The First Casualty

35

On his back, Jason had the Makarov in both hands. The man who had just exited Eddy’s was silhouetted against the streetlights, as featureless as a figure cut from black paper. Only a glimmer of light reflecting on metal from where Jason guessed his hands were told Jason he was holding the pistol he had brandished inside. As if he needed confirmation, Jason had the distinctly unpleasant experience of seeing the muzzle spit fire as he rolled violently to his right while trying to bring his newfound weapon to bear.

Pointing rather than aiming, Jason squeezed the trigger, gratified to feel the gun buck in his grip. He was partially blinded by the muzzle flash, but he squeezed off two more shots as the gun came back to point in the general direction of his first.

His initial clue that he had hit his opponent was the lack of return fire.

He scrambled to his feet, smoking pistol still in hand. The same streetlight that had limned his adversary now showed what at first glimpse looked like a pile of discarded clothing. A second look showed a dark trickle that was now dripping from the curb to the street.

He resisted the impulse to search for something to identify the man, a wallet, a passport perhaps. No point, and, as the siren grew louder, no time. Unlikely a professional like the man lying at his feet would carry anything that might be of use, and the police had obviously navigated the crowded streets. He stepped to his left where he could see small boats rocking in the breeze-caressed harbor. He tossed the gun, waiting until he heard the splash. He doubted the local heat had ever faced a man with a gun. Nervous and inexperienced police have a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later where armed men are concerned.

A Range Rover with blue lights flashing howled to a stop in front of Eddy’s. Jason calmly blended into the crowd, sought the shadows, and began his trek up a steep hill avoiding light as much as possible as he went.

The grade was such that his calves were aching by the time he reached the entrance to the Hotel Carl Gustaf. He passed the vacant registration desk into the lobby/bar/restaurant, a large space open on one side with a view of the harbor and town below. Other than the bored bartender, Maria had the room to herself. She sat, hands clasped around a tall glass, staring into space as she munched from a small bowl of nuts, olives, and chips. She didn’t acknowledge Jason as he slid into the seat across from her.

“You don’t look overjoyed to see me.”

“I’m happy you are alive,” she replied flatly

“Unfinished business.”

For the first time since his arrival, she looked at him. “It is always ‘unfinished business.’ ”

Jason knew better than to reply. Instead, he signaled the bartender, who grudgingly wandered over.

When in the tropics, Jason normally enjoyed rum and tonic, particularly Havana Club. Experience told him he was going to need something more potent.

“Gin martini, straight up, olive.”

The barkeep shuffled off.

If Maria noted the change in beverage preference, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she said, “Jason, it will not end until you are dead. The constant moving from one place to another, always looking over your shoulder, I cannot live that way.”

He could have pointed out that most of the time she didn’t, that she was gone. He also might point out that it had been his lifestyle, his employment by Narcom, that had brought them together. He could, but he knew better. He never won arguments with Maria. The few times he thought he had, he subsequently learned the dispute simply wasn’t over.

So he held his tongue as she continued, “Has it ever occurred to you that you might get me killed, too? I mean, those men at Eddy’s didn’t look like they cared who got shot along with you.”

At least they were in agreement on that point.

“Jason, your past follows you around like a bad smell.”

He doubted she would be any happier if he pointed out the men with guns in Eddy’s were here because of a job he had so far concealed from her, not the past.

So he said the only thing he could think of that was true, relevant, and non-incriminating. “I can’t change the past, Maria.”

“No, you cannot. After, what, three or four years…?”

She knew how long to the day. Further, she knew he knew she knew. “More like five.”

“Five years together, I thought your past would, would…”

“Fade away?”

“Something like that. But it hasn’t. We had to leave Ischia because your enemies found you there. Now I am curious why you left Sark.”

Jason paused to accept, taste, and nod his approval of the martini. The Carl Gustaf was one of the few places in the French-speaking world that understood a martini required dry, rather than sweet, vermouth and that in minimal quantity. Jason was not in the mood for creative drinks.

“Who said I left?”

“Well, you are obviously not there.”

