Haven, page 12
Why three, he wondered? Why three all the same? To give to others was the obvious answer, which would mean that he is working with confederates. Kessler memorized the cover of the top one. Its colors were mostly green and blue. He had a hunch that if he were to go to a drugstore and buy a copy of that map, somewhere inside, on one of the folds, he would see the same area that Pratt was studying while he sat at the bar at Reilley's. What help this would be was another question. However, one thing at a time.
“Sir? Can I help you?”
He glanced up to see two black men approaching. They were both in their thirties and they wore the dark coveralls he had seen on the maintenance staff. Their names were embroidered over logos on their chests. The one who spoke was named Roy.
“Not now, I think," Kessler answered. "Now I see why my key doesn't work." He looked behind him at his own white Toyota and grunted in the manner of a man who feels stupid.
“Are you a guest with us, sir?" the second man asked. This one, said his patch, was named Sam.
“A guest," answered Kessler, patting his pockets. He located his room key and showed it.
“Thank you, sir," said the one named Roy. "You say this is your car over here? They do all look alike. Perhaps you'd better check to make sure.”
Kessler shrugged and complied. He climbed in and started it. Now of course he had to actually drive it. "Could you tell me where I could find a drug store?" he asked.
“Go out, turn right on Cordillo," said the man named Roy. "Turn right again on Pope. You'll see the Circle Shopping Center.”
“Ah, yes. I have passed it. Thank you both.”
As Kessler cut his wheels and backed out, he saw that both men had visibly relaxed. He waved and drove on. They waved in return.
This place, thought Kessler, gets more curious by the moment. First we have those drivers and chaperones. Something about them struck him as odd although he couldn't say why at the time. Now we have these two, Roy and Sam, dressed essentially as laborers and just as well-spoken as the others. Take away their coveralls, dress them in business suits, and they could be....what? Perhaps military? Policemen? No, he decided. Not policemen. Policemen who were posing as maintenance workers would know to stoop over a little and walk with a shuffle. They would know that a maintenance man doesn't challenge a guest and would at least pretend to show deference. They would know not to speak as if they graduated from Harvard. They might also try to sound a little bit southern, the better to blend in around here.
Kessler proceeded to the shopping center where, in the Revco drug store, he found the map he was looking for. Opening it, checking each of its folds, he found the section which Pratt had been studying. As he'd thought, it was not on this island. It showed an area of inland waterway, sparsely populated, much of it swampland, about ten miles to the south and west. Beyond that, it told him nothing. But it was, perhaps, a piece of the puzzle.
He drove his car back to the Players Club. The original jitneys, the ones he'd seen yesterday, had returned in his absence and again disgorged children. The last ten or twelve were just walking away. This time, however, they were not dressed for tennis and most carried large paper bags. Today's trip, he realized, must have been to the mall. One of the black chaperones, a woman, called out to them as they dispersed.
“Fifteen minutes, kids," she said. "Drills start at four o'clock sharp.”
Kessler scanned the immediate area, expected to see Pratt lurking somewhere with his camera. The Englishman was nowhere in sight. Kessler didn't wish to be caught gawking either, especially by the vigilant Roy. Without breaking stride he walked up the ramp and in through the Players Club entrance. The lobby was empty except for a well-scrubbed young woman at the desk. Kessler smiled as he passed her and turned toward a dining area that was off to the right of the lobby. That area, not then in use, was actually the upper level of the Players Club bar. From there he could look down and see everyone at the bar. Several people were there watching sports on TV. The English bounty hunter was not one of them.
He stepped to the back of that second floor room where the windows looked out on the tennis courts. Pratt, Kessler realized, would have much this same view from his room in Building 100. Kessler opened a window and looked to his right. Indeed, he could see the Englishman's terrace; it was not more than forty yards away. Kessler walked down to the bar where he ordered a beer and brought it back up to a table by the window.
