Impulse (16 page)

“Certainly not. He knows the men who do it, but he would never be involved. Roddy Olivier, for example. Now, you want to meet an evil man, a man who makes your skin crawl, go to London and talk to him.”

“I understand there are vast amounts of money, depending on the risk you take.”

“That’s true of nearly everything in life, isn’t it? These are questions you must ask Dominick, if he allows them. I really don’t wish to say any more about it.”

“Is he guilty of those things you mentioned earlier?”

Coco chewed on the sprig of mint even as she smiled. “Of course not. Perhaps he did some foolish things when he was younger, but then again, who
doesn’t? He’s older now, wiser—at least that’s what he likes to tell me. He doesn’t believe in drugs, as I already told you, wouldn’t touch them despite all the money involved, which makes me wonder why the DEA has him on their list. He’s a very rich man, Rafaella, and he owns this entire island, not just Porto Bianco. There are also his houses in Paris, Rome, a villa on Crete—near St. Nicholas—and a huge cattle ranch in Wyoming. He’s a legitimate businessman, but nonetheless, I truly don’t believe he’ll want anyone to do his biography. Why would he?”

Coco shrugged again. “But you know men, they’re so—well, unpredictable, I guess you could say. So, come to dinner at the compound this evening and ask him yourself.”

“I’d like that. Thank you again. Could I ask you, Coco—you speak English with no French accent, yet I’ve read several interviews about you—this one, for example—and, well, in it you seem very French.”

Coco smiled easily. “I do the French routine very well. I’ve perfected it. You see, I was speaking rather loudly to Marcus yesterday when I met you, and, admit it, if I’d suddenly turned on the French, you would have wondered, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would. Thank you for telling me the truth. And your name, Vivrieux? Where are you really from?”

Coco gave her a long, very intent look. “I was born and raised in Grenoble, France. Vivrieux is a very old, respected family name.”

“I would love to ski there. I hear it’s wonderful. It’s nice to have an old family name.”

“It is,” Coco agreed, the pact made. “Oh, here’s Marcus, back again.” She waved and Rafaella looked up to see him strolling through the tables on the lanai, pausing to speak to guests, to the waitresses—there were only women serving on the Hibiscus Lanai—then stopping at their table. “Hello, Coco, Ms. Holland.
Are you enjoying our perfect weather? Our chef’s perfect concoctions?”

“Certainly, Marcus. Join us. If I know Callie, she hasn’t allowed you to eat yet, has she?”

“Nope, that one’s a soulless taskmaster.” He signaled a waitress, and without asking, she brought him a glass of Perrier, two lime slices on the edge of the glass. He squeezed both slices into the glass before drinking.

“Miss Holland wants to do a biography of Dominick.”

Marcus choked on his Perrier.

It was rather disconcerting, the way Coco just said right up front what they’d been talking about. Did this man know everything that went on? Yes,” Rafaella said quickly, “with emphasis on the past few years, since Miss Vivrieux has been with him and since he bought the resort and the island.”

“I think not,” Marcus said, after he’d gotten his breath. He then turned in his chair to answer a question asked by a man seated behind him.

“Who asked you?” Rafaella said, all but snarling. Marcus made no sign he’d heard her. He spoke for a few more minutes, then turned back to the women.

“So, who cares what you think?” Rafaella asked.

“Coco will agree with me,” Marcus said easily.

“There are a few unpleasant things lurking on the horizon. I just don’t think it’s smart to do something of this nature right now.”

“I heard about your scrape last night,” Coco said to Rafaella. “Marcus told Dominick that you saved his life.”

“It was purely by accident, nothing heroic, I assure you.” So, everyone on this island knew everything the moment it happened. Not surprising, not really. “I don’t suppose he told you he’d managed to find out who did it?”

Marcus just shook his head and ordered a club sandwich. He turned back to her, and he looked so tough
and hard that she nearly missed the baiting gleam in his eyes. “Let me be blunt, Ms. Holland. No more talk about horizons. There’s simply too much crap going down right now. I think you should take your little fanny—wait, not all that little, if I recall correctly—and go back to the
Tribune
and scrutinize everyone else’s business, and, of course, go back to your very nice apartment in Brammerton and your slew of boyfriends. They’ll surely be more predictable and more to your expectations.”

