Twice a Spy (19 page)

As its limestone façade appeared now, the crotchety Larsen didn’t even pause. If DeSoto didn’t know better, he would have thought the old man had already seen the place.

McDonough slowed, but only to allow DeSoto to catch up.

“Wow,” McDonough exclaimed.

After eleven years hustling houses, DeSoto knew wows the way a jeweler knows diamonds. The kid’s was pure zirconium. Possibly he lacked education. New money often didn’t aspire beyond a McMansion with superfluous turrets, their sensibilities shaped by Donald Trump.

Thankfully, such clients could still be educated. “Le Château d’Îlet Céron is celebrated for perfectly capturing the period of architectural transition from the rococo of the mid-eighteenth century to the more refined neoclassical style,” DeSoto said. “As
Architectural Digest
put it, ‘The palatial limestone façade dazzles new arrivals with its towering Corinthian pilasters and detached pillars while at the same time heeding simplicity in order to capitalize on sunlight bouncing from passing waves.’ ”

McDonough slowed at the marble staircase leading to the entry.
“Dazzling,” he agreed. Larsen took in the façade and was no more dazzled than if it were a split-level in Sheboygan.

A young chambermaid heaved open one of the monolithic copper-faced French doors. In lieu of a greeting, the old man nodded. He shot inside before she had a chance to open the other door. McDonough hurried after him.

The grand reception hall was like a skating rink made of marble. Elephantine columns supported a gilded and improbably high ceiling, the painted sun and clouds realistic enough to be mistaken for a skylight view.

“DuVal, one of the greatest living realists,” DeSoto began, pointing up at the work.

But his clients were on their way into the den.

A Realtor is supposed to precede his clients, but these two were bloody racewalkers. DeSoto hurried in pursuit. Greenwich, he reminded himself, was a bedroom community of New York City. New Yorkers rushed even through cheesecake.

If the den was a den, then the White House was just a house. The giant room was still furnished, including sofas and chaises and divans dating back to Louis XIV, restored and reupholstered well beyond Versailles standards. The best part was the far wall, which opened onto a golden beach.

“Mr. Fielding had the sand imported from Venezuela’s Paria Peninsula,” DeSoto said.

Too late. The clients were out the far door.

He labored to keep pace, calling after them, “The lower level includes an old-fashioned billiards room as well as a tavern with an authentic mahogany Victorian bar. There’s also a squash court, a gym, a marble steam room resembling an ancient Roman bathhouse, and a game room with enough arcade games to keep grandchildren occupied for a whole weekend.”

Larsen and McDonough gave the lower level maybe a minute before going out to the pool deck. Mopping his forehead with his ascot, DeSoto resumed the chase.

McDonough stopped and waited for him. Although the waves and wind made such discretion superfluous, the young man said, sotto voce,
“The house is lovely, but old Mrs. Larsen’s going to redo everything regardless of what Mr. Larsen thinks.”

“I’m sure she has wonderful taste,” DeSoto said, dabbing his brow again.

“Hey, how about we give you a breather while the boss checks out the pool house?” McDonough waved at the building. “
That
will be his; Mrs. L. doesn’t go into water—hairdo-related reasons.”

“I look forward to recommending decorators,” DeSoto said, thinking of his $1,120,000 commission.

The dutiful McDonough hurried after Larsen, who was rounding the enormous pool. Plopping onto a chaise lounge, DeSoto checked his BlackBerry. There was a text message from Bettina Ludington: “CHECK UR EMAIL!!! URGENT!!!”

The cellular reception was poor. While waiting for the e-mail message to appear, DeSoto chewed away a good part of a thumbnail.

Finally:

Attached were photographs of two men wanted by the Martinique Police for multiple counts of fraud and racketeering.

Charlie slid
open a door leading to the enormous pool house. The living room looked like a nightclub, not only because of its size, but also because of the mirrored walls, expensive erotic art, and enough low-slung, Euro-posh furniture to accommodate half the jet set. The giant bar was stocked with, it seemed, every spirit known to man, in every possible configuration of decanter. The pale morning light set the crystal and fluids aglow.

“Been here before?” Charlie asked Drummond.

“I don’t remember.”

“My guess would be that a lot of the people who’ve been here don’t remember it.”

“Oh.” Drummond blinked at his reflection on the mirrored back wall, as if expecting something altogether different. He pressed his palms against the mirror.

A door sprung inward.

Charlie felt a charge of excitement. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

“A door,” Drummond explained.

Charlie followed him into a plush-carpeted hallway opening into two guest rooms. Like those in the main house, the rooms would have suited guests accustomed to Buckingham Palace. Not the sort of area where laundry was done.

Drummond started down the hall with an air of determination.

Charlie trailed him. “Going anywhere in particular?”

“We’re trying to find the washing machine, right?”

Rounding a corner, Drummond opened another door, revealing a stairway with relatively plain carpeting. He tromped down the steps. Charlie’s hope was rekindled.

At the base of the stairs, luxury gave way to dark, featureless walls and a hint of mildew. Drummond threw the light switch as if he’d known exactly where the wall panel was, illuminating a large basement of bare concrete.

At one end, a central air-conditioning unit heaved air into a labyrinth of foil-coated ducts. At the other end of the room stood a hot water tank sufficient in size to service an apartment building. The center of the basement included a laundry area, with an industrial-style sink and an ironing board that folded out from a wall compartment. Both devices appeared to have never been used. Ditto the gleaming stainless steel washing machine and dryer.

