«Leave word with Marty where I can reach you.»
«The mechanic fellow?»
«And then some.»
The pontoons of the seaplane crunched down into the calm waters and taxied in a semicircle into the rockhewn cove of the private island. The pilot maneuvered the aircraft toward the short dock, where one of the lupo-armed guards stood waiting. The capo caught the overhanging wing, steadying the seaplane as Bajaratt stepped down on a pontoon, gripped the attendant’s briefly freed hands, and climbed onto the dock.
«The padrone has had a good day, signora,» the man said in heavily accented English, shouting to be heard over the sound of the propellers. «Seeing you again is better than all the treatments in Miami. He sang opera while I bathed him.»
«Can you manage things here?» asked the Baj quickly. «I have to go to him right away.»
«What is there to manage, signora? I push the wing away and our amico silenzioso does the rest.»
«Va bene!» Amaya raced up the stone steps, catching her breath as she reached the top. It was better not to show anxiety. The padrone dismissed anyone who displayed signs of losing control, which she had not, but the fact that her presence was known in the intelligence circles that covered the islands was a shock. She could accept the padrone’s knowing, for he had debts owed to him throughout the world of the Baaka Valley, but for a hunt to have been mounted that reached the point of recruiting the retired Hawthorne was not acceptable. Breathing deeply, Bajaratt walked up the flagstone path and yanked down the bronze handle of the door. She pushed it open, holding her place in the frame, only to see the frail figure in the wheelchair waving childishly at her from halfway across the huge stone foyer.
«Ciao, Annie!» said the padrone, smiling weakly, and with what minor enthusiasm he could muster. «Did you have a fine day, my only daughter?»
«I never got to the bank,» replied Bajaratt curtly, walking inside.
«That’s regrettable. Why not? Adore you as I do, my child, I will not permit any funds to be transferred to you from my accounts. It’s far too dangerous, and my familiars in the Mediterranean can well afford to send you anything you need.»
«I’m not concerned with the money,» said Amaya. «I can return tomorrow and get it, but what does concern me is that the Americans, the British, and the French know I’m in the islands!»
«But of course they do, Annie! I knew you were coming; where do you think I learned that?»
«I assumed through the Baaka financial establishment.»
«Did I not mention the Deuxième, MI-6, even the Americans?»
«Forgive me, padrone, but the brilliant film star in you often leads to exaggeration.»
«Molto bene!» laughed the invalid, rasping with constricted vocal cords. «Yet not entirely true. I have Americans on a distant payroll; they informed me that there was an alert out for you down here. But what area, what island? Impossibile! No one knows what you look like, and you are a master—perhaps I should say a mistress—of different appearances. Where is the danger?»
«Do you remember a man named Hawthorne?»
«Oh, yes, yes, of course. A discredited officer of U.S. intelligence, navy, I believe, once married to a Soviet double agent. You found out who he was and engineered a meeting, then enjoyed him for a number of months while you were recovering from your wounds. You thought you might learn something from his expertise.»
«What I learned was of little value, but he’s now back in business, hunting for Bajaratt. I ran into him this afternoon, I was with him this afternoon.»
«How extraordinary, my daughter,» said the padrone, his watery blue eyes studying Bajaratt’s face. «And how fortunate for you. You were a very happy woman during those months, as I recall.»
«One takes minor pleasures where one can find them, my father. He was merely an unknowing instrument of instruction should there be anything I might use.»
«An instrument that produced music in you, perhaps?»
«Rubbish!»
«You sang and pranced about like the child you never were.»
«Your cinematic memories warp your observations. My wounds were simply healing, that’s all… He’s here, don’t you understand? He’ll go to Saba and look for me there!»
«Oh, yes, I recall. An imaginary old French uncle, wasn’t it?»
«He must be killed, padrone!»
«Why didn’t you kill him this afternoon?»
«There was no opportunity. I was seen with him, I’d have been caught.»
«Even more extraordinary,» said the old Italian quietly. «The Baj of high regard always created her own opportunities.»
«Stop it, my only father! Kill him!»
«Very well, my daughter. The heart is not always resolute… Saba, you say? It’s less than an hour in our cigarette boat.» The padrone raised his head. «Scozzi!» he cried, summoning one of his attendants.
Speed was everything, for memories were short in the islands, almost always intentionally. Saba was not a usual charter stop, but Hawthorne knew it from the few times he had sailed there. Everyone on the docks in the immediate islands of Saint T. and Tortola accommodated the charter captains. It paid to do so, and Tyrell counted on that native trait.
He hired a seaplane out of Barts and flew into the island’s modest harbor; he wanted all the cooperation he could engender. He appeared to get it, yet nothing made sense.
No one in the marina knew an old man with a French maid. Nor had anyone seen a woman fitting the description of Dominique. How could they not know her, a tall, striking white woman who came so often to visit her uncle? It was strange; the dock boys generally knew everything that took place in the small out islands, especially on the waterfronts. Boats came in with supplies, and supplies had to be delivered, and deliveries were paid for; it was the custom of the trade to know all the roads that led to every house on such a place as Saba. On the other hand, as he and Dominique had agreed, her uncle was the «recluse of recluses,» and there was an airstrip as well as a few unpretentious stores whose fare could be augmented by provisions flown in by air. Perhaps it was enough for a frail old man and his maid.
Tyrell walked in the blistering heat to the island’s shanty post office, only to be told by an arrogant postal clerk that «you make no sense, mon! No box for such a person or a woman who talk like a French mama.»
That information was stranger than what he had heard at the marina. Dominique had explained years earlier that her uncle had a «rather decent» pension from his firm; the payments were sent to him every month. Again, there was the airstrip, which could provide another explanation. Mail was erratic in the minor islands; perhaps Paris sent their retired attorney his stipend by air from Martinique. It was certainly both safer and more efficient.
Tyrell learned quickly from the postal clerk where he could hire a motorbike, Saba’s favored means of transport. It was simple; the man had several in the back for rent. All he had to do was leave a large deposit along with his driver’s license and sign a paper stating he was responsible for all repairs, to be deducted from his deposit.
Hawthorne spent nearly three hours bouncing over the roads and through the hills, going from house to cottage to shack, invariably met by sullen residents wearing holstered firearms and protected by snarling island dogs. The exception was his last stop, a retired Anglican priest with a swollen nose and a blotched, red-veined face, his affliction obvious. Rum was immediately offered along with the opportunity to freshen up and remove the dust from his clothes and body. Both were gently declined due to the visitor’s haste, and as Tyrell questioned the disheveled elderly prelate, his anxiety was apparent.