Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [51]
Then Stanley launched into putative next steps:
PERMISSION FOR OVERT ACTION. OBJECTIVE: DEBRIEF CARTHAGE
He heard Hadley turn off the shower. He did not hear her approach. The pile carpet was so thick, she might have long-jumped into the bedroom and he would have been none the wiser if it were not for the pleasing perfume of honey and lavender. He didn’t turn around, largely to avoid gawking, not until he felt her standing just inches from his back.
“Overt action?” she said. “In other words, we call up Carthage and say, ‘Actually, Mr. Bream, we’re professional spies from the CIA.’ ”
“Breaking cover is the most expedient way I can think of,” said Stanley.
“Why would a couple of spooks—spooks with a track record of deceiving him—be the people best able to get the truth from him?”
“Because we’ll best be able to convince him that he’ll be in deep kimchi otherwise.”
She took a seat on the nearest corner of the bed, crossing one glowing dancer’s thigh over the other. “I know a really good way that won’t leave any marks,” she said with an enthusiasm that transformed her in Stanley’s perception from a sensuous woman into something darker and colder.
He was troubled already by her rush to slash Drummond’s jugular last night with her switchblade ring—which would have certainly come in handy after they were tied up. Their track record notwithstanding, the Clarks very obviously were not bent on murder. It would have been more expedient for Drummond to snuff them than to tie them up. Also Charlie’s assertion that they had acted in self-defense seemed free of artifice.
Stanley wondered if Hadley had her own agenda.
DeSoto had been to Îlet Céron twice before, first to view the property himself, then to show it to a couple from Dubai who ended up buying a Bettina Ludington listing, an Italianate mansion with no business on a French island. Both times here, on ascending the crushed clamshell pathway from the pier he had halted abruptly when the château came into view. The structure was breathtaking.
As its limestone façade appeared now, the crotchety Larsen didn’t even pause. If DeSoto didn’t know better, he would have thought the old man had already seen the place.
McDonough slowed, but only to allow DeSoto to catch up.
“Wow,” McDonough exclaimed.
After eleven years hustling houses, DeSoto knew wows the way a jeweler knows diamonds. The kid’s was pure zirconium. Possibly he lacked education. New money often didn’t aspire beyond a McMansion with superfluous turrets, their sensibilities shaped by Donald Trump.
Thankfully, such clients could still be educated. “Le Château d’Îlet Céron is celebrated for perfectly capturing the period of architectural transition from the rococo of the mid-eighteenth century to the more refined neoclassical style,” DeSoto said. “As Architectural Digest put it, ‘The palatial limestone façade dazzles new arrivals with its towering Corinthian pilasters and detached pillars while at the same time heeding simplicity in order to capitalize on sunlight bouncing from passing waves.’ ”
McDonough slowed at the marble staircase leading to the entry. “Dazzling,” he agreed. Larsen took in the façade and was no more dazzled than if it were a split-level in Sheboygan.
A young chambermaid heaved open one of the monolithic copper-faced French doors. In lieu of a greeting, the old man nodded. He shot inside before she had a chance to open the other door. McDonough hurried after him.
The grand reception hall was like a skating rink made of marble. Elephantine columns supported a gilded and improbably high ceiling, the painted sun and clouds realistic enough to be mistaken for a skylight view.
“DuVal, one of the greatest living realists,” DeSoto began, pointing up at the work.
But his clients were on their way into the den.