Haven, p.32
Haven, page 32
Tarrant closed his eyes. He mouthed an obscenity.
“Shit happens, Mr. Tarrant. I don't like it either." Loomis gestured with his hand as if to say let's get over it. "We can beat it to death or we can wonder why Kessler would be interested in a bunch of girls playing tennis.”
“Your point?”
“The tennis is in Harbour Town. Bandari is in Harbour Town. Kessler picks the one day when Bandari shows up. You believe in coincidence, Mr. Tarrant?”
Tarrant hesitated. He shook his head slowly. "How could Kessler have known that he was coming?”
“Who knows. A little birdie. You got yours; he got his. But I'll tell you one thing. I'll make you a bet. When we find him he'll be watching Bandari, not tennis.”
Roy Willis, with his pass and his Van Der Meer jitney, had no trouble parking on the tournament grounds in a space that was reserved for the sponsors. He asked Peter for one more look at Kessler's photo before entering the crowd to try to spot him.
He put aside those of Lawrence Tarrant and Bandari who were not a concern for the moment. According to Roger, the man Peter called, they'll be meeting in Grand Cayman where surveillance will soon be in place. The photo reinforced his mental picture of the man who he had seen in the Players Club lot. He was now twelve years older but little had changed. The face bore an expression, even back then, of a boy who was planning a prank. Kessler's housemate had said that he was dressed in white slacks. His shirt was green with a Shipyard golf logo and he had on a hat with a dark plastic visor. They had thought it unwise to alert the housemate by showing him either their credentials or the photograph. Better to claim that they were simply two friends and that Jonathan was supposed to have met them for lunch.
“We could stake out the toilets," Willis suggested. "There's one major bank of portable toilets. He'll need one sooner or later.”
“I think I'd rather wander than stand in one place. Let's concentrate on green shirts.”
But what they saw within minutes of beginning their search were two faces conducting a search of their own. "There's Nadia," said Willis, craning his head. "Jazz is with her. They must not have found Aisha.”
“Or the lethal Elizabeth Stride, it appears.”
Willis threw him a look. "You made me a promise.”
“Give me Kessler and I'll keep it, my friend. That's the deal.”
“Then let's go. We'll all look for him together.”
It's too bad, thought Kessler, that Elizabeth dared not come but her decision was not without its benefits. He could roam around freely, come and go as he pleases, not get stuck at a match in which he has little interest when Elizabeth says she wants to stay to the end.
Also he can wear his new Madras shorts which Elizabeth thought looked ridiculous on him. They did not look ridiculous. His legs could use a little tanning perhaps but so could all these fans who drove down for the day. Also he could wear his baggy golf jacket which Elizabeth would have complained about as well. This time, in fact, it did conceal a pistol but only because it would really raise eyebrows if he'd worn his ankle holster with shorts. And also he could order a big gooey sandwich without Elizabeth telling him he's plugging up his heart and should order some tofu instead. Elizabeth owed him a new sausage sandwich to replace the one he had to spill on the girl so Elizabeth could make her escape.
He was waiting his turn at the same sandwich tent, having passed those that offer only salads or hot dogs and some abomination called a chicken fried steak. Nearby was a clearing in which several large trailers were parked. They were all painted white; they all bore signs. One said "Hospitality." One said "First Aid." Two others seemed to be for the use of the professionals to cool off and maybe even to shower. He saw one of the professionals, a young qualifier, limping toward the one that provided first aid with her tennis shoe unlaced. Sprained her ankle, perhaps, or a blister. His head had turned just enough to catch sight of the people who were waiting behind him on line. He was startled to see, two places behind him, Elizabeth's Jonathan Leidner. White shoes, white pants, green shirt and a hat. The hat was the type that Cyril Pratt wore except Pratt's had no plastic sun visor.
Kessler felt a small tickle running up his spine. A part of him brain was attempting to annoy him by suggesting that this Jonathan might actually be stalking him. That this man had somehow found out the name of his rival for Elizabeth's affections. That he heard how this Kessler had made fun of him for his opening of cars doors and his pecks on the cheek.
