The First Casualty (4 page)

Mr. Frache had his hand out. “That'll be two pounds, three.”

Jason instantly regretted jumping to the ground. His shoes were now full of very wet snow. He reached into his pocket, produced a clip of bills, and peeled off a five. “Keep it. Thanks for the lift.”

The driver's smile spread across the weathered face as he touched the bill of his cap with one hand and shook the reins with the other. “Thank
you
, Mr. Peters!”

Jason took in his surroundings.

A place he had passed or visited hundreds of time now might as well have been on the backside of the moon. The white stone facade, moistened by snow, had become a dirty gray. The five windows across the front were blind eyes staring not onto a manicured sweep of lawn but an arctic plane. The lush, green trees on the hills visible behind the hotel were a hostile thicket of sharp black daggers sheathed in snow. There was no ambiance of the rustic chic hospitality for which the hotel was known. The scene suggested harsh indifference.

Jason picked up his bag and went around to the rear where the swimming pool was like a thermal spring, leaking steam around the edges of a canvas cover. Chairs, recliners, and tables, misshapen with lumpy snow, reminded him of animals gathered around some African watering hole. Low hummocks indicated where summer's rosebushes were hiding.

He took a step, his socks squishing with melted snow from his ill-advised leap from the wagon. He toyed with the idea of stopping to ring them out. Frostbite was the last thing he needed. No, it would take him less than twenty minutes to reach his house from there.

What exactly he was going to do once he got there? Well, that depended on what a reconnaissance turned up. At the moment there was something he missed even more than Pangloss and Robespierre: His .40-caliber Glock.

10

Stocks Hotel

Sark, Channel Islands

Should Jason take the road? Though a mixture of ice and slush, the snow was not as deep, the going would be easier. So would spotting him were someone looking for his arrival. If trouble was waiting for him, he'd be an easy target. By the time the track reached his house, though, it was sunken, not visible from his windows. Bag in hand, he set out down the shallow Dixcart Valley that pointed to his home like a gun barrel.

The volume of both fog and snow increased, reducing the landscape to little more than gray blurs, an old black-and-white photograph with the picture just becoming visible in the developing solution. If this kept up, he would not need to worry about being seen. Still, he had rather approach from this angle. The house faced the hill split by the road. The rear opened onto almost a full hectare of apple orchard, which ended at a cliff jutting over Derrible Bay.

The rocky teeth below gnashing at the white water was one of his most frequently painted scenes. He was particularly fond of one that depicted a fog bank creeping across the water like a predator stealthily approaching its prey. The crash of waves as the wind bashed them against the shore had, in Jason's mind, become a symphony. Today, the sound, the wind, the fog would mask his arrival. Unfortunately, they would also make it difficult to observe the house.

The wet snow was over his ankles as he trudged through it, filling the cuffs of his trousers and adding to the misery of his soaking socks. The wind was becoming a firm opponent, slowing his progress and filling his eyes with white flakes. Was it really true, he wondered, that no two of the trillions of snowflakes were exactly alike, that each had a unique symmetry?
IF
so, and if any higher power existed, He surely had far too much time on His hands.

Navigating the rock-strewn fields in this world of whites and grays wasn't easy, even if Jason had come this way dozens of times in better weather. Twice he stumbled over boulders that had become one with the shadows creeping from their lairs as the afternoon aged. In winter at these latitudes, darkness came early. It did not fall but seeped out of the lower parts of the valley like liquid from a sponge.

Though an inconvenience, possibly a hazard if he took a bad fall, darkness was an ally. It would provide Jason with a cloak of invisibility as effective as Harry Potter's. On the other hand, the cottage, if he could see it at all in these conditions, should be a lighted beacon unless Mrs. Prince had been derelict in her duties.

Or had been prevented from performing them.

Upon his initial arrival at Sark, Jason had worked industriously and secretly, journeying to the mainland to buy weight-detecting plates wired to a silent alarm system which he buried randomly around the cottage. Although, abstractly, he had known cows, in general, weighed more than humans, he had not considered that fact or the liberty to roam granted the local bovines. Within a week, he removed those plates not already destroyed by hoofs. Motion detectors, infrared cameras, some of the most sophisticated security equipment available, all defeated by the island's dairy herd.

At least his arrival would not be electronically announced.

He stopped suddenly, listening. There was the wind, now reduced to a sigh, the gentle sound of the flakes as they kissed his clothes. The fresh snow crunched underfoot. But he had heard something else, something that was not of the wind and snow. He turned his head slowly as if directing an antenna to track the source of the sound.

