Hot Streak

CHAPTER 33

E gon was in a cold sweat in the bathroom of an Air France jet, and the stewardess was banging on the door. “Are you all right, sir?” she asked for the third time. Her voice was insistent now, but diplomatically muted to avoid disturbing the other first-class passengers. It was obvious Egon wasn't well; she'd seen enough druggies on this Marseilles-Jamaica run to recognize one when she saw him. As far as she was concerned, he could stay in there the entire flight, but a brassy redhead traveling with a man old enough to be her father was insisting the stewardess clear the bathroom for her.

Egon had taken one point with him-enough to last him to Jamaica-but the damn needle had jammed in the hem of his jacket, and he was having trouble getting it out without snapping it off. Jesus, if his hands would just stop shaking long enough to ease it free…

“I'll be out in a minute,” he gruffly replied, his French touched with traces of his old nurse's Provence patois. When under pressure he lost the aristocratic polish his mother had insisted on. One's breeding was evident in one's speech, she'd always said, and on occasions when she was being particularly pedantic he would lapse into low German to annoy her. Mama never forgot her family was landed in contrast to Papa's family's bourgeois roots. But 20,000 acres of marsh on the Baltic didn't buy that diamond tiara, now did it? Papa would retort when Mama put on airs. Papa was practical; while he didn't denigrate his title, he knew his power lay in wealth, not a coat of arms.

“Sorry, Papa,” Egon said in a brief stab of remorse. It would have saddened his father to see him like this, and he often felt relieved that his father had died before the drugs. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he spoke aloud in a low murmur, as if the sound of his voice would calm him. “Count to ten and breathe slowly.” If he could relax, his hands would stop trembling. “Eight, breathe, nine, breathe, ten…” Now calmly slide the hypo out of the lining hem, he silently instructed, calmly, as if it didn't matter whether it came free or not. Ah… he had the plastic plunger now. Slowly… pull it out of the silk lining slowly… there. It's free!

And he wept with relief.

Five minutes later the first soothing traces were entering his bloodstream, and in two minutes more, steady again, the panic receding, his blissful sense of serenity returning, Egon told himself he'd stop the drugs first thing tomorrow. Once he was safe at Le Retour, he'd go clean again. First thing.

He looked at his watch. Four o'clock. He'd be at the villa by seven. Glancing in the mirror, he smoothed his hair, straightened his shirt collar, and eased back into his linen jacket. After disposing of the paraphernalia in the waste container, he emerged from the bathroom with a smile for the stewardess. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I felt faint for a few moments.”

“Are you better now?” she politely inquired, taking in the expensive clothes and Mediterranean tan.

“Quite fine, thank you.”

It was a shame, she thought, watching him return to the row of seats he'd reserved to avoid having company. He was very handsome. And the nurturing impulse Egon so often triggered stirred in her. He was quite beautiful and obviously wealthy. What he needed was some woman to care for him and see that his melancholy disappeared from his eyes. For the remainder of the journey she was solicitous, enough so that the annoying redhead was heard to remark, “Some people in first class must be more important than other people.”

She made the redhead's next drink so stiff, the bitch choked on it.

Shortly before they were to land, Mariel asked Egon if he cared to share the cab she had waiting at the airport. He'd mentioned he was going to his vacation home, and she had a three-day layover. Maybe he'd even ask her out to dinner. He had a charming smile, and his French reminded her of home, with its faint Provencal flavor. She couldn't actually say they'd had a chance to converse, but they'd exchanged the social pleasantries about vacations in Jamaica and the weather. If he accepted her offer to share a cab, perhaps she might discover the reason he attracted her so.

She had a smile like a young girl, Egon thought, tentative and even a bit shy, not at all the practiced expression one expected from someone in her work. She was small, shapely, he noticed, with a casual, brushed-back haircut and a minimum of makeup. “I'd appreciate that,” Egon said, the decision simple. If he was going to retreat to Le Retour, it would be pleasant to have company. “Would you have time for dinner tonight?”

Her smile lit up the flashes of gold in her hazel eyes. When she quickly nodded in agreement, he liked the way her dark hair flared forward briefly to brush her cheek. With effort he restrained himself from touching the silken fall. Later, he thought. The heroin was making him whole again. All his receptors were pleasantly in tune, no agitation, no violence. He'd even forgotten momentarily that he was running for his life.

He had only a small leather carry-on bag with the barest essentials for traveling, and the cab Mariel had arranged for was waiting for them. Within minutes of landing they were on their way to Ocho Rios.