Kessler knew that this was almost certainly nonsense. Her Jonathan was here because he had tickets. He had, after all, invited Elizabeth. This Jonathan had no way of knowing what he looks like unless, of course, he had been driven by jealousy to follow Elizabeth for the last several days. Which would have been pathetic. Totally childish. Never mind that Kessler had done that himself.
Kessler's turn came and he ordered his sandwich. He asked that they pile extra peppers and onions. Off to one side was a condiment counter that had relish and mustard and slices of pickle. He moved to it intent on creating a sandwich that would give mortal offense to Elizabeth idea of what is fit for human consumption. He was only halfway through arranging the pickles when he realized that Jonathan was standing at his side. Jonathan brought with him a diet cola and a prepackaged garden salad to go. He was choosing a dressing from several on the counter. Kessler knew even before he reached that he would choose the one that boasted "Fat Free." What on earth could Elizabeth have seen in this man? Real food right in front of him and what does he order? A can of sugar water and some plants. Kessler, almost not knowing that he was doing it, pulled out a Swisher Sweet and lit it. He exhaled a stream of fragrant smoke in the direction of Jonathan's salad. No reaction from Jonathan. Just one annoyed grimace. He picked up his salad and walked off.
Okay, that wasn't nice. It was pointless and peevish. He had risked provoking a confrontation with a man to whom he is better invisible and who, being a surgeon, could not risk hurting his hands in a brawl. That's how bullies behave. Cut it out.
Kessler, biting into his sandwich, wandered off in the opposite direction. He had ordered the sandwich just in time because he now saw a stream of fans moving toward him. A match in the stadium court must have ended and its audience is now headed for the food tents. He suddenly spotted a black face among them and recognized Roy from the Van Der Meer school. Roy's face was turning this way and that as if scanning the oncoming crowd. An older man seemed to be with him. Far off to his right he saw another black face, this one belonging to the woman called Jazz. Near her, looking in another direction, was a woman with Elizabeth's coloring and carriage. He knew that could only be Nadia. Kessler assumed that the girl was here again and perhaps, as before, they had lost sight of her.
He thought it best not to make eye contact with any of them so he turned away and went instead in the direction that Jonathan had taken. He no longer saw Jonathan but he noticed still another man who seemed to be looking for someone. But this one, a fat man, was acting very differently. He was behaving in the manner of a man who wants to look but doesn't want to be seen. He would move about but not in the open, always with a hedge or a tent to stay behind. He held a handkerchief bunched up in fist and would use it to dab perspiration from his forehead on a day when not even the athletes were sweating. From his clothing, a blazer, deck shoes and a cap, Kessler guessed that he came from a boat in the marina. He was surely not dressed to watch tennis.
Kessler had an odd feeling that he knew this man but also that the feeling had no basis. Too many years of watching peoples' eyes for some sign of a possible threat. Kessler put the man out of his mind. He had, more importantly, a sandwich to finish. After that he would be ready for a beer.
THIRTY TWO
Loomis had not anticipated the tournament traffic. All cars not bearing special tags on their dashboards were directed to lots as much as two miles distant. From these, shuttle busses would take them to Harbour Town. They were fortunate to catch a departing shuttle that stopped to let the five men climb on. It meant, however, that they would have no car at hand in the event that they found and took Kessler.
“Maybe that's not so bad," Lester Loomis suggested as shuttle bus came within sight of the tournament. "If we take him, we drag him on Bandari's boat. That way you have them both in one place.”
Tarrant answered with a scowl. He was looking at the crowd, at so many pairs of eyes. He could not imagine how this could be done. But at least he understood why Bandari had chosen to dock at this particular marina. Bandari must be betting that his niece will be here. He's betting that she wouldn't miss this tournament. He intends to snatch her and get away on his boat.
“Will you listen? This can work," said Loomis quietly. "We know the boat's here. I send two guys to board it, keep Bandari on ice. The rest of us meanwhile grab Kessler.”
“We just...grab him. Nothing to it. Is that what you're saying?”
“Let's just get there. His roomie gave me an idea.”
“Is it better than thinking you'll just go in and pluck him from a crowd that must number several thousand?”
