1.

I raced up the cliff-side path, my thoughts rattling inside my skull like seeds in a gourd. It made no sense. Flynn, Brismand's son? It was impossible. Damien must have misheard. And yet something in me cried out in recognition; my sense of danger, finally alerted, ringing out its warning louder than La Marinette.

It told me that there had been clues to find, if I'd chosen to see them: the clandestine meeting, the embrace, Marin's hostility, his divided loyalties. Even his nickname, Rouget, the Red One, reflects that of Foxy Brismand. Island-fashion, they share the same name.

But Damien was only a boy, after all; a boy in the throes of teenage infatuation. Hardly the most reliable informant. No, I had to know more before I convicted Flynn in my heart. And I knew the place to go.

The lobby of Les Immortelles was deserted except for Joel Lacroix, who was sitting with his cowboy boots up on the reception desk, smoking a Gitane. He looked disconcerted at seeing me.

"Heh, Mado." He smirked halfheartedly and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "You looking for accommodation?"

"I heard my friend was here," I said.

"The Angliche? Angliche? Yeh, he's here." He lit up again with a flourish, puffing out the smoke in a long lazy stream, like in the movies. "The doctor said he shouldn't be moved. You wanna see him, heh?" Yeh, he's here." He lit up again with a flourish, puffing out the smoke in a long lazy stream, like in the movies. "The doctor said he shouldn't be moved. You wanna see him, heh?"

I nodded.

"Well, you can't. Monsieur Brismand said no one, and that, ma belle ma belle, includes you." He winked at me and moved a little closer. "The doctor came by special boat, maybe an hour ago. Said it was some kind of Portuguese jellyfish sting. Nasty."

So Aristide's gloomy prognosis was wrong. A reluctant relief washed over me.

"Not a box jellyfish, then?"

Joel shook his head, I thought with regret. "Neh. But nasty, all the same."

"How nasty?"

"Bof. What do these doctors know about anything, heh?" He dragged at his Gitane. "Doesn't help that he was pa.s.sed out in the sun for hours. Sunstroke can be a real b.i.t.c.h if you're not careful. Trust a mainlander not to know that." Joel's tone implied that he, Joel, was far too tough to be affected by such things.

"And the jellyfish?"

"Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d went and picked it up out of the water, didn't he, heh?" Joel shook his head in disbelief. "I mean, would you believe that? The doc says the poison should last twenty-four hours." He grinned. "So, if your friend's still here tomorrow morning, heh-" He winked again and moved a little closer.

I sidestepped him. "In that case I need to see Marin Brismand. Is he here?"

"Heh, what is it with you?" Joel looked aggrieved. "Don't you like me?"

"I like you at a distance, Joel. Think of it as fishing rights. Territorial waters. Just keep out of mine."

Joel grunted. "Thinks she's Santa Marina," he muttered. "Marin went out an hour ago. With your sister."

"Where?"

"G.o.d knows."

I eventually found Marin and Adrienne in the Chat Noir. By that time it was getting late, and the cafe was filled with smoke and noise. My sister was sitting at the bar; Marin was playing cards at a table full of Houssins. He looked surprised to see me.

"Mado! We don't often see you here. Is something wrong?" He narrowed his eyes at me. "It's not GrosJean, is it?"

"No, it's Flynn."

"Oh?" He looked startled. "He's not dead, is he?"

"Of course not."

Marin shrugged. "That would have been too much to hope for."

"Stop playing games, Marin," I told him sharply. "I know about him and your uncle. Your business together."

"Oh." He grinned. I could tell he was not entirely displeased. "Right. We'll go somewhere a little more private. Keep it in the family, heh?" He threw in his hand and stood up. "I was losing anyway," he said. "I don't have your friend's luck at cards."

We went outside onto the esplanade where it was cooler and less crowded. Adrienne followed us. I sat down on the seawall and turned to them both, my heart beating hard though my voice was calm. "Tell me about Flynn," I said. "Better still, tell me about Jean-Claude."

2.

"It was going to be me, you know." Marin's face was sour under the smile. "I was the old man's only remaining relative. I've been more than a son to him. At least more than his his son ever was. It was going to be mine. Les Immortelles. The business. Everything." son ever was. It was going to be mine. Les Immortelles. The business. Everything."