Students began appearing on the practice courts. They were now dressed for tennis but in outfits of every description. Most wore shorts that were anything but white and Tshirts of the kind sold in tourist shops. There were several adults directing them, dividing them into groups. One woman seemed to be in charge of the girls. She was tall and lean, built rather like Elizabeth, breasts somewhat less generous but the same erect carriage. Her hair, like Elizabeth's, was a lush reddish brown although a good deal more curly and thick. Her skin color, however, allowing for sun tan, seemed closer to that of the maids. Kessler guessed her age at about forty. She carried a clipboard and she, too, wore a souvenir T-shirt. "Unless you're the lead dog, the view never changes." were the words inscribed across the back. He heard one of the students call her Nadia.
She formed the girls into two lines, one at either end of the court on the right, where they began some sort of round-robin drill. A girl in one line would hit to the girl at the head of the other. That girl would return it and then run on so that the girl behind her could hit next. Kessler watched them do this, barely pausing, for a full fifteen minutes. The boys were doing a similar drill. The boys had both male and female instructors. One of the men, a black man, seemed familiar. It took Kessler a minute to make the connection because the man wore dark glasses and a white floppy hat such as Pratt's. It was the man from the parking lot, the one named Roy. Very curious indeed, thought Kessler. We have maintenance men who are security guards who are also now tennis instructors.
Back on the girls' court, standing near Nadia, was a second woman who seemed to be an assistant. She was shouting at the girls, calling several by name, urging this one to "Get down...Bend those knees," or saying, "Racket back" to that one. This woman was black as well. Kessler recognized her as the one from the jitney who called out that they had fifteen minutes. It surprised him, he supposed, to see two black coaches in a sport not known for attracting black athletes. Not one of the students was black. Most, in fact, had blond hair. All were tanned, some were dark, but none black.
“Nice, Cherokee. Nice," called the woman named Nadia. "That's what I like to see.”
Nadia's accent seemed vaguely European. She also had wonderful legs. But his attention was drawn more to girl she called Cherokee. She was darker than most of the others. She could well be the Indian that her name implied. Her hair, black and lustrous, was held in place by a white terry head band in which she wore a fluffy blue feather. A single long braid ran down her back and was tied at the end with a ribbon. She had answered her coach with a pump of her fist and a grin that seemed impossibly wide. Her eyes were enormous as well. She was fourteen, maybe fifteen, Kessler guessed, and he knew that one day she would be beautiful. There was a radiance to her, a joyousness to her, that few of the others displayed. The others would curse if they miss-hit a ball or sneer when they bested another. What they were doing was only a drill but they played, rather fought, as if their futures were at stake. Not so with this Cherokee. Like her coach she would even encourage the others. She could laugh at herself if she hit a poor shot but her poor shots were rare; most could not be returned.
So captivated had Kessler become that he's almost forgotten about Pratt. Once again he eased his head out the window until he could see Pratt's terrace. The first thing he saw were a pair of pink knees protruding through its vertical slats. Pratt's elbows were resting on top of the railing. He was holding his camera to his eye. It was pointed first at the woman named Nadia but now it swept left to the court used by the boys. His fingers could be seen to be working the zoom. From this angle, Kessler could not track his line with precision but he seemed to be focused on the black man named Roy. The camera was still for ten seconds perhaps before panning back to the girls. He was now, quite clearly, zooming in on the woman named Nadia. Kessler was sure of it. When Nadia appeared to glance up in his direction Pratt pulled his camera back in. But Nadia was only checking a clock.
So, Kessler wondered, who is Nadia? Could she be Pratt's quarry, a runaway Muslim? This seemed somewhat unlikely to him. He could understand women who ran off to become doctors or teachers or poets but did this one run off to be a tennis coach? Kessler would bet that in the whole history of Islam not a single Muslim woman had ever been consumed by a desire to teach tennis to the children of the rich. Her accent, in any case, was all wrong. It leaned closer to French than to Arabic. Her features could be Middle-Eastern, he supposed, but one saw faces like hers all throughout southern Europe. He took another peek at Cyril Pratt's terrace. He no longer saw the boney pink knees. He leaned out further. Pratt was gone.
