* * *
Juana Santiago rarely disturbed the president at his ranch, conceding to Anastasia Montenegro at least that three hundred acres of prime island turf. The urgent appeal in the coded message from the Santo Sangrían consulate in San Francisco made this one of those exceptional instances. Besides, Juana didn't enjoy being alone on a balmy Saturday night, when other single women danced in the clubs and wondered if they should go to bed with their male companions.
She dialed Montenegro's private phone, which was always within reach, wherever he was at the ranch. An aide answered and informed Juana that the president was having supper with his wife and was not to be disturbed.
"Tell His Excellency," Juana snarled, "there is an urgent message from the Consulate in San Francisco. I'll wait on the line for his answer." She despised the mindless sycophants whose only real service to her boss was to form a human shield around him in the event some fanatic tried to assassinate him. She hated pretending to be their equal. She could have any one of them fired--or worse--with a single word to the same leader on whose behalf they risked their lives.
Carrying the phone, the aide conveyed her message. In the receiver, she heard the dolt excuse himself to Sra. Montenegro and mutter something to the president. Anastasia's petulant, whining plea, which Juana silently mimicked with irreverent delight, amused her. "Not tonight, Raúl! You promised." Surely, the woman knew the true nature of her husband's relationship with his private secretary. Either she was still in love with the golden knight of her youth, or she had compromise her self-respect to maintain a comfortable, if diminished, existence.
I am the true first lady of Santo Sangre. If the old bitch knows what is good for her, Juana thought while awaiting confirmation of her boss's decision, she'll accept reality and go to her grave with it.
The president's aide uttered a terse, "Bueno." Then, she heard what she wanted to hear, Montenegro's voice snapping, "Get the car!"
So what if he's annoyed? The affair in San Francisco --the Freudian term that had spontaneously leapt to mind amused her--required his immediate attention. Just before the line went dead, Juana heard Raúl explain to his wife, "Something important has come up in one of our consulates. I'll try not to be too late." The tone was confidential, inclusive, but Anastasia wouldn't be fooled. In confiding this tidbit, he told her nothing.
* * *
In his office at the presidential palace, which occupied the eastern quarter of the Plaza de la Libertad, Montenegro sat at his massive desk and read the decoded message from Juan de los Reyes.
"So Father Javier's checked out of his hotel," he said. He rose and paced in front of the bulletproof glass window with its vista of the central plaza. The square below bustled with activity and music. A British cruise ship slumbered at anchor in the harbor beyond the plaza. This meant a precious and most welcome cargo of foreign currency was piling up in the capital's casinos, shops, restaurants, and bars.
In a typically sudden mood swing, the president slammed his fist on the desk. "Damn! This complicates things. It's all de los Reyes's fault! He should have known we couldn't count on our bumpkin village priest to cooperate further, once he learned about Rome and Amsterdam. What was the big hurry? He should have waited until Father Javier completed his mission in San Francisco before eliminating the targets."
It pleased Juana that the president's ire had turned against his security chief. She detested the man but accepted his occasional usefulness. "What shall we tell him?"
The president was decisive. "Tell him to carry out the final phase of his assignment at once. Then, come home." His anger abated as a second decision took shape. "It may be time to 'retire' our chief of security."
Juana moved to his side and massaged the back of his neck. "Raúl, I've been thinking."
The president's eyes brightened. "My darling Juana, when you think in that tone of voice, someone's life is in grave danger."
"It occurs to me that you may be in a unique position to achieve several goals with one stroke. Have de los Reyes keep a close eye on the priest and the woman. If my suspicions are correct--"
"When have your instincts been wrong?" he interjected.
