Terror Stash (34 page)

Montana brought her hand to her throat. “You’re Nicollo,” she said, her voice very small and weak.

He could see Ria absorb the title and adjust to it. Her smile returned, but it was gentler, more empathetic. “Now I understand,” she said. “Caden, why didn’t you warn either of us? This is very unfair. Look at the poor girl.”

Montana shook her head. “I’m fine. Really.” Her gaze did not shift from Ria. “I had begun to wonder if you were a myth, after all.”

“Nicollo really
was
a long time ago. Long enough to be a myth. All the people Nicollo moved amongst are dead now.” Ria sighed. “Ninteen sixty-five was the last time someone called me Nicollo. I’ve buried two husbands and three children since then, moved countries seventeen times and seen the world change into something I never thought possible. Nicollo is quite, quite dead.”

“Not to me.”

Ria studied her frankly. “Don’t admire me, child. Don’t admire what I did. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“But totally in the wrong position. You were a housewife, yet you still managed to hold off a revolution.”

Ria shook her head. “I told the right people and
they
held off a revolution, because it was suddenly worth the trouble.”

“You made them listen to you. You made them take you seriously.”

Ria smiled up at Caden then. “You’re right. I like her.”

Caden chuckled. Ria was as susceptible to flattery as anyone. Perhaps even more so.

Ria pulled off her gloves. The dog was dancing around all three of them, jumping for sheer joy, his tongue still hanging. “Actually, my dear, Caden has told me a lot about you already, although I’m surprised to find you’re as young as you are. He failed to mention that.”

Montana glanced at him. He could almost feel her uncertainty.

Then Ria put her hand on Montana’s forearm. “Do come in. We must have some tea. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Montana admitted.

Caden’s own stomach growled. He knew the sort of spread that Ria could put on with a moment’s notice and willingly followed the two women, one tall and dark, the other tiny, grey and sprightly, into the house.

Ria coaxed Montana into a chair at the oak table in the kitchen and Caden leaned against the refrigerator while she moved around opening cupboards. She swiftly laid a cloth and added home-made jams produced from her own garden. Then came fresh farm cream and home-grown strawberries that Caden knew from personal experience were juicy and stuffed full of flavor. She put the kettle on to boil water for tea and set out the big china teapot and old bone china teacups and saucers while she kept up a one-sided conversation about the trials and tribulations of her garden and Rusty’s endless amusement in digging up vital plants.

When everything was settled, Ria pulled out the other chair and settled her hands on top of each other on the table.

“You look tired, my dear,” she told Montana. “Something must ail you inside, to bring such a bruised look to your face.”

Surprised skittered across Montana’s face. She bit her lip. “I…learned this morning that I...” She grimaced. “I have achieved nothing with my life. All I’ve managed to do is bring misfortune upon others.”

“Oh, dear.” Ria considered this for a moment. “I rather doubt your life is as much of a waste as you seem to think it is. You’re probably just looking at it all wrong.” She glanced at Caden, then back at Montana. “Caden tells me you speak Farsi.”

Montana smiled. “I know you do.”

Ria rattled off some throat-rasping words. “It was once the only language I used, but it has been many years.”

“For me, too.” Montana spoke rapidly in the same language.

Caden straightened. “While you two are straining your vocal cords with that stuff, I’m going to go pack.”

Ria lifted her brow. “You’re off again, Caden? Back to Singapore?”

“Something like that.” With Ria he was usually truthful, but he really didn’t know what the next few days would bring and instinct told him to leave friends out of it as much as possible.

“As obscure as usual,” she said. She smiled at Montana. “He likes to play things close to the chest.”

“I’ve learned that,” she said.

“You go and pack, then,” Ria told him. “Montana and I will get better acquainted and talk about you while you’re out of the room.”

He grinned. Even as much as twelve hours ago, the idea of Ria and Montana discussing him would have been terrifying. How things change.

The room he always used whenever he came to town was at the far end of the east wing, on the other side of the sprawling house. He had to pass through a grand dining room and even more grand lounge room, and a small library/study that he’d personally spent many hours in, working his way through Ria’s rare book collection. The passage along the east wing was lined with the mullioned windows, many of them open to the early morning fresh air.