There!

Definite footsteps ahead. Or were they? They came too quickly to be human and there was a chuffing sound, an animal breathing heavily. As far as he knew, there were no wolves or bears on Sark. He could distinguish a shape now, gray with snow-covered fur, moving quickly toward him.

He recognized the form just an instant before the valley rang with joyous barking. Jason stooped to bring his face even with the big dog's and rub the muzzle grayed with snowflakes.

“Pangloss! What in the hell are you doing out here?”

His answer was a loving tongue across the face.

Jason scratched under the hairy chin. “What did you do to get Mrs. Prince to let you out so late?”

This time the reply was a series of snorts as the dog backed away, started barking. Pangloss was like that: Rarely gave a direct answer. Jason knew, anyway. Pangloss was anything but modest in letting his needs be known. If he wanted outside at times other than those scheduled, a raking of those big paws across the cottage's front door served notice.

Had he known Jason was nearby with that near-supernatural ability dogs have of sensing things and people far out of eyesight? Or was he on his perpetual hunt for moles? Targets for Pangloss, more than once at the expense of a neighbor's garden.

A click of tongue against teeth and the animal fell in beside him. Like the old friends they were, the two set off up a slight rise that marked the end of the valley. They were on the verge of the apple orchard. Trees stood in military ranks, arthritic limbs covered in uniforms of white. Though he could not see it, the sea announced its presence with its unabated assault on the rocks below the cliff. The house was somewhere down a sloping field less than 300 meters distant but as unseeable in the wintry mist as the future.

Jason wished his canine companion had a different disposition. It would be helpful if Pangloss could differentiate between good and bad guys, or at least approach the house and growl if strangers were present. But that wasn't in the dog's DNA. He didn't know a stranger. Everybody was Pangloss's potential new best friend. Had he been human, he would have been a maître d' in an expensive restaurant. Or a politician.

At the moment, Jason would have cheerfully traded Pangloss for a pit bull or Rottweiler.

Moving from one apple tree to the next, Jason edged toward the place he knew the cottage was. The scant cover was unnecessary in the icy mist that was now beginning to freeze on his jacket.

At the last row of trees, he could see a diffused light, no doubt from the cottage's windows. He could smell the acrid odor of the stone fireplace, but the smoke itself was lost in clouds low enough to caress the roof top.

He got down on all fours, making sure his head was below what he remembered as the height of windows. His ungloved hands numbed in the snow. In a minute, he could see the house. Or, at least part of it. Still creeping, he reached the near wall, stood just beside a window.

Pangloss thought this was great fun, some sort of new game. He was barking appreciatively. Jason shot a nervous glance in the direction of the front door. If the dog's racket drew curiosity, Jason would be caught in the open, unarmed with no place to hide.

Movement on the other side of the window drew his eye. A tall man with skin the color of charcoal, suit the same. Though he could not see the face from this angle, Jason knew it featured lifeless eyes the color of steel ball bearings. The man's name was Samedi and he would not be here alone.

Jason's concern was replaced by an anger that made his lips curl. Once again, she had found him, invaded his space.

Whoa,
the voice inside his head protested.
You may get pissed every time she finds you—and she always does—but why do you think she keeps doing it? Maybe because you have a hard time saying “no”?

I've said “no” plenty of times,
Jason retorted, feeling slightly silly arguing with himself.

But only before saying “yes.”

Inner voices were a pain in the ass.

Resigned to having to deal with a problem, Jason turned and trudged to the door. Ice on the walkway crunched beneath his feet like dry twigs.

Delightfully warm air and the aroma of tea kissed his face the instant he opened it. He set down his suitcase as he surveyed the scene. Seated in front of the fireplace was Mrs. Prince and a huge black woman wearing a mumu, its bright colors screaming in discord with the earth tones of the cottage. Jason marveled the rustic bentwood chair had not been reduced to kindling by her three hundred plus pounds. Between the two women was a tea trolley on which sat the tea caddy and the only tea set in the house that had all its pieces—cups, saucers, pot, creamer, sugar bowl—matched, and not chipped or cracked.

For an instant, the two women stared in surprise at Jason as Pangloss wriggled his way past and into the house.

“Pangloss!”

Too late.

The dog gave a massive shake, spraying the room with water and melting snow.

“A trick I taught him,” Jason said, his eyes leveled at Mrs. Prince. “He only does it in front of uninvited company.”