The compliment pleased her. "An old romance that has lain dormant for years is bursting into flame again by spontaneous combustion." She grew animated as the picture became more vivid in her mind. "Pull de los Reyes back a bit. Give the lovers some room. I have a feeling they'll play right into your hands. Mrs. Barton will want to show her guest the sights. Order our man to follow them everywhere, but at a distance. Photograph them in some innocent, but visually compromising situation. It's amazing what a photograph can imply. One hand grasping another as they cross a busy street. His arm around her shoulder to protect her from the wind. Heads close together to catch a whispered word." Juana arched a thin, dark-brown eyebrow. Her full lips narrowed in a half-sneer. "Who knows? You may even get luckier, if you know what I mean. You can use the photos to ruin the priest's reputation here at home, without anyone knowing where the pictures came from and without having to get personally involved in his downfall. You win. He loses. Everyone loses, but you."
The president beamed, reveling in his mistress's political astuteness. He drew her close and cradled one breast in each hand. He hardened against her body, confirming her conviction about the close alliance in men of power between political intrigue and sexual desire.
"We'll release the photos to all the wire services and CNN, thereby exposing POCI/USA and its director to international scandal and ridicule." Juana's fingers slid to the firm bulge in his pants.
"Exactly." Montenegro placed his hands on her lean buttocks and tightened his hold.
Juana's breathing quickened. Passion took control of her bodily mechanisms, but her mind remained alert, undistracted. "Tomorrow, Father Javier will be on his way home, and de los Reyes can deliver the coup de gras to POCI/USA--the execution of the Barton boy. By the end of the week, you'll be rid of the whole lot."
"Juana, you are a genius! I'm so glad you are on my side." With one hand, Montenegro worked her silk dress up to her hips and explored his favorite secret places. With the other, he easily solved the buttons of her loose-fitting blouse. He sought the warmth and softness of her bare breasts. Juana threw her head back and let his tongue fill her mouth. His fingers probed between her legs, and her body trembled in his arms, convulsing again . . . and again.
Juana gulped for breath and set about rearranging her wrinkled dress. She fumbled with the buttons on her blouse and said, "You better get back to Anastasia. I heard you promise not to stay out late."
"You are a much more delightful companion."
"I'm sure! But your wife gives you respectability with the people and the Church."
Montenegro grew somber. "Ah, but the price of respectability."
It was the opening she had waited for. Like a hunter whose prey had just stepped into the trap, she said, "Anastasia won't live forever."
"None of us will, unfortunately."
"What I mean is, she needn't live much longer."
"Juana!" The reaction, though spontaneous, lacked the genuine shock and outrage of a devoted husband.
She kissed him lightly on the lips and laughed. "You'd make an adorable widower."
Juana gave herself high marks for having the finely honed sense of timing to know just when to verbalize what she intuited were her lover's most secret and treacherous thoughts. His mind moved swiftly from concept to action once a seminal idea had been set free. She had thrown the dice and won. The president had set a timer in motion, and the "accidental" death of Anastasia Montenegro would occur when it reached zero. Exactly what the sudden, tragic widowing of His Excellency Raúl Montenegro, President of the Republic of Santo Sangre, might mean for her she didn't yet know. One step at a time, she cautioned her racing ambitions.
"Send the message to San Francisco." The command was sharp and presidential.
Juana resumed her official role as his ob
edient, dedicated secretary. "Immediately, Excellency."
24
While Juan de los Reyes requested orders from Santa Catalina, Leah was on the phone with Janet Wishard.
"You really did it this time," Janet said. Leah had just outlined her predicament. Janet wasn't one to pull a punch. Especially for a friend. "Thought you could play hardball with madmen and never have to roll in the dirt with them."
"The last thing I need right now is a lecture, Jan."
"Okay. Get the hell down here. I'll see what I can do to help. Meantime, I'll run a check of your friend. Let's see what comes up. If there's a warrant out, I'll have to deal with that."
Leah and Jay agreed to play it straight with Janet. It was better to stay on the right side of the law, in case they needed professional help in thwarting the assassin. It took all of her motherly diplomacy to convince Teddy and Monica that Sandy and Bill Marlowe had invited them to the Ice Capades at the Cow Palace. Since they would be out late, she told them, it made sense to spend the night. She didn't tell the kids she had reserved the tickets herself only an hour earlier.
