Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [29]
Charlie whispered, “Remember what you’re going to say if the customs guy asks what brings us to Martinique?”
“I think so.” Drummond smiled, as if at a customs official. “I’m John Larsen of Greenwich, Connecticut—that’s Larsen with an e—and this young scalawag is Brad McDonough, who works for me, when the mood strikes him. I’d tell you we’re here for business—we’re with New England Capital Management—but even three days of PowerPoint presentations on your fair island counts as pleasure.”
Drummond waited for the imaginary official’s response, a trace of worry tightening his mouth—the exact amount of anxiety an innocent man would display in this situation, thought Charlie. Incredible. Although far from lucid, Drummond could assume cover with the virtuosity of a Royal Shakespeare player.
Drummond looked to Charlie, eyes full of uncertainty. “Any good?”
The door to the customs office groaned inward, followed by “You may come in now.” The voice was an authoritarian tenor, the accent French with a hint of Creole.
Willing his knees to remain steady, Charlie rose and entered the customs office, which felt like a refrigerator, more a consequence of the room’s diminutive size than the throaty air conditioner crammed in the window. Charlie found the cold bracing.
The space was dominated by a vast Louis XIV knockoff desk that had to be fourth-hand and not worth the cost of hauling off. On a side table sat a computer almost as old as the desk. Its display was dark. Save a dog-eared magazine, the desktop was empty. Behind the desk sat a dark-skinned, mustachioed man of about fifty, Maurice du Frongipanier, according to the placard. His wiry features were fixed in a content expression despite a stiff pea green uniform woven from a polyester fiber that resembled plastic.
“Bonsoir, monsieur,” he said to Charlie with too broad a smile for someone stuck on the late shift. “Welcome to Martinique.”
“Bonsoir.” Charlie approached the desk.
The official gave him a quick once-over and slid open a drawer, fishing a passport stamper and ink pad from a sea of pornographic magazines—the reason perhaps that he was eager to get Charlie on his way.
The door groaned again as Drummond shuffled in.
The ink pad clattered to the floor. Du Frongipanier’s eyes bulged as if he were seeing a ghost. “Marvin Lesser, you must be crazy coming here,” he exclaimed.
Charlie felt as if he’d been pushed off a cliff.
Drummond’s eyebrows bunched toward his nose, as if he were straining to fathom the official’s words.
Not pretense, Charlie suspected. Trying to appear unruffled, he said to the customs man, “Begging your pardon, sir, this is my colleague—”
Turning to Charlie, du Frongipanier thrust an accusatory finger. “So Lesser has a new accomplice.”
He lunged for the small metal box beside the telephone, smacking a red button atop it. The result was a hollow click, but surely, somewhere close by, an alarm was ringing.
With a new upsurge of dread, Charlie said, “Sir, this is some sort of mistake.”
“Yes, yours.”
The far door burst open, admitting a brown-skinned young man who wore an Airport Security uniform. Easily six-six, he had massive shoulders and tree trunks for legs. If that weren’t enough, he brandished a black baton nearly as big as a baseball bat.
Exhibiting no intimidation, and perhaps unaware that intimidation was in order, Drummond set down his overnight bag and wandered over for a closer look at the baton. He chuckled. “That a Louisville Slugger?”
With a shrug, the security guard glanced down at the baton.
Drummond’s right hand blurred into a karate slash, striking the underside of the man’s jaw with so much force that his boots left