Espionage Games Page 16
“That is good, that is good,” the old man said, his thoughts wandering. “I am pleased to find Señor Walsh speaks not only fluent Spanish, but has already picked up much of our local dialect.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
“I can see that you are. Many Americanos pass through our tiny village but none as young or as good-looking as your esteemed self.” He had held up his glass. “Let us drink to dreams that come true. I will send a car at seven. You will come. And no arguments.”
After seeing the lovely Catelina in person and sniffing the natural perfume wafting from the pores of her flawless skin—darker than the skin of her father—Calhoun determined her mother must have been a mestizo or indigenous índio. He further concluded she was young enough and supple enough to gather into his strong arms, entangle the tresses of her shiny hair through his fingers, consume her luscious lips, and never again want any woman other than this adorable señorita. Such were the desires of a man with appetite, not only for food and drink, but for obedient young girls who had not yet learned the meaning of passion or the needs of a man who ate of human flesh the way her old father devoured his steak.
Old Man Oliverios again broached the subject, thoughtfully chewing while fatty juices dribbled from the corners of his mouth. “A man such as you—a handsome man, a man of means—must have a beautiful wife you are anxious to get back to.” His bushy eyebrows wiggled while his eyes twinkled.
“Neither beautiful nor ugly, since I have no wife.”
The old man thought this over. “Casta is but sixteen, and as you can see, the apple of her old father’s eyes. I have three other daughters, all married and all fat. Before I leave this world, I must see to it that Casta is also married and fat.”
“Oh, Papa, you will live forever.”
He wagged his finger and his head together, accepting his mortality as the young cannot. The old man’s hands were reddened, the thin layer of his skin livered, and his bulging veins blue. He wasn’t a fastidious man. He did not shave daily, as evidenced by their earlier encounter. And when he did, like tonight, he did not shave closely. The whites of his eyes were jaundiced. The hump in his upper back folded his posture over, forcing him to look slightly downward. His lips were flabby and mottled. The girl would soon be alone, that much was certain. Alone and vulnerable.
“And, if I may be so bold,” Oliverios said, leaning forward and winking, “she is also my favorite daughter.”
Casta came over and leaning down, placed a slender arm around the old man and left a kiss upon his brow, then returned to her chair, as swift and light as a feather.
The old man blew out a heavy sigh. “As for living forever, my darling child, I am sick and old and tired. And though I fear death, it is written in the stars that I will meet my Maker. Maybe later. Or maybe sooner. But when it happens, I will welcome the Grim Reaper’s embrace, for I have no other choice, sí? Gods may be everlasting but men are mortal, and old men the most mortal of all.”
European blood flowed through the family. The girl’s creamy brown complexion was a step or two fairer than most native Costa Ricans. But the dark unfathomable eyes were the eyes of her grandmothers. Most of the time, those delicious eyes stared demurely into her lap, though every now and they lifted with unexpected directness, a glint belying the girl’s seeming innocence. Meanwhile her rich brown hair poured over her breasts, breasts that became evermore pronounced whenever she straightened her back, which she straightened often.
The old man locked his eyes onto his guest and held them tight. “Or perhaps you have a convenient woman ... or several convenient women ... in other ports of call. Forgive me, I do not intend to offend, merely pry, as only an old man can do with impunity. I am open-minded. I do not judge what a man does in his life. Five women or ten, it makes no difference to me, so long as he is devoted to just one.”
Teardrop diamonds dangled from Casta’s petite lobes. They sparkled whenever she poured wine. Or when she brought out platters and dishes from the kitchen. Or when she lit a fresh cigar for her father. Or when she sneaked shy glances at her father’s guest, eyes sparkling.
“No women to speak of,” Greg said, gazing upon her. “And no wives.”
After taking a cue from the old man, Casta excused herself and darted into the back rooms. Father and daughter were of like minds. A plot was afoot. And their guest was far from being an unwitting fool. The three of them had already entered into a contract, the terms to be established on each side until promises were made and dates were set.
