The Armada Legacy (20 page)

Sitting alone at the head of the table was Ramon Serrato, immaculate in a cream-coloured suit. He stood up as Brooke entered the room, and stared at her for a long moment as if stunned by her appearance. Then, seeming to collect his wits, he wished her good evening and pulled out a chair near the top of the table for her.

‘I trust you passed a pleasant afternoon?’ he asked.

Brooke was about to make an angry reply when another door opened and two white-coated male servants filed into the room. One was carrying an ice bucket on a silver platter, the other wheeling a trolley bearing hors d’oeuvres. Without a word they set everything down on the table, then hurried away again like mice.

‘What’s the matter?’ Serrato said, seeing her expression. ‘Are you not hungry? The pâté de foie gras is very good. I recommend eating the toast while it is still warm. And the wine is a Cabernet-Sauvignon, from my own vineyard in Chile.’

Right
, she thought to herself.
So we’re not in Brazil. And we’re not in Chile either
. How many South American countries did that leave to choose from? Too damn many. ‘Am I supposed to be impressed with all this?’ she said out loud.

‘I would have hoped so. There are many people who would never have a meal like this in their lives.’

‘That makes me feel so much better. I should be grateful to you, really.’

‘Have you ever been poor?’ he asked her, reaching for the champagne. ‘So poor that you had only stinking rags to wear, so hungry that you would kill a rat with your bare hands and eat it?’ he smiled. ‘No, I don’t think so. You have always been comfortable. Perhaps if you had grown up in poverty as I did, you would appreciate this more.’

Brooke said nothing.

‘You don’t believe me,’ he said. ‘And yet it’s true. I spent my childhood in the slums of Mexico City. My brothers and I had to beg for food while my mother cleaned toilets and my father picked watermelons for a few pesos a day. Our whole family lived in two rooms that were not fit to keep animals in.’

‘I’m overwhelmed with sympathy.’

Serrato looked at her sharply. ‘I am sure you would have been, if you could have seen the way we lived. It was a squalid existence. As a boy I would watch the rich men drive past in their big cars and I knew that I was destined for better things. My grandfather used to tell us that for all our poverty and unhappiness, there was noble blood in our veins. Noble blood,’ Serrato repeated, ‘dating back to the time when the Spanish Empire covered half the world. My mother and father used to laugh and tell us not to listen to an old fool’s tales. It was not until I was much older that I learned that my grandfather was right.’

Brooke didn’t reply.

Serrato seemed about to continue, then restrained himself. ‘But I have no right to bore such a charming companion with stories of my past. Won’t you take some foie gras?’

‘Stick your foie gras. I’m not hungry.’

‘Perhaps this will whet your appetite.’ Serrato reached behind him and picked up a square, flat jewellery box, which he slid across the table towards her. ‘A gift.’

‘You think I’d want anything from
you?
’

‘Please, I insist.’

Brooke opened the box. Inside was a diamond and emerald necklace that looked as if it must be worth about the same as her flat in Richmond, together with a matching bracelet. ‘What the hell are these?’

‘They’re yours. And I should very much like to see you in them.’

The green dress matched perfectly with the sparkling emeralds: it was clear that Serrato liked to plan every little detail. The way he was looking at her was deeply unsettling, but she met his eye and replied fiercely, ‘I’m not your doll, or anyone else’s, to be draped in bangles and beads.’

‘You’re a woman of strong opinions,’ Serrato said. ‘I have every respect for that.’

‘Then why are you dressing me up like this? Is this how you get your kicks, kidnapping women and making them wear this stuff? It’s sick.’

‘It seems to me that you underestimate your own beauty,’ he said. ‘Whereas I do not. And you would greatly oblige me by putting the jewels on.’

Brooke saw a strange light in his eye. Something told her she shouldn’t push him too far. ‘If you insist.’ She plucked the bracelet from the box and tried it on.

‘As I thought, a perfect fit,’ Serrato said admiringly. ‘And now the necklace.’

