Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [95]
Stanley rounded one end of the van, leading with a gun. The massive barrel of Lanier’s rifle preceded her around the other side.
Morneau fainted, probably a consequence of the blood pouring from his reopened wound.
Seven or eight vehicles, several with flashing lights and sirens, charged toward the remains of the ambulance. Leading the charge were the same two beige Suburbans in which Charlie and Drummond had been transferred from the docks to the consulate.
As if Stanley and Lanier needed reinforcements, Charlie thought.
Turning to his father, who lay on the street beside him, he said, “I’m sorry.”
Drummond’s response was lost under the shrieking halt of the Suburbans. A passenger door opened and Corbitt slid out. He wore a rumpled linen business suit over a pajama shirt.
Staggering out from behind the van, Stanley said, “Chief Corbitt, your timing is excellent once again.” He waved at Charlie and Drummond. “The rabbits nearly gave us the slip.”
“Really?” Clasping his hands behind his back, Corbitt started to pace. “Remember how this morning I was telling you that we now have miniaturized digital camcorders capable of recording up to sixteen hours of video?”
Stanley smiled. “Of course.”
Corbitt stopped pacing, squaring himself with Stanley. “Tonight, after I reviewed today’s footage from the decanter on the yacht, I decided I’d better get down here.”
Charlie sensed the odds had taken a fortuitous if not incredible turn. He kept his cheer in check, however. In his experience, such a turn was unprecedented, and, with the Cavalry involved, impossible.
Stanley sighed. “Listen, Corbitt, there are factors you know nothing about, and that needs to remain the case.”
“Maybe so. But until I hear otherwise from the State Department or from headquarters, you two are going into custody.” Corbitt indicated the other members of his party. Six Martinique policemen, two paramedics, and three marine guards had emerged from the vehicles, all but the paramedics carrying sidearms or rifles.
“What authority do you have to take us into custody?” Stanley shouted.
“French law,” Corbitt said. “On the way here, we received a report of a Martinican emergency medical technician who’d been gunned down in cold blood.” Turning toward the local policemen and paramedics, the Saint Lucia base chief pointed at Stanley and Lanier. “I believe we’ll find that they’re the ones who did it.”
“I owe you a pot of homemade chowder,” said Alice over the phone from the American embassy in Geneva. “And whatever else you want.”
In the Martinique consulate’s secure conference room, Charlie should have leaped in elation and told Alice that he loved her.
But the ADM was stuck like a splinter in his thoughts.
She said she didn’t recall Bream by name, only that the copilot who flew her to Newark three weeks ago had been handsome in a roguish way. “Not in the good way, like you,” she added quickly.
Their catch-up otherwise was of the bullet-point variety, a function not only of his preoccupation but of a rush on her end—a battery of NSA debriefers awaited her. Hanging up, Charlie couldn’t believe he’d neglected to mention that he’d found the treasure of San Isidro.
Eager to check on his father, he shot out of the secure conference room and into the hallway, hurrying down to the infirmary. Drummond had been under anesthesia for the better part of three hours, during which cardiac catheterization had enabled the surgeons to determine that the extent of the damage to his heart was minimal. As also was the case with the CIA’s Hilary Hadley, Drummond had made it out of the medical equivalent of the woods.
Corbitt jogged out of an adjacent office, pulling even with Charlie. “Eager to see your dad?” the base chief asked.
“Yes. And to see if he knows where Bream took the bomb.”
“It’s only a matter of time until we find that son of a bitch.” Reaching the elevator landing, Corbitt gazed into the gilded-frame mirror as if already seeing himself with the medal he would receive.
Charlie hit the down button. “I wish I were even half as sure.