Rafaella picked up her glass of iced tea and threw it in his face.

“I was wrong,” he said, wiping himself down with a napkin. “Your fanny is very nice. I shouldn’t have intimated that there was more to it than was strictly necessary. I keep forgetting that women are so sensitive. They just can’t take even the smallest objective observation.”

“Miss Vivrieux, I would like to come to the compound for dinner this evening. Could you tell me how to get there?”

Coco told her she’d send someone for her, and Rafaella, not looking again at Marcus, left the table.

“What’s going on between you two, Marcus?”

Marcus glanced toward the retreating Rafaella.

“She does have a very nice fanny.”

Coco laughed. “Why would she save your life, then toss tea in your face?”

“Who understands women?”

“Jerks don’t, that’s for sure.”

“Can I come to dinner too?”

“Only if you can promise no more violence. Lord knows, we’ve too much of the real sort right now. And no more baiting Ms. Holland, Marcus.”

“Scout’s word, ma’am,” he said, and solemnly laid his open palm over his heart.

Merkel was willing enough to play tour guide to Ms. Holland. The island—called Calypso Island before Mr.
Giovanni had bought it—was just a little over three square miles, roughly two thousand acres, and roughly the shape of a watermelon. They were a leeward island, just west of Antigua, about fifty miles southeast of St. Kitts.

The resort took up the length of the east side, Mr. Giovanni’s compound the west side. It was mountainous—as mountainous as any island in the Caribbean could be—and the chain nearly met the sea, end to end. It was covered with lush jungle, very nearly impenetrable because of the heavy rainfall. Here on the eastern side, it rained usually every morning for about thirty minutes, but that was about it. When the island had been at its most productive, a good ninety percent of the population had lived on the western side. The natives had evidently claimed there were evil spirits lurking on the eastern side and avoided it. There was more rainfall on the western side. But you could die of mold rot in the jungle that covered the mountains in the center. The interior was unpopulated and had been for a very long time.

Everything Merkel was telling her in his easy, soft voice, coming out of a football lineman’s throat, she already knew. She saw her mother’s writing, stark and clear in the beginning of the last volume, dated September three years ago. Her mother had chartered a plane in Pointe-à-Pitre and had the pilot fly her to Giovanni’s Island.

I know you’ll think I’m unwise at the very least; perhaps you’ll believe I’m lost now to all reason and logic. Why am I doing this? I’m happily married—truly I am—to Charles, who’s wonderful and kind. Oh, I don’t know. But, Rafaella, I had to see his island. I had to see where he lived. The island itself is beautiful, a jewel, lush and tropical, with fine white-sand beaches, north to south, and a range of thick jungle mountains down the center.

Even from the air you can see the luxury of Porto Bianco and the harbor with all its myriad sailboats and yachts. Dominick’s compound is on the western side. Perfect for its setting, all the whitewashed cottages, the big house with its red-tiled roof, the swimming pool, the two tennis courts, and the gardens. Ah, the gardens—unbelievably beautiful. When we flew over, I saw men, at least a half dozen, and some of them carried weapons.

I asked the pilot to land on the resort side. I just wanted to have lunch at the resort—I knew Dominick wouldn’t be there—but he told me that the island was private, members only, and their guests. A very exclusive place indeed. Of course I could find a way to go there, but not with Charles. I dare not go with Charles. He’s not a stupid or imperceptive man. And what would I say if he asked me why I wanted to go there? Unfortunately, I’m a miserable liar, at least to him. Sometimes I think he believes there’s another man, perhaps not one with whom I’m having an affair, oh no, but a man somewhere in my past, a man I still think about, a man I still love. And when I see his doubts, the pain they give him, what can I say?

Oh, but I would give anything to see him. Just once. Just for a few minutes. Not long. Just once.

Merkel was still talking as they neared the helicopter pad on the northern perimeter of the resort grounds. “There are three paths that traverse the central jungle, and Mr. Giovanni keeps them clear of undergrowth. In normal circumstances, we use the helicopter, it’s only about ten minutes…Hey, miss, are you all right?”

