Island of Thieves Read online

  “A vacation home for people who don’t take vacations,” said Shaw.

  “Could be. But in the past week, I’ve flown Mr. Rohner there twice already, along with a bunch of his VPs. And then the household staff with all the food and supplies. That took three trips. Everybody’s getting ready for the conference to start.”

  “What’s the big meeting about? Rohner didn’t go into details.”

  “I don’t know either. Could be nobody does, except the principals. I’m sure there will be a press release once all the papers are signed. Hey, check that out.”

  She pointed to the Sound, where a submarine was cruising on the surface, flanked by two smaller navy vessels. The warship making headway toward the straits and the open sea beyond swiftly enough to send a steady plume of waves over her rounded bow.

  “Out of the shipyard, I guess,” C.J. said. “Look at her go.”

  “Are you local?”

  “Me? No, I’m one of the terrible people moving here and eating up real estate.” She smiled. “But I like to get my bearings quickly. Part of the job.”

  “You must hear a lot, flying the executives around. Any conflicts inside Droma on your radar?”

  “Like arguments?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I like to know the lay of the land, too. Part of my job is making sure things run smooth. That’s tough if coworkers don’t get along and then they’re stuck on an island together for three days. Anyone have beef with the family?”

  “Nothing like that. I do the Vancouver hops occasionally. Younger management, sometimes late in the day after they’ve had dinner and drinks, you know? Two of them got into a squabble about whether they could ever rise through the ranks. They’re American, for one, and for two—” C.J. looked at him. “I don’t want you to think I’m talking smack about the boss.”

  “Smack away. Keeping secrets is in my DNA.”

  She smiled. “This wasn’t really about the Rohners anyway. The junior guys, they think because Sofia Rohner is head of client development and Mr. Rohner’s son runs operations in Europe, that there’s no place for them. You want my opinion, that’s not just counting chickens before they hatch—they’re counting the whole farm. These guys haven’t even made department head yet.”

  “But they see Droma as a family joint.”

  “And that the Rohners being here on the West Coast is just a jumping-off point to Asia. World conquest.”

  “Even though they just built an estate here?”

  “‘Three hundred acres of overcompensation.’ That’s a quote I overheard.” She stopped and frowned. “But I can’t tell you who from. I don’t want my butt kicked back to Jersey.”

  Shaw had the impression he’d overstepped. For the rest of the flight, he kept his thoughts about the Rohners to himself, speaking up only to remark on the scenery.

  And the view was spectacular, he had to admit. C.J. set a course north-northwest, following the elongated reach of Whidbey Island and back to the water again, where Shaw had a close enough look at Deception Pass to see beachcombers strolling at the edge of the state park. Rounding Orcas Island, C.J. had loosened up again, spotting a pod of dolphins half a mile off the coast, splashing as they dove and rolled and feasted on some unseen school of fish below the surface.

  Soon she pointed to what looked like a spit of land beyond the masses of bigger islands. “There. That’s Briar Bay.”

  At first Shaw thought she might be joking. Compared to the nearest populated islands, Briar Bay looked barely larger than the submarine they had passed, and about the same shape. Then, as the plane drew nearer, it became clear that the island was much longer than he’d first seen. He tried to estimate its size. Almost a mile from tip to tip, perhaps, and more than half that wide, in a broad crescent with the wider edge to the north.

  The land rose rapidly from the waters of the strait, as if to ensure that the tides would not overwhelm it. A heavy forest of hemlock and white pine blanketed the northern side and the center mound of the island. The inner edge of the crescent, to the south, was barren. The forest ended in a shallow cliff. After that only bedrock from the cliff all the way to the water.

  The island looked like a hooked blade, Shaw realized, with its thick outer curve to the north and the stark interior shore forming a wicked edge.

  “Let’s take a pass,” C.J. said.

