“Señorita Angel, Señorita Angel, wake up, por favor!”
She groaned and managed to open her eyes and blearily see the face and form of Juanita Hernandez standing there, holding a tray.
“Go away, Juanita, please,” she managed, barely getting the words out. Her throat was sore and she was sure she was coming down with something.
“But, Señorita, it is well past noon. It is not good for you to sleep all the day. If you wake up I will feed you some breakfast.”
She groaned again. “No, nothing, please. Just some coffee to help me wake up. I’m not at all hungry.”
They were on the small fishing pier in the village, just watching the sea birds and watching the ocean. It was a rough surf, thanks to the storm the previous night, and that made it dramatic, plumes of waves sometimes striking the pier, rising up and threatening to get them drenched.
She had not been able to get the nightmare out of her mind. “It was a horrible dream, the nightmare that I felt was coming.”
“You told nobody else about it?” MacDonald asked her, concerned.
“No. I had enough with psychologists at the Center. They would say that my fears and insecurities were causing it, that my frustration at this handicap was coming out in that wild experience, and that killing the man was in some way the resentment against my father expressing itself. But the man was a total stranger! I can see him now, describe him.”
He frowned. “Go ahead. Describe him to me.”
“But it was just a nightmare.”
“That’s all right. Real people show up in dreams all the time. Go ahead.”
She did so, hesitantly, not wanting to remember too much. Is it—somebody real?”
“I think so. It sounds a lot like Jureau. He’s the NATO security representative here—a Belgian. Even more unpleasant than Ross, but you don’t see much of him.”
“Then I have met him?”
“You must have, although I didn’t know he was back, or even if he was coming back. He’s been in Brussels since shortly after your father’s death. He’s a stiff-necked by-the-book martinet that nobody likes.”
“Greg—you will see this Jureau? Find out if he is actually here, yes? Find out if…”
He stared at her in disbelief. “If what?”
“If—he is—still—alive.”
He sighed in disgust. “Come on! You’re not starting to believe this, are you? That somehow you’re turned into a beast-girl every night and go out with the other beast-girls to prowl?”
“I—I don’t know what to believe any more. When you consider my father, the way in which he died, what is impossible here? Don’t you see? If you see him, talk to him, it will disprove it!”
“All right, all right. I have to go up to the helipad this evening and meet the chopper coming in anyway. Just don’t go spooky on me. That’s how these cults, these superstitions of fear, get you. If you start believing in it, they got you.”
“And that is what this is? Some kind of devil cult?”
“I didn’t say that, but now that you’ve asked, that is involved in all this.”
“And if this Jureau is dead, what then?”
“He’s not. If he were dead, or even missing for more than five minutes, there would be a hue and cry around here not seen since your father’s death. But even if he was, it wouldn’t mean anything. There are all sort of drugs and hallucinogens that can be slipped into food without anybody knowing and would have you believing the sky is pale yellow and horses rule the world. You’re particularly vulnerable to that sort of thing, remember, and your money and power are real tempting targets. I think it’s time you got away from here. I think maybe it’s time I did, too.”
“Go? Where?”
“There’s a little coastal fishing town on Bessel Island about forty miles due west of here. It’s still in the country, but pretty remote. An American friend of mine named Art Cadell has a place there. Not much, but it’s a little white stucco cottage facing the sea with a very nice beach. My hands have been tied here, and I’m thinking of moving over there to get a little breathing room. No bugs that aren’t alive and a little freedom to ask questions without Big Brother listening in. We could use that while we make arrangements for a more civilized move, maybe to your father’s place on Puget Sound, which I understand is pretty nice. I could arrange for security for you, and then see a few folks I have to see in person to ask a few more questions.”
She stared at him. “Greg—do you know who killed my father?”
“I think so. I’ve known for some time. The trouble is, I need confirmation of my suspicions and fragments of information to do anything, and even then it’ll be hell to prove or even act. In the meantime, I don’t want you falling under their control.”
He stood up and gestured back at the mountain, partly shrouded in mist. “Come on,” he said as lightly as he could. “Let’s get you home for now.” But not home for long, he added to himself.
He couldn’t contact Jureau. In fact, the security boys were adamant that the Belgian had never returned from Brussels and was off on a new assignment somewhere. They didn’t know where, and didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t here.
That bothered him more than any stalling or lame excuses. If Jureau had never returned, then Angelique could not ever have seen him. And if she’d never seen him, how could she describe him so correctly, down to a silly outfit MacDonald knew the Belgian favored?
The hell with the renovations, he decided. No matter what did or did not come in on the chopper tonight, he was getting her out of here as soon as possible. He had the place for a getaway, and he had the means, the first time her crush on him would come in handy. He was going. If she wished, she could come with him. If not, she might be here alone and never see him again. He was pretty sure she’d move, only he wanted it to be as sudden as possible. No company helicopters, which were fast but which couldn’t be set up on short notice without tipping his hand. No, in two more days the ship was due back, and it would go from here to Port of Spain, from which transportation would be far more easily, and quietly, arranged.
For now, he could do nothing but go down to the Institute’s helipad and wait for the executive chopper to come in and hope that what he was waiting for was on board.
Greg MacDonald used company couriers checked out and approved by his bosses for much of his information-gathering work. His biggest frustration, and largest stumbling block, in the investigation was his inability to use the vast telecommunications power the island represented, nor any means that could be sensed by that network. No matter what else he knew or didn’t know, he was certain that anything done through computer or telecommunication lines at any point would, if traced to him, make its way to his quarry through SAINT.
He was in the unique position of being the very real leader of a large investigative team and also the decoy and the bait. So long as he remained on Allenby, they felt reasonably safe and secure, for he was the enemy they knew.
The helicopter was due in at 20:45 Atlantic time, and the fact that it was now very late worried him. He had seen Angelique safely to her quarters, and now all he could do was cross his fingers and wait.
They told him that they’d had only spotty radio communications with the chopper almost since it had started out. The pilot reported something like a large electrical storm with buffeting winds and downdrafts all around, yet the weather report and their own weather radar indicated nothing at all. He had been unable to fly out of it or around it, and by 22:10 they were telling MacDonald that the helicopter had turned back for now. He was just about to give it up when he heard the Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! of rotor blades together with the whine of the turbine and saw the landing lights for the chopper just to the south.