Black Widow

23

James Montbard was an exceptional man, no question. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d impressed me as much as anyone I’d ever met. How was it possible that we’d been in the same shadowy trade yet I’d never heard of him?

Or maybe I had…

False names and passports are standard in the field. Great Britain has produced many dark stars on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Montbard had all the necessary qualities, along with certain quirks that I associate with the trade’s best. He was obsessive, focused, and detached when violence was discussed. He was adrenaline-driven, devoutly disciplined, and, when off-duty, he redirected his gifts into a public persona that was affable and unremarkable. Hobbies provided a vent-archaeology, in his case. For others, it was stamp collecting, model planes, astronomy, cross-word puzzles, Scrabble.

As Senegal had said, the man was mad for history. She’d also warned me not to ask about the stone artifact I’d seen in the library-so I did, of course, during our boat trip to Saint Arc.

“Yes, the stone is Mayan or Olmec,” he began. “The Yaxkin glyph is unmistakable. But my grandfather didn’t find it in Central America. He found it there.” He pointed to the volcanic peaks of Saint Arc. “Surprised?”

I was. We were more than a thousand miles from the Mayan ruins of Central America.

“Where?”

Montbard had smiled. “In the monastery. One day, Dr. Ford, when this business is behind us, I’ll tell you the source of the other glyphs on that artifact. You won’t be surprised, you’ll be shocked. My grandfather was convinced there was trade between these islands-Europe and Africa, too-long before Columbus. Wouldn’t it be lovely to prove it?”

An hour later, the man was still talking about archaeology, and what he called his theory of “relentless human motion.” Man is genetically driven to wander-that was the premise.

“Senegal showed you the maps in my library. Most of history’s so-called inexplicable mysteries are hoaxes. Those maps are not.

“Spare me the ridiculous fairy stories of quasi-archaeologists. Peru wasn’t a landing strip for extraterrestrials, Quetzalcoatl wasn’t Jesus in disguise. Inca stones depicting men fighting dinosaurs are fakes, for God’s sake, and-speaking of God-if He actually did impart supernatural powers to the Ark of the Covenant, or the chalice that caught Christ’s blood, or to the four nails that held Christ on the cross, why did He hide the damn things where no one can find them?”

Archaeology, Montbard told me, was the study of human movement using stationary materials. He had no interest in fairy tales.

Yes, the man had all the obsessive quirks-a righteous certainty, too- that I associate with the best in our business. We had exchanged enough information to know we had mutual acquaintances in the trade-names weren’t used, of course. I suspected that Bernie Yager was among them. Had Bernie told the man I was coming?

I thought about it as we returned along the goat path toward the cemetery-something to take my mind off falling. It was easier now because of the rope, but I was still sweat-soaked by the time we arrived at the rock base where we’d started-a clear view down onto the monastery where the eleven men and women had concluded their chanting and were now walking single file toward what may have been stone dormitories on opposite sides of the quadrangle. Men went one way; women the other.

“The article was right about that celibacy business,” Montbard whispered, binoculars to his eyes. “Senny will be relieved, I dare say.”

He’d made the inference more than once, so I decided to ask, “No interest in men?”

“Occasionally. If she wasn’t open about it, I wouldn’t compromise the girl by telling you. Something to do with her bastard of a father and her ex-husband who wasn’t… well, let’s just say he wasn’t attentive. But maybe a few nights here will set her right. Magic elixirs, secret herbs. Who knows? You and Senegal have chemistry-oppositional, true. But that’s how many passionate relationships begin. I would heartily approve, by the way.”

When I didn’t respond, he added, “Reticent-I understand. But don’t dismiss the girl. She’s magnificent in her way. Brilliant and true as steel. She’ll relax a bit when I confirm you two will be in separate quarters.”

Senegal Firth would be relieved-so would I. The woman was attractive, productive, and independent, but she was also carrying emotional baggage that I had no interest in shouldering. We all acquire scars over the years, but adults who wince at the thought of intimacy-particularly sexual intimacy-are a bad risk even to those of us who are rescuers by nature. I’ve learned to keep my distance.

Montbard was still looking through the binoculars. “What a blasted waste-some damned attractive women in that group.”

I realized he was back on the subject of celibacy.

“And those surgical scrubs some are wearing; more like night dresses, wouldn’t you say? Revealing enough to test any man… and all of a type, like uniforms. Why would management forbid conjugal relations yet issue that sort of attire?”

I said, “Forbidden fruit?”

Sounding distracted, he said, “Suppose so. Makes more sense than magic potions.” Then his tone freshened. “Have a look, Ford. The one with the angelic hair… auburn, I think. Scandinavian features-isn’t she an American film actress? Yes… yes, I think she is. By God, she’s exquisite.”

I took the binoculars, beginning to suspect that the man’s list of hobbies included beautiful women. I removed my glasses, touched my finger to the zoom focus…

The woman he was describing was the last of six women and men walking single file along a path toward the monastery’s inland cloister. The remaining five people filed toward the cloister on the opposite side of the quadrangle. Dormitories weren’t segregated by sex, apparently. They walked at a ceremonial pace, heads down like monks-all but the woman Montbard had described. She was alert, eyes moving, taking in the surroundings.

When I saw her face, I pulled the binoculars away for several seconds, looked again, and said without thinking, “What the hell’s she doing here…?”

“A film actress-I was right!” Sir James whispered, enjoying himself. “Thought so. Don’t tell me her name-it’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

I said, “If you insist,” relieved he was giving me time to collect myself. Should I trust him? Should I wait?

I had to trust him, but I’d tell him later. The woman was Beryl Woodward.