For years Brismand had led him to expect as much. A loan here, a small gift there. He had kept Marin in sight, just as he had done with me, keeping his options open; planning for future possibilities. He avoided any mention of his estranged wife, his missing son. He'd led Marin to understand that he'd washed his hands of them both, that they'd moved to England, that the boy didn't even speak French, was no more a Brismand than any other Angliche Angliche on that big island of on that big island of rosbif rosbif and bowler hats. and bowler hats.

But of course, he had lied. Foxy Brismand had never once lost hope. He had kept in touch with Jean-Claude's mother; sent money for schooling; played a double game for years as he bided his time and waited. It had always been his intention, once the time came, to pa.s.s on his business to Jean-Claude. But his son had been uncooperative, more than ready to accept the money Brismand sent, but less enthusiastic when he mentioned his joining the business. Brismand had been patient, letting the boy sow his wild oats, trying not to think of time running out. But by now Jean-Claude was over thirty, and still his plans-if he had any-remained unclear. Brismand was beginning to think his son would never return at all.

"That would have been it," said Marin smugly. "Claude may be obsessed with family, but he would never have left his money to someone who hadn't earned it. He made it clear that if Jean-Claude wanted to see a penny of his inheritance, he'd have to come here first."

Of course, Brismand had not voiced any of his concerns to Marin and Adrienne. During this uncertain time he'd needed more than ever to keep Marin sweet. Marin was his insurance, his second string in case Jean-Claude did not reappear. And Marin was a valuable contact, after all, married as he was to GrosJean's daughter.

"He wanted closer ties between himself and Les Salants. He especially wanted to buy GrosJean's house and the land that went with it. But GrosJean refused to sell. There was some kind of quarrel between them-I never knew what. Or maybe it was just his stubbornness."

However, with Adrienne and Marin in line to inherit when the time came, all Brismand needed to do was bide his time. He had been more than generous with the young couple, had set them up in business with a substantial sum.

I could see Adrienne becoming increasingly restless as Marin spoke. "Wait a minute. Are you saying that your uncle bribed bribed you to marry me?" you to marry me?"

"Don't be absurd." Marin looked uncomfortable. "He just used an opportunity, that's all."

Land prices in prosperous La Houssiniere were prohibitive. Les Salants was still cheap. A foothold there would be immensely valuable to Brismand. GrosJean's house with its stretch of land going all the way to La Goulue would be a considerable a.s.set for the man clever enough to exploit it. And so Brismand had been good to Marin and Adrienne. He had sent presents for the boys. They had waited in comfortable expectation of an eventual share in his wealth, and had lived far beyond their means for years.

Then, Flynn had arrived.

"The prodigal son," said Marin venomously. "Thirty years late, almost a foreigner, but he turned the old man's head completely. You'd have thought he could walk on water."

Suddenly Marin was only a nephew again. Now that his son was back, the business in Tangiers no longer interested Claude, and the loans and investments upon which Marin and Adrienne depended were withdrawn.

"Oh, he didn't tell us the reason at once. Les Immortelles needed repairs, he said. New sea defenses to protect the beach. Improved facilities. And after all, it was in our our interest too, because interest too, because we'd we'd inherit Les Immortelles eventually." inherit Les Immortelles eventually."

No public mention had as yet been made of Jean-Claude. Brismand's natural caution had taken over early, and he was disinclined to lay his affairs open to scrutiny until he was certain the prodigal was indeed his son. Preliminary investigation seemed to confirm it. Jean-Claude's mother had returned to her old home in Ireland when she left Le Devin. Remarried now, with another family, she had told Brismand that Jean-Claude had left some years previously, and that she had had little contact with him since then, although she had always pa.s.sed on Brismand's checks to him. This already confirmed Flynn's story to some extent. More important, there were letters written by Brismand, photographs of his estranged wife with Jean-Claude, birth doc.u.ments. More than that, there were anecdotes that only Jean-Claude and his mother would have known. Marin had advised a blood test. But Brismand knew in his heart; there was no need for confirmation. Flynn had his mother's eyes.