The short-day sun was drifting toward the Pacific horizon by the time Leah and Jay entered Central Police Station. The building looked like many of the veteran officers who worked the division, tired and emotionally scarred. The concrete slat facade modeled boring architecture in a city that took pride in displaying some of the finest Victorian and modern structures in the West.
Janet greeted Leah with a hug. Jay she eyed with barely concealed hostility.
"This is Janet Wishard," Leah said. "Jan, this is Javier de Córdova . . . Father de Córdova."
Jay muttered an uncomfortable how-do-you-do and followed the women to an interior windowless office.
"Okay, kiddo," Janet began, all but ignoring Jay. "Take it from the top. Tell me how you got things so fucked up for yourself."
Leah winced at Janet's terse summary. She glanced at Jay, expecting a disapproving frown at her friend's language. Instead, he wore an amused maybe-this-lady's-not-so-bad-after-all expression. "This story has a short history. I received a letter from Jay a couple of weeks ago. He said he was coming to see me on official business for his government."
"Which is?"
"Santo Sangre," Jay answered. "In the Southern Caribbean."
"Right!" A light clicked on in Janet's eyes. "That's where Leah did some volunteer work after college."
"The same." Leah took a deep breath and continued. "Jay and I worked together when I was with P/SHARE."
Janet arched a reddish eyebrow and formed Jay's name with her lips. "Now I get the connection." She shot another menacing glance at the priest. "As I recall from your letters at the time, you two were an item for a while. Then, you came home and married Walt." From the detective's inflection, it was clear she thought Leah had made the wiser choice.
"We were close friends," Leah corrected, without looking at Jay. She described the nature of his mission for President Montenegro and named the POCI leaders he had visited prior to coming here. "Yesterday morning we got word--maybe you saw it in the paper--the oldest child in each of the two families was murdered within the last few days. After Jay left them." The emphasis was deliberate. "I'm the third and last stop on his itinerary. We suspect there's a plot in the works to--" The words refused to pass her lips.
"Kill Teddy?" Clearly, Janet considered the idea far-fetched.
"Yes," Jay said. "There's an age-- an official from my country I reported to in Rome and again in Amsterdam. I know him only by his code name, Angel. I have every reason to believe he's in San Francisco right now, stalking us."
"Give me a good reason not to suspect you of being an accomplice." Another menacing look. "Or even the murderer."
"Would I be here with you if I were?"
Jay shot Leah an icy glance. She feared for a moment he might walk out on them. "He didn't know anything about it," Leah said. "I'm sure of that."
"Let him prove it, then."
Jay didn't move, and Leah exhaled for the first time in minutes.
"I wish I could, Detective Wishard," he said. "Unfortunately, I can't. I have given Leah my word I had nothing to do with the scheme or those hideous crimes. It's all I have to give right now. I'm as puzzled as she is why I'm involved at all. If President Montenegro wanted to do this monstrous, insane thing, he certainly didn't need me."
Janet relented a bit. "I ran a check on Father de Córdova, right after I talked with you. Nothing showed up on the computer. If Interpol or INS are looking for him, we have no record of it yet."
"That's a relief!" Without reason, Leah felt a surge of hope.
"At least, we know only the bad guy is after us," Jay said, with more than a little sarcasm.
"So, what do you want me to do? I'll help any way I can."
Leah explained that Jay had never seen this Angel person face to face. "Is there such a thing as photographs of suspicious aliens who have entered the country recently, even within the past week? If he could look at photos, he might recognize someone. I don't know, Jan. We're shooting in the dark."
"Needle in the proverbial haystack," Janet mused. "You're in luck, though. Central Station houses the S.F.P.D.'s Antiterrorism Section, such as it is." She made a phone call and left Leah and Jay alone in her cluttered, grimy office.
"Tough cookie," he said. "She'd love to throw me to the sharks."
Leah touched Jay's hand. "She's a good friend. She'll help us. You'll like her, once you get behind that tough-cop veneer."