“But Pangloss and Robespierre are, as are my easel, paints, brushes, and unfinished paintings.”

“You are saying you will return to Sark?”

Jason took a long sip from the stem glass, giving him time to compose a truthful, if deceiving, answer. “I certainly don’t intend to abandon what you refer to as ‘the menagerie.’ ”

That seemed to mollify her. “You are returning when you finish whatever brought you to Saint Barts?”

“The sun and sand brought me here,” he said. “I thought getting away from the Channel winter for a few days might do me some good. This is a resort area, you know.”

Well, he had been on the beach this morning.

“And you are returning to Sark?” she persisted.

“Not just yet.”

Her raised eyebrows asked the question.

“I’ve got business on the continent,” he said.

She visibly relaxed. Several times a year, he visited one or more of the financial institutions where he had accounts, trips like the one to Liechtenstein. After accompanying him on one or two, she elected to stay home. After all, the most secure banks were not in the more exciting countries.

Her untouched drink in one hand, she was twirling a strand of hair with the other, an indication of thought process. “When I finish this expedition,” she said at last, “we need to have a talk, a serious talk about our future… if we have one.”

From Jason’s viewpoint, one of the great things about their relationship was that each had so far been willing to live it a day at a time, neither seeking nor offering commitment. Now the subject seemed to be lurking nearby as unbidden as Banquo’s ghost. Jason supposed he should have seen it coming.

Like Jason, Maria had been married once. Her husband had been a lying cheat she referred to as Casanova. The marriage had lasted little more than a year. In addition to repeated infidelities, the man had been a mammone one of those Italian men who suffer separation anxiety when away from the mother with whom they had lived their entire life before marriage. From their honeymoon, Casanova had called home twice a day. Upon their return, he took his laundry for his mother to do, returning with a week’s worth of her cooking. Maria couldn’t decide which of the women in Casanova’s life were worse: the meddling mother-in-law whom she could never please and who was always present in spirit, if not in body, or the unknowns whose cheap perfume clung to the shirts the man had his mother launder.

Jason had thought from Maria’s point of view, a second marriage seemed a triumph of optimism over reality.

But then, he wasn’t Maria.

He trolled a change of subject by her. “When do you think you’ll be finished in Indonesia?” Adding diplomatically, “We all miss you.”

The bait was rejected. “In a week, two at the most, once our equipment arrives. But don’t change the subject, Jason. When I get back, I want some answers.”

The questions were all the more ominous by not being asked.

A group of three couples came to Jason’s rescue. Babbling excitedly in French, they took the table nearest the bar before ordering a bottle of Perrier-Jouët. There was some discussion of vintages before the 2004 was reached as a compromise. Jason smiled. The Perrier-Jouët was expensive enough in France. Add shipping and the generous price boost given to anything consumed in Saint Barts’ eating establishments and the Champagne would be costly indeed.

“The 2002 Piper-Heidsieck would be a better value,” Maria offered. “Better Champagne, less expensive.”

Jason was about to ask when she had become a Champagne connoisseur when the conversation at the other table, or that part of it his limited French allowed him to understand, caught his attention.

“Were you downtown when the shooting took place?” a woman asked.

“Yes,” a man responded. “But we were in front of the post office, looking for a parking space. I understand it was some sort of turf war between some of the Russians.”

“A man was shot right in front of our car,” a second woman volunteered. “I’m almost certain the man who did it was one of the Russians at the next table at Le Wall House last night.”

She turned to the man next to her for confirmation. He nodded. “I’m sure it was. I never forget a face, particularly of someone causing a disturbance over dinner.”

The eighth deadly sin in France.

“There were four of them, two men, two women. The men were shouting at each other,” the second woman said. “I’m sure that argument was why someone got shot tonight.”

Jason managed not to grin. A dozen untrained observers would, more often than not, produce twelve different versions of the same event. Policemen lamented the fact; defense lawyers counted on it.

Maria had been listening, too. “You had nothing to do with the men with guns?”

Jason smiled and shrugged. “If I had told you so, would you have believed me?”

By the time they ordered dinner, he still had no answer.