Randy White - Black Widow

Turning to Senegal, Sir James said, “Last night, Dr. Ford told me that his sources have linked the blackmailer with that spa we were discussing, the one on Saint Arc. The place called the Orchid-so exclusive the waiting list is months. But Ford must have friends in high places, because he somehow finagled a reservation, starting tomorrow. Quite a coincidence, eh, Senny?”

Over drinks at Jade Mountain, Montbard had been poker-faced when I mentioned the spa, but now he was being facetious. I said, “You already knew about it?”

The man was nodding. “Quite. The spa includes the ruins of a monastery that I’ve been interested in for years because of its archaeological importance. The place is ancient. Built by French Carthusian monks-an order that dates back to the eleventh century. The maternal branch of Toussaint’s family has done business in the islands even longer than my own. That’s how she came to own the place.”

Toussaint owned many other properties on the island, Montbard told me, including the beach cottage that Shay had rented, and the mountain villa where they’d entrapped Senegal. The woman used corporate fronts, he said, but he’d finally tracked the titles to her.

“Privately, Madame Toussaint oversees her holdings as ruthlessly as a dictator. Publicly, she’s rarely seen. She raises orchids-has an international reputation in the field-and one of her companies markets a line of boutique beauty concoctions. She also fancies herself a jet-set hostess, even though she seldom attends her own parties. Didn’t you tell me that, Senny? I suppose some people crave any association with power.”

Senegal said, “I heard it from a member of parliament who’s been to the spa-a particularly unsavory member, by the way. Part of the woman’s mystique, I guess. Makes people want to meet her all the more. A year ago, she upped her stock with that crowd when she bought the Midnight Star-among the world’s most famous star sapphires. Had it set as a necklace.”

I said, “An obeah priestess who hosts parties?”

Montbard said, “Oh, she would never admit she practices obeah, just as she would never admit she promotes the rumor she’s the Maji Blanc. Most islanders won’t even acknowledge that obeah exists. Secrecy is one of the religion’s tenets.

“I met the old girl only twice-at an embassy function in Kingston, then again two years ago when I asked permission to spend a day or two photographing the monastery ruins. She looks like a bit of a flake-rouge and lipstick, turbans and kaftans, that sort of business. Her overall appearance is… memorable. And her breath! My God.”

“She refused?”

“Screamed like a crazy woman. Ran me off the place. Ever since, I’ve wanted an excuse to slip back there. Now Senegal has provided me an excellent reason. But it’s not an easy nut to crack. The woman’s chateau and the staff quarters adjoin the spa grounds, which includes the monastery. The property sits atop a peak similar to our smallest piton, and she controls the only road. Security is better than you might expect.”

“Sounds remote.”

“Everything on these bloody islands is remote unless you travel by water.”

“Does she ever leave?”

“She keeps an apartment in Paris, I’ve been told. Goes there for two months in the autumn for an international orchid competition. Otherwise, she stays on her mountain.”

I said, “It’s my experience that the reclusive types keep their valuables close at hand. They’re pathological about it in some cases.”

Montbard caught the inference. He turned to address Senegal. “Give us the female perspective. If you had to hide illegal videotapes potentially worth millions of pounds-or the Midnight Star-would you choose a trusted bank and lock everything away in a safe-deposit box?”

Firth said, “Of course not. That’s not a female insight, it’s simply prudent. A safe-deposit box can be searched or sealed if authorities get interested. I’d want my best jewelry close at hand so I could use it when needed, and also to keep an eye on it. The same would be true with anything else of great value. A first-rate safe, possibly… or some secret cubbyhole that only I knew about.”

“Ford?”

“I agree. Someplace secure, but easily accessible.”

“Exactly. There you have it. I think the videos are up there. Toussaint uses a form of psychological warfare to scare off intruders-obeah spells and legends, that sort of thing. Locals are terrified of the place. They believe she uses those flesh-eating monsters I mentioned to patrol the area.”

“That wouldn’t stop you.”

“Oh, but flesh monsters did stop me-because it’s true, in a way. I tried to reconnoiter the place a few nights ago, and her monsters damn near got me. I was just telling Senny about it, wasn’t I, dear?”

Firth had recovered her aloofness along with her poise. The woman enjoyed my reaction when she replied. “Yes, a terrifying story. Dodged yet another bullet, Hooker did. That’s why I’m so relieved you’ll be with him tonight, Dr. Ford-when he goes back.”

Irritated, Montbard snapped, “Senny!” as I asked, “When he goes back where?”

“Maybe I was presuming too much, old sweat,” Sir James said. “But I thought I was on safe ground since we’re working together now.” He caught Firth’s eye. “That is our decision, isn’t it?”

The woman responded with a cool nod.

“Good. I took it for granted you’d be willing to pop over and have a look around the monastery. We can take your boat or mine-doesn’t matter. There’s a lot to do if you plan on checking into the retreat tomorrow: establish a communication channel, locate escape routes-the regular drill. Breaching security in a place like that is a bit of a load for one man. For the two of us, though, it should be easy sledding.”

I said, “I’m not even positive I have a reservation… and I was told it was couples only, unless I get special permission-which is unlikely.”

Montbard reached and tapped his teacup against Firth’s empty coffee cup. “Not a problem. The three of us are on the same team now. Right, Senny, dear?”

At sunset, Sir James and I were sitting in my skiff off Piton Lolo, Saint Arc’s leeward peak, looking up at the monastery and attached lodge-a stony geometric surrounded by rain forest, a quarter mile above the sea. Isabelle Toussaint’s estate was a spattering of white, hidden by trees.

“Do you see how that cloud appears to cling to the top of the peak?” he asked.

Gray cumulus had drifted into the mountain, then flattened as if pinned to the apex. The leeward edge of the cloud angled skyward, sculpted by thermals.

He continued, “Most peaks in the area are arid desert, but this one catches clouds for some reason. That’s why the rain forest is so dense. There are species of plants and orchids up there still not cataloged by science, or so I’ve heard. Fascinating spot. Always wanted to have a look around.”

I got the impression that, sooner or later, Montbard would’ve found some excuse to explore the place, to hell with the hazards.

By dark, I was sure of it. We were working our way up the incline, halfway through the forest, when we came to a chain-link fence. Spaced along the fence every few hundred yards were signs in Creole and English.

DANGER!

KEEP OUT!

There were also obeah fetishes, feathers and bone-another form of warning.

It was 7:40 p.m.

Montbard touched his walking stick to the fence, then used the back of his hand-it wasn’t electrified. “I didn’t have a problem getting over the other night,” he said, voice low, “but that was the opposite side of the peak where there’s a footpath. Never hurts to double-check.”