Brooke knew she couldn’t refuse. ‘Let me take this off first,’ she said, and reached behind her neck to undo the clasp of the little gold chain Ben had given her. She removed it with real reluctance, picked the cold, heavy necklace from its velvet liner and slipped it round her neck in its place. The clasp was awkward to fasten.

‘Allow me,’ Serrato said. Rising from his chair he stepped behind hers, and she felt his fingers delicately touching the back of her neck. ‘There, it’s done. It looks as wonderful on you as I had thought it would.’

She could see herself in the gilt-framed mirror opposite, and him standing over her, watching her as if she were something in a museum to be admired and gawked at. His hands brushed her shoulders. She twisted away from his touch.

‘You have such fine features,’ he said, carefully studying her face in the mirror. ‘If you were to tie your hair up it would accentuate them even more. Let me show you. There. Like this.’

‘Please tell me what’s going on. Tell me what I’m doing here.’

‘You’ll understand in due course,’ he said, returning to his chair. In the meantime, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’ Taking a small envelope from the pocket of his blazer, he opened it and produced a tiny photograph. ‘Is this the man you mentioned, this Marshall person?’

Brooke instantly recognised the photo of Ben, taken the previous spring at Le Val. Even when it had looked as though their relationship was over forever, she hadn’t had the heart to throw it away. Serrato must have found it in her purse.

There was a gleam in his eye as he waited for her reply. It suddenly struck her what his expression was. It was the look of a jealous lover, and it turned her blood cold to think what might happen if she told the truth.

‘That’s nobody,’ she said carefully.

Serrato scrutinised her face for a long moment. ‘Are you quite sure? Not, for example, the man who bought you that?’ He pointed at the slim gold chain that Brooke was holding in her hand.

‘Forget him,’ she said. ‘He’s not important.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Is there anyone else …
important
in your life?’

She shook her head. ‘No. There’s nobody.’

Serrato gazed at her a moment longer, then smiled and seemed satisfied she was being truthful. ‘What about some wine?’

‘Just a little,’ she said, and held out her glass for him to fill. She hated playing this game that he seemed to enjoy so much, but she badly needed something to steady her nerves.

‘You should eat, as well,’ he said, scraping pâté onto a sliver of toast. ‘We don’t want you becoming too thin.’

Why, then I won’t fit your fucking dress collection any more?
she wanted to yell at him, but kept her mouth shut. After a few moments she reluctantly began to pick at the food.

‘Good, no?’

‘Better than I had in my last prison,’ she said dryly.

‘I love your sense of humour.’ Serrato rang a little bell and the two servants instantly filed in to clear away the hors d’oeuvre plates and bring in the main course and more wine before disappearing as quickly as before. Serrato lifted the lid of a silver platter and breathed in the aromatic steam that rose up. ‘Salmon poached in fino sherry, with a butter and parsley sauce,’ he said with relish. ‘It’s wonderful together with these sautéed potatoes and steamed asparagus tips.’

‘You really must give me the recipe,’ she muttered.

He picked up a silver fish slice. ‘Let me serve you.’

‘I’ve had enough to eat. I want to leave now.’

‘You wish to return to your rooms?’

‘I wish to return to my country. To my home, my friends, the ones you and your thugs haven’t murdered. To my life. It’s been left kind of interrupted, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Your life is here with me now,’ he said quietly after a pause. ‘That is how it was meant to be.’

The words hit her like a slap across the face. She nearly laughed at the surreal absurdity of it. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You’ll soon forget your old life,’ Serrato told her, delicately laying a slice of salmon on his own plate. ‘Believe me when I say that the one I have to offer you is far superior in every way. I have so many plans for us. There’s so much we can do together. Once my plans are finalised, the world will truly be ours.’ He reached for the vegetables.

‘You’re mad. Who do you think I am?’

Serrato began eating and made no reply.

‘Who’s Alicia?’ she asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Serrato put down his knife and fork with such a loud clatter that it made her jump. He looked across the table at her with a hard, wild glare in his eyes. His tanned face had turned almost white. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me. Consuela and Presentacion keep talking about someone called Alicia, and looking at me. Who is she? Do you think I’m her? Because I’m not. You know my name. It’s Brooke Marcel. Not Alicia someone-or-other.’

