The Deceiver

meeting. By ten, he had what he had come for, a secure line to the embassy in Washington. He spoke for twenty minutes to the Head of the SIS Station, a colleague he knew well from London days and with whom he had stayed the previous week while attending the CIA seminar.

The Washington-based colleague confirmed the story and added a few more details that had just arrived from London.

“I thought I might pop over,” said McCready.

“Not really our cup of tea, is it?” suggested the Head of Station.

“Probably not, but it might be worth a look. I’ll need to draw some funds, and I’ll need a communicator.”

“I’ll clear it with the Consul. Could you put him on the line?”

An hour later, McCready left the consulate with a wad of dollars, duly signed for, and an attachй case containing a portable telephone and an encrypter with a range that would enable him to make secure calls to the consulate in Miami and have them passed on to Washington.

He returned to the Sonesta Beach, packed, checked out, and called an air taxi company at the airport. They agreed on a two P.M. takeoff for the ninety-minute run to Sunshine.

Eddie Favaro was also up early. He had already decided there was only one place he could start—the game- fishing commu­nity down at the fishing quay. Wherever Julio Gomez had spent his vacation, a large part of it surely had been there.

Having no transport, he walked. It was not far. Almost every wall and tree he passed bore a poster urging the island­ers to vote for one candidate or the other. The faces of both men—one big, round, and jolly, the other smooth, urbane, and paler in tone—beamed from the posters.

Some had been torn down or defaced, whether by children or by adherents to the other candidate, he could not tell. All had been professionally printed. On a warehouse wall near the docks was another message, crudely painted. It said, WE WANT REFERENDUM. As he passed, a black jeep carrying four men raced up.

The jeep screeched to a halt. The four men wore hard expressions, multicolored shirts, and wraparound black glasses that hid their eyes. Four black heads stared at the message, then swiveled toward Favaro as if he were respon­sible for it. Favaro shrugged as if to say, “Nothing to do with me.” The four impassive faces stared at him until he rounded a corner. Then he heard the jeep, revving hard, drive away.

At the fishing quay, groups of men were discussing the same news that had occupied those in the hotel lobby. He interrupted one group to ask who took visitors fishing. One of the men pointed farther down the quay to a man working on a boat.

Favaro crouched on the quay and made his inquiry. He showed the fisherman a picture of Julio Gomez.

The man shook his head. “Sure, he was here last week. But he go out with Jimmy Dobbs. That’s Jimmy’s boat over there, the Gulf Lady.”

There was nobody on the Gulf Lady. He leaned on a mooring post to wait. Like all cops, he knew the meaning of patience. Information gathered in a matter of seconds was for TV thrillers. In real life, you spent most of your time waiting. Jimmy Dobbs showed up at ten.

“Mr. Dobbs?”

“That’s me.”

“Hi—my name’s Eddie. I’m from Florida. This your boat?”

“Sure is. You here for the fishing?”

“That’s my game,” said Favaro. “Friend of mine recom­mended you.”

“That’s nice.”

“Julio Gomez. You remember him?”

The black man’s open, honest face clouded. He reached into the Gulf Lady and took a rod from a holder. He examined the jig lure and the hook for several seconds, then handed the rod to Favaro.

“You like yellowtail snapper? They some good snapper right under the dock. Down at the far end.”

Together they walked to the far end of the jetty, out of earshot of anyone else. Favaro wondered why.

Jimmy Dobbs took the rod back and cast expertly across the water. He reeled in slowly, letting the brightly colored jig wriggle and turn beneath the surface. A small blue runner made a dart for the lure and turned away.

“Julio Gomez dead,” Jimmy Dobbs said gravely.

“I know,” said Favaro. “I’d like to find out why. He fished with you a lot, I think.”

“Every year. He good man, nice guy.”

“He tell you what his job was in Miami?”

“Yep. Once.”

“You ever tell anyone else?”

“Nope. You a friend or a colleague?”

“Both, Jimmy. Tell me, when did you last see Julio?”

“Right here, Thursday evening. We’d been out all day. He booked me for Friday morning. Never showed up.”

“No,” said Favaro. “He was at the airstrip, trying to get a flight to Miami. In a hurry. He picked the wrong plane—blew up over the sea. Why did we have to walk down here to talk?”

Jimmy Dobbs hooked a two-pound horse-eye jack and handed the shivering rod to Favaro. The American reeled in. He was inexpert. The jack took some slack line and jumped the hook.

“They some bad people on these islands,” he said simply.

Favaro realized he could now identify an odor he had smelled in the town: It was fear. He knew about fear. No Miami cop is stranger to that unique aroma. Somehow, fear had now come to paradise.

“When he left you, he was a happy man?”

“Yep. One fine fish he was taking home for supper. He was happy. No problems.”

“Where did he go from here?”

Jimmy Dobbs looked surprised. “To Mrs. Macdonald’s, of course. He always stayed with her.”

Mrs. Macdonald was not at home. She was out shopping. Favaro decided to come back later. First, he would try the airport. He returned to Parliament Square. There were two taxis, but both drivers were at lunch. There was nothing he could do about it; he crossed the square to the Quarter Deck to eat and wait for them to come back. He took a verandah seat from where he could watch for the taxis. All around him was the same excited buzz that had pervaded breakfast—the talk being only of the murder of the Governor the previous evening.

“They sending a senior detective from Scotland Yard,” one of the group near Favaro announced.

Two men entered the bar. They were big, and they said not a word. The conversation died. The two men removed every poster proclaiming the candidacy of Marcus Johnson and put up different ones. The new posters said, VOTE LIVINGSTONE, THE PEOPLE’S CANDIDATE. When they had finished, they left.

The waiter came over and set down grilled fish and a beer.

“Who were they?” asked Favaro.

“Election helpers of Mr. Livingstone,” the waiter said expressionlessly.

“People seem to be frightened of them.”

“No, sah.”

The waiter turned away, eyes blank. Favaro had seen that expression in interrogation rooms at the Metro- Dade head­quarters. Shutters come down behind the eyes. The message is, “There’s no one home.”

The jumbo carrying Superintendent Hannah and DI Parker touched down at Nassau at three P.M., local time. A senior officer of the Bahamian Police boarded first, identified the two men from Scotland Yard, introduced himself, and welcomed them to Nassau. He escorted them out of the cabin before the other passengers, then down to a waiting Land-Rover. The first gust of warm, balmy air swept over Hannah. In his London clothes he felt sticky at once.

The Bahamian officer took their baggage checks and handed them to a constable, who would extract the two valises from the rest of the baggage. Hannah and Parker were driven straight to the VIP lounge. There they met the British Deputy High Commissioner, Mr. Longstreet, and a more junior staffer called Bannister.