his eyes locked onto mine. Instinct told me he already knew the answer or he wouldn’t have asked the question.

I said, “My middle name doesn’t begin with a W.”

“A mistake on your passport?”

I shrugged as he stared at me. “Everything’s computerized. If someone hits the wrong letter on a keyboard, it’s better to live with the mistake than deal with all the bureaucracy getting it changed.”

After several moments, he said, “I think that answers my question.”

“But you haven’t answered mine. Are you the blackmailer?”

“Understood. Why don’t you come ’round to the house for tea in the morning. Nine-ish? I’d like to introduce you to someone who, I think, will answer that question for me.”

He snapped his fingers to get the waiter’s attention, then pointed at me-Another drink here.

“Singapore Sling, Dr. North? Got the recipe from the barman at Raffles personally.” He looked up from his glass, studying my face. “Or may I start calling you by your real name… Dr. Ford?”