“I felt the effect the first time I saw his picture,” Christine concluded. “Just about any conventionally aligned female would. I’d say he’s maybe one in a hundred thousand in that area.”
MacIntyre stared at a pine-paneled bulkhead. “I see. One in a hundred thousand? And how would that apply… tactically?”
“Does the phrase ‘clubbing baby seals’ bring anything to mind, sir?”
Palau Piri Island
1233 Hours, Zone Time: August 16, 2008
Luncheon was served al fresco in the mansion’s central garden, the palm shade and Amanda’s air-light clothing nullifying the tropical warmth of the day. The meal itself was superb. Simple yet subtle, prawns in a butter and garlic sauce, sate, savory barbecued meat impaled on skewers of sugarcane served with a firy sambal peanut sauce made with chilies, peanuts, and coconut cream. Steamed white rice served to mellow the spices and, oddly enough, the solid Dutch-style Anker lager served with the meal perfectly counterpointed the food.
Amanda noted that on this occasion Harconan drank and enjoyed the beer as much as she. Not a Muslim, then, or maybe more just his own man. She had ten thousand questions about this individual, born out of what Tran had told her about him. But she dared not ask too many. She could only catch the scraps of information he offered.
The Chinese server who bore in the dessert tray offered the chance for one such insight.
“I notice that most of your staff here are Chinese,” she commented. “Is there a reason or is it just coincidence?”
“A reason,” Harconan replied. “I suppose you could say it’s for security’s sake. Most of the Chinese here in Indonesia are… apart from the main flow of the island culture. They are overlaid on top of it, as it were — hardworking, successful, and prosperous for the most part, but envied and held in suspicion and distrust by many Indonesians. One could call them the Jews of Southeast Asia, I suppose.”
Harconan took a sip of his beer. “Here in House Harconan, as part of my staff, they receive a good salary and are treated with the respect due good employees. Thus their allegiance is to me, without my having to worry about an excessive number of outside entanglements.”
“You make it sound almost like a feudal society.”
He flashed her a grin and lightly brushed his mustache with a knuckle. “There is no almost about it, Amanda. That’s exactly what it is and I’m quite content with it. That’s what being wealthy can do for a person. It not only permits you to live where you wish, but when as well.”
Over dessert, he introduced her to the local fruits, insisting upon personally wielding the silver fruit knife and skewers himself. She found herself sampling things she’d never even heard of before. The tuih and the zirzak, the blimbing and the honey-flavored sawo, the snake fruit that by Indonesian legend was the true apple in the Garden of Eden, and the durian that smells like an open cesspit and tastes like a blend of onion and caramel and, once sampled, is strangely addictive. Harconan let her consume half a dozen slices before casually mentioning that the durian is also supposedly an extremely potent natural aphrodisiac.
Superb chilled champagne was served with the fruit, and Amanda found the laughter and relaxed conversation flowing easily. Bit by bit her guard came down as Harconan seemed to work at diverting topics away from the task force and anything that resembled politics or world affairs. They agreed that wood was the only decent and proper material to build a sailing boat with, and they compared the points of Indonesian, European, and American design, verbally sketching out a compromise craft that incorporated the best of all three worlds.
The shadows sundialed around the lanai as they forgot time; they were reminded of it by the reappearance of Lo.
“Excuse me, Mr. Harconan, but I fear I must remind you of that conference call.” Harconan started and glanced at his black-faced Rolex diver’s watch. “Damnation, is it that time already? Amanda, you must excuse me. Duty calls in a shrill, unpleasant voice.”
Amanda found she was genuinely disappointed to have the day ending. “That’s a call I recognize all too well. Don’t worry about it. Do you have a pilot who can fly me back to the ship.”
“Nonsense, it’s barely two. The day is young. This will take me forty-five minutes, an hour at the most. Why don’t you have a swim and a sun on the east beach while I deal with this call? I’ll have a word with my chief of security and he’ll ensure you complete peace and privacy. I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”
“That sounds wonderful. Do you have a suit I can borrow?”
Harconan shrugged. “If you feel the need for one.”
A swimsuit, a French-cut backless one piece in pale green satin, awaited her in the guest room along with a short terry-cloth beach jacket and a pair of sandals. Amanda was not surprised when it, too, fit to perfection.
It must be nice to own a magic wand, she mused with irony. Beyond that, there was again the somewhat eerie sensation that her mind or at least her life was being read. If Harconan could even conjure up her clothing sizes when he wished, what else did he have in his hands?
The hundred-yard walk to the east beach followed a meticulously groomed but meandering lava gravel path through the island’s palm groves. The walk itself was an experience. Amanda had visited world-class botanical gardens that didn’t have the beauty of Palau Piri’s wild ground cover. She recognized bougainvillea, jasmine, poinsettias, and marigolds growing in their natural home environment, and a hundred more she couldn’t begin to put a name to.
The air, perfumed with its myriad scents, was almost dizzying. The atmosphere was filled with birdsong and gecko chirp as well, the birds as dazzling as mobile flowers, catching and flaring bursts of the sunlight that leaked past the palm shade, the lizards skittering explosively across the paths and up the striated palm trunks.
It was all a little overwhelming. Amanda found herself wondering just when Bob Hope and Bing Crosby were going to show up.
And then the path wound toward a brightness beyond the trees, and she found herself at the beach. Amanda brought herself up short. The walk had been overwhelming, but this was awe-inspiring.
It was real.
All the legends, all the images, all the fantasies, conjured by the whisper of “the South Seas” were real. One only had to search until one found the Island of the Princes.
Black velvet sand with snow-colored surf curling against it. A sea and sky two different grades of sapphire, clouds as white as the surf piling against the peak of Propat Agung on the Bali mainland, and the mainland itself and the more distant Menjangang island burning a vivid living green under the sun. A single great crested tern circled offshore.
If she slept a hundred years, Amanda couldn’t imagine ever dreaming of anything this perfect. For long minutes she stood and drank it all in, only to want more.
Eventually she blinked and came back into herself. Glancing around, she noted a pair of comfortable-looking chaise longues drawn back into the shade at the head of the sand, separated by a small drinks table with a cooler set ready at its feet.
Amanda could only grin in sheer admiration. The man was still ahead of her.
She noted something else as welclass="underline" something tree-tall but not organic in the palm line was set a short distance back from the beach. Curious, she moved closer.