Looking as though he was making a huge effort to control himself, Serrato wiped his mouth with a satin napkin and rose from his seat. He left the dining room without a word.

Brooke sat there alone at the empty table. A minute went by, then another. She carefully pushed the little gold chain into the cup of her bra, for want of a pocket. It was more precious to her than a million emerald necklaces and she didn’t want to lose it.

Because a crazy, dangerous, irresistible idea had just come into her mind. She stood up, slipped off her shoes and crept silently across to the door through which the guards had brought her. After listening for sounds outside the door and hearing nothing, she gently opened it a crack and peeked through. There was nobody around.

She swallowed.
You’re as mad as he is
, she thought. But the opportunity was too tempting to resist. She stepped out of the dining room and glanced around her. The wide hallway had four other doors, all gleaming walnut with shiny gold handles, any of which could lead to some kind of exit.

Brooke was committed now. She padded furtively across the hallway to the nearest of the doors, pressed her ear to it for a moment and then turned the handle.

The room behind the door was a lounge that looked like something from a gentlemen’s club circa 1850: heavily varnished panelling, yet more artwork, a mirror over the fireplace, Chesterfield furniture. Brooke searched the room for a phone. She had no idea what country she was in, let alone what number to call for the police, but if she could make a call to Ben’s mobile, she might be able to get through to him. The thought of being able to speak to him made her heart jump.

But there was no phone. Brooke was about to leave the room and try another when the sudden tap of approaching footsteps outside made her back away from the door and press herself against the wall. The footsteps paused outside. Voices: two men, speaking Spanish.

She held her breath. The door was a couple of inches ajar, and leaning forward she could just about make out the two guards in the hallway. Both were armed with pistols. They’d paused so that one could show the other something on his phone, some picture that made them both laugh. Brooke drew away from the door. Would they notice it was hanging open and come inside to check the room? For a terrifying instant she glanced about her for a hiding place, convinced she was about to be caught – but then the guards moved on and she could breathe again.

Their footsteps grew fainter. She counted one – two – three –

And stopped at four.

She stopped because she’d just realised that what she’d taken to be a mirror over the fireplace, framed in ornate gilt wood, was actually a painting.

It was a portrait of a woman. A woman in a shimmering green dress, with long, curling auburn hair that was elegantly swept up to show off the diamonds and emeralds around her neck. The slender hand posed resting on her lap wore the matching bracelet. Her green eyes looked straight into the viewer’s, stunningly lifelike and filled with joy and excitement. She was smiling.

Brooke gaped at the painting. It couldn’t be … was it … ?

It was of her.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Her mind reeling so much she could hardly walk straight, Brooke crossed the room to stare at the painting more closely. It seemed incredible, impossible.

And yet it seemed true. The woman had her face, her hair. The dress in the picture was the exact same one that she was wearing. The jewels were the ones that Serrato had given her at dinner. Brooke couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

It was only when she got right up close and stared hard at the detail of the picture that she began to make out subtle differences and realised that the painting was of someone else. The eyes were a slightly different shade, and slightly closer together than hers. The shape of the nose, the ears, the chin. But nonetheless the resemblance was unsettling.

Brooke ran her hand along the bottom of the painting’s ornate frame and her fingers found something. She looked at it: a small rectangular plaque sculpted into the golden wood. A plaque that bore, in tiny black script, the name ‘Alicia’.

Her thoughts were racing as she left the room and ran up the passage in the opposite direction that the guards had gone, searching left and right for an exit as she went, the marble floor hard and cold under her bare soles. The notion of trying to escape now, dressed as she was, barefoot, totally vulnerable and lost, was insane – it was against everything she’d ever learned or taught. But none of her training or knowledge were of any use to her now. She was no normal hostage; and this Ramon Serrato, whoever the hell he was, was certainly no normal kidnapper.

Alicia.
Did Serrato truly believe that Brooke was Alicia? It was hard to grasp what was happening to her. She almost wished he
was
holding her for ransom in a dank cellar, hooded and chained up. Anything was better than this bizarre, fetishistic kind of slavery. She had to get out of here.