Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

“Hey,” he says. “You in a trance?”

“No. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

“We don’t know each other well enough for you to ask that question.”

He gives me a tight smile. “You’re right. Sorry.”

I straighten up in my seat. “You probably have some grand plan for this meeting, right? A strategy?”

“Nope. Doctor Lenz would have one. But I go on instinct a lot of the time. We’re going to play it by ear.”

“You must have some idea about what de Becque wants with me.”

“Either de Becque’s been behind this whole thing from day one – every disappearance – or it’s some sort of diversion for him. A rich man’s game. If it’s a game, I figure he knows you’re a double for one of the Sleeping Women. Maybe he saw Jane’s portrait when Wingate put it up for sale. Then when he heard about what happened in Hong Kong – a twin of one of the Sleeping Women showing up -he put two and two together.”

“But how? Unless he had prior knowledge, how could he make the leap from one of the faces on the paintings in Hong Kong to me? To knowing my name?”

“You’re a celebrity of sorts. If he had a print of Jane’s painting, he could have scanned it and e-mailed it around. Asked if anyone recognized you.”

“There are no prints of the Sleeping Women. Wingate told me. No photos, nothing.”

“Then maybe someone in Hong Kong recognized you. Knew you were in town.”

“I wasn’t there on assignment. I’m doing a book. I go where I want, and only a few friends ever know where I am.”

“Then maybe he did have prior knowledge. If that’s the case, we’re walking into something complicated.”

“Like?”

Kaiser bites his lip and looks at the seat back ahead of him.

“What is it?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything before the meeting, but this might help prepare you for what we could encounter.”

“What?”

“The Vietnam connections are starting to bother me.”

“How so?”

“Your father disappeared in Vietnam in 1972, right?”

“On the Cambodian border.”

“Same thing. And de Becque lived in Vietnam for years.”

“And?”

“The Sleeping Women are sold exclusively in the East. And your mystery call came from Thailand, which is practically next door to Vietnam. I did R-and-R there myself in 1970.”

“Catch any embarrassing diseases?”

“No, but not for lack of trying.”

“How could Vietnam play into this?”

“I don’t know. But the coincidences are starting to build. You thought you might have heard your father’s voice during that Thailand phone call, right?”

A strange and disturbing buzz has started in the back of my head. “What are you saying, Agent Kaiser?”

“I’m just pulling threads together.”

“Are you suggesting my father could have taken Jane? And the others too?”

“You believe he’s still alive, right?”

“I’m the only person who does. But even if he is, he wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t what? Go on, say it. If he’s still alive, he wouldn’t take Jane to be with him. Right? He would take you.”

“I guess that’s what I was thinking. Hoping. But how could that even be possible? He’d have to be in the U.S.”

“There’s a plane every day. If he is alive, you have to accept two things. One, he’s chosen not to contact you for almost thirty years. Two, you know nothing about him, other than what a twelve-year-old girl knew about her young father.”

“I can’t believe what you’re suggesting. My father was an award-winning photojournalist. What motive could he possibly have to get involved in some sick situation like this?”

Kaiser sighs and lays his hands on his knees. “Look, all this is speculation. It’s almost certain that your father’s dead.”

“I know that.” Though I feel an irrational anger toward Kaiser in this moment, I can’t dismiss his ideas. “But I’m sitting here trying to remember if my father ever painted anything.”

He watches me for a few moments. “Did he?”

“No. Only photography.”

“Good. Because the connoisseurs studying the Sleeping Women say they were painted by someone with enormous ability and classical training.”

Thank God.

“How old was your father when he disappeared?”

“Thirty-six.”

“And he’d never painted anything. I’d say that lets him off the hook right there.”

I nod agreement, but new fears aren’t so easily banished. The Vietnam coincidences are indeed starting to build, and the image of a conspiracy has been taking shape almost from the beginning. What ties the Sleeping Women to Asia? There’s really no use trying to puzzle it out now. But perhaps Marcel de Becque, the colonial French tea planter and black market trader, can shed some light on the question.

Grand Cayman lies 150 miles south of Cuba. Fifteen years ago, it was an unspoiled paradise. Now it’s not much different from Cancun – heavily commercialized and functionally Americanized – though it is more upscale. Parts of the island are still undeveloped, but to get the flavor of the old Caymans, you have to fly a puddle-jumper east to the smaller, more primitive island of Cayman Brac.

Our FBI pilot swings once around North Bay to show us de Becque’s estate, a gated compound that stands on a jutting point of land near the marina. The Frenchman is apparently unconcerned with keeping a low profile, or he would have settled in the more discreet community of Cayman Kai, near Rum Point. Looking down at the emerald water, white beaches, and stunning homes, I expect to hear the voice of Robin Leach in my ear, but instead I hear our pilot instructing us to belt in for landing at the airport near Georgetown.

A white Range Rover awaits us on the runway, and the small matter of customs has been taken care of in advance by the Justice Department. The British governor of the islands knows we are here, and should anything questionable happen during our stay, there will be no doubt as to who was at fault. A Caucasian driver and his Caymanian associate load my camera and lighting equipment into the back of the Rover, and after leaving the airport, we swing northward.

“How far to Monsieur de Becque’s estate?” I ask.

“A few minutes,” the driver replies in a French accent.

Kaiser says nothing.

In the Caymans, as in the United Kingdom, all traffic proceeds on the left. Every few seconds, our driver wheels into the right lane to pass colorful jeeps, vans, and scooters, all driving at a leisurely vacation speed. Mixed with the tourist vehicles is a healthy contingent of Mercedeses and BMWs. The Cayman Islands have been wealthy ever since King George III absolved their citizens from taxation, for their heroism during the tragic Wreck of the Ten Sails. This status – along with airtight banking secrecy laws – has made the Caymans an international tax haven, and the fifth-largest financial center in the world. Unlike the rest of the Caribbean, where beggars can be a nuisance, the Caymans boast natives richer than many tourists.

A high wall surrounds de Becque’s estate, but when our driver opens an iron gate with a coded remote, I see a larger version of what I saw from the air: a British colonial mansion that, like some embassies, gives the impression of a fortress. The driver pulls the Rover into a crescent drive and stops before wide marble steps. His assistant gets out, opens our doors, then motions us upward.

The massive door opens before we ring the bell, and I find myself facing one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. With fine black hair, light-brown skin, and almond eyes, she possesses that rare combination of Asian and European features that makes it impossible for me to guess her age. She could be thirty or fifty, and her self-possession is remarkable. She stands utterly still, and gives the impression that she could remain so for an hour or a day. It’s almost a surprise when she speaks.