"She knows,” her voice conspiratorially announces into the phone.
“Stay focused,” he slices each word, keen and deliberately. “There are many moving parts to this scenario. Timing is everything.”
“I am focused. But I’m getting tired of waiting,” her accent whines. “What if they figure out, I’m involved? It’s not easy to be inconspicuous here.”
“They won’t. They’re distracted. Just tie up your loose ends and keep your distance. And, it needs to look like an accident.” His voice turns grave, “What about the body suit I sent you?”
“It’s already been rendered. Where would you like it delivered?” she coos.
“Send it back to me, I want to show it off.” His thoughts are interrupted momentarily by an unusual sound in the distance, before he continues, “How are our friends in California?”
“On board,” she replies. “Everything is a go.”
“It had better be.” Ending the call, he smiles to himself, as a light knock hits the door to his suite. Accompanied by yet another unusual sound from the vast, Jurassic landscape before him to the north, he strains over the balcony. The ocean below, swallowing the sound that’s not quite human, animal or machine. “Come in,” he beckons, and the marchioness enters quietly. “What is that sound? That whining sound,” he asks.
Crossing through his room onto the patio trailing a silk caftan behind her like the wings of a Struthio, she listens for a moment then replies, “That’s the Silbo. Silbo Gomera,” her lavish Italian accent resonates as she claims a cushion on the patio sofa, posturing her clothing before slightly tilting her head up with a gentle shake, her red curls bounding with the youth of a tween.
The view before them to their left looks out over almost vertical rocky mountains covering the landscape for as far as the eye can see, they cast impenetrable shadows over deep errant valleys that dramatize the uniqueness of this Canary Island. “It’s the peasants, darling. That’s how they talk,” she clarifies with disdain.
“How charming.”
“No. Not really. I think they do it on purpose,” her mouth pouts. “Hiding in the hills, they whistle to each other. Spreading rumors,” her face retracts with her words, “gossiping like birds about my comings and goings. They’re a nuisance!” she hisses, her accent tainted by years of scotch, almost moans.
“Sounds like whistling. I think you overestimate them.”
“No!” she corrects him, shaking a long, manicured finger. “This is an ancient language. It came from Africa long, long ago. They can actually speak to each other.” Her crimson locks undulate tersely. “All of them do it, they’re a menace!”
“Maybe I can do something about that.”
“Tesoro, that is why I invited you here. I love problem solvers.”