“We don't pluck him, Mr. Tarrant. We page him.”
Elizabeth, her mind and eyes turned inward, had almost reached the tournament grounds before she realized how far they had walked. They had crossed the golf course at the 17th tee and followed a cart path that led to the clubhouse. Beyond were the trailers and the edge of the crowd. The Harbour Town marina was off to her left. She stopped, not wishing to go nearer the tournament for fear that she might, just perhaps, run into Martin. It was bad enough that Aisha knew who he was. She did not have to know what he looked like.
“We could walk down to the water," said Aisha, looking up at her. "It's quiet. We could talk. Or just sit if you like." Aisha had her rollerblades slung from her shoulder, their laces tied together in a bow.
Elizabeth breathed a sigh. She didn't answer. Her mind was on Martin and what he would say if she told him about Rada and Nasreen and the Israelis. "So they lied," he would say. "This comes as a surprise? Mossad is in the business of deception." He would say, "They've been lying about me for almost ten years. Do I have all that money the Ceausecus got for Jews or did they throw me one little bag of diamonds?" He would say, "You didn't need the deaths of your two Muslim women. All you needed was that warden who murdered your mother and threw you in a cell for eight months. After that all you needed was the names of Muslim men who threw bombs into busses filled with children.”
And perhaps he would be right. But they would have been enough. She had killed fewer times than the stories would suggest but more times than she'd admitted to Martin.
“Could I ask you a question?" Aisha looked up at her.
Elizabeth must have nodded her permission.
“I read in the paper...those men at that cabin...I mean, I guess I know why you said they ran off...”
“If you're asking if I cut them, no, I didn't.”
She said it and was instantly ashamed that she had. Who, me? Of course not. All I did was drive you home. We won't mention that I first blew out Cyril Pratt's guts and then finished off a Muslim who didn't know where he was. But the answer was the one the girl wanted to hear. She was smiling as if to say, "I knew it.”
Loomis had asked a tournament volunteer where someone might go if he were paged. The volunteer showed him the Hospitality trailer. Loomis then sent two men to locate Bandari's yacht and report. He and Tarrant, along with his driver, took positions at the edge of the food tent area that afforded a view of the trailer.
His cell phone chirped; he cupped it and listened. His men had found the Alhambra right away. It was docked, stern in, among the other bigger yachts. They could see the three crewmen, one on board, two on the slip, they were loading or unloading provisions from a cart.
“You see Bandari?”
“Some kid, a dock boy, said the owner went ashore. Says he went down toward you, so look out. Says he's wearing a blazer and a sea captain's hat.”
Loomis looked around him. He did not see a blazer. "The other three, can you take them?”
“No sweat. They look sick. One is puking his guts out. All the same we should wait until they climb back on board. Too many people walking by all these boats.”
“Okay, sit tight. Bandari shows, call me. Right now I'm going to try to page Kessler.”
Loomis told Tarrant what his man had reported.
“He said they look sick?" Tarrant frowned.
“Count your blessings.”
But Tarrant, once again, was beginning to wonder what Bandari might have on that boat. He wanted to go up there and see for himself but he dared not risk being spotted by Bandari who might then disappear in this crowd.
“Make your call," he told Loomis. "Let's get on with it.”
“You know, you shouldn't wear dark glasses," said Aisha, looking up at her. "Your eyes are too pretty to be hidden.”
Elizabeth waved it off. "Look, about that night...”
“That's their real color, right? It's not contacts?”
“Aisha...listen. I'm not going to lie to you. I'm...not someone you would like if you knew me.”
The girl made a tiny wave of her own. "And you shouldn't wear a kerchief over your hair," she said forcefully. "If my hair was half as gorgeous as yours, I wouldn't walk around with it covered.”
Elizabeth did not want to talk about hair. Nor did Aisha, she saw, want to talk about lies.
“Um...you don't ever cover your hair?" she asked Aisha.
“Sure, I do. When it's appropriate. Don't you know about covering?” Elizabeth did, of course. She knew Muslim customs. But this, come to think of it, was a much better subject. She answered with a shrug that was still another lie.