Charlie recognized the models from the display window of the ultrachic kitchen and bathroom store in the West Village that carried the French brand name. “They’re gorgeous,” he said. “The thing is, the washer we want is a three-hundred-buck Perriman piece of crap.”

Fielding might have upgraded to a pricier nuclear bomb container, but it was unlikely: The Cavalry’s Perriman Pristina models had specially modified linings to thwart radiation detectors.

Charlie snapped open the round door on the machine’s face, knelt, and looked in. “This is only good for doing laundry.”

As Drummond bent over to take a turn inspecting the machine, a Hispanic baritone resounded from the stairwell. “You looking for a bomb?”

Startled, Charlie spun around.

The watchtower guard took the last three steps in a leap. He was armed with a smaller machine gun than before. More than ample to shred two intruders, though.

“I was just wondering what in the world this washing machine does that makes it so expensive,” Charlie said.

The guard rubbed his chin, as if trying to make sense of Charlie’s words. Meanwhile Drummond unfolded himself from the washer.

“I knowed that was you, Señor Lesser,” the guard exclaimed.

Fear, like molten metal, filled Charlie’s intestines.

“How are you?” Drummond asked.

“Real, real good,
gracias.
” The guard smiled, seemingly flattered by Señor Lesser’s interest. “Except that real estate fucker called the cops on you.”

“Didn’t see that coming,” Charlie said.

“I have an idea,” the guard said, waving for them to follow him up the staircase. “Also, the washer you want’s not on the island no more.”

Charlie looked to Drummond for a sign of assurance.

Drummond started up the stairs. Good enough.

At the top of the staircase the guard hurried to the kitchen and opened a screen door, taking them out the back of the pool house.

Drummond looked the guard over. “You’re Henrique, right? Or Hector …”

“
Sí
, Hector. Hector Manzanillo.” He led the way across a cricket field as lush and well tended as a golf course.

A smile creased Drummond’s face. “With the brother who pitches in the Milwaukee Brewers farm system? Rico, yes?”

Charlie could almost see lucidity surging into his father: As Drummond walked, he appeared to grow taller, his stride becoming more resolute, and the old glow returning to his eyes. Had Hector Manzanillo sparked him whereas du Frongipanier or Odelette’s children had not? Possibly. Sticking his head inside a washing machine might also have sparked him. Whichever, Charlie was elated. They needed an exit strategy, and when Drummond Clark was on, he was an escape artist.

“Rico blew out his shoulder last season,” Hector said.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Drummond.

“Don’t be. He’s doing way better now selling ‘bananas’ for the Bucagas.”

“First-class operation,” said Drummond of the drug dealers.

The trio reached a staircase whose eight flights zigzagged down a cliff face speckled with patches of grass and scrawny trees. From this far up, the choppy sea looked like tinfoil.

Hector pointed down to the beach that wrapped around the rock
wall. “Follow the shore ’round to the pier, shouldn’t take you no more than a minute, then blast off in that fancy-ass speedboat you came in. I’ll go the other way, gunning one of the launches from the private dock, do what I can to draw away the cops.”

Drummond nodded his approval. “I owe you one, Hector.”

“I still owe you way more than that, señor.” The guard clambered down the stairs, unconcerned by the creaks and groans that suggested loose moorings.

Right behind him, Drummond said, “Hector, do you have any idea what Fielding did with the other washing machine?”

“The Perriman Pristina? Wish I did. Woulda saved me two broken ribs and fuck-near getting drowned.”

Drummond reddened. “Who did that to you?”

“They said they was Interpol.”

“That means we can rule out Interpol.”

Struggling to keep pace, Charlie surmised that whoever Bream was working for had interrogated Hector. They would have exhausted every means of locating the bomb before mounting their Gstaad operation.

Continuing down the stairs, Hector said, “I told those fuckers what Señor Fielding told me, which was pretty much
nada.
”

“Tell me anyway,” Drummond said.

“When we loaded the Pristina onto his boat, he said he was gonna run it over to some new hiding place he got on Bernadette Islet or Antoinina Islet—you know, there’s tons of them little isles around here, no people on ’em, no nothing. The boss, he liked to cruise around, find new ones and draw ’em onto his map. He’d name ’em after the ladies he took there …” Embarrassment tinted the guard’s beefy face. “On dates.”

“I imagine your ‘Interpol officers’ searched all these islands?”

“Bernadette’s just a giant-ass sandbar, maybe three kilometers north of here. High tide, thing’s underwater. So you couldn’t really hide nothing there. So of course they didn’t find nothing.”

“What about Antoinina?”

“That’s the thing. There’s no Antoinina on any of Señor Fielding’s maps. Or on any map. Closest thing’s Arianne Islet, which is far, forty clicks easy. They tore that rock apart too. Found shit.”

“Could there be some meaning to ‘Antoinina’ that they missed?” Charlie asked Drummond.

“Damned if I know,” he said.

Which was reason to hope otherwise. Drummond opposed even mild profanity.

Charlie had
difficulty keeping up with Drummond on the slender beach, which was piled with round, sea-smoothed stones that could broadcast their whereabouts.

“While it’s on my mind, I should say that I might know what Fielding meant by those islets,” Drummond said.

“That could come in handy,” Charlie said. He’d presumed Drummond had chosen to keep mum in the presence of Hector. Nice guy and all, but probably a hardcore criminal who would have been less concerned for their well-being once he knew the whereabouts of a weapons system that could net him enough of a fortune to buy this island several times over.