The woman said, “Hooker rallied long enough this morning to tell me you two had a great chat last night. Turns out you have a mutual friend or two. He said I should treat you like one of his colleagueswhich I take to mean you’re mysterious, you’re obsessive, you’re a gentleman, and you drink gin tonics or whiskey neat.”
I said, “I think you’re confusing me with another sort of colleague,” amused because it was the kind of thing Shay would say.
It was true that Montbard and I had mutual friends, probably more than either of us would ever know. Despite our age difference, there was a sufficient overlap in our careers to create ties.
With British PSYOPS, the man had spent time in Borneo, Hong Kong, and also Belize, where he’d worked with the Gurkha contingent stationed there.
“Got my first look at Tikal while T-D-Y,” he’d told me. “Brilliant pyramids, simply brilliant. My little Gurkha friends scampered up and down them like they were nothing.”
In the Falklands, he’d helped get Radio Atlantic del Sur operational. In Iraq, he’d been involved in a psy-war night operation that had used “the voice of Allah” to frighten several hundred sleeping Iraqis into surrendering-an operation I’d heard about. Sir James enjoyed telling the story, because it allowed him to segue into stories about digs he’d worked on in Egypt, Cyprus, and the Syrian Desert.
Yes, he was a traveler. I didn’t doubt he had long service with the British military. I also suspected he had worked for MI6, the U.K.’s equivalent of our CIA. Possibly still did. Saint Lucia was only a few hundred miles from intelligence-gathering hot spots in South America. And even though Sir James was in his seventies, he was sharp, tough, and so physically fit that, for me, he’d already become one of those people that I file away in memory for inspiration later.
A man in a white tunic and white slacks appeared at the table-member of the staff. He nodded first to me, then the woman, and said, “Mornin’, sir. Mornin’, Miz Senny,” without making eye contact as he pulled out the lady’s chair.
I answered, “Good morning. Nice day, huh?”
The man replied, “Aw’right, aw’right,” turning toward the kitchen to bring our tea.
Senegal Firth was explaining why Sir James probably wouldn’t join us for breakfast, but would come around later for a Bloody Mary in the library. “He sleeps in on Mondays. Always has, for as long as I’ve known him.”
“What’s special about Mondays?”
“He didn’t tell you about his workout routine? I’m surprised. He’s very proud of himself. Six days a week, he does swimming, jumping jacks, and stretches, then marches up and down those terrible steps an incredible number of times. I’m not exaggerating, Dr. Ford, when I say my legs are absolutely on fire after just one trip from the beach to the house. But Hooker does it every morning of his life, when he’s in residence… except for Mondays.”
I asked again, “Why Mondays?” because her emphasis invited the question.
Firth had a nice laugh: eyes closed, nodding her head, white teeth showing as she touched a hand to her lips.
“Because Hooker’s a man of precise habits. He doesn’t take exercise on Mondays because Sunday night is ‘grog night.’ It’s something that goes back to the regimental mess when he was in K.L. It’s the only night of the week he allows himself to drink to excess. And he does! The old dear gets happily, song-singing pissed on whiskey. So he sleeps in Monday mornings, steels himself with a Bloody Mary, then spends the day in his smoking jacket working in the garden-he’s crackers about gardening and plants, particularly orchids. But come Tuesday, bright and early, his regimen of discipline and exercise starts all over again.
“I’ve known him since I was a little girl, and I adore him,” she continued. “More important, I’d trust him with my life. My father was an artillery officer stationed at Ouakam Military Base in Dakar, Senegal- this was back when Senegal was still a French colony. Hooker and father met there, and they became chums-” She chuckled, buttering a piece of toast. “-despite Hooker’s bias against all things French. Or maybe it was because of it.”
I said, “You’re French?”
“My namesake’s African because I was born there. But I lived in France until I couldn’t stand it anymore-nothing against the country, I love France. Family problems, I’m afraid.”
Her father was a difficult man, she explained. She was the youngest of six children, and never got along with the man.
“When I was seventeen, I moved to London and worked as an au pair. Hooker became a sort of Dutch uncle. He and his late wife were great advocates of mine. By that time, my father was aide to the mayor of Champagne. Father had a live-in mistress, yet he refused to divorce my mother, or pay child support. So I brought suit against him. I was at university by then. It took years, but I finally won the case.”
I said, “You sued your own father?” and immediately regretted my tone.
Firth had been uncharacteristically outgoing for a Brit, but now her eyes changed. It was like two chestnut windows slamming closed.
“Dr. Ford, I’ve spent my political life fighting for the rights of children, and for people who’ve been disenfranchised by traditions that should have been abandoned back in the days when floggings were outlawed.
“As an aide to a member of Parliament, I helped write the Parental Rights and Obligations Act. I personally championed the Prostitution of Minors Act, which provides penal measures for child predators. Yet you find it surprising that as a university student I was willing to fight for the rights of my brothers and sisters?”
I said, “I apologize, Ms. Firth. I spoke without thinking.”
Her shield remained in place. “No, Dr. Ford, your reaction was instinctive-and very typical of men. Fortunately, not all men are typical.”
We sat facing the sea. I was fumbling for a response when, thankfully, a voice from behind us said, “Already on the subject of male domination and politics, are we? Dear girl, will you do me the greatest of favors and please delay the discussion until staff brings me my medicine?”
It was Sir James, crossing the terrace in slippers and a silk bathrobe, with a towel around his neck. The towel, I realized, was packed with ice. He gave us both a sharp look. “I would have bet the treasury that you two would either trust each other or hate each other at first sniff. Appears I was right.”
The woman said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, James.”
“Really? Then why the flushed face?” He looked at me. “Senegal turns the color of a pale rose whenever she’s excited-”
“Hooker!”
“I was about to say, when you’re excited and upset, if you’d only let me finish. At any rate, I strongly advise that you two postpone further sniffing until we’ve discussed our mutual problem. Afterward, we can talk about-” He abandoned the sentence, and smiled as our server approached, carrying a drink on a tray. “Oh, God bless you for this, Rafick. Hair of the dog-exactly what the doctor ordered.”
Two Bloody Marys later, Sir James dropped his napkin on the table and picked up his pipe. “All righty, then! Dr. Ford, I suggest you tell Senny what you’re doing on Saint Lucia. Hear him out, dear girl, then you can decide whether to hate him and send him away, or to trust him and let him help with our little problem.”
20
Senegal Firth’s little problem had nothing to do with the photos published in a French magazine. Her problem was that a hidden camera had filmed her during an “injudicious evening” inside the mountain villa she’d rented while vacationing alone on Saint Arc less than a year ago.
The blackmailer had contacted her a month before the elections and threatened to send a copy of the video to her husband, another to the London Times, and also to post it on Internet pornography sites if she didn’t pay four million pounds into a Bank of Aruba account.