  As they neared the island’s eastern tip, the first signs of human habitation appeared. First a small field of midnight-black solar panels, then in quick succession a fenced area containing a cell tower and a satellite dish the diameter of a sewer pipe, a tall pole with the American flag fluttering at the top, and a flat twenty-foot square of concrete slab that Shaw guessed might be intended for a helipad. Half a dozen corrugated metal sheds were last in the motley strip.

  In front of the sheds, a single floating dock extended ten yards out into the water before making a ninety-degree turn to continue parallel to the shore for thirty more. Enough moorage to fit Hollis’s Francesca and three more just like it.

  The estate itself took up the final sixth of a mile, at what would be the handle of the island’s knife shape. Shaw found himself craning his neck, trying to take in every detail.

  What he guessed was the main house was farthest from the end. A square of two tall stories, with a veranda encircling the ground floor. Its sides looked north and south. Expansive picture windows allowing every room a view.

  The rear of the house was lent privacy and shade by the tall forest, while the front looked out into an elongated courtyard between two lengthy wings that extended toward the tip of the island. All three of the buildings were of the same style. Shaw dubbed it Mammoth Craftsman. Eaves over the windows, columns around the veranda, and cedar siding. Roofs of blue metal shingles merged with the water that would be in the distance almost any direction you looked.

  At the very tip of the island, a short stretch from each of the two wings, was Rohner’s pièce de résistance.

  “What the hell is that?” Shaw said, feeling C.J. grinning next to him.

  “The pavilion,” she answered.

  His first impression was of a diamond exploding from within. Or a monstrous, especially aggressive crystalline sea anemone. The structure was the size of the main house. Larger, if you counted how far its spikes and spires extended from the interior, upward and outward.

  It appeared to be made entirely of glass. If there was a right angle anywhere, Shaw didn’t see it. Looking through what passed for its ceiling—through the clear facets created by the pointed spires reaching in a dozen directions—he could tell that the inside of the pavilion was one huge room. Someone standing within would look like a doll left in a vacant and kaleidoscopic greenhouse.

  “Amazing, huh?” said C.J. “Reminds me of the Louvre, you know?”

  Shaw hadn’t been to the Paris museum, but he understood what she meant. The classical building with a strikingly divergent glass pyramid in front. Sebastien Rohner’s estate wasn’t on that scale, but what it lacked in size it made up for in audacity.

  “Here we go,” C.J. said, and the Otter banked hard right to reverse direction, leveling out as it descended. In the wind shadow of the strait, the waves were calmer. Near to shore barely a chop. C.J. brought the plane down so easily that the pontoons kissed the water for a full two seconds before sinking lower. She let the plane give in to the drag before nudging the throttle to goose it toward the dock.

  Someone was waiting for them. A very tall and lean bald man, stooping to gather a coiled line that would secure the plane. The wind lapped at his tan suit coat and pant legs. His shaved head glinted in the afternoon sun.

  When the plane drew within reach, the man ducked under the wing and deftly looped the line around a small cleat at the rear of the pontoon. C.J. killed the engine and stepped out onto the pontoon to jump to the dock. Shaw retrieved his duffel from behind the seat and clambered through the door after her.

  “I don’t guess you two have met in person,” C.J. said as
she secured the bowline. “Mr. Anders, this is Van Shaw. Van, this is Mr. Rohner’s chief of staff. Olen Anders.”

  “Hello,” Shaw said, shaking hands.

  The tall man nodded slowly. His long face seemingly stretched by hollow cheeks and a chin as meticulously shaved as his head. To Shaw the nod looked less like a greeting than as if something Anders had long believed had finally been confirmed.

  “A pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Shaw,” he said.

  NINE

  C.J. gathered her flight bag from the cockpit. “I didn’t know you were on the island, Mr. Anders.”

  “A final check before our maiden voyage.” Anders glanced briefly in the direction of the pavilion spires, just visible over the rise of the land.

  “I need to see to things,” C.J. said, indicating the plane. Its engine ticked softly as it cooled in the sea breeze. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

  “I’ll show Mr. Shaw to his quarters.”

