Chapter 68 - The Shadow at the Gate
Before Lind could finish his sentence, the soft chime of an electric sensor echoed from the front hallway.
Lind’s head snapped toward the wall-mounted security monitor beside the front door. The screen flickered to life, showing the narrow stone lane outside the villa.
A silver Mercedes sedan was idling at the edge of the bougainvillea wall.
From the passenger side, the woman from the airport tarmac stepped out into the falling drizzle. She was still wearing the dark trench coat, but now she was accompanied by two men in heavy rain gear, both carrying black canvas tool bags.
"They didn't track your phone," Lind said, his voice dropping into a flat, professional monotone. "They tracked my car. They’ve had a surveillance vehicle parked near the Cascais marina for three days."
"Can we go out the back?" I asked, gathering the lead foil and the silver coin into my pocket.
"The back leads directly down a thirty-foot granite cliff into the Atlantic," Lind replied, reaching into a low cabinet beside the hearth and pulling out a matte-black automatic pistol. He checked the magazine with a sharp, practiced click. "Unless you brought a speedboat, Myrna, there is no back way."
The front doorbell rang. It was not a frantic buzz, but a single, measured chime that reverberated through the quiet stone house.
Then, a voice called out through the intercom speaker on the wall.
"Marcus," the woman’s clipped New England voice said smoothly. "We know Arthur’s widow is in there. We also know you don't have the ammunition to withstand a forced entry. Roland Vance does not wish to see Arthur’s wife harmed. He simply wants what was stolen from him thirty-six years ago."
Lind looked at me, his jaw set like granite. "If they get that cipher, Myrna, they won't leave witnesses. Roland doesn't leave survivors when forty million dollars is at stake."
"I know," I said.
I looked at the silver coin in my hand. Arthur had spent half his life pretending to be an ordinary man, enduring my nagging about lawn mowing and holiday dinners, all while sitting on the detonator of an international syndicate.
"Is the shortwave radio in your cellar connected to the consular frequency?" I asked Lind.
May you like
"Yes," he replied, frowning. "Why?"
"Because," I said, walking toward the cellar door, "I’ve spent the last forty years dealing with arrogant men who think they can corner an old woman. Let’s see how Roland Vance likes the terms of my settlement."
