Randy White - Black Widow

“Listen.” The Englishman reached out and dropped the rock. A blast of warm sea air nearly blew my watch cap off when I peeked over the edge. It was like looking down into a wind tunnel. The rock melted into darkness without striking the cliff face. The roaring updraft muted the splash.

“Bloody perfect, eh? Now all we must do is find out where the old girl keeps her valuables. Any thoughts about how to manage it?”

I said, “Maybe. It would be nice to confirm she has the tapes.. . but with only three more days-”

“There’s a difference between rushing and acting on sound data. I think it’s time to act. What’s your idea?”

“How hot are you prepared to go?”

“Go hot or go cold-” His voice communicated a nasty appreciation. “-it’s been awhile since I’ve heard those terms. I find it heartening. I’m fully willing to go hot-rob Madame Toussaint at gunpoint, or persuade a member of her staff to tell us what we need to know. But I would prefer not to give my neighbors more fodder for gossip unless absolutely required.”

More fodder? I was smiling. “Then we take the soft approach. Get the woman to show us where the tapes are hidden without knowing we’re interested. Last night, the guy they call ‘Wolfie,’ the guy who runs the camera-”

“Wulfelund,” Montbard said, “he’s originally from Suriname.”

“Right. Last night, he shot a few tapes-nothing incriminating, but maybe she expects the tapes to be delivered anyway. Hide a couple of your motion-sensing cameras in the right place-”

“Cameras, right-which I didn’t happen to bring,” the man interrupted, not impressed. “It’s an idea. Perhaps we’re putting the cart before the horse. Let’s give it some thought, then discuss it later, after we’re finished with our little look-see-”

“I’m not done,” I said. “Even without your cameras, I think we can get the woman to show us where she keeps the tapes.”

“How, pray tell?”

“We create an emergency. Convince her she’s in danger of losing the tapes-cops are coming with a search warrant, the threat of a robbery, a fire. We watch her reaction.”

Montbard said, “Without her knowing she’s being watched.”

I said, “That’s why I suggested the cameras. A couple of nights ago, I thought my house was on fire. It was a false alarm, but my first instinct was to run straight to where I keep my valuables-things I won’t risk keeping in a bank.”

Sir James said, “Humph,” thinking about it. “Yes… interesting.”A few seconds later, he said, “Ford? I think the idea has merit. A variation on one of the psy-war stunts we pulled in the Falklands, but original in its way. Madame Toussaint unknowingly reveals where the tapes are hidden. You nick the lot of them later, after you’ve checked into the spa.”

“It could work.”

“Yes,” he said, warming to the idea. “It just might. After you and Senny check in, we’ll make radio contact at assigned times. When you’ve got the tapes, I can be standing by in the boat, waiting for your drop. Very tidy operation if things go our way. Nothing to find if authorities search you as you leave the spa.”

"Tidy,” I agreed, aware that no black-bag operation-a theft, a kidnapping, an assassination-ever goes as planned.

I began to back away from the precipice, but Sir James remained where he was, the toes of his boots extended slightly over the rim of the cliff, hands on hips, breathing deeply as if the warm upward thermal contained helium, and made him immune to gravity. “You ever do any jumps, Ford?”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about parachuting. “Seven. Six with a static line, one without.”

“Ran short of time at camp, did you? By God, I love the sound of silk! This is a peach of a spot for a base jump. I’d try it now if I had one packed and ready. Steady updraft; straight drop. I’d steer the chute seaward, cut loose at three meters, then an easy swim to shore.” He turned. “Wait ’til you’re my age-you’ll understand. The only real death we suffer is the things left undone!”

I made a hushing motion with my hand-Get down. Quiet.

“Oh,” he said, unaware. “Got carried away for a moment.”

I crawled toward the cemetery until I felt it was safe to stand.

Randy Wayne White

Black Widow

James Montbard was an exceptional man, no question. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d impressed me as much as anyone I’d ever met. How was it possible that we’d been in the same shadowy trade yet I’d never heard of him?

Or maybe I had…

False names and passports are standard in the field. Great Britain has produced many dark stars on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Montbard had all the necessary qualities, along with certain quirks that I associate with the trade’s best. He was obsessive, focused, and detached when violence was discussed. He was adrenaline-driven, devoutly disciplined, and, when off-duty, he redirected his gifts into a public persona that was affable and unremarkable. Hobbies provided a vent-archaeology, in his case. For others, it was stamp collecting, model planes, astronomy, cross-word puzzles, Scrabble.

As Senegal had said, the man was mad for history. She’d also warned me not to ask about the stone artifact I’d seen in the library-so I did, of course, during our boat trip to Saint Arc.

“Yes, the stone is Mayan or Olmec,” he began. “The Yaxkin glyph is unmistakable. But my grandfather didn’t find it in Central America. He found it there.” He pointed to the volcanic peaks of Saint Arc. “Surprised?”

I was. We were more than a thousand miles from the Mayan ruins of Central America.

“Where?”

Montbard had smiled. “In the monastery. One day, Dr. Ford, when this business is behind us, I’ll tell you the source of the other glyphs on that artifact. You won’t be surprised, you’ll be shocked. My grandfather was convinced there was trade between these islands-Europe and Africa, too-long before Columbus. Wouldn’t it be lovely to prove it?”

An hour later, the man was still talking about archaeology, and what he called his theory of “relentless human motion.” Man is genetically driven to wander-that was the premise.

“Senegal showed you the maps in my library. Most of history’s so-called inexplicable mysteries are hoaxes. Those maps are not.

“Spare me the ridiculous fairy stories of quasi-archaeologists. Peru wasn’t a landing strip for extraterrestrials, Quetzalcoatl wasn’t Jesus in disguise. Inca stones depicting men fighting dinosaurs are fakes, for God’s sake, and-speaking of God-if He actually did impart supernatural powers to the Ark of the Covenant, or the chalice that caught Christ’s blood, or to the four nails that held Christ on the cross, why did He hide the damn things where no one can find them?”

Archaeology, Montbard told me, was the study of human movement using stationary materials. He had no interest in fairy tales.

Yes, the man had all the obsessive quirks-a righteous certainty, too- that I associate with the best in our business. We had exchanged enough information to know we had mutual acquaintances in the trade-names weren’t used, of course. I suspected that Bernie Yager was among them. Had Bernie told the man I was coming?

I thought about it as we returned along the goat path toward the cemetery-something to take my mind off falling. It was easier now because of the rope, but I was still sweat-soaked by the time we arrived at the rock base where we’d started-a clear view down onto the monastery where the eleven men and women had concluded their chanting and were now walking single file toward what may have been stone dormitories on opposite sides of the quadrangle. Men went one way; women the other.