GRACE WAS ALREADY AWAKE WHEN THE alarm went off.
Four A.M.
She pulled back the curtains in her cheap hotel room and looked down at the deserted street. According to weather.com, dawn would break in less than ten minutes. Right now it was pitch-dark outside, the buildings slick with the blackness of night, gleaming-dark, as if they’d been dipped in tar.
Grace dressed hurriedly. The backpack was light, but it contained everything she needed. She looked in the mirror.
For you, Lenny my darling.
It’s all been for you.
Silently, she slipped out of the hotel and into the shadows.
THIRTY-SIX
THE STREETS WERE DESERTED. ANTANANARIVO SLEPT. In a week’s time, the dry season would begin and cold, mountain winds would once again grip the town. Tonight, though, the air was as thick as soup, heavy with threatened thunder. Grace moved like a wraith through the empty city, as silent and deadly as a virus.
Yesterday, she’d panicked. What if he isn’t there? What if it’s not him, this mystery buyer? What if it isn’t John?
But now, as she climbed up the hill toward Le Cocon and the first rays of dawn pierced the stormy April sky, her doubts evaporated. He was here. John Merrivale was here. Her whole body was alive to his presence, like a shaman sensing an evil spirit.
She reached inside her jacket and touched the gun.
The time had come.
“I’M SORRY, SIR. THE EARLY FLIGHT to Antananarivo has been canceled.”
The girl at the check-in desk gave a careless little shrug of the shoulders, as if to say, What can you do? Mitch fought back the urge to vault over the desk and throttle her. Through gritted teeth, he asked, “When will the next flight be?”
She looked at her computer screen.
“Nine o’clock. But everything will depend on the weather. If these storms continue, they might close the airport.”
You don’t have to look so damn happy about it.
Why had John Merrivale come to Madagascar? Mitch and Harry had assumed it was because the island had no extradition treaty with the United States, that he’d be safe from the long arm of federal law. But what if that wasn’t the only reason? He’d told the manager at his hotel that he was meeting “a friend.” Perhaps John had a personal connection with the island? And who was this friend? Mitch’s first thought was that it might be Grace herself. Had she contacted him somehow and persuaded him to meet? Perhaps, as two criminals on the run from the U.S. justice system, she’d convinced John that she was prepared to let bygones be bygones. If so, Mitch was certain, she was luring him into a death trap.
Mitch had called Caroline Merrivale. Woken her up.
“Has John ever been to Madagascar? Does he have any acquaintances there?”
Caroline’s answer had hardened Mitch’s hunch into a certainty. He knew where John was. He knew where Grace was headed. But could he get there in time to prevent the inevitable?
“I’d like a ticket for that flight, please. The nine o’clock.”
She looked at her screen again. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid it’s fully booked. Shall I put you on standby?”
Breathe deeply. Count to five.
“Sure.”
Mitch tried Harry Bain again.
ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO HARRY Bain’s sleeping bag, his cell phone vibrated quietly. It was five A.M. at the Isalo National Park campsite. Outside, hikers were already warming cups of coffee over the breakfast campfire and checking the settings of their cameras. The big thing at Isalo was the birdlife. You could never get up too early to watch birds.
Unlike his fellow campers, Harry Bain had no interest in snapping a crested coua or catching a rainbow-plumed coraciidae feeding its young. He’d come to Toliara in search of the lesser-spotted Merrivale, but the whole thing had been another wild-goose chase. Whoever left him that note was either deliberately playing games with him or had gotten his signals crossed. The rangers at Isalo had the combined IQ of a dung beetle. None of them had seen John.
Harry Bain wanted to get back to Antananarivo last night, but he’d left too late. Reluctantly, he’d settled in for a night’s sleep in the park.
His phone buzzed five or six times, like a dying wasp, then fell silent. Thanks to his trusty foam earplugs, Harry Bain slept on, oblivious.
GRACE SLIPPED OFF HER BACKPACK. INSIDE were a length of rope, pliers, a stick of chalk, a square black piece of cloth and a Dictaphone tape recorder.
Tying a simple slipknot at one end of the rope, she threw it over the lowest part of Le Cocon’s fortresslike outer wall, aiming for a metal rod that jutted out below one of the bathroom windows. Lassoing was harder than it looked. It took Grace more than ten minutes to snag the rod, minutes in which she looked anxiously over her shoulder for early-morning pedestrians. The dawn had broken slowly at first, but now daylight seemed to flood the alley, shining on Grace as aggressively as any police flashlight. Rubbing chalk onto her hands, she gripped the rope and began pulling herself up. The wall was as smooth as newly shaven skin and slick with moisture from the air. Even with her climbing shoes, it was tricky to get a firm grip. With every slip, every lost footing, the strain on Grace’s triceps increased fivefold till her arms started to shake. Halfway up she thought desperately, I’m not going to make it! I can’t hold on! She could feel the rope chafing against her palms, the sweat of her efforts washing away the chalk. She started to slide, imperceptibly at first, but then faster and more surely, back down toward the street.
Voices. Girls’ voices, or young women. They were giggling, gossiping to one another in French. Grace couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. Their conversation grew louder. They’ll be here any second! They’ll see me!
Grace looked up. There was another fifteen feet to the top of the wall. Her hands were still slipping, her feet scrabbling for purchase. The voices were even louder now. Gripping the rope, Grace forced herself to move upward. She had no energy left, yet somehow she kept going, powered by determination. It wasn’t about saving herself. It was about destroying John Merrivale.
On the other side of that wall is the man who killed Lenny. The man who took everything from you. He’s living in YOUR house, hiding in YOUR sanctuary, spending YOUR money.
Rage was like a turbocharger in Grace’s chest, pulling her up, propelling her on. Her hands were bleeding now, blood mingling with the sweat on her palms as the rope lacerated her skin, but Grace felt nothing. She could see the top. She could touch it! Swinging her legs over to the other side of the wall, she pulled the rope up behind her. The girls were directly below her now, three of them. Dressed in supermarket uniforms, they were on their way to work. Grace waited for them to stop and point. The bottom of the rope was less than two feet from where they were walking. But they continued on their way, laughing and joking with one another. Happy. Grace felt a pang of envy mingled with her relief as she watched their backs disappear from sight.
Then she pulled up the rope, turned around and lowered herself down into Le Cocon’s courtyard garden.
MITCH LOOKED OUT OF THE PLANE WINDOW. There was nothing to see but clouds, thick and gray and impenetrable. Next to him a young woman whimpered with fear as the aircraft bucked like a wild bull, juddering its way through the turbulent sky.
Mitch tried not to think about Grace, or John Merrivale, or what might already have happened back in Antananarivo. If this were New York, he’d radio the local police for backup, get them to deal with it. But the last thing he wanted was a bunch of trigger-happy Madagascans storming Le Cocon.
Where the hell was Harry Bain when you needed him?
GRACE EDGED HER WAY AROUND THE courtyard with her back to the wall. Le Cocon was a vast house, a maze of corridors and bedrooms and little hidden gardens and terraces. She would begin the search inside the house, but first she had to disable the security alarm, cameras and phone line.
Lenny used to complain about the archaic systems at Le Cocon. “Have you seen the wires out there? It looks like something from a bad seventies sci-fi movie.” But he never got around to replacing them. Grace was banking on the fact that Jan Beerens wouldn’t have gotten around to it either.
Edging toward the back kitchen door, she saw to her relief that he hadn’t. One arthritic closed-circuit camera pointed toward the same old fuse box that had been there in her and Lenny’s day. Approaching the camera from behind, Grace covered it with the black cloth she’d brought with her. Then, pulling out her pliers, she advanced toward the fuse box.