* * *
Janet returned twenty minutes later with an armload of albums containing mug shots of known and suspected terrorists, foreign agents, "and assorted other not-so-nice folks, who've chosen our fair city as a base of operation or passed this way on occasion." She opened one album and spread it on top of the stack. "I even found a family portrait of the entire Santo Sangrían consular staff. Don't know if these'll be any use to you, but you're welcome to take as much time as you need. We never close."
For the next three hours, Jay pored over volume after volume of the dregs of the Hispanic world, in hope of recognizing someone they might link to Montenegro. Several times, he paused to study a particular face. In each case, a negative. After scanning the last page in the last binder Janet had brought him, he grunted and slammed the thick brown cover shut.
"It wasn't a waste of time," Leah said. "When you have nothing to go on, you grasp at anything."
Janet made her promise to call day or night, if she needed help. "As far as getting any official protection, your request would be denied. The threat's too vague and the department's resources too thinly spread. The latest round of budget cuts hit us pretty hard."
* * *
During dinner at a noisy Columbus Avenue cafe, Leah sat across from Jay, distant, lost in weary thoughts. Saturday night traffic made the drive from Little Italy to Lyon Street seem interminable. She parked the wagon and turned off the ignition.
"Home at last." Her body felt old and leaden. Just getting out of the car was an effort. Home had always been the welcome port to which she dragged the burdened ship of her life after a tough day or demanding trip out of town. Her house had always offered familiarity, comfort, love, companionship, and security, even after Walter died. Tonight, it promised no haven from the storm. No guiding beacon shone from its hearth to assure her that, at least in this one place in her world, all was well. There was Jay, of course, but he offered no enlightenment in her darkness, no safety from the perils threatening her family.
Taking Leah by the hand, he helped her up the front steps onto the wide Victorian porch. She fumbled with her key, before letting him take it from her. He unlocked the ornate oak and stained-glass door and let her enter. Before closing the door behind them, he checked the street for any signs they were being watched.
Inside, only a distant street light broke the darkness. No children's voices chorused the house to life. No calls of welcome echoed from the kitchen or second
floor landing. For the first time since she had lived in her home, it felt devoid of hospitality. A chill raced through her body, as if the house had received warning of things to come and was trying to alert her.
Without a word, without premeditation, Leah fell into Jay's arms in the shadowed entryway. Her kisses gave and sought the comfort she desperately needed and only he could give. All her stored up fear, all her denied passion spilled through a widening crack in the levee that had contained them for so long.
Jay slid his hands along her cheeks, down the taut muscles in her neck, and into the folds of her open coat. When he touched her breasts, every nerve in her body responded. The conflicting powers of love and terror fueled her desire. In reason's absence, her heart took control.
"I want you!" she wept into his chest. Jay's heart beat rapidly against her cheek. She was the Leah of fourteen years ago, fresh out of college and eager to save the world as a P/SHARE volunteer. She possessed at last the man with whom she had fallen in love but could never have. In the next instant, she was her present self, in the prime of womanhood, confused because that very same man threatened her life and happiness. She had neither time nor energy to make sense of the contradictions.
"Tears?" Leah whispered, running a finger along Jay's high cheekbone. "What do they mean?"
He shook his head. "Joy . . . sadness . . . elation . . . despair. My heart is singing too many melodies at once to sort them out."
"Let's go upstairs," she invited and led the way to her bedroom.
"I would carry you, but I'm not sure we'd make it."
"You better conserve your strength," she said. "You're going to need it."
Leah went to the dresser and lit a grainy sand candle, which sputtered, then flickered to life. The yellow light created a serene, sanctuary-like effect.
"It's a lovely room," Jay said, "just as I've always imagined it. It smells like you--sweet, fragrant."
Standing beside her queen-size bed, Leah met his palm with hers. Her bed. The one in which she and Walt had played in unashamed nakedness and made their babies. This bed had held the four of them, when the children came crawling in, early on a weekend morning. She and Walt had considered selling it and getting a larger one, just before he died. Now, there was no way on earth she'd ever part with it. She hoped to die in this bed--but in her old age, with her children and grandchildren around her.