Rafaella realized her eyes were suspiciously damp. She sniffed. “Allergies,” she said. “Just allergies. A pain in the neck. Oh, yes, I would imagine that the middle ridge keeps curious resort visitors away from the western side.” Her mother’s pale face rose in her
mind’s eye. Lifeless, so very still. Her condition was still the same. Charles had told her again that morning on the phone: there was nothing she could do. She shouldn’t come back. He promised to call her if it became necessary. He’d said nothing about her being in the Caribbean. She’d lied to him; it was a special story, she’d told him.

“That’s right,” said Merkel, at his most laconic. “Actually, Mr. Giovanni calls the mountainous area
stoámaco di diávolo
—Satan’s gut. He said if you got caught in there, you’d be chewed up in no time, never seen again.

“Look over there—we have a huge harbor for yachts and sailboats. Mr. Giovanni doesn’t allow cruise ships, of course. Porto Bianco is a private club, as you know.”

Rafaella nodded, then climbed into the front of the helicopter. “You’re the pilot?”

Merkel nodded, made certain Rafaella was duly strapped in, gave her earphones, then flipped at least a dozen switches.

“It’ll take us only nine or ten minutes. It’s a small island—at least for planes and helicopters.”

Merkel lifted off, and Rafaella forgot her mission for the moment, too interested in the scenery below. Odd how one really didn’t see things until one was a couple hundred feet above. The island
was
shaped something like a watermelon, and Antigua was due west. Dominick Giovanni, she’d read, was a personal friend of the prime minister of Antigua.

When they reached the central point, the resort area was sprawled in beautiful detail from the north to the southern tip. All she had to do was turn her head and see Dominick Giovanni’s compound. It wasn’t as luxurious or as blatantly opulent as the resort, but it was extensive, the main house vivid white with the ubiquitous red-tiled roof, surrounded by small cottages, all in the same style. There was a huge swimming
pool, and all the grounds were covered with fat hibiscus bushes, trellised bougainvillea, thick-branched frangipani, and clusters of purple, pink, and white orchids. The jungle looked to be hunkering at the very edge of the grounds, waiting to leap forward and consume the manicured gardens, a thick green maze that looked shapeless as a nightmare and so thick as to be impenetrable.

Not more than one hundred yards from the compound, through the jungle, was the western side of the island, its beaches covered with white sand, smooth and inviting as sin itself, and aqua and pale green water, incredible and almost impossible to describe. Her mother had described it, but it couldn’t truly be imagined from just words, no matter how poetic the attempt.

Merkel didn’t say anything. He was used to this reaction from people on their first trip over to the compound. It was why he gave his tour-guide talk before getting to the helicopter. If he waited, no one heard a word he said. He expertly set the helicopter down on its pad, then motioned for Rafaella to look to her left.

“Mr. Giovanni,” Merkel said, nodding toward a man coming toward the helicopter. He watched her and found himself wondering just who the hell she was. She was staring fixedly at Mr. Giovanni. Something wasn’t quite right about her, but he didn’t understand what it was. She was a pretty young woman. And she wanted to write a biography of Mr. Giovanni. Merkel couldn’t imagine Mr. Giovanni allowing such a thing. Men of Mr. Giovanni’s questionable international stature just didn’t give free information to writers. But Mr. Giovanni wasn’t like any other man he’d ever known. Mr. Giovanni made his own rules, and he obliged others to live by them. He knew how to control; he knew how to ensure obedience. Mr. Giovanni, in sum, did whatever he wished to do.

Rafaella stared at her father. The trip over had temporarily tamped down on her fear, her excitement, her gut-churning anger at this man for his betrayal of her and her mother.

She knew what to expect. She’d seen more pictures of him than anyone would want to. She was afraid for him to come closer; she was afraid of what she’d feel, of how she’d react.

Where, Rafaella wondered, would her father be a year from now? Maybe in a prison with Gabe Tetweiler? In Attica? She suddenly thought of Charles in that moment, sitting beside her mother’s bed, her limp hand held so gently in his warm one. Please don’t let her die, she prayed, a litany now. And what would become of Charles Rutledge if her mother died? He loved her so very much. It was frightening.

Her hands grew suddenly damp. She didn’t want to wipe them on her new white linen Lagerfeld slacks. Her side-tie red silk blouse got the sweat, even though the outfit was equal to a week’s salary. She felt an instant of consternation because she felt her control slipping, her focus blurring. She watched him.

Mr. Giovanni himself walked to the helicopter and opened the pale blue cabin door.