and then pressing a button.
She came to her feet saying, 'This way, please,' and led them down a short hallway.
She held open a door and bestowed on them what she probably thought was a smile.
Roy and Forry entered a moderately large office, once again with a Londonish feel—stolid, spotless, cold. Mr. Oliver Brett-James was standing behind an old-fashioned wooden desk. He was tubby, almost naked of scalp, red rather than tanned, his complexion more from bottles man the Bahamian sun. His smile was conservatively polite, though he seemed surprised to see two of them. 'Mr. Cos?' he said.
'That's right,' Roy told him. Neither of them made a motion toward shaking hands. Under the circumstances, it didn't seem exactly called for.
'And you, sir?' the Englishman said to Forry.
'Forrest Brown,' Forry said. 'I'm Mr. Cos's business agent.'
'Business agent? Well, no reason why not, I daresay. Be seated, gentlemen. Shall we get immediately to business? Here is the contract. It goes into effect tomorrow. And here is your International Credit Card, drawn on our Swiss bank in Beme. Each day, as you undoubtedly know, you will have one million pseudo-dollars at your disposal. It doesn't accumulate, of course, but each day you have that amount available.'
Roy and Forry had taken chairs in front of the desk. Forry said sourly, scratching a thumbnail over his meager mustache, 'Suppose we read the contract before signing.'
'Certainly, old chap,' the Briton said. 'I merely thought that you were already cognizant of its contents, in which case there'd be no point in mucking around.' He handed a three-page sheaf of paper to each of them and then leaned back patiently in his swivel chair.
His two callers read what he had given them carefully.
Forry had already dug up copies of the standard Deathwish Policy and this didn't deviate from it.
After a few minutes, while they were still reading, Brett-James cleared his throat and said, 'Please take note of Clause Three. You must understand that we will not tolerate frivolous expenditures. That is, suppose you decide to purchase a diamond or a painting. If the price is over 10,000 pseudo-dollars, we will have an expert evaluate the item. We do not expect to have you spending, say, 50,000 pseudo-dollars on something which is really worth but 15,000. We expect our specialists to check out the true value, within reason. Of course the gem or painting, as the case might be, reverts to us upon your, ah, unfortunate demise.'
Forry looked up finally and said, 'Just how much does the policy pay off in benefits to you when Mr. Cos, ah, passes on?'
Oliver Brett-James stiffened. 'I say, that isn't really a concern of yours now, is it?'
Forry took him in. 'Yes,' he said. 'The details of this transaction will help me in supervising his interests.'
The other didn't like it, but he said finally, 'Our corporation will receive ten million pseudo-dollars in the way of benefits.'
Forry said gently, 'And how much are the daily premiums that you must pay?'
'See here, Mr., uh, Brown. This is of no interest to…'
'We think it is,' the ex-newsman said. He brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook forth a smoke. 'We either find out, or Mr. Cos doesn't sign.' He put the cigarette in his colorless lips and brought forth his lighter.
Brett-James stared at him for a long moment, but finally said, 'The daily premiums are one million pseudo- dollars.'
The gray-faced Forry nodded as he lit up, blowing smoke through his pinched nostrils. 'Clear enough. You have to do Roy in within ten days or you start losing money.'
The signing of the contract was witnessed by the receptionist and another nonentity she brought in, a young man who avoided Roy's eyes as he signed.
When the two witnesses were gone, Brett-James rubbed his hands together and said, 'Jolly well. I daresay you'll be returning immediately to the mainland. Where will you be staying?'
Forry looked at him flatly. 'Get serious,' he said. 'Do you think we'd give you that much of a head start?' He put Roy's copy of the contract into his attache case.
When they had left, the other pressed a button on his desk and four men entered, one of them the young witness. Brett-James said, 'You've got the photos, the tapes and all?'
The oldest of the four nodded. 'Yes, sir.'
'Very well, get to work on both of them. Check out this Forrest Brown chap. We'll want to know just where he fits in.' Brett-James made a motion with his hand. 'All right, Maurice, tail them. Follow the instructions I gave you earlier.'
As they walked back toward Bay Street, Forry looked at his wrist chronometer. 'We've got over an hour before the next shuttle to Miami. We might as well eat. Blackbeard's Tavern is a good place.'
'Right,' Roy said, immersed deeply in bleak thoughts.
They reached the shopping center and turned left.
The little ex-newsman stopped at a shop and said, 'Just a minute. I might as well stock up here.'
The sign said, 'Solomon's Mines,' and they entered to find the store devoted almost exclusively to tobacco products. Roy muttered, 'Jesus Christ. In the States this shop would've been raided before it opened.'
His companion ordered a dozen packs of Russian Imperial Gold Tip Blacks and began stuffing them into his pockets. 'A fraction of what they cost on the black market at home,' he said. 'Here, stick these away.' He handed Roy six packs.
'Wait a minute,' Roy Cos said indignantly. 'Suppose they nail me with them at American customs. It's a bad policy for a member of the Wobblies. A radical can't afford to be anything else offbeat. It gives them a handle to get at you.'
Forry said impatiently, 'They never search your person at customs unless you're a known smuggler or have a criminal record when they check you out in the data banks.'
Roy shrugged in resignation and distributed the six packages of cigarettes about his pockets.
As they left the shop, the little newsman was tearing one pack open. He shook out a gold-tipped, black- papered cigarettee and said, 'Like to try one?'
'For God's sake, do I look stupid? You think I want to wind up with my lungs eaten away and my heart pounding overtime?'
Forry grinned. 'They've been denouncing alcohol for centuries, but I notice you're not particularly opposed to taking a drink.'
'It's only excessive use of alcohol that's condemned,' Roy told him, his tone righteous. 'Moderate use of alcohol has been a blessing to man since prehistory.'
'By Christ, you radicals are the most conservative cloddies going. You're worse than the United Church. Excess of anything will do you in. Drink enough water and you'll drown.'
They argued companionably, deliberately avoiding the subject uppermost in both their minds.
Blackbeard's Tavern turned out to be a cozy bar and restaurant, with a small calypso band playing in the background, surprisingly softly. They took a table and a white-jacketed, barefooted black was there immediately to take their order.
Forry said, with obvious anticipation, 'Native Bahamians have their own food specialties that are hard to get elsewhere. Conch, for instance—a kind of shellfish. We'll have conch chowder, green turtle pie, and baked Andros crabs. And black beer to go with it.'
Roy put down his menu and let the other do all of the ordering. When the waiter was gone, he said, 'I think we were followed.'
'Yeah, I noticed that,' Forry said. 'Forget about it. The contract doesn't go into effect until tomorrow. But don't forget that tomorrow starts at midnight. Meanwhile, they most certainly don't want anything to happen to you before then. That bastard tailing us is more like a bodyguard than anything else, at this stage. It'll be something else if we see him tomorrow.'
The waiter brought large mugs of very dark beer and, shortly afterward, the conch chowder. They ate without joy, stolidly going through the motions while lost in their thoughts. It had been one thing, planning this coup, but getting down to the nitty-gritty in Brett-James's office had brought home reality. The contract was signed now and there was no going back; as of midnight, Roy would have a price on his pelt.
Again they avoided saying what was uppermost in both of their minds. Forry skated near it with, 'Funny how
