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He’d just arrived on the ground floor when Court Gentry entered from the entryway behind the male Portuguese guard. Court wore jeans, a maroon T-shirt, and black tennis shoes. A black backpack hung from his shoulder. He was a little older than Fitzroy remembered him, but his bright brown eyes sparkled with intensity and life.
Just behind him, Zoya appeared. She wore a yellow sundress, flip-flops, only the slightest bit of makeup, and blond hair that hung past her shoulders. She looked a little older than he’d remembered her, as well, perhaps a little tired, but Sir Donald could not help but bask in her exquisite beauty.
Both bodyguards left them alone upon Fitzroy’s command; Sir Donald rushed forward and shook Court’s hand, then exchanged a gentle but heartfelt hug with the Russian woman.
“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you both.”
It was midafternoon, the warmest part of the day, so the lights were off, the windows were open in the living room, and a cooling breeze blew in from multiple directions to keep the property from being stuffy.
Court jerked his head back to the hallway. “Who are Mr. and Mrs. Smith?”
“Pedro and Francisca. My bodyguards.”
“Yeah, saw the guns. What’s with the protection? I seem to remember that you refused to roll with security back when you weren’t retired, back when people were after you. Why now?”
“Perhaps I’ve learned from my mistakes.”
Court eyed him dubiously. “Perhaps.”
Zoya asked, “Are they any good?”
Fitzroy shrugged. “I haven’t a clue, to tell you the truth. They came recommended by a friend in Lisbon. Former PSP officers, Public Security Police. To be honest, I’ve never worked with them before. I didn’t bring them so much for the protection they would give me on this trip; I chose them for their appearance.”
Zoya understood immediately. “They look like us. We’re going in to Tudor’s place disguised as your security?”
“That was the plan, but I remembered your hair quite differently, so I requested a brunette.”
Zoya laughed at this. “I can be a brunette in thirty minutes.”
“Give her an hour,” Court said, “and she could stand in for you.”
Fitzroy gave a loud chortle, genuinely thrilled to be in the presence of these two people. “I don’t want to see this beautiful woman altered one bit. Stay blond.”
The three of them sat down; Fitzroy politely waved off the offer of drinks from a local attendant who leaned in from the kitchen, and then the woman headed up the hallway for the front door.
Court immediately got right down to it. “What’s the plan?”
Fitzroy smoothed his tie a moment, then clutched his hands in his lap in front of him. “It will depend on Tudor. I texted with him this morning. All he knows is I’m calling on him because I happened to be in the area. Just a social visit, ostensibly, but I am operating under the assumption that he will be operating under the assumption there’s something more to my sudden appearance here in Yucatán.”
“Do you think he’s wary?” Court asked.
“Heavens no, lad. I think he’s ecstatic.”
“Explain.”
The Englishman hesitated a moment. “I didn’t mention all this in our phone conversation; I didn’t want to bore you with details.”
Zoya leaned forward, put her elbows on her knees. “Now would be the time to bore us.”
“Very well.” He shifted in his wicker chair. “Jack is a friend.”
Court’s eyebrows rose. “A friend?”
“He only entered MI5 about five years before I left, but we got along straightaway. He came to me regularly over the years for advice, brought me scotch to talk about old stories, that sort of thing. He rose up the ranks in the eight or nine years he was there, received a number of commendations, then he left before he turned forty.”
“Why?”
“Forced out. The reasons behind it were kept quiet. Office politics, I suspect, but I don’t know. He hasn’t told me much, only that he was happy to leave government service.”