He only had a small backpack and a single carry-on case. Years of globetrotting had taught him how to travel light. If necessary, he could travel without any of it. He rarely carried anything he couldn’t afford to abandon if circumstances required it.

His room was as he’d left it, but the bed had been made and the heavy drapes drawn shut against the belting heat of a summer’s day. Ria had a small retinue of household staff that took care of mundane chores during the week. They were local people and had been working for her for the ten years she’d been living here. She was a good employer. After sunset the curtains would be drawn open and the windows opened wide to encourage any small breeze.

There was something on the bed. He moved closer, peering in the gloom.

Something furry. A dirty orange color....

His heart stuttered to a momentary standstill as he realized what lay there. It was the old tomcat from the Pink Galah. He lay with his paws out, the mouth opened to show small teeth and the pink tongue hanging piteously. He was lying very still because someone has slashed his throat open. Blood had soaked into the bedcover around him. Not enough, though. The deed had been done elsewhere and the cat laid here to wait for Caden to find him.

Caden swallowed and the sweat broke out on the back of his neck and down his back. A cold sweat.

There was a book lying next to the cat. Without touching it, he leaned over the bed to look at the stamped leather cover. Machiavelli’s plays. In English. There was a gold-plated bookmark in it.

He wiped at the sweat on his upper lip. He could feel the fear building in him, but knew he had to open the book. It was a message for him.

He carefully flipped the book open at the page where the bookmark sat and absorbed the information there.

His fear bloomed. Montana was alone, without him. He had to get back.

A whisper of sound, the barest noise, alerted him and he spun around. Davey was behind him and as he turned, the man grinned, showing his blackened and rotting teeth.

“G’day, mate,” he said.

“I do not know what to do next,” Montana confessed. They were still using Farsi and even a few minutes of conversation had brought many words and phrases back to her. “Nothing has worked out as I planned. All my hopes and ambitions have evaporated.” She took a huge bite of the scone, savoring the flavors. It was her third and Ria seemed to have no problem with her gluttony.

“Do you really believe your career with the diplomatic service is finished?” Ria asked.

Montana sighed. “What do you think? You’ve moved in these circles for years. You probably know more about how it all works than I do.”

Ria sipped at her tea. “I think you’re underestimating yourself again. There is one thing I did learn all those years ago and that was that is that all the games they play are really about power and power is a subtle thing. It is intangible. You very often do not know when you are grasping it. Sometimes you can create it for yourself if you do not already have it, although I do not think you lack of power at all. You are much stronger than I ever was. I was the wife of a diplomat. You
are
a diplomat.”

“Consular official,” Montana corrected, “and if I have not destroyed my career, I will most likely stay a consular official for the rest of my life. They do not trust me.”

“Oh dear.”

Montana shrugged. “I fulfill my assigned duties, but I know I am not the best.” She shook her head. “I just do not deal with people all that well.”

“My dear, dealing with people is how life moves on. It is how things get done.”

“But you did not deal with people in Tahir. You did what you did behind the curtains.”

Ria gave a tiny trill of laughter. “Allah in his heavens, who told you that? My dear, the
only
thing I did was talk to people and most of them would not listen to me, because I was the foreign wife of an English junior diplomat. Of course they ignored me. I had to talk and talk and beat people with my words to
make
them listen!”

Montana felt her eyes widen and her heart flutter. “
Make
them?” She thought of her own actions over the last few days. Had she, anywhere,
made
someone listen to her about the cave dwellers?

Ria patted her hand. “But enough about me. You say you are not trusted? I think we could change that very easily.”

“Excuse me?” Montana paused with the remainder of the scone halfway between her plate and her mouth.

Ria smiled a little. “Trust is nothing. It is really about power, which you already have and do not know. That is why the pitiful Boyd Nelson will not allow you to rise higher than him.” Ria sipped again. “I know Boyd. I knew him in Caracas when he first joined the service. That was more than twenty years ago now. He did have one skill. He was very good at recognizing those who had real power.” Ria grimaced. “It meant he could see his own lack of power. It soured him, I think.”