After several minutes of quiet contemplation ticked by, Oliverios growled affectionately. “A man needs a wife to take care of his needs.”
“I have my pick of women to take care of my needs. But my future ...?”
The old man took his meaning. “And to take care of him in his dotage. When you are old and sick like me, you will thank me for my sage advice.”
Catelina Oliverios reemerged, quiet as a wraith, gentle as a flowing stream, and delicate as a butterfly. She wore a dress skimpier than the last one, a swirly, diaphanous, slinky thing that flowed with her nimble movements. “Please excuse my father, Mr. Calhoun. He makes me blush.”
At a signal from her father, she went off again.
The youngest daughter of Luis Oliverios was both a girl of gentler times and a girl of this time, more forward than those bashful eyes of hers and wilder than her father suspected, yet dutiful and respectful. Once they were joined in holy wedlock, Greg would have to do something about that wildness.
He sat forward and addressed the old man. “Perhaps you can help me out. I am looking for an Americano. A friend.”
“He has a name, your friend?”
“He goes by many. Or none.”
Oliverios raised his silver-threaded eyebrows. “You talk in riddles. Fortunately I am familiar with the concept. He is not a friend, this man. He is a man you would prefer to avoid. I will watch out for him, as a favor from me to you.”
“Your generosity is most appreciated.”
Casta returned with a cart. Beaming at her father, she prepared coffee in the Costa Rican way, using a cloth strainer set inside a wooden stand hung over an awaiting cup. After placing two teaspoons of native grown coffee into the strainer, she poured boiling water over the grounds. Steaming coffee filtered into the cup below. For each additional cup, she added another teaspoon and poured water as before. Whenever her precise movements tugged at the bodice of her dress, she smiled knowingly. Leaning enticingly across the table, she served the first cup to her guest, then a cup to her father, and lastly a cup for herself. Once again she sat, silent and attentive. Suddenly remembering something, rabbit-quick she left the chair and returned with sugar and cream, a luxury meant for her father’s guest but not for her father or herself.
Old Man Oliverios had not forgotten his guest’s request. “Can you describe this man you are looking for?”
“He resembles me in many ways. Tall. Strong. Good looking. But with a difference. He could easily be mistaken for a Tico, a native of your fine country. Except, of course, for his American clothes and accent.”
The old man looked down at the cup nestled between his hands. “He is your enemy?”
“He is a dangerous man, but only to men who are dangerous to him. Otherwise, he is a singer of songs. And an admirer of women.”
No doubt Señor Oliverios beat his Casta regularly, for beneath the lowered eyelashes lurked a cunning seductress, which Greg meant to test. One day very soon. Perhaps, if the girl allowed, before their wedding day.
“I will ask around, if only to protect my daughter from unwanted advances.” The old man once again measured the man sitting opposite him, taking an inventory of his features, his mannerisms, and the unblinking gazes he lavished on his daughter. “If my Casta is anything, she is an obedient child, is that not so, my Catelina?”
“It is so, Papa.” The girl bowed her head once again, furiously blushing, though her ready smile contained a hint of naughtiness.
“We Ticos, as you may have already discovered Señor Walsh, stick to our own. We do not have the drive the retired Norteamericanos do. Pura vida is the motto we live by. Tico time is the clock we observe.” Oliverios sat back and blew puffs of smoke into the beamed ceiling. “The Oliverios family goes back generations, some say to Columbian times, when we were the conquerors and they, the conquered. After centuries of intermixing, we are all the same now, blood mixed with blood. It is a proud thing to say that one is Indian and another is Spanish, and so we do not, except in cases of honor. On such occasions, we do not care whom we insult. Or kill. Men have been made to disappear over something as trivial as a look, a leer, or a grin. In this land, it is easy to make a man vanish forever.
