Twice a Spy (11 page)

“I’ve never seen any apple trees there,” Stanley added, the first thing he’d said so far that was true.

“Probably not a lot of golf courses either, I’m guessing,” said Bream.

Stanley sighed. “I belong to a really nice
virtual reality
golf course. One eleven-degree morning last month, when I was playing the digital version of the twelfth hole of Empress Joséphine Golf Course, the par five that doglegs along the sea, I said to myself, ‘You know, that’s the place to be.’ ”

“We’re also looking on Nevis and Saint Lucia,” Hadley told Bream.

“There’s no comparison.” The pilot drank most of his beer in one gulp. “Folks think the Caribbean islands are all the same till they come here.” His laconic speech accelerated. His lips tightened. And he ground his heel against the tile floor. All of which were indicators of dishonesty. But that didn’t make him more than a jet jockey hoping to get business by pretending to agree with prospective clients.

“The issue is getting back up to Newark if I need to,” Stanley said.

“For some reason, they need him all the time.” Giggling, Hadley placed a warm hand on Stanley’s forearm.

Bream raised his nearly empty glass. “Well, here’s hoping you have lots of work crises that don’t hit till you’ve gotten in a full eighteen on Empress Joséphine.”

“How much advance notice do you require?” Hadley asked him.

Perfect setup for a boast, Stanley thought.

“Ma’am, if I’m not already booked, I’m like pizza delivery: I meet you at the airport in forty-five minutes or your flight is free.”

Stanley laughed. “I believe it. A friend of a friend speaks very highly of you: Drummond Clark.”

Bream didn’t blink. “Oh, well, I owe Mr. Clark a beverage then,” he said after a pause. “How is he?”

The pause felt half a beat too long to Stanley. “Okay as far as I know.”

There was no reason to let the pilot suspect they were on to him. Not yet. Better just put a little scare into him and have Langley’s Caribbean Desk deploy a surveillance unit. Stanley had written a dozen cables before taking off to set this up. They now seemed worth the trouble.

“I’M BACK
ON ISLAND. HAPPY HOUR@LE SQUASH TOMORROW?” read Bream’s text.

With a double-click of the
T
key, Charlie’s BirdBook translated the incoming message to “ALL’S CLEAR.” Bream and the American couple were gone.

Charlie preceded Drummond out of the hangar and across the tarmac to customs, trying to appear without a care, particularly about computerized facial recognition software. He wondered, though: Wouldn’t it enable the airport surveillance cameras to disregard his fake sideburns, horn-rimmed glasses, and blond wig?

Stepping into the small terminal, Charlie took a slow tour of the customs waiting area, a study in too-bright linoleum, the floor tiles a pale green not found in nature. The walls were banana-colored panels that appeared to sweat in the glare of the fluorescent tubes overhead. And best of all, there were no cameras.

Taking a seat beside Drummond, Charlie realized his khaki suit had darkened from perspiration. Although the ceiling fan’s tinny rattle was audible halfway across the tarmac, he felt no movement in the air five feet beneath its bamboo blades. His mind was a feverish montage of dangerous scenarios that would play out once he and Drummond were admitted to the customs office. In more than one, their mug shots served as the customs agent’s screen saver. There was just no getting around the fact that they had arrived here together. The ages listed on their documents were off by a few years, but the pairing, when keyed
into the customs database, would be a bucket of blood to the sharks searching for them.

Charlie whispered, “Remember what you’re going to say if the customs guy asks what brings us to Martinique?”

“I think so.” Drummond smiled, as if at a customs official. “I’m John Larsen of Greenwich, Connecticut—that’s Larsen with an
e
—and this young scalawag is Brad McDonough, who works for me, when the mood strikes him. I’d tell you we’re here for business—we’re with New England Capital Management—but even three days of PowerPoint presentations on your fair island counts as pleasure.”

Drummond waited for the imaginary official’s response, a trace of worry tightening his mouth—the exact amount of anxiety an innocent man would display in this situation, thought Charlie. Incredible. Although far from lucid, Drummond could assume cover with the virtuosity of a Royal Shakespeare player.

Drummond looked to Charlie, eyes full of uncertainty. “Any good?”

The door to the customs office groaned inward, followed by “You may come in now.” The voice was an authoritarian tenor, the accent French with a hint of Creole.

Willing his knees to remain steady, Charlie rose and entered the customs office, which felt like a refrigerator, more a consequence of the room’s diminutive size than the throaty air conditioner crammed in the window. Charlie found the cold bracing.

The space was dominated by a vast Louis XIV knockoff desk that had to be fourth-hand and not worth the cost of hauling off. On a side table sat a computer almost as old as the desk. Its display was dark. Save a dog-eared magazine, the desktop was empty. Behind the desk sat a dark-skinned, mustachioed man of about fifty, Maurice du Frongipanier, according to the placard. His wiry features were fixed in a content expression despite a stiff pea green uniform woven from a polyester fiber that resembled plastic.

“
Bonsoir, monsieur
,” he said to Charlie with too broad a smile for someone stuck on the late shift. “Welcome to Martinique.”

“
Bonsoir.
” Charlie approached the desk.

The official gave him a quick once-over and slid open a drawer,
fishing a passport stamper and ink pad from a sea of pornographic magazines—the reason perhaps that he was eager to get Charlie on his way.

The door groaned again as Drummond shuffled in.

The ink pad clattered to the floor. Du Frongipanier’s eyes bulged as if he were seeing a ghost. “Marvin Lesser, you must be crazy coming here,” he exclaimed.