“Very much so.” Montana blindly returned the scone to her plate, staring at Ria. “How do you think I would move past Nelson, if I have not destroyed my career?”

“Is that the limit of your vision, Montana?” Ria asked softly.

“It is as far as I can look, right now,” Montana said truthfully.

“Why did you join the service, then, my dear?”

Montana took a deep breath. This was
Nicollo
, she reminded herself. “I’m not sure any more,” she said candidly, in English, for the concepts were too difficult for her to translate into Farsi. “I thought I wanted to serve my country, but the last few days have made me wonder if that’s what I really want at all.”

“Well, what
do
you want, then?”

Montana frowned. “To be able to change things,” she said slowly. “To...” She shook her head. The idea was there, but hazy and unformed. It needed time to coalesce.

“Isn’t the ability to change things just another name for power?” Ria asked softly.

“I suppose so,” Montana agreed, with a small laugh. “You have a very clear way of looking at it.”

Ria pushed her cup aside and folded her veined hands on her lap. “What if I said I could get you a posting to the American embassy in Beijing?”

Montana laughed. “You and who’s army?”

“Mine, of course.”

Something moving behind Ria caught Montana’s gaze and drew her attention away from Ria’s astonishing pronouncement. She leaned to one side to look past Ria.

Caden stood at the door to the kitchen, clutching the frame. His face was bloody.

“Caden, what on earth happened to you?” She rushed to his side. He gripped her shoulder, holding himself up. That frightened her more than the blood. Caden was supposed to be the invincible one.

He was looking at Ria, but he glanced at Montana. “
Mandragola
.” His voice was weak. “Machiavelli’s play. The man behind the puppet was Ligurio.” He wiped blood from his mouth. “Leg-you-rio. It’s your bloody accent, Montana. You said it like a Yank. That’s why I didn’t figure it out until now.”

Caden looked at Ria and swallowed once, twice, before he could speak. “It must have given you the thrill of a life time, shoving me around the chessboard the way you have.”

Montana could see he was struggling to speak every word. It was vital she understand but she didn’t. “Caden?” she whispered.

His bloodied gaze moved to her face. “Nicollo Machiavelli. You have a copy of his plays on your bookshelf, Montana, because there is no other symbol for this Nicollo here.” He pointed at Ria. “Ligurio is the puppet master that Machiavelli invented. She’s Ligurio. She’s the one Steve named just before she killed him.”

“Oh, I didn’t do it personally, you understand,” Ria said, with a simper.

“No, you wouldn’t have. You’re the puppet master, not the puppet.”

Montana could feel her own knees turn watery. “You?” She stared at Ria as the pieces fell into place. “Your army,” she said, as nausea swept through her. “The men in the caves.”

Ria waved her hand towards Caden. “Thank you, Bob,” she said gently and in Arabic.

Montana whirled back in time to see Ghenghis Bob standing behind Caden, his arm lifted, a black, stubby cosh in his hand.

“No!” She threw up her hand.

Caden started to turn, but it was too late. The cosh landed on the back of his head with a sickly, muffled thunk. Caden folded against her tiredly, his full weight pulling her down to the slate floor.

She shook him, but he didn’t move.

Ria stood up, brushing crumbs from her dress. “You have impeccable timing as usual, Bob.” She continued to use Arabic.

Montana felt for Caden’s pulse. She found it running slow and steady. He was alive. For now.

“I was coming to find you,” Bob said. “There is a call.” He held up a cell phone in his other hand. “They need you there.”

Ria frowned. “I pay you very well to take care of things there. It displeases me that you keep running to me for trivialities in this way.”

“It is my pleasure to serve you, mistress, in whatever way I can. I am humble before your wisdom.”

His groveling earned him a weak smile from Ria.

“I must respectfully point out, mistress,” Bob continued. “The second team leaves tonight. They would be strengthened in their duty if you were to move among them and speak to them. It would remind them of their oath to you.” He lowered his head a fraction. “It is high tide again tonight. We could bring you in via the sea gate so that you are not taxed with unnecessary climbing.”