  The two men walked up the dock, which bobbed with each slow wave off the strait. Anders’s long legs covered the ground rapidly. Six-five, Shaw estimated, without the dress shoes. He was probably Rohner’s age, and like his boss he gave the impression of having a younger man’s fitness. Maybe Anders joined Rohner on his mountaineering excursions.

  A flagstone path led up the incline and past the main house. Anders remained silent as they neared the south wing. The wing’s shape was reminiscent of the Salish tribe longhouses Shaw had seen on museum trips as a kid. But like most things on the island, the wing was on an inflated scale. A single straight box with a peaked roof, two stories tall and at least ninety yards in length.

  Shaw pointed to the glass spires in the distance. “The pavilion. Is that where your conference will be held this week?”

  “Yes. We have meeting rooms and offices in the north wing, along with larger kitchen and dining facilities than in the family house. But for this event Sebastien chose to make full use of our pavilion. The weather this week should oblige.”

  Shaw nodded. We have. Our pavilion. Anders might not bear the Rohner name, but he gave every indication of considering himself part of the inner circle. The man’s accent was different, however. More French-sounding than Sebastien Rohner’s, less British than daughter Sofia’s. Shaw knew that Switzerland had multiple official languages, German and French included.

  Maybe Wren could place Anders’s region if she ever heard him speak. When Raina Marchand was agitated—or aroused, Shaw thought with a private smile—he had occasionally imagined he could hear her Gallic heritage in her voice.

  As they came to the top of the rise, Shaw got a closer look at something he’d only glimpsed from the air. An enclosed passageway between the main house and the south wing. At the far end of the long wing, a similar passage led to the pavilion. And like the pavilion, both corridors were fashioned mostly from glass. Shaw could see through the passageway to a portion of the tree-lined courtyard beyond.

  “Those must be handy in rainy weather,” he said, nodding to the closer passage.

  “Indeed. It’s not necessary to go out of doors to reach any building in the estate. Especially important for the staff.”

  “You must spend a fortune on Windex.”

  Anders gave the sort of minimal smile that acknowledged a joke had been attempted.

  “Our staff quarters are here,” he said as they neared an exterior door to the south wing. Shaw heard a faint click before Anders reached to pull the door open.

  “Proximity sensor?” he guessed.

  “Yes.” From the chest pocket of his suit jacket, Anders removed a small black plastic rod. Like a thicker, shorter ballpoint pen, complete with a metal clip to attach the wand to a pocket or onto a lanyard. “The staff carry these wands. Depending on the time of day, the wand allows entry into most of the buildings.”

  “The main house being the exception.”

  “Correct. For privacy the family retains the house to themselves. This wand is already encoded for you. Please keep it with you at all times.”

  Access, Shaw thought, and likely more. It wouldn’t be difficult to have the wands track the location of each person anywhere on the island.

  They entered a foyer about the same size and decor as an elevator bay in an upscale hotel. A console table with a lapis vase had been placed precisely halfway along its length. Shaw spotted a tiny bit of plastic stuck in the seam of the table leg, likely torn off when the furniture had been unwrapped after shipping. As he followed Anders down a hall into the building, he caught a faint whiff of paint fumes. The sage-green interior latex in the hall had dried, but the coat on some nearby room was still fresh.

  “Just under the wire for the grand opening,” he said.

  “This building is primarily for Droma employees,” Anders said, not bothering with the smile this time. “Twenty rooms, though the island should normally require less than half that many staff on hand.”

  “Where do guests stay?” The accommodations seemed pleasant enough, but nothing that would impress visiting dignitaries.

  “In the north wing. Any overflow can be accommodated here.”

  All the cherrywood doors along the hall had been left open, perhaps to air out the rooms. A discreet brass number marked each door, adding to the hotel feel of the place. Shaw glanced into the rooms as they passed. Each contained a queen-size bed and simple but weighty furniture in the early-twentieth-century Craftsman style. Dark green diamond-patterned carpeting. Bed on the left side, door to the bathroom on the right.