“The whole idea of covering is not to stand out. If I covered down here I'd stand out.”
“I see.”
“In Egypt, these days, more women go covered but it's not because they're suddenly religious, so much. Some do out of fear so they won't be harassed and some do it to show that they...”
Aisha stopped. She cocked an ear toward a sound in the distance. She said, "That's Doctor Leidner they're paging.”
Elizabeth blinked. "You know Jonathan Leidner?”
“I know about him. I told you I did.”
“Aisha...you've said nothing about Jonathan Leidner.”
“Yes, I did. I told you. I know that he's the man who was with you that night.”
Elizabeth was stricken. When Aisha had told her, "You can stay here. You both can," it had never crossed her mind that the reference was to anyone but Martin.
“Aisha...have you mention him to anyone else?”
“No. Well, not counting that lady, your neighbor. She's the one who told me he's...your friend.”
Elizabeth took a breath. She understood how this happened. She didn't like it at all but she did not doubt Aisha when Aisha said she'd kept it to herself. All the same it bothered her to hear his name paged because Jonathan, a doctor, always carried a beeper. His hospital, his office and his housemates knew that so why would he have to be paged and by whom?
“Aisha, wait here for me. I want to see something.”
“I'll go with you.”
“Aisha...wait here.”
Kessler heard the page but he thought little of it. Doctors are called in from having fun all the time. He had more than that on his mind. He was holding tickets for a stadium match - a German, Brenda Schultz against the Spaniard, Vicario - but was suddenly reluctant to be trapped in a grandstand.
The cause of his reluctance was still another group of men who appeared and seemed to be searching for someone. First there was that whole Van Der Meer group, then next came the fat man who was sweating so much. Now comes five more who first huddle, then split up, all but one wearing loose-fitting jackets like his own. The fifth wore a suit and he carried a briefcase. One with him who seemed to do most of the talking was holding a cell phone in his hand.
Suddenly this seemed not a good place to be. Too many hard faces, too many searching eyes. He began to back away when the one with the cell phone nudged the man in the suit and gestured with his chin toward the edge of the crowd. All three men froze. The one with the cell phone flicked a hand to his belt as if to make sure that a weapon was still there. Kessler recognized the reflex. It is one that a professional is taught to avoid but these men had the look of mere thugs.
Kessler, interested, followed their eyes. He easily picked out the object of their attention. It was Roy, one of only a few black faces. The three men waited and watched for several seconds. Roy's head turned abruptly as if he'd been called. Another black face bobbed out of the crowd. Kessler saw that it was Jasmine and Nadia was with her. Roy and Jazz behaved as if they'd just found each other. Kessler had assumed they were together. Jazz and Nadia reached Roy and were gesturing excitedly. Now Roy glanced around and he shook his head. Whoever Roy was looking for at first, thought Kessler, these women were looking for someone else.
As he watched, they fanned out again, but not in his direction. They were moving back toward the stadium court. This was all the more reason, Kessler decided, to forego that particular match. Perhaps he'd drop in on Elizabeth instead. He could stand by her front door and peel off his clothing just as she did last night from his balcony. We will see if Elizabeth has the nerve to complain.
Curiosity, however, got the better of him. These three by the food tents were no friends of Roy's. You don't spot a friend and touch your gun. They want to watch but they don't want to be seen. He would stay for a few minutes longer.
Tarrant held his breath until the black man turned away. The two women, by their jackets, were from Van Der Meer as well. They were now in the thickest part of the crowd and had apparently not heard the page.
The question, however, was did Leidner/Kessler hear it? The place where they were standing had a clear view of the trailer. They could take him either coming or going if he answered. But the only people he saw within fifty yards of the trailer were a woman wearing a gardening apron and a girl who had roller blades draped from her shoulder. The woman, one of the groundskeepers, probably, seemed to be giving directions to the girl, pointing her back toward the golf course. Now a man, late thirties, was walking toward the trailer but that man looked nothing like Kessler. Off to his right, through some harbor-front condos, Tarrant could see the masts of several sailboats. The report that Bandari's Arab crew seemed ill troubled him the more that he thought about it.
