Ron Base - Tree Callister 03 - Another Sanibel Sunset Detective (4 page)

________

Back in his office upstairs at the Chamber of Commerce Visitors Center, Tree Googled Miram Shah’s name. A five-year-old
New York Times
story reported that Miram Shah, the deputy director of Pakistan’s Interservice Intelligence Agency—the ISI—was in Washington to meet with American officials aiming to strengthen ties with the agency that was the Pakistani equivalent of America’s Central Intelligence Agency.

The
Times
said Shah supported General Zia ul-Haq when he seized power in 1977. That support quickly propelled Shah into the upper echelons of the intelligence community, and brought him into contact with the CIA and its covert operations against the Soviets in neighboring Afghanistan. Shah, according to the
Times
, worked closely with American intelligence and the Afghan Mujahedeen.

Wikipedia picked up Shah’s story: when Pervez Musharraf became president, Shah was placed in charge of the ISI’s SS Directorate, responsible for covert paramilitary and political operations. Once again, he worked closely with the CIA.

He apparently fell out of favor with the government in 2005 after another
Times
story quoted a Pakistani government official denying that the ISI deputy chief Miram Shah was the mastermind behind several plots to assassinate Afghanistan president Hamid Karzai. Less than a year later, Shah had retired from the ISI, and he had disappeared from the Google search engine.

Now, apparently, the former Pakistani spy was living on Useppa Island.

Tree lifted himself out of his chair and stretched, wondering what he might be getting himself into. What was the former deputy head of Pakistani intelligence doing on Useppa Island? And what could such a high-level international spook possibly want with Tree Callister?

He thought of all this as he stared out the window into the parking lot, filling at the noon hour with tourist SUVs and vans. He watched a Range Rover pull into one of the last empty parking spots. A woman got out and began walking toward the entrance.

Tree couldn’t believe it. He was seeing things.

Had to be.

He thumped down the back stairs, startling one of the volunteers who was just getting off the phone. She looked at him questioningly. He ignored her and went through to the main reception area.

Rex Baxter leaned against the counter, holding court, surrounded by a group of adoring visitors.

“You know that Sanibel is Arthur Frommer’s favorite destination? He’s the famous guide guy. Paris came in third behind Sanibel.
Third
.”

Everyone murmured surprise and approval. Someone said, “Weren’t you in
High Sierra
with Humphrey Bogart?” He was referring to the days when Rex was an actor in Hollywood.

“No, no,” he said with a laugh. “I’m old but I’m not
that
old. I was in the
remake
of
High Sierra.
It was called
I Died A Thousand
Times.
It starred Jack Palance, of all people, in the Bogart role. Shelly Winters was in it, too, and it was all in color this time. I was the kid who befriends Jack. The thing I remember about Jack, he had a funny way of peeling a banana. He didn’t actually peel it; he sort of tore it open at the sides, like an animal.”

Tree moved past Rex and spotted the woman near the main entrance studying a wall map of Sanibel and Captiva. She was in three-quarter profile, wearing a print blouse tucked into white jeans.

He called out, “Cailie.” She didn’t respond. He called her name again.

She turned with a confused look on her face. “Are you talking to me?”

“It’s Tree,” he said. “Tree Callister.”

She looked even more confused. “Yes?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

“Come on,” he said quietly, “you know who I am.”

“I have no idea who you are,” she said.

“You’re Cailie. Cailie Fisk.”

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Around them, quick glances were being cast in Tree’s direction. He stared hard at her. Blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore no makeup, but there were those same direct blue eyes and that square, supermodel jaw. It was her. It was Cailie—
had
to be Cailie.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I think you had better leave me alone,” she said.

He watched dumbfounded as she turned and left the center. He followed her as far as the door, ignoring the watching eyes.

Rex stood beside him. “What’s going on?” Rex demanded. “Why are you standing there looking so funny?”

“It’s nothing,” Tree said.

He opened the door and stepped outside onto the ramp leading to the parking lot as the Range Rover reached the exit. If the Rover turned left, then the woman was leaving the island and he had made a mistake and this was going away. If the vehicle turned right, then it would mean she was staying and maybe he had not made a mistake, and this was not going away.

The Range Rover turned right. Tree stood there in the blazing Florida sun, numb and confused. He should have told her. He should have told Freddie. He should have told her everything.

But he didn’t. Now he was into this.

4

A sea turtle crossing Sanibel-Captiva Drive stopped traffic near the Ding Darling Wildlife Preserve. The turtle was one of the world’s oldest creatures, but this afternoon Tree felt much older, still shaken by his encounter with Cailie Fisk. Or with the woman who said she wasn’t Cailie Fisk. If it was Cailie, why was she denying it? And what was she doing on Sanibel Island? If the woman wasn’t Cailie, then maybe he really was losing it.

The morning after his encounter with Cailie Fisk at La Closerie des Lilas, Freddie had awakened feeling much better. They had spent their last day wandering around, doing some shopping before finally securing a good table at Café Deux Magots for a farewell drink.

He did not say anything about the previous night. When Freddie asked, he said he had taken a taxi over to the Closerie and had escargots and chicken at the bar. Why he lied, even about what he had eaten, he didn’t quite know. Perhaps he did not want to admit to himself, let alone to Freddie, that for a moment—just a moment—he might have been tempted by the half-naked Cailie in her Lutetia hotel room. Whatever temptation there was, he had resisted, but the fact that even now he could not quite shake the memory of her in the dim lamplight, disturbed him.