He signaled his daughter with a look. She briskly came over and helped her father from his chair. “Shall we go out to the veranda, Mr. Calhoun? We spray for mosquitoes, so you don’t have to worry about malaria or dengue fever. Casta will bring the Salicsa. You have tried? It is like Kahlúa, only sweeter. For Casta it is an addiction.”
Palm fronds swayed gracefully overhead. Caged birds set up a racket. Moroccan lanterns flickered. Wind chimes tinkled. Adding excess to extravagance, a floodlit waterfall spilled into a placid lagoon, where waters rippled in and out of rocky alcoves, and lotus blossoms floated on the still waters.
“You are looking to make an investment hereabouts, no?” asked Old Man Oliverios.
Settled into a rattan chair, Calhoun brought a fresh cigar to his mouth. Casta was ready with the lighter. He puffed his satisfaction, of both the cigar and the girl. “I have some money to burn. Provided the investment has potential.”
“Perhaps I can assist. Direct you to the better properties. Guarantee you don’t get taken for too many colones, eh?”
“I was thinking of a coffee farm. Smaller than yours. Where I can learn the ropes.”
Occupying a chair at her father’s elbow, Catelina delicately sipped from her own glass, occasionally sneaking glances of their guest.
“Ah, a prime investment. I may know of just the place. An old man struggles to run it. His sons emigrated to America, and his daughters are of no use. The farm is a little farther out, past Alajuela. You have been? The town has a large enclave of Norteamericanos. You can be their unofficial patrón. They will take you seriously if you build a house with an agreeable view. The farm I am speaking of, in addition to coffee fields, has several orchards. Citrus, avocado, papaya, mango, marañon, and passion fruit. The land is fertile. Since coffee grows slowly and requires very little work, you can hire a manager to oversee everything. I know of just the man. He needs a steady income and a comfortable place to raise his family. You would be free to pursue ...” He waved his hand. “... whatever you wish. A Tico wife, she can have a good life, an easy life, living on such a farm. And her father would be a contented man, no?”
Color rose high on the girl’s cheeks.
“I know of a good architect. He built this place,” he said, swinging his eyes from left to right. “I can make arrangements with the loggers, the importers, everything first class.”
“I would have to inspect the farm first.”
“Naturally. Tomorrow we go. I will pave the way. The old man is anxious but stubborn. He balks at living with his daughters but has no other choice. They have agreed to trade him off like a football, a few weeks here, a few weeks there. They love their father, but not enough to have him live with any one of them year-round. Not like my Catelina, who will miss her papa when she leaves this place. Is that not so, Casta?”
“It is so, Papa.”
“I will have to think on it,” Greg said. “I have not been in your country for very long. I may not be ready to settle down just yet.”
The half-moons surrounding the codger’s eyes creased. Oliverios idly scratched his crotch before holding out his glass for his daughter to dutifully refill. “A man is meant for settling down, for marrying, for having many children, children who will take care of him in his old age. Pray on the matter if you have a God. Think on it if you do not. A man needs time to fashion his future. In the meantime, ask around. Make inquiries about Luis Oliverios. You will hear only good.”
The glance that passed between the men was direct and unflinching.
“Ah,” the old man said. “It seems you already have.”
“You will find,” Greg said levelly, “if we are to continue our friendship, that I am a careful man.”
The old man brayed long and hard. “Then you know who Luis Oliverios is and what he can do for you. It is better to have such a man as your friend ... no? ... than as your enemy. And better yet to have him as your papa.”
To this the girl blushed.
23
Republic of Nauru, Micronesia
Tuesday, August 19
WHENEVER JACK MOVED, the examining room gyrated and brought his stomach along for the ride. A sharp little hammer with a diamond-shaped point drilled into the back of his skull while a mallet pulverized the top of his head. Whenever he tried to shake away the nauseating throbs, nerve endings in his cheeks twitched and sent out shockwaves of electricity. Grimacing intensified the misery. Worse than any of it, he dreaded looking into a mirror, terrified of what he might see there, no doubt a disfigured and irredeemable coward.
