“That’s the spirit. One more thing-” He fitted his night-vision goggles into place. I did the same as he pointed toward the cemetery on the seaward side of the monastery. “-during your stay, if you do manage to grab the videotapes, we should have an emergency jettison spot. Prearranged. A place you can get rid of them quick, and collect later. What do you think? Might be a spot over there that’s just the ticket.”
He used an infrared flashlight to indicate an area near the cemetery where the cliff wall dropped several hundred yards to the sea below. Earlier, we’d sat looking up at the same cliff from my boat.
“Those people seem involved with their chanting-or whatever it is they call that nonsense. I don’t think they’d notice if we popped down for a quick look-see-but we’ll need a bit of billy goat in us to negotiate that ledge.” Montbard had been kneeling, but now stood as he tucked his map away. “You don’t have an aversion to heights, do you, Ford?”
“Not at all,” I said, lying. “I live in a house that’s built on stilts.”
“Excellent, then you’re an old hand. Off we go!”
By 9:15 p.m., we had our three escape trails marked. We headed for the cliff.
To get to the cemetery unseen, we had to inch our way along a ledge that was half the width of my shoulders, and several hundred feet above a rock field that inclined briefly before dropping into the sea. Sir James wasn’t joking about billy goats-it was a path used by feral goats that lived on the island.
I dug fingers into the igneous rim above us, nose pressed close to the cliff so I wouldn’t be blinded by falling gravel, and also because I was scared shitless. I had looked down only once. Rocks were vague spires in the blackness; sparks of starlight communicated the movement of waves far below.
The Englishman went first. He seemed oblivious to the danger; so unconcerned that halfway along the ledge he’d stopped and fished the penlight from his pocket, then shined it for an instant on a clump of bushes topped with dark flowers.
“Here’re some rare beauties for you,” he’d whispered. “It’s a flowering sage-Divinorium, possibly. Ancient; very rare. Love to have this in the garden. Maybe we’ll come back for it when we put this business to bed.”
When I only grunted in reply, the man had actually turned sideways on the ledge. “Are you all right, old man? Need a minute to regroup?”
I’d hissed, “I’m fine. Keep moving!”
I don’t have an irrational fear of heights, but I do have a healthy fear of falling. It’s an atavistic fear that, for me, was intensified a few years back when I was thrown from a helicopter just before it crashed. All the horrors of the unknown were condensed into those microseconds of free fall. By the time we reached the cemetery and I’d belly-crawled onto firm ground, I was soaked with sweat.
No way in hell was I going back the way we’d come-not unless it was more secure-so the first thing I did was rig a rope handhold. I tied a hundred feet of braided anchor line around the base of a tree, then dropped the coil over the ledge so I could use it to traverse the goat path on our return. The tree jutted from the lip of the cliff, roots exposed, but felt solid enough to hold my weight.
When Montbard misread my intent, I was too embarrassed to set him straight.
“Damn smart of you,” he whispered. “Establish a secure base for rappelling. Bring more rope when you check in tomorrow. A few hundred feet and a couple of proper bowlines should do it. Hide the rope in your kit. Spa staff will be none the wiser.”
I said, “That’s what I plan to do,” as my heart began to slow.
We found a good place to drop the videotapes. I would need a waterproof bag and a buoy, but it was okay. There was a spot on the leeward edge of the cliff where monks had sculpted a Gaelic cross out of rock. There were prayer benches shielded by bushes… an iron safety railing… nothing below but sea.
Montbard was fascinated by the cross. Same with the headstones in the cemetery. He lingered, using the infrared light to reveal details, until I said, “This isn’t an Explorers Club outing, okay?”
It got him moving. “Sorry, sorry. I really must come back and give the place a thorough going-over.” He grunted, frustrated. “You’re right, of course. Back to business. Here-come have a look.” He knelt, picked up a rock the size of a grapefruit, and walked to the lip of the precipice. I followed on hands and knees.
“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.”