Two flights were scheduled to land yet from Europe, one from Rome, and one from Barcelona. Jess had been sent to check the arrival of any chartered planes, while Carey and Molly were waiting to see if Egon was on the Barcelona flight.

Jamaica was ungodly hot in June, and sweat was damp on her skin as Molly surveyed the passengers walking toward them. After their discussion on the plane-a mature discussion Molly was proud of-Molly stood beside Carey at the passenger gate hoping to see Egon and immediately whisk him away with them back to safety at Bernadotte's.

“If you want to help, okay,” Carey had said seated opposite her across the small rosewood table in the lounge. “You and I will see if we can find Egon at the airport.” How can she get hurt in an air terminal? he'd thought.

“Tell me what Egon looks like,” Molly had said, pleased she'd presented her position so well. Carey understood how she felt and was willing to have her along. In the ensuing discussion, she forgot about Rifat. Carey was amiable, describing Egon so she felt she knew him even though she'd never met him.

But often in the course of their flight, Carey checked his watch. He was very much aware of Rifat, and time was about all he had on his side. Jess was great backup; he could fly or drive anything with a motor, but Molly was going to be a colossal hindrance. Goddamn… how can you love someone and be madder than hell at them at the same time? But in a mental exercise he'd developed in Vietnam, he forced himself to concentrate on the mission in hand.

1. Find Egon first. Maybe not too damn difficult; Ocho Rios was small.

2. If necessary, elude Rifat's men. Harder. Ocho Rios was small.

3. Get back to the plane.

So here he stood with sweat clinging to his skin at Montego Bay terminal, a building no larger than the gymnasium back home. He grew more nervous with each passing moment because the passengers were filing off now, and Egon wasn't one of them. He could have been wrong on his timing; it was possible Egon had caught a previous flight. It was also possible he was in the wrong place altogether, and Egon was huddled in some other part of the world. “Christ.”

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Molly took his hand in hers. “Maybe Jess found him.”

He was having trouble being affable now, when it looked as though “Step 1” was fucking up in a major way. “Okay, let's go and see.” But his tone was repressive, his scowl intense, and he swore under his breath all the way to the area where private planes landed. Jess was waiting for them, and Carey could see from a hundred yards away that he wasn't cheerful.

Now to sweet talk one of the reservation employees, and see if Egon had been on an earlier passenger manifest. Despite the realization Egon may have opted for another hiding place, Carey's gut feeling stuck with Le Retour. It had always been Egon's haven when his world was crashing around his ears. Carey had dragged him back to school a dozen times from Le Retour in the years he was married to Sylvie. He knew Egon would show up here sooner or later. He just hoped like hell Egon was sooner, and Rifat's thugs were later.

“No luck, boss.”

“Ditto here. Do you want to see what you can get out of the cab drivers? I'll check the Barcelona flight passenger list. And I'll see what else is scheduled to come in this evening.” Carey cocked one brow. “Use money.”

The clerk politely explained to Carey that she wasn't allowed to show the manifest to anyone. It was distinctly against regulations.

“Perhaps you could just let me know if my brother-in-law was on the flight,” Carey replied with a social ingenuity he was famous for, his voice as polite as hers. “He's been ill, and we're concerned since he didn't disembark. Perhaps I was mistaken on the flight number. I certainly would appreciate any help you could give me,” and he placed four hundred-dollar bills directly in front of her. “His mother's worried. She sent me out to meet him,” Carey added in a confidential tone, “and you know what mother-in-laws can be like.” He smiled. “She'll have my head if I met the wrong flight.”

The clerk smoothly picked up the bills without losing eye contact with Carey. “Of course, sir. In case of medical emergency, I could give you that information.”

“I'd greatly appreciate it,” Carey replied in the hushed tones a mortician would use with the family of the deceased.

No wonder the boy director was hailed as a genius. He was as good an actor as a director, Molly decided as she watched an expression of deep concern overshadow his features. The man was a natural actor.

The young woman looked up from the list almost immediately. “Mr. von Mansfeld booked two seats on flight 27, which just arrived.”

“That's the flight we watched disembark. He wasn't on it.”

“I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps he changed his mind.”

“Would it be possible to talk to one of the flight crew?”

“I don't know if I can find them.”

Another two hundred changed hands.

“I'll page the crew; someone may still be in the terminal.”

“I'd be happy to pay for any information they might have.” Carey's heart was thudding rapidly. There were endless possibilities why Egon booked two seats, then never showed up at the flight's destination. And most of the possibilities were unpleasant, with Rifat figuring very largely in them.