“It doesn’t look as bad as it feels, poor dear,” one of the nurses pronounced. Hers were probably the kindest words said to him in weeks.
He squeezed his good eye shut, the other swollen shut, and leaned back, depleted. Hospital personnel came and went with brusque efficiency, taking vitals and asking questions. The staff was small but efficient.
Eventually a doctor swung back the curtain and entered, toting a chart, a pleasing perfume floating with her. “I see you’ve had a little accident.” She was a petite Asian not much older than thirty, of short stature, slim build, but authoritative manner. She tilted her head first one way and then the other, assessing the visible damage before approaching to poke and prod. She gently noted the jagged lacerations across his cheekbones, the state of his swollen nose, and the pronounced bruising about his head. She also found painful spots on his torso, ones he hadn’t noticed before. “Does that hurt? How about that?”
He grunted and winced.
“Did you fall? Well, yes, obviously you fell.”
She followed the proscribed routine. Requested he recite the alphabet backwards from Z but told him to stop after W. Propped his bad eye open and ordered him to follow a penlight with his eyes. Asked how long he had lost consciousness and whether he was experiencing any vomiting, dizziness, or confusion. He didn’t know how long he had been out. He remembered throwing up. Whenever he moved his head, everything swirled. When he came to, it took a while to figure out where he was and what had happened.
She completed her examination. “Quite a beating you took.”
“Should’ve seen the other guy.”
“I rather think you received the brunt.”
“Smart lady.”
“At least your sense of humor is still intact. Can’t say much for the rest of you.”
“I have to get a comedian for a doctor.”
She folded her arms and studied her patient, seeing a man and not a statistic. Battered, yes. Hurting, yes. But a man, after all. “Let’s see if we can’t put you back together.” In brisk fashion she attended to the cuts on his face using nothing more drastic than butterfly bandages.
“Won’t I need stitches?”
“You’re pretty ugly as it is. Wouldn’t want to make it worse.”
“Will I live?”
“Can’t say, considering the way you’re going.” The worst he might have was a concussion, but X-rays ought to rule it out ... or in ... she didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. He should drink plenty of water and take over-the-counter painkillers. “I’ll leave instructions with the hotel to ring you up every hour on the hour. You won’t get much sleep, but it might save your life. I’m curious. What did he use on your face,
this attacker? His fist? Or a knife?”
“The barrel of a pistol.”
“Ah,” she said with clinical detachment. “In any case there shouldn’t be any scarring. Warm compresses are advisable. Fresh bandages for a week ought to do it.”
Jack wondered whether Madelyn had a premonition of what was to come. When she first spotted the fisherman, she seemed uneasy. Was it because of his unexpected appearance? Or did she have an inkling misfortune was about to knock on her door? He could only hope the tropical sun and the suddenness of the attack blinded her to all knowing, allowing her to pass from one side to the other without understanding the true nature of her appointment with death. But he was fooling himself. He had read everything in her fading eyes. Resignation. Self-blame. Surrender. She had walked into the devil’s bargain knowingly, even if not fully anticipating the endgame. For her it was business as usual. She couldn’t have known foul winds awaited her. She was playing a con game, just like all the other con games she played every day of the week. Arrogance and ignorance had brought her to her final hour.
When they said their goodbyes last night, she had called him darling and sweetheart. During their few hours apart, she could have been in touch with anyone about anything.
Do I know you? she asked the fisherman.
Maddie had recognized her killer. Maddie had recognized her killer.
And the Frenchman had anticipated Jack’s every move, following him all along the way, the next most logical destination being Nauru. He might have arrived on the same flight as Jack. Or flown in on a private jet. Possibly wrangled accommodations on one of those yachts anchored in deep waters. Stalked him and Maddie from the shadows. Trained a zoom lens on them. Awaited to pounce like a tiger with claws.