the whine of the rotor turned into a series of raucous thumps. The moonlight delineated the approaching helicopter from the night sky. Dressed like frogmen, Charlie and Drummond sat on the edge of the open cargo doorway.
“Some handicapper I am, thinking coming here would be simple,” Charlie said, effectively to himself.
With a splash, Drummond fell backward into the sea.
Charlie followed suit, sinking into water that was warm and, better, ink black.
In a preposterously small rented Peugeot, Stanley and Hadley raced to Les Trois-Îlets, a seaside village off the coast where the Amphibus had just been found.
Undercover as the well-heeled Atchisons, they checked into the five-star Hôtel L’Impératrice, a remnant of the 1960s’ embrace of garish opulence. The lobby was dominated by a lush rain forest replete with a three-story coral cliff enshrouded by luminescent mist, the result of a booming waterfall and as many filtered spotlights as a Broadway stage. At the frothy base of the fall was an emerald lagoon, populated by fish representing every shade of neon.
Stanley thought of the hotel as the perfect venue for the espionage fantasies of his youth, in which the Ritzes of the world constituted the everyday operational locale. In reality such accommodations had been far from the norm. Even in Paris, the job took him to the sorts of hotels that offered hourly rates. His agents weren’t just people willing to sell out their own countrymen; they were willing to do it for a pittance. Not quite habitués of the posh spots.
With a Serge Gainsbourg melody in his head, he walked onto the bamboo terrace that extended from the open-air lobby and overlooked the purple-black Baie de Fort-de-France.
“Hoping to spot our rabbits swimming ashore?” asked Hadley, joining him at the rail.
The inability to do anything frustrated him. “At least we’re close to the action in the event there is some.”
She checked her BlackBerry. “The local officials have come to theconclusion that Drummond Clark is an international money launderer and arms dealer named Marvin Lesser. Old cover, mistaken identity, or whatever, it’s working better as a pretext for a manhunt than anything we could have come up with.”
“So what can we do now?” Anything seemed preferable to sitting idly.
Hadley hesitated, then asked, “How about we get a bite?”
“I guess we can keep an eye on the bay.”
The hotel’s outdoor restaurant, Les Étoiles, was lit for the most part by candles and tiki torches, but also, as advertised, by the stars, beneath which the Baie de Fort-de-France was a mosaic, flickering from black to white. Along with a smattering of other late diners, Stanley and Hadley were serenaded by a calypso band in tuxedos the same turquoise as the pool. They both ate Colombo, Martinique’s national dish, a coconut milk curry of fish, served with spicy fried plantains, at a price probably close to the per capita income. Stanley would have happily quit after the salad course. Primed for a hunt, his body wanted no part of food.
Hadley set her BlackBerry on the table. “You ready for the latest?”
“I can make the time.” He ate a forkful of fish for appearance’s sake.
“Our pilot friend went straight home to his apartment in Anse Mitan, about five miles from here. He microwaved a burrito for dinner, and had”—she glanced at the BlackBerry’s display—“five
red stripes:
I’m going to have to check my codebook.”
“You’ll do better with this.” Stanley tapped the leather-bound drinks menu propped between a candleholder and the pepper mill. “Red Stripe is a beer brewed in Jamaica. If our boy’s had five, he’s probably not planning to drive. Under any other circumstances, I’d say: ‘I hope not.’ ”
“Currently he’s surfing the Web. No calls, no new e-mails, two text messages, one sent to a local woman asking her if she’d be at Le Squash for happy hour tomorrow, one from a Dutch woman who tends bar
“Some handicapper I am, thinking coming here would be simple,” Charlie said, effectively to himself.
With a splash, Drummond fell backward into the sea.
Charlie followed suit, sinking into water that was warm and, better, ink black.
In a preposterously small rented Peugeot, Stanley and Hadley raced to Les Trois-Îlets, a seaside village off the coast where the Amphibus had just been found.
Undercover as the well-heeled Atchisons, they checked into the five-star Hôtel L’Impératrice, a remnant of the 1960s’ embrace of garish opulence. The lobby was dominated by a lush rain forest replete with a three-story coral cliff enshrouded by luminescent mist, the result of a booming waterfall and as many filtered spotlights as a Broadway stage. At the frothy base of the fall was an emerald lagoon, populated by fish representing every shade of neon.
Stanley thought of the hotel as the perfect venue for the espionage fantasies of his youth, in which the Ritzes of the world constituted the everyday operational locale. In reality such accommodations had been far from the norm. Even in Paris, the job took him to the sorts of hotels that offered hourly rates. His agents weren’t just people willing to sell out their own countrymen; they were willing to do it for a pittance. Not quite habitués of the posh spots.
With a Serge Gainsbourg melody in his head, he walked onto the bamboo terrace that extended from the open-air lobby and overlooked the purple-black Baie de Fort-de-France.
“Hoping to spot our rabbits swimming ashore?” asked Hadley, joining him at the rail.
The inability to do anything frustrated him. “At least we’re close to the action in the event there is some.”
She checked her BlackBerry. “The local officials have come to theconclusion that Drummond Clark is an international money launderer and arms dealer named Marvin Lesser. Old cover, mistaken identity, or whatever, it’s working better as a pretext for a manhunt than anything we could have come up with.”
“So what can we do now?” Anything seemed preferable to sitting idly.
Hadley hesitated, then asked, “How about we get a bite?”
“I guess we can keep an eye on the bay.”
The hotel’s outdoor restaurant, Les Étoiles, was lit for the most part by candles and tiki torches, but also, as advertised, by the stars, beneath which the Baie de Fort-de-France was a mosaic, flickering from black to white. Along with a smattering of other late diners, Stanley and Hadley were serenaded by a calypso band in tuxedos the same turquoise as the pool. They both ate Colombo, Martinique’s national dish, a coconut milk curry of fish, served with spicy fried plantains, at a price probably close to the per capita income. Stanley would have happily quit after the salad course. Primed for a hunt, his body wanted no part of food.
Hadley set her BlackBerry on the table. “You ready for the latest?”
“I can make the time.” He ate a forkful of fish for appearance’s sake.
“Our pilot friend went straight home to his apartment in Anse Mitan, about five miles from here. He microwaved a burrito for dinner, and had”—she glanced at the BlackBerry’s display—“five
red stripes:
I’m going to have to check my codebook.”
“You’ll do better with this.” Stanley tapped the leather-bound drinks menu propped between a candleholder and the pepper mill. “Red Stripe is a beer brewed in Jamaica. If our boy’s had five, he’s probably not planning to drive. Under any other circumstances, I’d say: ‘I hope not.’ ”
“Currently he’s surfing the Web. No calls, no new e-mails, two text messages, one sent to a local woman asking her if she’d be at Le Squash for happy hour tomorrow, one from a Dutch woman who tends bar
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