Twice a Spy (16 page)

The bluesy saxophone drifting down the block offered a fitting sound track. The music emanated from a slender two-story hole-in-the-wall. Hand-painted on one of the smoky windows, in a feathery silver cursive, was “Chez Odelette.”

The hair rose on the back of Charlie’s neck. “Your cutout, wasn’t she named Odelette?”

“Nice girl,” Drummond said.

Charlie drove
the Peugeot into the parking garage, where the vehicle was less likely to be spotted than at the curb outside Chez Odelette’s. He found a space hidden from the street by a delivery van. Keeping himself and Drummond from detection posed a greater challenge.

“We need to blend in with the other tourists around here,” Charlie said, slipping on the fake-tortoiseshell reading glasses he’d taken from the counter at Sandy’s beach supply shack.

Eyeing Charlie’s image in the rearview mirror, Drummond said, “Since when do you wear glasses?”

“Since they make me look less like the guy on the wanted posters.”

Drummond nodded. “Interesting.”

Charlie had learned almost all he knew about impromptu disguise from Drummond. Foremost among the old man’s dictates was that bulky clothing veiled stature. Second was that individuals attempting to avoid notice should wear different styles and colors than when they were last seen. Accordingly, from his new Sandy’s tote bag, Charlie drew two cotton polo shirts, two baggy floral-print board shorts, two pairs of rubber flip-flops, and two baseball caps.

Hats draped faces in shadows and compressed hair, altering the shape of the head, but Drummond avoided them as a rule because they aroused surveillants’ suspicions. In the Caribbean, however, young men wore baseball caps as often as not, and Charlie believed that the old man could pass for a young man. Drummond was in better shape than most men half his age, present company included. Charlie hoped the two of them would appear to the occupants of a passing patrol car as just
another couple of young guys in a neighborhood catering to that demographic, as opposed to the young guy/senior citizen duo for whom the authorities had their eyes peeled.

Wandering from the parking lot onto the sidewalk, Drummond indeed appeared much younger. His slight hunch vanished, his shoulders squared, and his chest appeared to inflate. His stride went from sluggish to a strut.

Finding himself standing and marveling, Charlie had to jog to catch up.

Chez Odelette’s front windows afforded a view of the saxophonist, a spindly native with a white beard. He stood on a pillbox platform, spotlit in a sultry blue whose wash illuminated the face of the bartender, a brown-skinned woman of about thirty with attractive, strong features.

“Is that her?” Charlie asked.

“Who?” said Drummond.

“Odelette.”

“How would I know?”

Jesus, Charlie thought. “She’s the only person working there, other than the sax player.”

“Probably it’s her.”

“That’s what I was thinking. What do you say we go find out?”

Hearing no reply from Drummond, Charlie turned to him. Drummond was no longer beside him. Or anywhere in sight.

How the—?

A pair of big brown hands fastened around Charlie’s collar and yanked him backward into a pitch-black alley.

The alley
wasn’t much wider than Charlie. Halfway down it, the unseen man propelling him whistled like a parakeet. As if in response, hinges groaned and a diagonal shaft of white light illuminated the crumbling bricks. It came from the bottom of a flight of stairs, where a doorway led to the basement of an automotive shop.

The man prodded Charlie down the stairway with such strength that resisting was pointless, at best.

A woman inside whispered: “You can come in.”

As if Charlie had a choice.

He was practically carried into a hot and stagnant basement that smelled of motor oil. The dim light from a pair of sputtering fluorescent tubes revealed a grimy cinder block room full of salvaged parts—shock absorbers, belts, hoses, steering wheels, hubcaps, entire bumpers—either in the cityscape of piles or jammed into the floor-to-ceiling rusty shelves lining the walls. In a minimal clearing at the room’s center, Drummond sat slumped in a wooden office chair. He nodded hello to Charlie, exhibiting no awareness that anything out of the ordinary had transpired. Across a small desk from him sat the pretty bartender. She stared at Charlie with steely hazel eyes.

“You’re Ramirez, yes?” she asked him.

At check-in to a motel on the New Jersey Turnpike while on the run a couple of weeks ago, he had given the name Ramirez. Seeking to keep a lid on the story that the Clarks were in Martinique, the CIA might have fed that name to the local authorities.

“McDonough, actually.” He had a passport, driver’s license, and a walletful of other cards to back him up. “Brad McDonough.”

The woman waved at Drummond. “That’s what he said.” She spoke with a blend of Parisian French, strong Creole patois, and an even stronger skepticism.

The muscular handler dropped Charlie onto the chair beside Drummond, then returned to the door, blocking the only escape route. Not that Charlie would think of escaping now that he’d gotten a glimpse of the brute, particularly after he drew a black revolver from his ankle holster. A water pistol would have been no less redundant, thought Charlie.

The woman tilted her head at Drummond. “He told me his name is Larsen.”

Charlie shrugged. “John Larsen, that’s right.”

The man at the door said, “If you
mecs
wanna play games, my sister may as well go and claim the ten-thousand-euros reward the cops are offering now.”

“We’ve known Monsieur Clark since we were kids,” she told Charlie.

