These men were definitely staking out territory. As a practical matter, a slice of sand was being carved out for the owner of a large villa, a former Rockefeller property that fronted on the beach, the only habitation that did so. Information Jason had received during the Paris — Saint Martin flight had revealed a certain Viktor Karavich, recently of Yekaterinburg, had joined the growing number of Russian industrial oligarchs acquiring property on the island, either by purchase or mere possession, such as what was transpiring in front of Jason.
A third man, also in black, trudged over the sand dunes that separated the villa owner’s property from the beach. This one was carrying a stack of folding chairs. His shadow fell across Jason. Jason looked up. The man was larger than the other two, perhaps somewhere north of 250. His biceps filled the short sleeves of the shirt that didn’t quite reach his waist. Jason shaded his eyes to get a better look. The man’s face had the look of one that had been rearranged violently: a nose pushed to one side, scars in the brows that overhung ratlike eyes, ears that would delight a cauliflower farmer. And there was only one thing that left those pock-shaped scars right above his belt buckle: bullets. Beyond that, he had the slightly Oriental look of a Russian peasant.
The man set his burden of chairs down next to Jason. “Is necessary you move, please.”
There was nothing polite in the tone.
Jason shook his head slowly. “Is public beach.”
The guy was obviously not used to being refused. It seemed to take a second or two for the response to register. “You not move?”
A threat.
“I not move.”
“Is Mr. Karavich’s property. You must move.”
Jason did move. To a squatting position, his legs bent as he looked up at the man. “Is the property of the public.”
“Mr. Karavich not like.”
“Mr. Karavich can get fucked.”
The big man moved with a speed belying his bulk. Had Jason not anticipated it, a knee would have smashed into his skull hard enough to cause a concussion at the least. As it was, Jason ducked. Springing up from knees bent beneath him like springs, he was able to put every bit of his weight into the open-handed punch that smashed the heel of his right hand into the Russian’s nose.
The snap of breaking cartilage was quite audible.
Though rarely fatal or even dispositive, there are few blows more painful than one to the nose. Pain, in and of itself, is disabling, distracting an opponent’s attention from an effective counterattack. So it was here. The big man staggered backward, both hands unable to staunch the blood that was making Rorschach blots in the sand. The steep incline of the beach caused him to stumble, nearly losing his balance.
Only a fool gives his antagonist a chance to recover from the initial assault, and Jason was no fool. He chose that instant to charge the tottering Russian, lowering his shoulder to slam into the other man’s midsection. Two things were simultaneous: a whoosh of expelled breath and a splash as the man fell backward into the water.
Jason thought he heard one or two screams from the beach bunnies as he pounced. Ignoring the painful sting of the salt water in his bandaged wound, he knelt in the surge. He locked his right and left forearms around the Russian’s neck, tightening the grip by grasping his elbows. With pressure on one arm, Jason could crush the larynx. Sufficient pressure on the other separated the second and third cervical vertebra and, quite likely, the spinal cord.
Jason’s opponent realized the futility of struggling. He went dead still, other than the arms he raised above his head. Surrender.
Jason maneuvered him around so they were both facing the beach. He was not surprised to see the man’s two comrades racing toward him.
“Right there,” Jason shouted above the crash of the surf. “Hold it right there, or your pal is so much shark bait!”
The two came to an abrupt stop, each looking at the other as though seeking a solution to the problem. The bleating of a police siren was getting louder. The curse of cell phones.
Someone shouted words Jason didn’t understand. A man stood at the top of the line of dunes. The light breeze whipped a bathrobe around him, but what Jason found most noticeable was he had the immediate attention of the two men headed to aid their comrade. They stopped dead, tide swirling at their knees. Then they turned back toward Jason.
“Don’t worry, American, they will only collect the mess you have made,” the man in the dunes yelled.
Jason grinned and waved his acknowledgment before handing his choking, sputtering former adversary off to the two men from the beach. He sloshed his way back ashore, picked up his bag, and scrambled up the dunes. A small crowd of the curious had gathered. Only on a French beach would a fight draw more attention than topless young women.
“Hello, Viktor.”
The man in the bathrobe smiled, a metallic grimace of Soviet-era dentistry, and held out his hand. “Did you have to, er, destroy one of my men? He will be useless to me for days. Could you not come to my door instead?”
Jason shook the hand. “And how do I get to your door? I’m sure you have more deterrents than the no trespassing signs in English, French, and I’m guessing Russian. Knowing your background, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had some really nasty surprises for those who come uninvited.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of two men in police uniform from the eastern end of the beach, the only access for the public. Viktor put a finger to his lips, motioning Jason to stay where he was. Sliding down the sand to the beach, the Russian greeted the two cops, apparently by name from what words the wind brought to Jason. The body language, including handshakes and shoulder patting, gave the definite impression Viktor was well acquainted with the local gendarmerie. Now Viktor was dismissing a young man who appeared to have a version of what had happened somewhat different from his. Within minutes, the police were gone and the beach returned to normal.
Viktor trudged up to resume his spot beside Jason. “Now, American, perhaps we may attend to whatever you have in mind. Come.”
Jason followed him along a bougainvillea-lined path. The red and purple flower-bearing branches of the bushes made it impossible to walk side-by-side. Rounding a turn, Jason was looking at what at one time had been a village brought intact from the South Pacific: bungalow-style houses scattered around round, elongated, or irregular-shaped pools. Winding trails were dotted with native-style statuary. Jason would not have been surprised to see long-dead author Somerset Maugham step out from under the low thatch roof of the veranda. Between him and the house, a lawn cut to putting-green standards surrounded another pool, this one fed by a trickling stream from rocks high above on the hill.
Viktor was aware of the impression the place made, for he stopped, smiling. “Is nice, no? Far nicer than a simple soldat would deserve, no?”
Viktor had never been a simple soldier, a fact of which Jason started to remind him when they were suddenly surrounded by a laughing, chatting group of ten or more teenaged girls, all dressed for the beach.
Viktor took a girl by the hand, a pretty blonde who had not yet put on the weight that seemed to follow Russian puberty. Like her female companions, she wore a brief bikini. “My daughter, Vasillisa. Say hello the American, Vasillisa.”
She dipped a shallow curtsy. “Hello, Mr. American.”
Before Jason could reply, she tried to slip from her father’s grasp. He spoke to her in Russian. Ignorant of the language, Jason still knew a reprimand when he heard one.