He enlisted him to help him with his erosion problem, hinting that if he proved himself at Les Immortelles, he would earn an eventual partnership in the business. It was a means of keeping an eye on him, and of sounding him out.

"There are no flies on my uncle," said Marin with sour satisfaction. "Even if Jean-Claude was who he claimed to be, it was obvious why he'd come back. He wanted money. Why else would he have waited all this time before showing his face?"

It was a situation that Brismand, like all Devinnois, knew well. Deserters are welcomed with open arms but closed purses, in the knowledge that what returns does not always remain. "He found him a job. Said that if he was going to inherit the business he'd better start from the bottom." Marin laughed. "The only thing that gives me any satisfaction in this whole affair is the thought of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d's face when my uncle told him he had to earn his name."

There had been an argument. Marin's expression brightened as he remembered it. "The old man was spitting feathers. Jean-Claude realized he'd gone too far, and tried to calm him down, but by that time it was too late. My uncle told him that unless he earned his place he'd never see a penny, and packed him off to Les Salants."

But it had been a controlled outburst on both sides. Jean-Claude had given his father time to cool down while working to regain his favor. Little by little, Brismand had begun to understand some of the advantages of having a spy in Les Salants.

"He heard everything. Who was short of cash, whose business was doing badly, who was seeing whose wife, who was in debt. He has a knack for getting in with people. They trust him."

Within a few months Brismand knew every secret in Les Salants. Thanks to his work at Les Immortelles the currents had shifted. Fishing had ceased. Several people were already in his debt. He could pull them in whenever he wanted.

GrosJean was among these. Flynn had adopted him from the start, and had become his friend in a number of small ways, acting as a go-between to enable him to borrow the money he needed when his savings finally ran out. Brismand was enthusiastic about the plan. If GrosJean could be bought, then within a year or two Les Salants-what was left of it-could be his.

"Then you came back," said Adrienne.

That had changed everything. GrosJean, formerly so tractable, stopped cooperating. My interference had been too blatant. Flynn's subtle spadework had been ruined.

"So he changed direction," said Adrienne, with a malicious smile. "Instead of targeting Papa, he started to concentrate on you. To find out your weaknesses. He flattered you-"

"That's not true." I said quickly. "He helped me. Helped us."

"He helped himself," said Marin. "He let Brismand know about your reef as soon as the sand began to show at La Goulue. Think about it, Mado," he said, seeing my expression. "You didn't think he was doing it for you, did you?"

I looked at him bleakly. "But Les Immortelles," I protested. "If he knew what he was doing to Claude's beach from the start-"

Marin shrugged. "That can be reversed," he said. "And a little pressure at Les Immortelles was exactly what Rouget needed to force my uncle's hand." Marin looked at me with bitter amus.e.m.e.nt. "Congratulations, Mado," he said. "Your friend's earned his name at last. He's a Brismand now, with a company checkbook to prove it and a fifty percent share in Brismand & Son. And it's all thanks to you."

3.

Les Immortelles was dark. A small light shone in the lobby, but the door was locked, and it was only after ringing the bell repeatedly for five minutes that I finally got an answer. Brismand was in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a Gitane at the corner of his mouth. His eyes widened a fraction as he saw me through the gla.s.s, then he took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.

"Mado." He sounded tired, and there was fatigue in his posture, in the mournful jowls, the drooping mustache, the eyes almost closed. His shoulders were hunched beneath his shapeless vareuse vareuse, and he looked more primitive and boulderlike than ever, a statue of himself in old granite. "I'm not so sure this is a good time, heh?"

"I understand." Anger rolled over me like a hot rock, but I pushed it away. "You must be devastated."

I thought I saw his eyes flicker momentarily. "The jellyfish, you mean? Bad for business, heh. As if business could get worse."

"Well, obviously the jellyfish must be a problem," I said. "But I meant the accident to your son."

Brismand observed me mournfully for a few seconds, then gave one of his enormous sighs. "That was careless of him," he said. "A stupid mistake. No true islander would have made it." He smiled. "But I told you I'd get him back one day, didn't I, heh? It took time, but he came back in the end. I knew he would. At my age a man needs his son beside him. Someone to lean on. Someone to run the business when I've gone."