At
Clark
Charlie froze, then struggled not to show it. He eyed Drummond, who raised his shoulders slightly.

The woman groaned in indignation. “Monsieur Clark, you can’t really expect us to believe that you don’t remember us.”

Drummond swiveled in his chair, plucking a steering wheel from the nearest mound of auto parts as if fascinated by it. “An interesting piece of information is that most American car horns beep in the key of F,” he said.

The bartender turned to her brother. “Ernet, you keep an eye on them, I’ll go upstairs and call Officer DuFour.” She placed her palms on the tabletop, preparing to rise.

“Wait, Odelette, please,” Charlie begged.

“You think I’m Odelette?”

Charlie again looked to Drummond, who was now fiddling with a fan belt. Again he shrugged.

“I’m now going to guess you’re not Odelette,” Charlie told the woman.

“I’m Mathilde. Odelette was our mother.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie noticed the pistol pivot his way.

“
Maman
died in October,” said the man, biting back emotion.

Charlie said, “I’m sorry.” For their suffering and, at the moment, his own.

The woman spun toward Drummond. “
Maman
revered you, Monsieur Clark. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here—”

“He has Alzheimer’s,” Charlie said. “Yes, I’d heard that,” said Drummond.

Mathilde’s eyes narrowed with skepticism. “A man so young, comparably. That’s difficult to believe.” She looked to Ernet, who nodded in strong agreement.

Charlie wanted to ask him where he’d studied neurology.

“Alzheimer’s at his age is rare,” Charlie said. “And it’s tough to prove without an autopsy. It’s no wonder those old Mafia guys keep using the Alzheimer’s defense in court.”

“What we need you to prove to us is that these charges are false.” Mathilde snapped open a Martinique Police flyer with photographs of Charlie and Drummond, followed by details of the transgressions for which they were wanted. Stabbing a finger at the picture labeled
MARVIN LESSER
, she said to Charlie, “You prove that our old friend Monsieur Drummond Clark is not this thief, and that the club we named as a tribute to our mother wasn’t paid for with blood money.”

“Let me ask you something first?” Charlie said. “He paid for the club?”

“Yes, after the Laundromat was closed.”

“So there actually was a Laundromat?”

“Our mother worked there for twenty-seven years,” Mathilde said. “Monsieur F knocked it down and put in tenements.”

Charlie saw a shining ray of hope. “
Monsieur F?
”

“Fielding. Cheap
salopard
didn’t give
Maman
a centime in severance.”

“Shame what happened to him,” Ernet said, not meaning it.

“By any chance, do you know what happened to the old washers and dryers that were in the Laundromat’s storeroom?” Charlie asked.

Mathilde rolled her eyes. “Yet another example of Fielding’s cheapness: a man who spends three million dollars for a swimming pool at his home but does he spring for a new washing machine for his pool house?
Hell no. Comes here himself and hauls a dusty old Perriman off to his island.”

Mindful of the pistol pointed at him, Charlie fought the impulse to pump a fist.

“I am left to ask God, ‘What is it with all these thieves?’ ” Mathilde said. “First our father, then our uncle, and then Monsieur F. Now the club has to pay so much for ‘protection’ that Ernet’s forced to take off the semester from college.” She gazed at Drummond, who hastily set aside a shiny, curved chrome band, apparently the trim that ran along the front edge of a car’s hood. “After Monsieur Fielding let
Maman
go like that, you were extremely kind, helping her start the new business. But if it is true, if you are just another thief, we want nothing from you.”

“Except the reward,” Ernet said.

Mathilde pushed her chair away from the desk, apparently preparing to leave.

“I can explain,” Charlie said. “Or try to.”

Mathilde remained in her seat, eyes fastened on him.

With a tilt of his head at Drummond, Charlie said to Mathilde and Ernet. “Believe it or not, he’s a spy.”

Mathilde smiled without mirth. “Not.”

“
Jésus Christ.
” Ernet sighed. To Mathilde, he added, “On
appelle la police?
”

She nodded.

“I wish we could show you a CIA badge, or had some way we could demonstrate it,” Charlie said. “Actually, here’s one thing: He speaks French.”

“That’s news?” Mathilde said. “Perriman would never send the island a salesman who couldn’t speak French. Monsieur Clark and my mother never spoke English—she couldn’t.”

Charlie tried, “He can hot-wire a car—”

Ernet spat. “So he’s a car thief too?”

Mathilde looked down, her head seemingly weighted by dismay. “Embezzler and money launderer: These things I
might
believe our Monsieur Clark capable of. But Monsieur Clark, the doddering appliance salesman, a spy? I can’t think of a less likely spy in the world.”

As Charlie scrambled to find another way of convincing Mathilde,
some sort of projectile buzzed past his head. He turned toward the door, where, with a clang, Ernet’s pistol fell from his hand and clattered to the floor, along with a metal tailpipe extension. Ernet’s eyes bulged with astonishment. Mathilde’s too.

Drummond loaded another length of tailpipe—or makeshift arrow—onto the curved piece of chrome and rubber fan belt he’d fashioned into a bow.

“And you should see what he can do with an actual weapon,” Charlie said.