Instead, he turned to look at Farris bin Ushan. “Come join us,” he said, flicking his hand to motion the Yemeni into the pool.
Ushan was in his mid twenties, with short, dark hair. His black suit pants and a white long-sleeved dress shirt were wrinkled, as if he’d slept in them.
“His face looks too sweet to be that of a ruthless terrorist.” Zamora nudged the girl with his elbow. “Do you not agree, my darling?”
“I… I shouldn’t be here.” She tried to swim away again, but Zamora grabbed her ankle, tugging her back. He gave the inside of her thigh a cruel pinch between her knee and her groin. She cried out, but sadly, and went completely limp at his touch.
Zamora beckoned the young man closer with his cigar.
“I am sorry about her.” He looked over at the quivering girl. “As-salamu alaikum, Farris. I hope your stay in Florida has been a pleasant one.”
“Wa alaikum as salam.” Ushan nodded, putting his right hand to his breast. His eyes were fixed on the body of the dead Chechen at the bottom of the pool. “Most enjoyable.”
“Join us,” Zamora said again.
“I do not swim.” The Yemeni swallowed. His face twitched as his nervous smile grew larger.
Zamora’s face darkened.
“Get in the pool!” A cloud of cigar smoke erupted with his snarl, enveloping his head.
Ushan complied, walking down the steps fully clothed. His white shirt clung to his skinny chest.
“See?” Zamora smiled sweetly again. “The water is really quite nice. Come and let us talk.”
The pool grew deeper as the Yemeni sloshed his way toward them. Three feet away, only his head remained above the surface. He smiled, fanning his arms to keep his balance. Water sloshed at his absurdly large ears.
“I have no wire.” He sputtered. “Your bodyguard already conducted a most embarrassing pat-down.”
“Indulge me.” Zamora gestured toward the body of the dead Chechen at the bottom of the pool. “You no doubt understand that I would kill you very slowly if I suspected you were an informant.” He took another puff of the cigar.
“I am no informant!” Ushan said, forgetting to raise his chin. He took in a mouthful of water.
“I believe you,” Zamora said. “I could not help but notice you looking over some of the women here tonight.”
The Yemeni shook his head. “Surely you are mistaken,” he stammered.
“Perhaps so,” Zamora said. “But I think not.” He grabbed the tremulous Cathy by the arm and shoved her through the water toward Ushan. “You may consider this one a gift. Call her a consolation prize for not being able to pick up a better one at the party.”
Cathy’s mouth hung open. She blinked wide doe eyes. “Why?”
“Why not?” Zamora said.
The Yemeni licked his lips. “I may keep her for the entire night?”
“You misunderstand me.” Zamora waved his hand. “I do not want her back.”
Five minutes later saw Zamora standing naked in the middle of the great room, toweling himself dry. He saw no reason to go to his bedroom. All the members of his entourage had long since passed out in the cabanas. The entire villa was his suite.
He stepped into a pair of purple silk sleeping shorts, glancing up at Monagas.
“Make certain you tell the idiot to kill her when he is finished.”
“Yes, patrón.” Monagas lips turned up in a crooked smile. “Should I take care of him as well?”
Zamora fluffed the towel through his hair. “I am inclined to say yes, mainly due to his ears.” He sniffed. “Do they not seem excessively large to you, Monagas?”
The boxer nodded, his crooked lip turned up in a slight smile, scarred hands folded in front of his waist. “Indeed.”
“I do not trust him with those big ears. He hears too much and may decide to inform. And yet, it is his people who want the device… We had best wait on that,” Zamora said. “The Chechens are angry that I did not sell Baba Yaga to them. I do believe the fool Bulat on that account. They will try to kill me for it. I would very much appreciate it if you would stop them from doing that.”
Monagas smiled. “Of course.”
“And you may go ahead and take care of Umarov. I doubt Rustam Daudov would trust that idiot with any details, but see what he knows before you kill him.”
“As you wish,” Monagas said. “May I ask a question, patrón?”
Zamora nodded.
“Do you still plan to go to Argentina, considering the work that must be done on the device and the problem with the Chechens?”
Zamora slumped in a plush, high-backed chair. “Absolutely,” he said. “I have been planning my entry into the Dakar for many years. The professor has some work to do to make Baba Yaga viable again.” He giggled, taking another cigar from a silver case. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be anywhere near him in case he makes a mistake. What good is an investment if one does not live to spend the profits? Anyway, the race will be great fun, you will see. It will be like a carnival, especially if Mr. Jericho Quinn is there.” Zamora bit the end off the cigar and spit it on the floor.
“I do not like him,” Monagas grunted, stooping to pick it up.
“I haven’t decided if I do or if I don’t.” Zamora smiled. “But he has pleasant taste in women, doesn’t he? See what you can find out about him.”
His thoughts drifted to Cathy for a moment and he gave a long sigh, overcome with melancholy. Not for the stupid brunette, but because he wished he’d not been so hasty to leave Lourdes Lopez in Idaho. He felt the overpowering urge to call the fiery woman. He glanced at his watch and cursed. It was nearly midnight there and she would surely be sleeping… or torturing Pollard’s wife. In either case she would not want to be bothered.
CHAPTER 18
Marie Pollard sat in the corner on a lumpy mattress that had been thrown on the floor. It was clammy and damp and smelled of mildew. Simon slept next to her leg, rolled up in a striped beach towel — the cleanest thing she could find in the vacant farmhouse. A tamarack fire popped in the woodstove in the corner, helping the ancient boiler keep up against the chilly wind that rattled the windows and creaked at the walls. Marie had no idea what time it was. Ripped from everything she knew, she found it impossible to focus. Her eyes hurt when she breathed. She’d been crying so long her skull felt as if it were full of molten lava.
Lourdes straddled a kitchen chair that she’d turned backward. Resting her chin on bare arms over the backrest, she stared down with squinting black eyes at Simon. Marie tried to make small talk, to find some connection in their womanhood — but Lourdes only ignored her.
“Your baby is very ugly, Marie Pollard,” she finally said, using both her names as if they were one word. “You know that, don’t you?” She spoke without lifting her chin from the back of the chair, making her sound bored.
Marie bit her lip to keep it from trembling.
Lourdes arched her back, looking up at the ceiling. “I have never understood what people see in babies,” she said. “They are like insignificant worms at the bottom of a bottle of tequila. I drink them down without a second thought.”
Mercifully, Lourdes’s cell phone began to ring. Her eyes brightened when she looked at the number. The hint of a smile perked her lips. The frown came crashing back the moment she noticed Marie looking at her, but she couldn’t hide the girlish lilt in her voice. Turning, she walked down the hallway.
Marie let her head fall back against the wall, happy for a moment’s freedom from the woman’s hateful stares. It gave her time to catch her breath and take stock of the situation.