Keith Thomson - Twice a Spy

Then Stanley launched into putative next steps: PERMISSION FOR OVERT ACTION. OBJECTIVE: DEBRIEF CARTHAGE

He heard Hadley turn off the shower. He did not hear her approach. The pile carpet was so thick, she might have long-jumped into the bedroom and he would have been none the wiser if it were not for the pleasing perfume of honey and lavender. He didn’t turn around, largely to avoid gawking, not until he felt her standing just inches from his back.

“ Overt action? ” she said. “In other words, we call up Carthage and say, ‘Actually, Mr. Bream, we’re professional spies from the CIA.’ ”

“Breaking cover is the most expedient way I can think of,” said Stanley.

“Why would a couple of spooks-spooks with a track record of deceiving him-be the people best able to get the truth from him?”

“Because we’ll best be able to convince him that he’ll be in deep kimchi otherwise.”

She took a seat on the nearest corner of the bed, crossing one glowing dancer’s thigh over the other. “I know a really good way that won’t leave any marks,” she said with an enthusiasm that transformed her in Stanley’s perception from a sensuous woman into something darker and colder.

He was troubled already by her rush to slash Drummond’s jugular last night with her switchblade ring-which would have certainly come in handy after they were tied up. Their track record notwithstanding, the Clarks very obviously were not bent on murder. It would have been more expedient for Drummond to snuff them than to tie them up. Also Charlie’s assertion that they had acted in self-defense seemed free of artifice.

Stanley wondered if Hadley had her own agenda.

DeSoto had been to Ilet Ceron twice before, first to view the property himself, then to show it to a couple from Dubai who ended up buying a Bettina Ludington listing, an Italianate mansion with no business on a French island. Both times here, on ascending the crushed clamshell pathway from the pier he had halted abruptly when the chateau came into view. The structure was breathtaking.

As its limestone facade appeared now, the crotchety Larsen didn’t even pause. If DeSoto didn’t know better, he would have thought the old man had already seen the place.

McDonough slowed, but only to allow DeSoto to catch up.

“Wow,” McDonough exclaimed.

After eleven years hustling houses, DeSoto knew wows the way a jeweler knows diamonds. The kid’s was pure zirconium. Possibly he lacked education. New money often didn’t aspire beyond a McMansion with superfluous turrets, their sensibilities shaped by Donald Trump.

Thankfully, such clients could still be educated. “Le Chateau d’Ilet Ceron is celebrated for perfectly capturing the period of architectural transition from the rococo of the mid-eighteenth century to the more refined neoclassical style,” DeSoto said. “As Architectural Digest put it, ‘The palatial limestone facade dazzles new arrivals with its towering Corinthian pilasters and detached pillars while at the same time heeding simplicity in order to capitalize on sunlight bouncing from passing waves.’ ”

McDonough slowed at the marble staircase leading to the entry. “Dazzling,” he agreed. Larsen took in the facade and was no more dazzled than if it were a split-level in Sheboygan.

A young chambermaid heaved open one of the monolithic copper-faced French doors. In lieu of a greeting, the old man nodded. He shot inside before she had a chance to open the other door. McDonough hurried after him.

The grand reception hall was like a skating rink made of marble. Elephantine columns supported a gilded and improbably high ceiling, the painted sun and clouds realistic enough to be mistaken for a skylight view.

“DuVal, one of the greatest living realists,” DeSoto began, pointing up at the work.

But his clients were on their way into the den.

A Realtor is supposed to precede his clients, but these two were bloody racewalkers. DeSoto hurried in pursuit. Greenwich, he reminded himself, was a bedroom community of New York City. New Yorkers rushed even through cheesecake.

If the den was a den, then the White House was just a house. The giant room was still furnished, including sofas and chaises and divans dating back to Louis XIV, restored and reupholstered well beyond Versailles standards. The best part was the far wall, which opened onto a golden beach.

“Mr. Fielding had the sand imported from Venezuela’s Paria Peninsula,” DeSoto said.

Too late. The clients were out the far door.

He labored to keep pace, calling after them, “The lower level includes an old-fashioned billiards room as well as a tavern with an authentic mahogany Victorian bar. There’s also a squash court, a gym, a marble steam room resembling an ancient Roman bathhouse, and a game room with enough arcade games to keep grandchildren occupied for a whole weekend.”

Larsen and McDonough gave the lower level maybe a minute before going out to the pool deck. Mopping his forehead with his ascot, DeSoto resumed the chase.

McDonough stopped and waited for him. Although the waves and wind made such discretion superfluous, the young man said, sotto voce, “The house is lovely, but old Mrs. Larsen’s going to redo everything regardless of what Mr. Larsen thinks.”

“I’m sure she has wonderful taste,” DeSoto said, dabbing his brow again.

“Hey, how about we give you a breather while the boss checks out the pool house?” McDonough waved at the building. “ That will be his; Mrs. L. doesn’t go into water-hairdo-related reasons.”

“I look forward to recommending decorators,” DeSoto said, thinking of his $1,120,000 commission.

The dutiful McDonough hurried after Larsen, who was rounding the enormous pool. Plopping onto a chaise lounge, DeSoto checked his BlackBerry. There was a text message from Bettina Ludington: “CHECK UR EMAIL!!! URGENT!!!”

The cellular reception was poor. While waiting for the e-mail message to appear, DeSoto chewed away a good part of a thumbnail.

Finally:

Frank: if ur 2 whales r these 2, u can get a 10K bonus …

Attached were photographs of two men wanted by the Martinique Police for multiple counts of fraud and racketeering.

Charlie slid open a door leading to the enormous pool house. The living room looked like a nightclub, not only because of its size, but also because of the mirrored walls, expensive erotic art, and enough low-slung, Euro-posh furniture to accommodate half the jet set. The giant bar was stocked with, it seemed, every spirit known to man, in every possible configuration of decanter. The pale morning light set the crystal and fluids aglow.

“Been here before?” Charlie asked Drummond.

“I don’t remember.”

“My guess would be that a lot of the people who’ve been here don’t remember it.”

“Oh.” Drummond blinked at his reflection on the mirrored back wall, as if expecting something altogether different. He pressed his palms against the mirror.

A door sprung inward.

Charlie felt a charge of excitement. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

“A door,” Drummond explained.

Charlie followed him into a plush-carpeted hallway opening into two guest rooms. Like those in the main house, the rooms would have suited guests accustomed to Buckingham Palace. Not the sort of area where laundry was done.

Drummond started down the hall with an air of determination.

Charlie trailed him. “Going anywhere in particular?”

“We’re trying to find the washing machine, right?”

Rounding a corner, Drummond opened another door, revealing a stairway with relatively plain carpeting. He tromped down the steps. Charlie’s hope was rekindled.