" "Targeted for execution?" asked the astonished Pryce.
"By his own people?"
"He was considered dangerous to our personnel everywhere. He knew all the secrets. The President himself had to order the 'salvage' aborted."
"Why was it ever issued in the first place?"
"I just told you, he was a walking time bomb. He had joined the enemy; he and Taleniekov were working together."
"After this Matarese!" protested Cameron.
"We learned that later, almost too late."
"Maybe I'd better get to know our President.. .. Okay, I'll try to find him. Where do I start?"
"He's in seclusion in the Caribbean, one of the islands. We've got our feelers operating, but so far no concrete information. We'll give you everything we have."
"Thanks a bunch. It's a pretty wide area with lots and lots of islands."
"Remember, if he's alive, he's in his sixties now, probably a lot different from the ID photographs."
"
"Beowulf Agate," what a stupid name."
"I don't know, it's no worse than "Serpent' for Taleniekov.
Incidentally, translated, in Tashkent your code was "Camshaft Pussycat."
" "Oh, shut up, Frank."
The seaplane landed in the mild waters of the Charlotte Amalie harbor in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. It taxied to the Coast Guard patrol station on the left bank of the waterfront, where Cameron Pryce climbed down the unstable steps to the dock. He was met by the young white-uniformed commander of station.
"Welcome to Charlotte Ahma-lee," said the naval officer, shaking his hand, "and if you want to fit in, that's the way it's pronounced."
"I'm on your side, Lieutenant. Where do I start?"
"First, you have a reservation at the Eighteen Sixty-nine House, right up on the hill. Damn good restaurant, and the fellow who owns it was once part of your kind of operations, so he'll keep his mouth shut."
"Once doesn't fill me with confidence-" "Count on it, sir. He was AID in Vientiane and the Agency dumped a pile of aircraft on him. How do you think he bought the hotel?"
"He's golden. Do you have anything for me?"
"Scofield folded up his charter service here several years ago and moved it to British Tortola. He closed that down, too, but still keeps a post office box there."
"Which means he comes back to pick up his mail."
"Or sends someone with a key. He gets his pension check every month and, presumably, whatever inquiries there are for his charters."
"He's still sailing then?"
"Under a new name.
"Tortola Caribbean," a tax dodge, if you want my opinion, which is kind of stupid since he hasn't paid any taxes for over twenty-five years."
"Some deep-cover boys never change. Where is he now?"
"Who knows?"
"Nobody's seen him?"
"Not for the record, and we've asked around. Discreetly, of course."
"Someone's got to pick up his mail-" "Look, sir, we just got this inquiry eight days ago, and we have friends in Tortola," said the Coast Guard lieutenant.
"They don't have a clue. Tortola is roughly twenty square miles of island with about ten thousand residents, mostly native and British. Its main post office is in Road Town, where mail comes in erratically and most of the time the clerks are asleep. I can't change the habits of a subtropic environment."
"Don't get irritated, I'm merely asking questions."
"I'm not irritated, I'm frustrated. If I could really help you, it would look good on my record and I might get out of this goddamned place. I simply can't. For all intents and purposes, that son of a bitch Scofield has disappeared."
"Not when he has a mailbox, Lieutenant. It's just a question of watching it."
"You'll forgive me, Mr. Pryce, but I'm not permitted to leave my station and sit on my ass in Tortola."
"Spoken like an officer and a gentleman, young man. But you can hire someone to do just that."
"With what? The budget's so tight here I have to rely on volunteer help when lousy catamarans can't get into shore!"
"Sorry, I forgot. Bureaucrats in suits make those decisions. They probably think St. Thomas is a Catholic territory in the Pacific.. ..
Cool off, Lieutenant, I'm wired into the suits. You help me, I'll help you."
"How?"
"Get me an inter island flight to Tortola with no identification."
"That's too easy."
"I'm not finished. Send one of your cutters to the harbor in Road Town under my command."
"That's too hard."
"I'll clear it. It'll look good on your record."
"I'll be damned-" "You will be if you refuse me. Let's go, Lieutenant, let's set up shop. Instant communications and all the rest of that horse shit."
"You're for real, aren't you?"
"Reality is my middle name, youngster. Don't you forget it, especially not now."
"What are you after?"
"Someone who knows the truth about an old story with numerous dimensions, and that's all you have to know."
"That doesn't tell me a hell of a lot."
"And I don't know much more, Lieutenant. I won't until I find Scofield. Help me."
"Sure, of course. I can ferry you over to Tortola on our second cutter, if you like."
"No thanks. Marinas are watched, the immigration procedures are pretty thorough-those tax dodges you mentioned. I'm sure you can find me an airstrip or a water touchdown that's off the usual routes."
"As a matter of fact, I can. We both use it to interdict drug smugglers."
"Use it now, please."
It was sundown, the third day of surveillance, and Pryce was in a hammock strung between two sturdy palms on the island beach.
Dressed in tropic clothes-docksiders, shorts, and a light guayabera- he was basically indistinguishable from the dozen or so other male tourists lolling about in the early-evening sand. The difference was in the contents of his "beach bag." Whereas others were filled with sunscreen lotion, crumpled magazines, and forgettable paperbacks, his bag held, first, a portable phone, calibrated to put him in immediate contact with St. Thomas as well as the Coast Guard cutter moored in the Tortola harbor and capable of sen
ding and receiving less esoteric communications via satellite. In addition to this vital link, there was a holstered weapon-a .45 Star PD auto pistol with five clips of ammunition-a belt-scabbarded hunting knife, a flashlight, a pair of night-vision binoculars, charts of Tortola and the nearby islands, a fir staid kit, a bottle of flesh antiseptic, and two flasks-one filled with spring water, the other with McKenna sour-mash bourbon. Experience had taught him that each item had its place in the scheme of unpredictable things.
He was about to doze off in the debilitating heat when the low hum of the phone penetrated the lining of his waterproof flight bag. He reached down, unzipped the thin nylon strip, and pulled out the state of-the-art instrument.
"Yes?" he said quietly.
"Finally pay dirt, mon!" replied one of the black Tortolans recruited by the lieutenant in St. Thomas for the surveillance team; he was calling from the Road Town post office.
"The mailbox?"
"Not much in it, but she got it all."
"She?"
"A white lady, mon. Middle-aged, mebbe forties or fifties, difficult to tell 'cause she damn near as dark as us from the sun."
"Hair? Height?"
"Half gray, half brown. Pretty tall, mebbe three, four flat hands above five feet."
"It was his wife. Where did she go?"
"She got into a Jeep, mon, no license plate. She's heading toward the Point, I think."
"What Point?"
"Got lots of names, only one road. I'll follow her on my moped.
Gotta hurry, mon."
"For God's sake, keep in touch!"
"You get to cut-boat. Tell 'em to cruise east to Heavy Rock, they know it."
Cameron Pryce switched channels and spoke to the skipper of the Coast Guard cutter.
"Pull into the dock and I'll get on board. Do you know a place, a point, called Heavy Rock?"
"Or "Lotsa Rock," or "Big Stone Point," or "Black Rock Angel'? .. .
Sure, it depends where you live on Tortola. At night it's a favorite landing site for the contrabandistas. The older natives say it's haunted with obeah, that's like voodoo."
"That's where we're going."
The long shadows, created by the orange sun disappearing over the horizon, fell across the Caribbean waters as the cutter slowly, lazily, rounded the coastline.