Mary was surprised by the offer. But then Colonel Sir had approved her entry in the first place and would naturally be curious about his friend’s fate…Or at least would wish to put on such a front.
“I’d be honored,” she said. She got out of the limousine and saw a man and a woman in dark gray livery standing at the base of the bungalow steps. They smiled congenially. Soulavier introduced them: Jean-Claude and Roselle.
“I realize Americans are not used to servants,” he said, “but all diplomats and officials from outside have them.” Jean-Claude and Roselle bowed.
“We are well paid, Mademoiselle,” Roselle said. “Do not be embarrassed.”
“Until tomorrow,” Soulavier said. He returned to the limousine.
“Your luggage is already inside,” Jean-Claude informed her. “There is a shower or a fine bathtub available, and there is pure apple vinegar, should you wish to use it.” Mary regarded the man blankly for a moment, taken aback by this intimate knowledge of her needs.
“Your design is very beautiful, Inspector Choy,” Roselle said.
“Thank you.”
“We especially approve of your skin color,” Jean-Claude added, eyes twinkling.
The bungalow’s interior was well furnished with solid mahogany, obviously handcrafted; the joins were not perfect, but the carvings and hand polish were magnificent. “Excuse me,” Mary said. “How did you know about the vinegar?”
“I have a brother-in-law in Cuba,” Jean-Claude said. “He does transform surgery for Chinese and Russian tourists. He has spoken often of your skintype.”
“Oh,” Mary said. “Thanks.”
Roselle led her to the bedroom. A canopy bed with mosquito netting and a wonderful multicolored quilt of embroidered animals and dancers waited against one wall, quilt and covers pulled down. “You will not need the netting. We have only friendly mosquitoes in Port-au-Prince. But it is quaint, no?” Roselle said.
Her clothing had been hung in an aromatic teak armoire. Mary bristled internally at the thought her luggage had been gone through without permission, but she smiled at Roselle. “It’s lovely,” she said.
“Your dinner awaits in the dining room. We will serve you if you wish, but if you find personal service discomforting, we can arrange for robots to bring in your meal,” Jean-Claude explained. “If you use robots, however, we will not be paid as much.” He half winked. “Please relax and do not feel inhibited. This is our job and we are professionals.”
How many times had they addressed diplomats or company officials thus? The attractions of Hispaniola were obvious. These people seemed more than sincere; they seemed truly friendly, as Soulavier had been friendly. There might be nothing more than this to the hanging up of her clothes.
“Will Mademoiselle need anything else before dinner?”
Mary declined. “I’ll get cleaned up and then I’ll eat.”
“Mademoiselle would enjoy company, perhaps?” Roselle suggested. “University student, farmer, fisherman? Friendly and guaranteed souls of discretion.”
“No. Thank you.”
“We will have dinner set out for you within the half hour,” Jean-Claude said. “Time for you to shower and refresh from your journey.” They withdrew.
Mary picked up the hairbrush from the dresser and inspected it. It did not appear to have been tampered with. She returned it to its place beside the comb and makeup box. Hereafter she would keep it with her whenever she left the house.
She took a deep breath and removed her slate from its protective purse. Keying in a security string, she then pressed two additional keys. The slate displayed a rough schematic of the room she was in and then—working from field strengths of electrical lines and equipment placed throughout the house—a clear floorplan of the house itself. Beneath the schematic, the slate said, There are no easily detectable listening devices within this building. That meant little; the vibrations of the house itself could be analyzed from outside and voices filtered from the background noise. She still had no overt reason to suspect she would be monitored; but call it instinct.
She removed one of two bracelets from her arm and laid it on the bed. If anyone entered the bedroom while she was within a kilometer of the house the second bracelet would alert her. She undressed and walked into the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. All fixtures were white porcelain in the rounded style of the early twentieth century, sparkling clean bulbous and awkwardly elegant. The shower stall was tiled with patterns of flowers on the walls and swimming fish on the floor; the glass doors were etched with longlegged birds perhaps herons or egrets; she was no expert on birds.
She told the water in the shower to emerge at twenty eight degrees Celsius but the fixture did not respond. Chagrined, she twisted the handles manually, briefly almost scalded herself, bent to reexamine the two white ceramic caps marked C and F and decided that C certainly did not stand for “cold.” F might mean “frigid,” but the water was merely tepid. She made a note to inquire of the slate what the French words for hot and cold were.
Once she had mastered the shower she enjoyed a few minutes sluicing herself and emerged to find Roselle standing in the bathroom with a huge white terry cloth towel, smiling broadly.
“Mademoiselle is truly beautiful,” she observed.
The bracelet had given Mary no warning whatsoever.
“Thank you,” she said coolly. She had little doubt of her status now. With wonderful obliqueness she had been put in her place; elegant old-world comfort and no slack in her leash whatsoever. Sangfroid. That was what F meant. Froid. Cold.
Colonel Sir left no doubt as to who was in charge. However comfortable the house seemed and however friendly the servants, there would be no true rest until she returned home and that might not be for days.
Dressed in a casual midsuit she followed Roselle in to dinner and sat alone at a table that would have comfortably seated six. Jean-Claude brought out bowls of broiled fish and vegetables, all natural and not nano-made, a bowl of sweet looking dark yellow sauce, white wine with Colonel Sir’s own label (Ti Guinée 2045) and a pitcher of water. No courses; no ostentation. Just dinner. That suited her mood perfectly. She wondered if the pair were mind readers. The fish was wonderfully flavorful, flaky and moist; the sauce was mildly sweet and much more. Fiery, savory, delicious.
She finished and thanked the pair yet again. As they cleared the table Jean-Claude told her Colonel Sir was delivering a speech on the L’Ouverture net. “There is a screen in the living room, Mademoiselle.”
“You’ll tell me when my companions arrive?” she asked.
“Indeed yes.”
She sat down before the small screen. A portable remote the size of her slate controlled the lights and other appliances. She viewed a tiny tutorial on the remote for a moment then entered the keypad control sequence to turn on the screen, which automatically tuned to the island’s vid net, named after Haitian hero Toussaint L’Ouverture.
Idyllic scenes of this evening’s sunset were being broadcast to soothing strains of Elgar; sun falling low over cactus forest and ocean dipping beyond the Cul-de-Sac plain and Port-au-Prince, twilight in a mahogany grove, cruise ships moored off Santo Domingo, the Santo Domingo oceanport with perhaps her own scramjet dropping slowly to a landing.
The music rose over one final spectacular view of Jean Christophe’s La Ferriere, ironically named after a blacksmith’s bag: the immense fortress built to repel the French, filled with blacksmith’s scrap iron—ancient cannon that had never fired a shot.