Kessler drank his beer down and walked back to the lobby. From there he could keep an eye on Pratt's car and be ready to follow if Pratt left. And as long as he was waiting, he decided, he would see what he could learn from the young lady at the desk.
He said, "I was watching the tennis...there's a woman called Nadia...”
The girl smiled. "Yup. That's her," she replied.
“Ah...that's who?”
“Oh. Sorry." The smile became a grin. "I thought maybe you recognized her. Our guests do that all the time.”
“Nadia, I take it, is famous?”
“That's Nadia Halaby.”
Kessler must have looked at her blankly.
“Nadia Halaby," the girl repeated. "She won the French and the Australian in doubles. And she made the finals at Wimbleden twice. And in singles she's three time French national champion.”
“Ah, she is French," he exclaimed. "I was trying to place the accent.”
“Well, kind of. She's Algerian by birth but Algeria used to be French.”
Interesting, thought Kessler. "I noticed her assistant. Please don't think me racist but I couldn't help noticing...”
“That she's African-American? We have lots of them on staff. The assistant was probably Jazz. She's cool.”
“Jazz? What kind of name is Jazz?”
“Just a nickname. It's short for Jasmine.”
Most interesting, indeed. First an Algerian, very likely a Muslim, and now a black American who has a Muslim name. "There is also a Roy. I thought he was a handyman but he coaches as well.”
“Roy does a lot of things. Mostly he looks after the kids. Nadia hired all the coaches and chaperones and she pretty much runs the security system.”
“Security," Kessler repeated. "A tennis coach is in charge of security?”
“Oh, not for the hotel. Just for the program. Parents send their kids here, sometimes for as long as two years. And you know how kids are when they're feeling their oats. The parents want to know that we keep them on a leash.”
“Two years, you say?”
“Except when they're home for the holidays. Most also go to school here at Hilton Head High.”
Kessler had other questions he put them on hold because suddenly, outside, there was Pratt. He was standing directly in front of the door. He was looking out over the parking lot, more toward the main entrance off Cordillo. His posture suggested that he was waiting for someone. Kessler moved to a rack of tourist brochures - boat trips, factory outlets and the like - and pretended to be making a selection. No more than two minutes had passed when a woman on a bicycle turned into the lot. She wore shorts and a windbreaker much like his own and a wide-brimmed straw hat held on with a scarf. A big round pair of sunglasses covered her eyes. Although only a fraction of her face could be seen, Kessler recognized Elizabeth at once.
He had no idea what to think about this. He watched as she slowly circled the lot, his eyes darting constantly between her and Pratt. Pratt was watching her as well but only that. He did not seem in any way surprised or alarmed. Could Elizabeth have come here to meet him?
She circled the lot one more time. Twice now her bike went by Pratt's car - and his own that was parked there as well - but she paid it no particular notice to either. Nor did she look up in Cyril Pratt's direction. He could have no doubt that she'd seen Pratt there. Pratt stood in plain sight, even framed by the entrance. Now Elizabeth steered her bike toward the path which led to the restaurants and rooms. She paused there but did not dismount. She scanned the layout of the place as he had, then turned and pedaled slowly toward the exit. Cyril Pratt, to his relief, was no longer paying the slightest attention to her. Within seconds she was out of his sight.
“Elizabeth," he asked, when at last he could breathe, "what was that all about, pray tell?”
But no answer came because even as he wondered that same unmarked jitney appeared. Pratt had seen it approach. He then looked away after glancing at his watch. He pretended, thought Kessler, not to notice it. But the jitney stopped and the driver tapped twice on his horn. Pratt tried or pretended to ignore this as well. The jitney lurched forward and again the horn bleated. Its driver, still only a silhouette to Kessler, spread his hands as if asking Pratt a question. Blood now rose to the Englishman's cheeks. He looked toward the heavens as if in despair. His right hand flicked out in a Go-away-I-don't-know-you sort of gesture. But once more came the bleat of the horn. Pratt seemed to be fuming. He glanced left and right, and then toward the lobby but Kessler had backed out of sight.
