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Fitzroy followed the lead guard, with Court just behind him at his right shoulder.
Zoya trailed them, her eyes scanning the hallway, the stairs, every room they passed. As one of Fitzroy’s security people, it stood to reason she’d have her eyes flitting around as they moved through the building, although in truth she wasn’t looking around to protect the Englishman. Instead, she was searching the residence for cameras, guards, weapons, civilians. Potential egresses, hard points, choke points. With every single step forward, she registered more data about the home, and she was certain Court was doing the exact same thing.
Fitzroy had promised them he’d be able to converse with Jack Tudor without violence ensuing, but Zoya had heard that line before, often shortly before the gunfire kicked off.
She’d clocked eight security men so far between the outer guard shack, the driveway, and here in the center of the home. All were apparently Hispanic, some carrying short-barreled rifles, others just pistols in shoulder holsters, and one of the men she saw carried a stockless pump-action 12-gauge shotgun on a sling around his neck.
Within seconds of entering the modern structure, they were back outside, walking along an old Mexican-style veranda next to a courtyard adorned with beautiful tropical plants. A fountain in the center of the space gurgled, the soft lighting glowed on the flora, and a large green parrot stood on a roost next to a cage the size of a small automobile. An outrageously ornate outdoor kitchen, replete with a tiled stone oven, sat off to one side of the courtyard next to a long dining table.
Hallways ran off the veranda to the north side of the house, and then another hallway at the end of the outdoor space led into a large kitchen. Just before the kitchen, a helical staircase spun up from the veranda and to the second level, and the man leading them through the property began climbing.
They followed him into a large second-floor great room, with an adjacent kitchen and a library through a doorway on the far side. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the ocean here, the reflections on the white-capped waves like dancing fireflies.
Jack Tudor stepped out of his dimly lit library and into the room, illuminated by strong ambient lighting. Zoya noticed the man had a warm smile and an eager gait. He appeared to be about fifty-five; he had gray, almost silver hair that was styled neatly in a comb-over; he wore designer glasses and a casual shirt and khakis. Tudor was a thin man, well tanned and healthy, and he approached Fitzroy with a hand extended.
A pair of Tudor’s guards remained here in the great room, and they took up positions on the far side, near the entrance to the library.
Zoya knew she and Court were just “the help”; Tudor likely wouldn’t even acknowledge them. They both stood at the top of the helical stairs, hands held across their midsections. Court looked out the big windows to the sea, and Zoya kept her eyes shifting between the other people in the room and on the staircase they’d just climbed.
The homeowner’s Welsh accent was strong, his voice slightly high-pitched. “It’s an honor to have you in my home, old friend. It’s been far too long since I’ve laid eyes on you.”
Fitzroy shook the younger man’s hand, covered the handshake with his free hand, and smiled right back. “Too true. Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
“Not at all.” Tudor’s eyes gleamed as if he were telling a joke. “It was quite the thrill to hear that the legendary Sir Donald Fitzroy just happened to be in the neighborhood. Imagine my astonishment.”
Fitzroy smiled back, picking up on the sarcasm, then replied, “Yes…well…”
Tudor released his handshake, waved Fitz over to a sofa facing the windows across the room and the ocean beyond, and then Tudor took a seat on an overstuffed white leather chair.
The Welshman glanced over to Court and Zoya. “Might I say I applaud you on coming to the realization that sometimes it’s good to bring a little help along. The guards, I mean. You never used them in the past.”
Fitzroy responded, “Only now that I’m retired do I feel safe with others close by. While working in the private sector, I always felt I didn’t want security near in case I said or did something that could someday be used against me.”
Tudor waved his hand in the air. “I don’t even consider it. I hire well; they don’t care what I say or do.”
A servant brought in a silver tray covered in shot glasses and limes and salt and a large black bottle of Clase Azul Ultra Extra Añejo Tequila.
Tudor poured for them both while they exchanged pleasantries, two veteran intelligence officers from the same service catching up on old colleagues and old times.
Zoya looked on; she could see the genuine affection Jack Tudor held for Donald Fitzroy, and she hoped this affection survived the next few minutes.
THIRTY
Carlos Contreras watched the meeting on the screen of one of his laptops on board the SkyCourier, now several miles out to sea and flying a slow “lazy 8” pattern. He wished he had audio feed established so he could hear the people speaking inside, but just seconds after thinking this, his laptop indicated that one of the audio surveillance units he’d dropped was picking up voices.
He could see from the data on his screen that the unit broadcasting was on the beach to the southeast of the hacienda, so Contreras imagined its laser was hitting the huge windows on the second floor, on the other side of which he could see all the people in the living room.
He put on his headset and clicked a few buttons, and then he heard people speaking English. Their voices were distorted, with the distortion of the signal coming off a vibrating window, but with only a little difficulty, he could nevertheless make out who was speaking and what was being said.
•••
Sir Donald Fitzroy finished his tequila, put the glass back on the serving tray, then waved off Tudor as he hefted the bottle and offered a refill.
“Jack, I apologize, but just one for me tonight.”
Tudor refilled his own glass, then put the bottle down. “That’s all right. I just thought that since you were on vacation you might want to—”
Fitzroy interrupted. “Yes, well, I apologize, but my vacation was a bit of a ruse. I needed to speak with you straightaway, so I used a small amount of deception to make it happen.”
