Randy White - Black Widow

With some people, the smart thing to do is keep your cards close to the chest until you have an idea what’s in their hand. Not this guy, though. I told him, “No. My goddaughter is a victim. She’s supposed to be married on Sunday. The blackmailers gave her until Friday to pay the balance on a quarter-million dollars.”

“The balance?”

“Yes. She made a deal to pay them a little over a hundred thousand, but they reneged the day after she transferred the money.”

“Really.” He appeared to find the information useful. “Well, I can empathize with the fact that you and your goddaughter are in a bit of a tight situation. Tomorrow’s Monday-only four days to deal with the problem. That’s all the more reason for me to worry you’re going to ruin all my work by rushing matters. Let’s be frank: Are you some bumbling amateur, Dr. North?”

I said, “I’ll answer that question honestly, if you’ll answer a question honestly for me. Are you the blackmailer, Sir James?”

I was reassured by his nodding look of approval. “Very smart. I would have followed the same chain of reasoning. Problem is, I checked with a few friends-State Department types; immigration people. They had some difficulty coming up with background information on you. North is such a common surname. According to your passport, the middle initial is W. If I knew your middle name, I might be more inclined to speak freely.”

“You found out all that about me?”

“Does that offend you? Perhaps you have something to hide.” Montbard had avoided eye contact in the comfortable way people do when they are busy eating and drinking, but now his eyes locked onto mine. Instinct told me he already knew the answer or he wouldn’t have asked the question.

I said, “My middle name doesn’t begin with a W.”

“A mistake on your passport?”

I shrugged as he stared at me. “Everything’s computerized. If someone hits the wrong letter on a keyboard, it’s better to live with the mistake than deal with all the bureaucracy getting it changed.”

After several moments, he said, “I think that answers my question.”

“But you haven’t answered mine. Are you the blackmailer?”

“Understood. Why don’t you come ’round to the house for tea in the morning. Nine-ish? I’d like to introduce you to someone who, I think, will answer that question for me.”

He snapped his fingers to get the waiter’s attention, then pointed at me-Another drink here.

“Singapore Sling, Dr. North? Got the recipe from the barman at Raffles personally.” He looked up from his glass, studying my face. “Or may I start calling you by your real name… Dr. Ford?”

Sir James Montbard’s estate was named Bluestone, maybe because of the slate blue rock used to build the main house. The place was fully staffed- armed guard at the gate, gardeners, maids in bright plaid skirts sweeping around the veranda’s rock pillars-so I was momentarily flustered when the photogenic woman on the cover of Paris Match opened the door.

I didn’t recognize her at first, but that’s who it was.

“Welcome to Bluestone, Dr. Ford. I was expecting you.”

I’d assumed a maid would answer, not this attractive fortyish female wearing crisp morning clothing, white blouse and jodhpurs, brown hair tied back from her face, just a touch of lipstick. Looked dressed for a morning ride.

The woman’s hair was lighter, she had aged a year, but those weren’t the reasons I didn’t recognize her right away. There are a few rare people whom the camera lens sees more clearly than the human eye. Perhaps it has to do with bone construction, the angles of cheek, chin, and nose. Whatever the reason, the lens loves them. They photograph differently than they appear in person. I’ve read that some of the classic film stars were examples: Bogart, Hepburn, Gable.

Here was another. It wasn’t until the woman thrust out a firm hand and said, “I’m Senegal, a pal of Hooker’s. So nice of you to come,” that I realized I was speaking to Senegal Firth, former candidate for British Parliament, who’d been featured in the magazine: the unflattering shots of a photogenic woman with interesting eyes, who looked good in her revealing swimsuit.

The pictures had been taken while she was vacationing on Saint Arc, according to the article, and she had threatened to sue the magazine.

I said, “Hooker?” to cover my surprise.

“Oh, sorry. That’s what chums call Sir James. His middle name is Hooks-from the maternal side.” She smiled. “You’re embarrassed because you didn’t recognize me. Don’t be. I’m flattered. Couldn’t be happier, actually. Hooker told me you’d seen the horrible photos the magazine published. I never really appreciated the value of privacy until I ran for public office. Now I revel in my anonymity. Tea?”

I followed her through a great hall, past a billiard room, then a library where walls were covered by framed, antique maps. The room smelled of books, pipe tobacco, the nutty musk of pecky cypress. When I stopped, Firth said, “Go ahead, have a walk around. Sir James is mad for this sort of thing.”

There were charts of the Caribbean, the early Americas, and ornate world maps with notations in Latin. I slid glasses to my forehead and said, “The plaque says this map was drawn in 1507.”

“That’s right. The Waldseemuller map.” There was a smile in her voice. “It’s not the original, of course. Notice something unusual about it?”

“Yes. It shows the western coast of South America, and the Baja Peninsula. Hudson Bay, too. All fairly accurate. I’m trying to remember my fifth-grade history-”

“Excellent catch, Dr. Ford. You’re thinking of Magellan. He didn’t reach the Pacific Coast until decades later, and he never really explored it. And explorer Henry Hudson didn’t arrive in the Americas until a hundred years later.”

I said, “So the map couldn’t have been made in 1507.”

“But it was-it’s been well documented. The maps on that wall represent some of history’s great mysteries. That’s what Sir James claims, anyway. The Stuttgart Map, for instance, is from the sixteenth century. It shows Antarctica in incredible detail-two hundred and fifty years before western explorers had laid eyes on it. Not only that, it’s the Antarctic as it would appear without ice. I checked for myself. It’s true.”

I compared the map to the world globe that sat beside a leather reading chair. She was right about the accuracy. The map was dated 1535.

“How can that be?”

The woman shrugged.

The library’s shelves were stacked from floor to ceiling, and there was a glass display case containing jade carvings similar to those I’d seen during my years in Central America. There were a dozen wedge-shaped amulets-owl motifs, archaeologists had told me-with Vs carved into the necks, representing beaks. In a corner, mounted on a pedestal, was a piece of what looked to be a stone wheel. Carved into it were what might have been pre-Colombian glyphs. Part of a Mayan calendar, possibly.

“Mind if I take a look at that?”

“Not at all. But I warn you, if you ask James about it, he’ll bore you to tears with the details and his pet theories about world history. Same with the maps.”

I crossed the room and leaned to look. A chunk of gray stone… a fifteen-degree section of a stone circle. I was puzzling over the glyphs as the woman said, “His grandfather, General Henry Montbard, found that years ago. James claims it’s ancient-probably Mayan or Olmec. Sir James’s father didn’t catch the bug, but personality traits skip a generation, don’t they? Archaeology is in his blood.”

Only one of the glyphs had the Asian-flavored, geometrical complexity I associate with Mayan writing. Looked like a rooster, with a cross on its breast. Tomlinson would have remembered the name of the glyph and what it symbolized-he’d been with me in Guatemala and Masagua a few years back, tracking artifact smugglers.