Part 20 (1/2)
The door to the private room opened. Without a word of greeting, a third man walked in, sat down, and picked up a plate to help himself from the varied dishes at the center of the dark table. Whatever Maxmillian Barton thought of the food, he kept it to himself. He had been raised on Tex-Mex cuisine and had graduated to coconut milk and nuclear Thai curries while doing several duty tours for the U.S. State Department. No matter how hot the spice or how cold the company, Barton ate and listened, both eyes wide-open for the main chance.
”Is Archer Donovan working for the U.S. on this?” Chang asked Barton without preamble.
”Not so far as I can tell.”
”How far is that?” Flynn asked.
”Far enough to know that he has no official ties with the U.S. government.”
Chang picked up a tree ear with his chopsticks, chewed the nutty fungus, and swallowed. ”What about unofficial ties?”
”He's not ours off the books, if that's what you mean.”
Chang grunted. McGarry had been an off-the-books agent for the United States. Sometimes. Most of the time he had worked for himself. Chang wondered if anyone else at the table knew.
”Archer Donovan's a Yank through and through,” Flynn said. ”He'll help out his government.”
Barton shrugged. ”Maybe. He's turned 'em down flat in the past.”
Flynn's blond eyebrows rose. ”You let him get away with yanking your chain like that?”
”It's a free country,” Barton said blandly.
”b.a.l.l.s.”
”Len was a Yank, too,” Chang pointed out to Flynn. ”He didn't help anybody but himself, no matter who happened to be employing him.”
Flynn made a disgusted sound. If there was anything that made a government crazy, it was foreign or domestic agents who wouldn't stay bought. But it was a hazard of the business. ”I still say Donovan somehow got McGarry killed.”
”If he did,” Barton said, avoiding an opaque clot of tofu in favor of anonymous animal protein, ”you better pray he never wants your p.e.c.k.e.r in his collection. We looked, and we looked hard, and we couldn't find one single G.o.dd.a.m.n piece of evidence that Donovan had a hand in McGarry's death.” Flynn started to object.
Barton looked up, still chewing. His black eyes reminded the other men that he once had been a contract a.s.sa.s.sin. ”We would love just flat f.u.c.king love to have a twist on Archer Donovan. He was about the shrewdest d.a.m.n a.n.a.lyst we ever had, as well as one effective son of a b.i.t.c.h in the field. Having that kind of talent running around without a handler makes us nervous. So if you're thinking we didn't look hard enough, think again.”
The palm of Flynn's big hand came down on the table with enough force to make silverware jump. ”Then who in Jesus and Mary's name killed Len McGarry?”
Barton smiled thinly. Beneath his thinning gray hair his scalp gleamed. So did his teeth. ”We have two pools going. The first is betting on the Chinese triads, compliments of one of the Overseas Chinese's foremost trading families.”
Chang speared tofu, chewed once, and swallowed as though he didn't understand that Barton was accusing his family.
”The second pool,” Barton said, watching Flynn idly, ”is on the Aussies doing the dirty. Specifically the marginally bright, no-longer-young Turk who needs a gold star in his file to go up in rank.”
”b.u.g.g.e.r yourself,” Flynn said without heat. ”If I killed the w.a.n.ker, you'll never prove it.”
Chuckling, using the chopsticks as deftly as Chang, Barton flicked a lump of noodles from his plate to his mouth. ”What are you going to do about Donovan?”
Flynn didn't say a word.
Neither did Chang.
Barton sighed. ”Listen up, boys. For the moment, the U.S. wants Archer Donovan alive and kicking a.s.s.”
Chang glanced up and mentally began revising his phone summary for Sam Chang. ”Why?”
”Yours not to reason why,” Barton retorted. ”Just make b.l.o.o.d.y sure that if Donovan goes t.i.ts up, you don't have any part in it. If your Daddy doesn't like the good word, tell him to call my boss. She'll tell him just what I'm telling you. Lay off Donovan until you hear otherwise.” Black eyes glanced at Flynn. ”Same goes.”
Flynn shrugged. ”I don't take my orders from a Yank.”
”Your country takes loans, lots of them, in U.S. dollars. Would you like to be the one to explain to your finance minister that you personally f.u.c.ked up some multibillion-dollar development loans because McGarry's widow liked Donovan's c.o.c.k better than yours?”
Flynn's head snapped up. ”So Donovan is working for you.” Barton's laugh was as cold as his eyes. ”Not yet, but we're giving him rope and lighting candles in h.e.l.l. The instant he screws up, we'll be there. And he'll be ours.”
”What about Hannah McGarry?” Chang asked. ”What about her?” Barton retorted. ”Is she off limits, too?”
”Nothing was said about her.”
Chang flicked a prawn into his mouth, eating it in the Chinese manner head, sh.e.l.l, and all. He chewed thoughtfully, savoring the intense flavor of the sh.e.l.l and the succulence of the flesh. ”Ms. McGarry is the owner of record of a very special, very valuable piece of the pearl trade.”
”Too bad Donovan showed up,” Barton said cheerfully. ”She isn't likely to make an alliance with either of you now.”
Neither Chang nor Flynn looked at each other, but each was thinking the same thing: Barton didn't know that Donovan was half owner of Pearl Cove.
And Hannah McGarry had just been thrown to the wolves. Barton stood up, tossed some Australian money on the table, and walked out. Every step of the way he cursed April Joy for her latest intricate game. It wasn't the first time he had cursed her. It wouldn't be the last.
The h.e.l.l of it was, she was right. Getting a handle on talent like Archer Donovan was worth bending a few rules.
Red dirt flew by on either side of the road, which was also red dirt. Low, ramshackle buildings circled Broome and crouched rather drunkenly along the waterfront. Many of the buildings were remodeled pearling sheds. New buildings stuck out like castles in a shantytown. These were the small hotels and restaurants, stores and bars that had been built recently with the tropical tourist in mind potted palms, French doors, bamboo or rattan furniture, breezy rooms, lots of shade, and a cross between rustic frontier and clean-lined Asian decor.
The airport wasn't one of the castles.
Like the World War II Quonset hut that served as a terminal, the airport parking lot was unadorned and unshaded. It sucked in heat and held it, returning it redoubled to anyone unlucky enough to stand on the sun-softened surface. Even through the mercury-colored heat haze, sunlight was a staggering burden over land and man alike.
While Archer locked the car, Hannah looked around the parking lot. Though Archer said nothing, he was feeling every bit of the temperature difference between Seattle and Broome. Sweat gleamed on his face, his arms, his legs. His tank top and shorts were a wet second skin. He couldn't have dripped more if he had just walked out of the shower.
”Is this where you tell me why we're in Broome?” Hannah asked.
”No.”
She lifted her eyebrows, s.h.i.+fted the airy straw hat that shaded her head, and waited.
He held out his hand, silently apologizing for his curt answer. ”A flight just came in.”
”So?”
”So what pa.s.ses for a taxi service should be waiting out front for pa.s.sengers.”
Hannah looked at the car they had just gotten out of. She looked at Archer. He didn't say a word. She took his hand and headed for the ragged jitney that would ferry them to town.
When the van left the airport, there were only six people sitting on the cracked, sticky seats. The other four pa.s.sengers were two couples who had nothing in common but the slammed feeling of having been on a jet for too many hours, through too many time zones, and then walking out of stale air-conditioning into the tropical sauna of Broome air in late November. Overdressed for the time and place, they watched the world outside the jitney windows with the glazed eyes of people who would remember nothing of their surroundings until they slept for eight hours.
When Hannah would have spoken, Archer swiftly bent and kissed her. Then he murmured against her ear, ”Look exhausted, sweetheart.”