Indifferent to the puddle on the gray stone floor, Pangloss crossed the room to sit beside the visitor's chair, lavishing her with adoring eyes.

“I'm sorry if I done wrong,” Mrs. Prince said, rising from her chair. “But this lady here said as how you was old friends an' bein' as how it were snowin' outside . . .”

Her voice trailed off as though fully aware her employer was not as angry as he sounded.

“I understand,” Jason said. “Our guest here has the ability to charm the meanest of spirits.” He pointed to the ball of fur in the massive lap. “When is the last time you saw Robespierre do that?”

The cat, normally scornful of affection, turned yellow eyes on Jason at the mention of his name, a possessive look that clearly said he and the woman had formed some sort of bond.

The woman stood, placing the resentful cat on the floor. “Now admit it, Jason, you be glad to see Momma.”

Momma, the only name Jason knew for the woman who owned and operated the secretive Narcom. With a quickness that belied her bulk, she grasped him in a near suffocating bear hug that smelled of tropical flowers and charcoal, the odors Jason associated with her native Haiti. There, she had been the second in command of the dreaded Tonon Macoute, the Duvalier secret police whose record for brutality put Hitler's Gestapo in a favorable light by comparison.

Jason managed to free himself. “I suppose the yacht outside the harbor is yours.”

“Not mine. Belongs to a friend.”

The first indication Jason ever had that she had one.

“Not using it right now,” she continued as she looked around as though seeing the cottage's interior for the first time. “You sure manage to find hard-to-get-to places.”

“It keeps away people I don't want to see. Doesn't always work.”

Mrs. Prince's hands were clasping and unclasping, a pair of birds mating in midair. Her eyes flicked from one to the other, a spectator in a verbal tennis match. “With your permission, Mr. Peters, I'll be putting the tea things away, make your supper. Will our guests be joining us?”

“Definitely not.”

Without waiting for further response, Mrs. Prince fled to the kitchen, pushing the trolley ahead of her. Jason was sure she intended the clatter of crockery to curtain her from further conversation.

Momma resumed her seat, motioning Jason to the one vacated by Mrs. Prince. Like she was a hostess in her own house. In a single leap, Robespierre was back in her lap, eyes on Jason, daring him to take the territory away.

“Older you get, Jason, the less hospitable you become,” she said amiably. “Almost give me the impression you don't 'preciate all I done for you.”

“Like damn near getting me killed?”

“You ain't dead, but you sure rich.”

There was no arguing with that. “You didn't come all the way to Sark to discuss either status.”

Momma gave a single nod of the head, her turn to concede a point. “That pretty little gal of yours, Dr. Bergenghetti, she not here.”

A statement, not a question.

“Why do I think you knew that before you came?”

“She's over in . . .”

“Indonesia.”

“Indonesia, checking out one of them volcanoes she like so much. I had to guess, I'd say she be there 'nother couple months at least.”

“That was what she said in the e-mail I got a few hours ago. So now you're reading my mail, too.”

Momma shrugged her shoulders, an earthquake of mountains. “She stayin' 'cause she got an additional grant, one over what the Italian government willing to pay.”

“I can't imagine where that came from.”

Momma ignored the sarcasm. “So, I figured since you'll be leaving this here island . . .”

Jason held up a hand, stop. “Leaving? Who says?”

Momma crossed arms the size of legs of mutton. “Well, I just thought . . .”

“Thought what?”

“You just now coming back from that little country . . .”

“Liechtenstein.”

Momma knew his every move. Annoying as it was, what could he do? Devices that tracked cell phones, spy satellites, hacking into airline reservations. Privacy was as obsolete as the buggy whip.

“Yeah,” Momma nodded, seeming to relish the name, “Liechtenstein. Little bird tell me you got into trouble.”

“Your little bird must be a dodo. Trip went smooth as glass.”

Momma pursed her lips, an expression almost coquettish. “You weren't running that Porsche up them hills for the fun of it.”

She pronounced the marque without the
uh
sound for the final
e
.

How the hell could she have known about that? Must have a really good observation team for him not to have noticed. Either that or there really was substance to her claim of being a
Hounan
, a voodoo priestess.

Damned if he was going to give her the satisfaction of asking. “I don't see the correlation between what
might
have been trouble and leaving Sark.”

Actually, he saw it with the clarity of a photograph, a very ugly photograph.

“Don' much think them fellows in the other car were chasing you for your autograph. They know you in Liechtenstein; they sure know you here. Just a matter of time.”