Wild Card

from development by the national government’s land use charter.”

“Does that mean no guests allowed?” Annie said. She smiled. “I like to explore.”

“Their safety requires that access be restricted… a decision that ownership left to our security team. But we understand its appeal to nature lovers, and have worked with the recreational staff so that they can conduct guided boat and walking tours,” Murthy said. “It may interest you to know there are active sugarcane fields and fruit groves at the jungle’s fringes. These belong to local growers descended from freed African slaves who have an economic reliance on the crops. Their claims to the land are also protected by law.” He paused a moment. “The villagers of Umbria tend to be reserved and mistrustful of outsiders, but in recent years a significant number have come to Los Rayos seeking employment opportunities, and their initial opposition to sharing the island with us has eased.”

Listening to him, Annie seemed intensely fascinated.

Nimec, meanwhile, had studied the interior of the Rolls with a more measured sort of interest before he turned to look out at what clearly had to be the island’s main harbor — a bustling complement to the airport. As they drove by, he could see four long quays and a great many smaller docks reaching out over the water. There were ramps, bridges, floating cranes, storage and handling areas with enormous freight containers stacked like building blocks, a lighthouse tower at the channel entrance, and all kinds of barges and ferries coming and going, or in the process of being loaded or offloaded by dock personnel.

The heavy activity surprised Nimec a little at first, although after a moment’s consideration he guessed it shouldn’t have. A resort the size of Los Rayos would have supplies flowing in continuously, and generate a high volume of waste that he assumed accounted for much of what was hauled off on the ships. Some of the produce grown by those local villagers Murthy had brought up might also leave the island by way of the harbor. Seemed pretty likely, in fact.

Though tempted to ask him about it, Nimec decided the timing wasn’t right. He’d been thinking about Megan’s mysterious e-mail informant, and felt it would be best to sit on his questions about the harbor traffic for a while.

He watched in silence as they left the docks behind and began driving past some of the island’s far more attractive visitor spots.

As threatened, Murthy called attention to them like an enthusiastic tour bus operator.

He pointed out a golf course that came up on the left side of the road, elaborating that it was one of two eighteen-hole championship greens available to guests. He pointed out tennis courts and horseback riding paths, casinos and nightclubs, cabanas and oceanside swimming pools. And he pointed out beach after sweeping beach as the road striped up along the ocean shore.

Nimec gazed out at the shiny white sand and emerald water, quietly succumbing to the serene beauty of the place… and the funny thing was that the deeper this almost hypnotic calm settled in, the more he realized how hard he’d been trying to resist it.

“Look, Pete.” Annie tapped his arm to get his attention, then motioned to her right. “That’s fantastic!”

Out beyond the shore, a tanned, toned couple attached to colorful kiteboard sails was riding the wind with happy abandon.

“I thought about giving that a shot once,” Nimec said. “Had to be fifteen years ago, before I got too busy.” He shrugged. “The job, you know.”

Annie had kept her hand on him.

“We should do it together,” she said, rubbing his shoulder. “It’s really a kick… a lesson or two should be enough for you to get your wings.”

His forehead creased with surprise. “You’ve done it before?”

“Sure,” she said. “In Florida. When we’d have downtime at Canaveral, I’d try to find ways for my training groups to unwind.”

Nimec grunted, still looking out at the airborne couple. Then he saw something else against the blue sky, much higher and further off, a sleek flying object that reflected bright sparkles of sunlight as it needled south toward the harbor and airport.

“That an Augusta one-oh-nine?” he asked, turning to Murthy.

For a moment the security man’s expression almost seemed startled. “You have an eye for both air and ground vehicles.”

“I’ve seen a few of those choppers… UpLink’s designed avionics for some of the custom Stingray versions,” Nimec said. “The body’s pretty recognizable. With how its nose is so sharp, and that frame kind of flaring out between the doors and tail boom.”

Murthy produced another smile.

“We have a fleet of four in constant operational readiness,” he said. “At least one patrols our airspace round the clock and, your alert eye aside, their fly patterns are charted out to be inconspicuous.” He paused. “The goal at Los Rayos is to make our guests feel secure without their being conscious of security, if my meaning is clear. These are men and women who run nations, global business empires. They come here to escape and relax. To temporarily step free of the lifestyle constraints that go hand-in-hand with their positions, and at the same time have confidence they and their families are well protected. To create this environment requires a delicate balance. Our vigilance must be constant and multilayered. It also must be unobtrusive or the island will seem to them like an armed camp.”

Nimec tugged his ear. He’d noticed that the chopper had sped out of sight.

“I can see how it’d be a challenge,” he said. “The Augs… how’ve you got them configured?”

“Variously.” Murthy said. “Here again, I’m not one for technical specifications. I know they are fast and mobile, but will defer to Mr. Beauchart’s thorough expertise for the rest.” He looked at Nimec, his smile grown bigger than ever. “I’m increasingly certain you and he will find no lack of conversation at dinner tonight.”

Nimec guessed that was Murthy’s politely professional way of suggesting they move on to other subjects, and couldn’t blame him. It would be up to his boss to decide which of their trade secrets to share, the details of how their choppers were loaded among them.

Whatever Murthy’s reason or reasons, Nimec didn’t want to be pushy.

He fell silent, and after a minute or two realized Annie had taken easy hold of his hand on the seat between them, her fingertips so light against his palm it kind of tickled. She really seemed to be enjoying herself as they viewed the passing sights, and that made him glad.

Then the Rolls turned onto a drive branching off from the seaside road, and slowed, and Murthy pointed ahead at what he announced was the villa that had been reserved for them.

Annie’s fingers squeezed Nimec’s hand more tightly. There beyond a courtyard lined with palmettos was an expansive, Spanish-looking structure — all railed balconies, wide columns, arched windows, and sunwashed adobe under a red tile roof. Nimec saw a swimming pool at the end of a fieldstone path on one side of the place, and spread across the grounds, spacious gardens with bright exotic flowers and thick green hedges.

“This location is rather secluded, as we thought you might prefer,” Murthy was saying. “We hope you won’t hesitate to let us know if anything fails to meet your satisfaction.”

Nimec looked over at Annie, saw the barely contained excitement on her face, and then turned back to Murthy.

“I think it’ll be perfect,” he said.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Andrew Reed Baxter had dreaded checking his morning voice mail. Three days in Palm Springs had notched the term long weekend into a depressing context for him and he’d known there would be a carryover before leaving for the office… shit, one stiff hand after another, how much cash had he lost? He didn’t need a certified accountant to tell him it was a whole fucking lot — no wonder his reflux was giving him a terrible time this morning. It was doubling down on those soft counts that had killed him, screw those variations; he should have just played his usual game. Next time he’d remember that before deciding to take anybody’s so-called expert advice about systems and strategies, stick to what he knew and watch the dealer go bust.

Next time, for damned sure, he’d bring his winning game to the table.

Baxter sat with the phone’s handset cradled between his neck and shoulder, listening to the beep-beep-beep of the stutter dial tone that indicated he had messages. Then he reluctantly keyed the access number and spoke his password, bringing his antacid mints out of a desk drawer, peeling open the foil wrap with his thumb.