"This is the one."
Lenny pulled out a checkbook, wrote a check for 10 percent more than the asking price and handed it to Marie. He turned to Grace and smiled. "Happy one-month anniversary, Gracie."
Grace had been so happy, she'd danced in the street.
They called the house "Le Cocon" - the cocoon. They planned to retire there.
JOHN MERRIVALE WASN'T WELL. HIS DOCTOR prescribed antidepressants and a month of total peace.
"Here." Lenny pressed the keys to Le Cocon into his hands. "Take as long as you need. There's a housekeeper, Madame Thomas, in permanent residence. She'll wash and cook for you, but otherwise you'll be alone."
John was touched, but the idea wasn't practical. "I c-can't just disappear to Madagascar. What about Quorum?"
"We'll be fine."
"C-Caroline will never agree to it."
"Leave Caroline to me."
When he returned to New York six weeks later, John was a new man. He showed Lenny and Grace the photographs. Himself, strolling the cobbled streets of Upper Town in Antananarivo, relaxing in the hot springs of Antsirabe, trekking through the rain forest at Ranomafana.
Of course, his happiness didn't last. Caroline made sure of that. But Grace would never forget the look of childlike wonder on John's face when he spoke of Madagascar. He even approached Lenny privately about buying Le Cocon.
"Name your price."
Lenny smiled. "Sorry, buddy. Any house but that one. The guest suite will always have your name on it. But she's not for sale."
GRACE CALLED TO THE FISHERMEN. "Combien de temps encore?"
"Environ deux heures. Trois peut-etre. Vous allez bien?"
Grace wasn't doing fine. But she would be once they got there. Reaching into the knapsack she never let out of her sight, she fingered Gavin Williams's gun lovingly, stroking it the way a child might a teddy bear. She wondered how long it would take her to track John down once they got to the island. Le Cocon had been sold when Quorum was liquidated. The buyer was a Dutch Internet entrepreneur, a man named Jan Beerens.
I'll start with him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
HARRY BAIN TURNED TO MITCH CONNORS. "I hate this shithole."
"Yeah, well. Don't we all."
Mombasa was a shithole. Hot and dirty and soulless. Both Mitch and Harry were covered in bites from mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds, and the combined effect of the itching and the heat made sleep all but impossible. No wonder they'd begun to get short with each other. They'd been able to trace John Merrivale's movements as far as Kenya, but since they arrived in Kenya, the trail had gone stone cold. At this rate they might be stuck here for many more days, perhaps even weeks.
Mitch thought about Helen and his daughter, back in New York. It was shamefully long since he'd last seen Celeste. He didn't miss Helen anymore, but Celeste was a different story. He tried to push the little girl out of his mind, to focus all his mental energy on this case, but it was hard.
If Mitch and Harry Bain didn't find John Merrivale before Grace did, Grace would kill the guy for sure. Understandably, she'd lost all faith in the system. The whole notion of an appeal seemed laughable to her. Personally, Mitch couldn't have cared less if Merrivale got a bullet between the eyes. But if Grace ended up with a murder charge against her, she would be beyond his or anybody's help.
There was a knock on the door of the hotel room. Mitch looked at Harry, as if to say, Who the hell can that be? It's after midnight. Both drew their weapons.
"Who is it?"
"It is I, Jonas. We met this morning at the airport. Please, you are letting me inside?"
Mitch grinned. The Kenyans might rob you blind, but they'd say "please" and "thank you" while they did it. As a nation, you couldn't fault them for politeness. Jonas Ndiaye was a pilot Mitch and Harry had interviewed earlier after a tip that Merrivale may have chartered a small plane to fly into Tanzania. But the trip had been another dead end. None of the pilots had recognized John's picture.
Mitch opened the door.
Jonas Ndiaye was thirty years old but looked younger. He had a naughty, boyish face, with no visible stubble, and a spiky, Westernized hairstyle glued into place with some sort of spray or gel. He reminded Mitch of a black Bart Simpson.
"I apologize with the late hour."
"That's okay," said Harry Bain. "We weren't sleeping. What can we do for you, Jonas?"
"The question I am asking is what I can do for you? After you leave today, I am shaking my brains about that photograph. Yes indeed. I think you will be happy to give some dollars to me about the things I am knowing, yes, yes, I think so." He flashed Harry an open, expectant smile. As if asking flat out for a bribe was the most normal, reasonable thing in the world. "Tonight we are doing business, yes indeed! My memory is becoming alive."
Wearily, Harry Bain unlocked his bedside drawer. He pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills, held together with a rubber band. You couldn't take a dump in Kenya without bribing somebody. Jonas Ndiaye's eyes widened. He stretched out a hand for the money, but Bain shook his head.
"What do you know?"
"The man in the photograph was traveling in my plane. Yes, it is true! Two weeks ago he came."
"You took him to Tanzania?"
"No." Jonas held out his hand again. Harry Bain peeled off five bills from the pile and handed them to him.
"Where?"
"The gentleman was wishing to fly to Madagascar."
Harry looked at Mitch. No extradition treaty.
"I brought him to Antananarivo airport. He was talking about the wildlife. He will go there on safari, you see, to take many pictures and also to dive in the ocean. Now my memory has come back to me, I can tell you he was a charming gentleman. Very charming, the man in the photograph."