Charlie felt as if he’d been pushed off a cliff.

Drummond’s eyebrows bunched toward his nose, as if he were straining to fathom the official’s words.

Not pretense, Charlie suspected. Trying to appear unruffled, he said to the customs man, “Begging your pardon, sir, this is my colleague—”

Turning to Charlie, du Frongipanier thrust an accusatory finger. “So Lesser has a new accomplice.”

He lunged for the small metal box beside the telephone, smacking a red button atop it. The result was a hollow click, but surely, somewhere close by, an alarm was ringing.

With a new upsurge of dread, Charlie said, “Sir, this is some sort of mistake.”

“Yes, yours.”

The far door burst open, admitting a brown-skinned young man who wore an Airport Security uniform. Easily six-six, he had massive shoulders and tree trunks for legs. If that weren’t enough, he brandished a black baton nearly as big as a baseball bat.

Exhibiting no intimidation, and perhaps unaware that intimidation was in order, Drummond set down his overnight bag and wandered over for a closer look at the baton. He chuckled. “That a Louisville Slugger?”

With a shrug, the security guard glanced down at the baton.

Drummond’s right hand blurred into a karate slash, striking the underside of the man’s jaw with so much force that his boots left the floor. He sank to the linoleum tiles and lay motionless.

To the customs official, who looked on in horror, Drummond said, “When he comes to, please pass along my apologies.” Turning to Charlie, he added, “It was necessary, right?”

“I don’t know.” Charlie speculated that Marvin Lesser was Drummond.
Or Drummond had been Marvin Lesser at some juncture. It was enough to process that du Frongipanier would almost certainly send them to prison now.

The customs official opened another drawer and jerked out a gun in a dusty leather holster. The revulsion twisting his face left little doubt about his intentions.

He needed to unsnap the holster in order to draw the gun. Trembling hands slowed him.

“Lights!” Charlie shouted, hoping his father had noticed the wall plate behind him and would understand.

Without glancing at the wall plate, Drummond reached behind his back and swatted the switch, plunging the room into what would have been complete blackness if not for the trickle of runway light through the air conditioner grate.

Hearing Drummond drop to the floor, Charlie did the same.

A gunshot thundered in the tiny chamber as a plume of flame revealed the customs official wielding a big revolver in two shaky hands.

The bullet bored through the wall to the left of where Drummond had been standing. Exterior light shone through the hole, illuminating a cloud of sawdust.

Du Frongipanier leaned forward, placing both elbows on the desk to brace the revolver, then aimed at Charlie. From less than ten feet away a miss seemed an impossibility.

With a heavy metallic clank, the thrown baton struck the barrel of the gun, evidently snaring the official’s gun hand as well. He screamed in pain as the gun dropped from his grip and banged against the floor.

While Charlie looked on, incredulous, Drummond whisked him out the far door.

Charlie ran
after Drummond across a broad expanse of crumbling tarmac, a patchwork of shadows and spill of runway and instrument lights. In contrast to the jumbo jets screaming overhead toward the main airport, the little executive airport was dark and still, so still that it seemed possible that the unconscious guard and the customs official were the only other people present.

“Who’s Marvin Lesser?” Charlie asked.

“How should I know?” Drummond said defensively.

He was not on, yet his evasion software continued to fire: He distanced himself from the terminal, hugging the razor-wire fence separating the airport from the parking strip.

On his heels, Charlie made out an opening in the fence about a hundred feet ahead, near the charter company offices. Just then he heard a staticky version of du Frongipanier’s shout, “
Il
s
visent le parking!
” The sound emanated from Drummond’s suit pants.

Surprised, Drummond shot a hand into his pocket, withdrew a walkie-talkie, and eyed it oddly. Its provenance was less of a mystery to Charlie: Relieving an unconscious security guard of his communication device was probably second nature to the lifelong spy.

“They’re headed for the parking lot,” Drummond said.

“Who?” asked Charlie.

“Us.” Drummond tapped the radio. He understood French—who knew?

“Well, good, we can get a car,” Charlie said. “Right?” Even at his murkiest, Drummond could, in seconds, snap open the ignition barrel
on the underside of a steering column, pluck the proper two from the tangle of wires, touch them together, and bring an engine roaring to life.

Drummond pressed the walkie-talkie to an ear and relayed, “They’ve sent men to lock the gate leading to the parking lot, and all of the exits from the airport.”

Sirens erupted with the distinctive hee-haw of European emergency vehicles.

A pair of police cars were racing from the main terminal. Parked planes popped out of the darkness, alternately red and blue, reflecting the cars’ light bars.

“It sort of begs mentioning that there are planes everywhere,” Charlie shouted through the chaos. Last week Drummond had demonstrated that he could fly a helicopter. “Can you get a plane started?”

“Simple as flipping a toggle switch or two. But I’m not a licensed pilot.”

“Whatever. I’ll spring for the fine.”

“I mean, I barely know how to fly planes like these.”

“
Barely
sounds pretty good right now.”

“I’m … I’m sorry, son …” As if to hide his shame, he looked away, fixing his gaze on the dark alley between two hangars.

Just as well, Charlie thought. Suffering a precipitous drop in lucidity, Drummond had crashed the helicopter last week.

Drummond perked up. “Now
that
is perfect!”

He pointed to a big vehicle parked in an alley. It looked part fire engine and part tugboat, or something a mad scientist might have created in an automotive junkyard. Its rectangular cargo hold flashed olive green in the bright light cast by a third police car rolling along the far side of the fence.