Egon and Mariel were seated in the backseat of a '66 Impala careening down the coastal highway to Ocho Rios. Egon was feeling fine, and the blue-green ocean on his left sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Mariel was cheerfully chatting beside him about the small children selling shells or the bucolic beauty of the occasional herd of cattle grazing on the coastal plain.

Their driver was keeping beat to the radio with one hand, steering with the other. Visibility around the curves on the coast road was limited, but he'd simply pull out, honk his horn, and accelerate around anything in his path. Even a large bus didn't slow him down. After that, Mariel clung to Egon.

“Want to stop for a beer or a Pepsi?” the driver asked in his British-accented Jamaican.

Egon knew that the residents in the shacks along the road lived off the tourists. “Sure, why not,” Egon answered, content to be so near to home. When they stopped, Egon gave him a bill and said, “Why don't you get one, too.”

Resuming their journey a few minutes later, they each had a cool Red-Stripe beer to sip on while the music played and the scenery unfolded for them like a travelogue for an ocean paradise. A few miles later on a portion of straight road, their driver turned round, took off his dark glasses, and inquired, “Looking for any ganja?”

“No, but I'm looking for something a bit stronger,” Egon casually replied.

“My cousin can help you, mon.”

“Good. No rush. Maybe tomorrow.” Egon had his own supply at Le Retour, but he never passed up an opportunity to acquire more. He felt safe when his supply was comfortably large.

They passed Rose Hall. When Mariel mentioned that she'd never seen it, Egon promised to show it to her tomorrow.

“Is this your first time here?”

When she nodded yes, he said he'd have to show her the sights. They'd do the tour tomorrow. He pointed out Green Grotto Cave where pirates had hidden their contraband, and as they sped along the road he directed her attention to Runaway Bay where Columbus had landed.

They stopped for dinner at the Ruins just west of Ocho Rios. Seated at a secluded table with the view of the waterfall and tropical forest, they were served by two solicitous waiters. Egon dined regularly at the Ruins when he was at Le Retour, and he was known for his generosity. Feeling relaxed, Egon entertained Mariel with stories of his last trip to Paris when Sylvie had used him as buffer against Bernhardt. His descriptions of Bernhardt made her laugh, while his portrayal of the couturiers' inner sanctums, the models, and gowns were so perfect Mariel felt as though she'd been shopping with Sylvie herself.

“You'll have to join me sometime in Paris,” Egon said. He looked lean and at ease sprawled in an empire armchair. “I'll show you my favorite playgrounds.” He was dressed in buff and charcoal linen, his sport coat a small houndstooth check, his slacks a pale shade of charcoal, his natural colored shirt open at the neck. His long-fingered hands fascinated Mariel… elegant and aristocratic was her first thought. But he moved them with a restless mercurial energy that drew the eye, she was mesmerized by his compelling presence.

As their dessert soufflйs were taken away, she reached out and lightly touched the pale golden hair growing in a thick pattern toward his wrist. She felt taut muscle beneath the silky golden hair and bronzed skin, and it surprised her momentarily. “Your hands are strong,” she murmured without thinking.

“I ride,” Egon said. “When the mood strikes me,” he added with a grin. “Do you ride?” he asked.

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“Would you like me to show you? I keep several horses at Le Retour.”

She smiled, liking his sincerity and his utter lack of arrogance. “I'd like that,” she said.

“Good. Can you stay over a few days?” In the pleasure of Mariel's company, Egon had forgotten he was on the run. He was losing himself in the sense of security Le Retour always instilled in him.

“I've a three day layover.”

“I'll have you riding out on the trail in two days. Wait and see… you'll love it.”

She laughed at his enthusiasm. “Just a warning… I'm a lousy athlete. Don't be disappointed if I fall off.”

“You can have Sylvie's Mannerheim. He's as gentle as a lamb. My sister doesn't like riding very much.”

“Why does she ride, then?”

“Well, first Mama insisted she learn. Mama was from a Junker family which prided itself on its hunting lands. And secondly, Sylvie's ex-husband is a world-class rider; she pretended she adored horses for him. Carey realized how deep that affection went the first time he saw her ride. Anyway, Sylvie's old Mannerheim is like sitting in a padded rocking chair, I promise.”

“In that case, I won't mind riding lessons. But don't feel you have to teach me to ride if it's an inconvenience.” Mariel had never so instantly liked someone in her life, but she remembered her manners and also remembered Egon was from a very different world.

“No inconvenience,” Egon assured her, reaching for his grappa. “I've all the time in the world.”