Now Pratt gestured more urgently, angrily. The first part of it clearly said Go-damn-you-Go. In the next he moved his hand in a circular motion. He seemed to be saying Keep-driving-in-circles or Go-away-and-come-back or some such. The driver, not pleased, threw up his hands. He jabbed a finger at his wrist watch as if to say, Look at the time. Pratt showed him a fist. It said, Go now, or else. The driver stubbornly folded his arms but the man at his side was now urging him to leave. The driver turned on him angrily. Kessler saw, when he did so, that he seemed to be bearded.
Now Pratt has had enough of all this. He stormed down the ramp, his shoulders hunched up and both hands now in fists. The driver saw him coming. Still defiant, he revved up his engine and slammed it into gear. He seemed ready and eager to run over Pratt. But the man in there with him was slapping at his arms. The driver aimed a swipe at his passenger's head but the passenger blocked it and was shouting at him now. The Englishman had almost reached the driver's side door. Facing an imminent assault on two fronts, the driver gunned his engine and cut his wheels abruptly. His tires now screeched as he aimed for the exit. They squealed again as he sped from the grounds, nearly running down several more tourists on bikes.
Pratt stood for a moment fairly trembling with rage. At last he turned away in the direction of his room. Once there he climbed into his bottle. Kessler knew this because when he emerged two hours later, he was already weaving from too much Gleneagles.
During that time Kessler nearly called Elizabeth.
“Why were you here?" is what he would have asked. "You can't stand not knowing, am I right?”
“Why am I? Why are you?" would have been her reply.
“Never mind that. Just listen to what I've found out.”
I know some of it's guesswork, so don't start your picking. Just shut up and listen because here's what I think.
Pratt is on a mission, he does have confederates, and I think his confederates are Muslim. He is here to kidnap a woman. The woman, I think, is one Nadia Halaby, an Algerian teacher of tennis. The plan is to drag her into a jitney that looks like a Van Der Meer jitney. They will take her to a place some ten miles off this island. What they'll do after that I don't know.
Why this woman, you ask? I don't know that either. She is hardly the typical runaway. But she and this place are certainly guarded. The guards, I suspect, are all Muslims as well and all of them happen to be black. No, the men are not bearded and the women are not covered and in fact they all seem to be Americans. Trust me, however. They're Muslims. And so, by the way, are at least some of the maids. Did I mention the arrow I saw in my room showing which way to face when you pray?
The attempt, he would have told her, might happen tonight. He'd have said this only because Pratt seemed so frantic and because there is so much activity today. The Englishman, however, had emerged from his room already three sheets to the wind. He went to his car, and drove directly to Reilley's where he sat at the bar and had the Fish & Chips special, washed down with three more Gleneagles. He met with nobody, spoke with nobody - no, not McShane either - and was lucky to get back without being arrested. It would not be tonight after all.
His mission, all the same, has some urgency to it. True, this is only a feeling. But his team has the look of being quickly slapped together, not one that has worked as a unit before. The men in the jitney do not like taking orders. This alone offers proof that they're probably Arabs.
“Why didn't you follow them?" Elizabeth would have asked.
“Because my team is me. Who would watch Pratt if I followed the jitney?”
“But you know where Pratt lives. What you don't know is where the two others are staying. Wherever that is, that's where they'll take the woman.”
He had thought of that of course. But Pratt would have seen him if he ran to his car. If he walked, they'd be too far ahead of him. Even if he did catch up to the jitney they would surely have seen him through their rear view mirror because they would have been watching for a white Toyota Camry. They would have thought it was Pratt coming after them, maybe planning to shoot them for trying to run him down.
“Or simply making sure they went home," she would have said. "They might have decided to behave. Isn't this why you always rent duplicate cars? You could have followed them almost to their doorstep, Martin. All they'd think they were seeing, if you kept your distance, would be Colin Pratt's car turning back.”