So he said nothing, fearing that if he said anything it would cast a shadow over their marriage that had not been there before and destroy any beneficial effect the week in Paris might have had.

They were home now—back to paradise, as Rex would have it. The good, comfortable life with Freddie had returned to something like normal, insofar as Freddie’s uncertainty about her job with Dayton’s could be called “normal.” And then there was his son and his murky future. Tree didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything.

________

The guard in the gatehouse at the South Seas Island Resort waved him through. He parked in the lot and then climbed on one of the resort’s trolleys for the ride over to the harbor where Joseph Trembath, as promised, was waiting for him.

Trembath certainly looked British, that is if the proper British male stranded in Florida wore white linen slacks and matching white tennis shoes, and possessed merry green eyes that twinkled against a tanned face, framed by iron gray hair and set off by a military-type mustache. Tree was certain the mustache could be made to bristle on command.

Trembath greeted him with an enthusiasm that matched his handshake. “A great pleasure. I do appreciate you coming out on such short notice and so does Mr. Shah, I’m bound to say.”

“Well, I’m certainly interested in why Mr. Shah would want to meet with me,” Tree said.

Trembath made his green eyes dance. “Let’s find out, shall we? Mr. Shah is waiting for us.”

He led Tree over to dockside where a sleek thirty-four foot Cobalt was moored. A dark-haired young man, almost as sleek as the boat, waited at the wheel. Trembath stepped from the dock onto the rear deck and Tree followed.

“Would you like something to drink, old chap?” Trembath asked.
Old chap
? Tree thought. It had been a long time since anyone called him “old chap,” and the first time anyone had ever addressed him that way in Florida.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Tree said.

“All right, then Jim,” he said to the young driver. “Let’s be off.”

Jim turned on the ignition and started up the twin engines while Trembath undid the lines. Minutes later they were crashing over white caps and turning north into Pine Island Sound.

Tree sat with Trembath in the back. Trembath folded his arms and lifted his head high, his mouth twisted into a rictus grin, as though mounting a defense against the whipping wind.

Tree leaned toward his ear and asked, “Have you worked for Mr. Shah long?”

“The wind, can’t hear a thing, old chap,” Trembath yelled back at Tree’s ear. “Let’s wait till we’re on shore. We’ll talk then.”

Fifteen minutes later, they passed Cabbage Key and the outlines of Useppa Island came into view. The island remained best known for its role in the ill-fated 1960 Bay of Pigs invasion when the Central Intelligence Agency used it to train anti-Castro fighters. Today, it still managed to cling to its status as a private island requiring membership to live there. Its website urged only the most exclusive travelers to inquire about membership. Translated into plain English: you better be pretty darned rich if you want to live here.

Tree expected Captain Jim to land his craft at the marina adjacent to the Collier Inn. Instead, he slowed the boat and turned south toward a long, narrow dock jutting into the bay. Closer, Captain Jim cut the motor and the boat drifted smartly into the dock where two trim young men grabbed the ropes Jim and Trembath threw them. Soon the boat was tied off, and Tree clambered onto the dock.

“Welcome, sir,” one of the young men said with a grin. “I’m Benedict. My friend here is Mark.”

“How do you do, sir?” Mark said in an accent as plummy as his friend’s.

“Do you mind if I pat you down?” Benedict asked.

“What?”

“Security, old chap,” Trembath said, smoothing his wind-ruffled hair. “You know how things are these days.”

“They’re so bad you have to be frisked on Useppa Island?”

Trembath shrugged helplessly. “Only takes a minute, old chap.”

In his cheap khaki slacks and imitation Polo shirt, Tree wasn’t sure where he would ever hide a gun, but he lifted his arms out and Benedict quickly patted him down.

“Thanks very much, sir,” Benedict said when he finished.

“We appreciate your co-operation,” said Mark.

“Come along, Mr. Callister,” Trembath said. “Mr. Shah isn’t far away.”

Trembath led him off the dock across an expanse of lawn to a row of two-story wood-frame houses surrounded by wide porches. They started up the steps of the house directly in front of them.

As they came onto the porch, a slim, barefoot old man with walnut-colored skin used a cane to heave himself out of a wicker chair. He wore a white linen shirt and white trousers. The man in white, Tree thought. He looked nothing like someone Tree might imagine to be in charge of Pakistani spying. But then spies weren’t supposed to look like spies, were they?

“There you are, Mr. Shah,” Trembath said. “I would like you to meet Mr. Tree Callister. Mr. Callister, this is Mr. Miram Shah.”

“It is such a pleasure, Mr. Callister.” Miram Shah spoke in a formal, lightly accented voice. The two men shook hands. “Thank you for coming all this way to see an old man. Can we get you something to drink after your journey?”

“If you have some sparkling water,” Tree said.

Magically, a houseman, also ancient and also in white, appeared. Tree took note of the white gloves he wore. Miram Shah spoke rapidly in a language Tree didn’t understand. The houseman in the white gloves bowed slightly and then went back into the house.

“You don’t mind sitting out here, do you Mr. Callister?”

“Not at all.”

“It’s so pleasant at this time of day. At any time of the day, really. Are you familiar with the island?”

“I was here with my wife when we first moved to Captiva,” Tree said as he followed Miram Shah over to where four wicker armchairs were grouped facing one another around a glass-topped table.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Shah eased himself onto the cushions of the chair facing away from the sea. Tree sat opposite him with a view of the water and pleasure craft throwing off silver wakes as they made their way toward the marina at the Collier Inn. Trembath, Tree noticed, perched in the wicker chair midway between himself and Shah, the referee for this afternoon’s encounter.