  The furnishings in each bedroom, even the single chair and reading lamp, had been set in precisely the same spot. Even the angle of the lamp arm was the same thirty degrees. Seeing one indistinguishable space after another as he walked past made Shaw slightly dizzy.

  At the door marked 8, Anders stopped. “Your room. You may leave your bag here. I assume you wish to see the art collection immediately?”

  “Why else would you meet me at the plane? Any of the staff could have brought me here.”

  “Indeed.”

  Shaw tossed his duffel onto the queen bed and retrieved the Droma employment papers from the pocket of his jacket. He handed the folded sheaf to Anders.

  “Let’s take in some culture,” he said.

  Anders nearly winced.

  TEN

  In the courtyard, rows of ornamental cherry trees ran alongside evenly spaced plots of rosebushes. The trees looked sparse when compared with the towering forest that loomed behind the main house. In another year they might flower and cover the courtyard lawn with white and pink blossoms.

  The rosebushes, whether planted wrong or just too early in the season, were barren. Long beds of spiny branches and prickly leaves. Shaw saw a few nascent buds in between the thorns. He guessed that if Sebastien Rohner spared a thought to the landscaping, he would consider the roses a disappointment. The blooms had refused to meet his deadline.

  “How long did it take to build all this?” he asked Anders.

  “Twenty months. The planning of a similar home and compound had begun over a year earlier, before the island was purchased. Mr. Rohner’s wife holidayed in this region when she was younger. That informed the decision to build here.”

  “Will she be here for the event this week?”

  “Mrs. Rohner is in Zurich,” Anders said, his face impassive. Shaw inferred that Mrs. Rohner might not often be in the same vicinity as Mr. Rohner.

  They cut diagonally across the yard and through doors that allowed them to traverse the glass passageway between the main house and the north wing. A young woman in a robin’s-egg blue blouse and navy skirt and carrying an armload of linens crossed their path, coming from the house.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Anders,” she said.

  “Good afternoon, Greta. The guests will be arriving by two p.m.”

  “Yes, sir. Miss Sofia told us. Everything will be ready.”

  Anders nodded, and Greta continued on her way.

  Beyond the passage was the lush
er northern shore. There was no tended lawn outside the courtyard, only flagstone paths winding around the natural stones and hillocks between the shore and the forest at this end of the island. They had a panoramic view of Boundary Pass and its swells, rolling past the island with the speed of a railroad handcar and the power of a freight train.

  Squinting, Shaw could make out a thread of green at the far edge of the horizon. Or maybe it was his imagination.

  Anders noted his interest. “Three miles,” he said. “Three to South Pender Island in British Columbia, in that direction. Three to Waldron.” He pointed east. “And three to Stuart Island.” Pointing southwest, parallel to the current.

  “The center of the triangle,” said Shaw. “We must only be about a mile from the Canadian border, then.”

  “A mile and a half,” Anders corrected.

  “If the goal was to impress clients,” said Shaw, “this place should do the trick.”

  Anders began walking in the direction of the main house. “Clients and friends. Mr. Rohner knows many political leaders and heads of other industries. Briar Bay Island was envisioned as a retreat for their use as well.”

  “Camp David Northwest.”

  “Just so.”

  At the side of the great house, partway down the slope to the north shore, was a structure Shaw hadn’t spotted from the air. It was built of the same cedar siding as the home and the two wings, but with a flat roof that extended out from its walls rather than the sea-blue shingles of the larger buildings.

  “The art gallery,” Anders explained.

  Another glass passageway sheltered a set of flagstone steps connecting the gallery to the main house farther up the small hill. The gallery itself had no windows. Anders stopped at the lone exterior door, under a shaded eave formed by the broad roof.

  He removed one of the access wands from the breast pocket of his suit coat. Anders’s was silver rather than the black wand given to Shaw. Anders touched the silver rod to a metal plate above the gallery door. The heavy clunk of a magnetic lock releasing followed.