I said, “They make exceptions, I guess. Or maybe the couples were given a choice: do meditation here, or hang out at the pool bar next door.”
Montbard swung the binoculars toward the lodge. “That makes sense. Looks a bit more interesting over there among the heathens-often the case in my travels. Folks are chatting, not chanting, at least. More like a cocktail party than this dreary business.”
He was looking to the west, where the retreat’s modern facilities were layered into the mountain with elevated walkways, subdued lighting, a four-lane lap pool and dip pools glowing blue beneath the rental suites. There were three white vans in the tiny parking lot, only a couple of cars.
Sir James had told me the road up the mountain was a private one-lane, with two security checkpoints on the hour drive to the top. The maximum number of guests was less than thirty, and most arrived via helicopter from Saint Lucia’s Hewanorra Airport. Because of repeat clientele, there was no need for the lodge to advertise. Judging from the scarcity of articles, it also did not offer journalists a free stay in exchange for stories.
Montbard did find a piece on international spas in a magazine that mentioned the place. He’d shared the clip.
HOODED ORCHID RETREAT AND SPA, ISLAND, EASTERN CARIBBEAN
Called simply the “Orchid” by its devotees, and named for a rare wild orchid that grows on the island, this spa claims to offer “rare elixirs” made from local fruits and herbs, as well as purifying ceremonies that slow the aging process and rechannel libido.
Incorporating the ruins of a French Cistercian monastery, spa operators make up for limited amenities by maintaining the monastic spirit. The operation caters to “betrothed or wedded couples.” Even so, guests are assigned separate quarters and are expected to remain celibate during their stay, while following a strict schedule that includes exercise, meditation, and “purification.”
Here, sex is considered toxic, and sin is taboo-but money still counts for something at this cultish retreat. Despite a three-star rating, the Orchid is a favorite dry-out spot for bad-boy rockers, royalty, and Hollywood film stars, whether they are “betrothed” or arrive alone. But don’t rush to make plane reservations. “We are not actively seeking new clientele,” a spa spokesperson said.
Along with the article, Sir James had made a detailed map of the area by printing a satellite photo onto sketch paper, then labeling it. He’d also created a rough diagram of the monastery’s layout.
He took out the diagram now and compared what he saw with what he’d drawn.
“Not bad for guesswork,” he told me as I looked over his shoulder. “Got most of it right.”
I said, “There was no data available?”
“Very little. But I suspected the design was similar to a template created by the Knights Templar. The Templars were warrior monks. They returned from the Crusades with drawings of Solomon’s Temple. See here-” He touched a finger to the diagram. “-here’s the portico that borders the courtyard, then the second courtyard where those dreary people are chanting. The roofed walkway… the cloister. The doors leading off the portico are dormitories where the monks slept. It’s all joined by arcades and passageways.”
I said, “Passageways?”
“When Mother Church was burning her critics at the stake, underground tunnels were a sensible addition. You’ve spent time in Central America. Supposedly, they’re a fixture in the old churches there.”
A tunnel dug during the Inquisition had once saved my life. I said, “I’ve heard rumors. How do you know all this?”
He began to toy with the Masonic ring on his right hand: skull and crossbones; squares and dividers. “I belong to a sort of fraternity that studies the subject. If I told you how many years the group’s been collecting information, you wouldn’t believe me.”
I said, “You’re a Freemason. I noticed your ring last night.”
“I’m surprised you made the connection. Very few associate the Masons with this symbol.” He held the ring toward me even though it was too dark to decipher detail. “The Knights Templar were the original pirates of the Caribbean. Their ships flew the skull and bones long before Hollywood got the idea. When we get back to Saint Lucia, I’ll give you an article to read.”
He hesitated before asking carefully, “You mentioned that you’re a traveling man. Are you?”
Strange question. I said, “Of course.”
The man suspected I was confused, but he wanted to confirm it. “You’re here for the sake of the widow’s son? You came from the east, traveling west.”
Stranger questions. I realized I was being tested. I had the feeling that I would’ve become the man’s instant confidant if I had provided the correct responses. But there could be no faking it.
It was like a shield rising into place when I replied, “No, I came from Florida, to the north. My uncle was a Freemason. A man named Tucker Gatrell. He had a ring similar to yours.”
“Tucker Gatrell-the name’s curiously familiar. Did he spend time in the Caribbean?”
“He was a tropical bum.”
Sir James said, "Yes, familiar,” interested, but it was time to move on. End of test.
The old Englishman had picked up his thread about the monastery’s layout. I listened, but was getting impatient. It was 8:30 p.m. We still had a lot to do. There was no guarantee they’d wait until midnight to let the guard dogs out on this moonless Monday night.
“See those ruins beyond the courtyard wall?” Montbard whispered. “They might be the remains of a convent, or a distillery. Monasteries from the period often made herbal liquors as a source of income. Benedictine-a good example. Chartreuse and soda-Senny’s favorite. Secret recipes hundreds of years old. But what I’m looking for is a smallish stone structure that was called the Misericord. It’s where punishment was doled out to the monks. I picture it a chamber built of slabs-Stonehenge but without spaces. A secure place, if you get my meaning.”
Secure. I understood. A place to keep valuables.
“Let’s look for it.”
“Capital idea, Ford, but first things first.” He slipped the blueprint into his backpack, then unrolled the map and used a red penlight as a pointer.
“It’s nearly twenty-one-hundred hours. I suggest the first thing we do is mark our escape routes with your infrared tape. If they set the dogs on us, we want the fastest route to the fence. It’s tempting to string a couple of trip wires along the way. Dogs might see them, but it could also save our bacon. What do you think?”
I said, “Your story about the beggar on the mechanic’s dolly has made me a believer.”
“Good.” He was into his backpack again, confirming he’d brought wire. “Now… if we are pursued by guards, my feeling is we should lay a trail that first takes us up the mountain, because they’ll expect just the opposite. How do you feel about that? Think you can manage a few hundred yards uphill, triple time, without getting knackered?”
Was that a subtle barb? During the hike, I’d stopped a couple of times to catch my breath. Sir James had waited with exaggerated patience, breathing normally as he checked his watch and tapped his walking stick on the ground. With his tweed walking cap, trousers, dark shirt, and shooting jacket, he looked like a butterfly collector who’d lost his way- except for the night-vision goggles that were now pushed up on his forehead, and the Walther PPK semiautomatic pistol I’d gotten a glimpse of beneath his jacket, left armpit, in a shoulder holster, butt out.
It was hard to believe the man was over seventy. He was aggressive, focused, and in better shape than I-and I’d been jogging and swimming twice a day, six days a week, since spring. But mountains are the curse of a Florida flatlander. Even in the tropics, it takes awhile to acclimate.
I replied, “My endurance improves when I’m being chased. Always loop uphill when escaping down a mountain-I agree. I’ll try to keep up.”