I thought I could see the resemblance now; something in the smile, the posture, the mannerisms, the eyes. They have the same color eyes, Brismand and Flynn; not summer-sea blue like my father's but slate colored, narrow and subtle. That was what finally convinced me. Those slaty eyes.

"You must be very proud," I remarked, feeling sick.

Brismand c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "I like to think there's something of me in him, yes."

"But why the pretense? Why hide it from the rest of us? Why did he help us-why did you you help us-if he was on your side all the time?" help us-if he was on your side all the time?"

"Mado, Mado." Brismand shook his head dolefully. "Why must this be a question of sides? Is there a war, heh? Must there always be an agenda?"

"Good by stealth?" I mocked.

"That hurts me, Mado." His posture echoed his words, back rounded and half-turned from me, hands digging into his pockets. "Believe me, I only want what's best for Les Salants. That's all I ever wanted. Look what your stealth has achieved so far-growth, trade, business, heh! Do you think they would have let me me give them all that? Suspicion, Mado. Suspicion and pride. That's what's killing Les Salants. Clinging to the rocks, growing old, so afraid of change that they'd rather the sea swept them away than make a sensible decision-show a little enterprise." He spread his hands. "It's such a waste! They give them all that? Suspicion, Mado. Suspicion and pride. That's what's killing Les Salants. Clinging to the rocks, growing old, so afraid of change that they'd rather the sea swept them away than make a sensible decision-show a little enterprise." He spread his hands. "It's such a waste! They knew knew it was useless, but no one would sell. They'd let the sea go over their heads before they'd see sense." it was useless, but no one would sell. They'd let the sea go over their heads before they'd see sense."

"Now you even sound like him," I said.

"I'm tired, Madeleine. Too tired to be interrogated like this." Suddenly he looked old again, his energy dispersed. His jowls dropped. "I like you. My son likes you. We would always have made sure you were all right. Now go home and get some rest," he advised gently. "It's going to be a long day."

4.

So that was what I'd been searching for without even knowing it. Brismand and his long-lost son. Working together in secret on either side of the island, planning-planning what? I recalled Brismand's sentimental talk of growing old. But could it be possible that Flynn had somehow persuaded him to make amends? Could it be that they really were working for our side? No. I knew it. In the deepest part of me, where nothing is hidden, I understood that I had known all along.

I ran all the way to the blockhaus blockhaus. There was a feeling of remoteness inside me that I recognized vaguely; I'd felt it once before, the day my mother died. It was as if a subtle mechanism designed only for these moments of crisis had begun to operate, distancing me from everything but the business at hand. I would pay for it later, with grief, maybe with tears. But for now I was in control. Flynn's betrayal was something that had happened in someone else's dream; an eerie calm pa.s.sed over my heart like a wave over something written in the sand.

I considered GrosJean, and the newly built studio. I thought of all the Salannais who had taken out loans to pay for their improvements, their new businesses, all the little investments we had made in our new future. Behind the clean paintwork, the new gardens, the stalls, shiny shop counters, refurbished fishing boats, stocked larders, new summer dresses, bright shutters, flowery planters, c.o.c.ktail gla.s.ses, barbecue pits, lobster tanks, buckets and spades lay the hidden gleam of Brismand money, Brismand influence.

And the Brismand 2 Brismand 2, half-completed six months before. It must be ready now; ready to join the plan; Jean-Claude's share in the Brismand enterprise. I could see Flynn's place now-a vital point in the Brismand triumvirate. Claude, Marin, Rouget. La Houssiniere, Les Salants, the mainland. There was an inescapable symmetry there-the loans, the reef, Brismand's interest in flooded land. I had seen some of his plans early in the game; all I had needed to complete the equation was the news of Flynn's betrayal.

In my place, my demonstrative mother would have spread her news at once; but there was too much of GrosJean in me for that. We are more alike than I realized, he and I; we nurse our grudges in secret. We look at ourselves from the inside out. Our hearts are as p.r.i.c.kly and tightly layered as artichokes. I would not cry out. I would learn the whole truth. I would examine it calmly and a.n.a.lytically. I would make a diagnosis.