great Danes.”
Sanders remembered. On a warm night in 1973, Sir Richard Sharpies, the British governor of Bermuda, had gone for a late-night stroll with his pet Dane. Man and dog were found slaughtered in the gardens of Government House. “What does that have to do with us?” he said.
“He was a meddler. He refused to do business. I don’t like it when someone I approach refuses to do business.”
“Business?”
“I wanted to see the ampule solely to confirm my suspicions about it. The fact that you don’t have it, that you have entrusted it to Romer Treece for safekeeping—I assume that is what you have done—confirms those suspicions quite adequately. How many more ampules are there?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many did you find?”
Sanders looked at Gail, but her impassive expression did not change. “Two.”
“Do you know what they contain?”
“Not for sure, no.”
“But you know the legend. Or, rather, the story, since the legend seems to be coming true.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Sanders, I am determined to acquire every ampule down there. Every last one of them.”
“Why?”
“They are valuable. We need them.”
“For what?”
“Never mind. It’s no concern of yours.”
Gail said, “Who are you going to sell them to? Kids?”
Cloche smiled. “How nice to see your interest finally piqued. But that, too, is no concern of yours. In fact, the less you know, the better for you.”
“Then why bother us? You don’t need us,” Sanders said.
“You dive. And you know exactly where they are.”
“No. We know where two of them
“Perhaps. But it is testimony to British foresight that very few of those divers are black. Just as they have successfully
kept the blacks from the professions, so they have kept most of them from becoming first-rate divers. I could import someone, but any qualified diver who came through customs—any black diver, that is—would come under immediate suspicion. You are here, you are tourists, you are white. You are above suspicion.”
Gail said, “We’re not pushers.”
“Pushers?” Cloche was unfamiliar with the word.
“Ah,
He paused and looked at Sanders. “You will discover how many ampules there are. If there are only a few-if the legend is, indeed, a legend-you will tell me and no one else. Your reward will be continued good health and a carefree Bermuda holiday.
If, on the other hand, there is a multitude of ampules, you will recover them. We will, of course, provide you with whatever assistance you need.” Cloche turned toward Gail. “Once the ampules are in our hands, you will leave Bermuda. You will go to New York and you will call a telephone number I will have given you. You will leave instructions as to where in the world, six months from that date, you would like to collect one million dollars in the currency of your choice.”
Gail drew a quick, startled breath.
Cloche smiled, then looked at Sanders, who gazed back at him without expression.
“No,” said Sanders.
“Don’t be hasty, Mr. Sanders. I see by your lip that you have a tendency to be hasty.”
Sanders ran his tongue over his lower lip. A tender lump had risen, and the saliva made it sting.
“Think about it,” Cloche said. “Think about freedom, about the freedom you can buy… with a million dollars.” He gestured to Ronald.
“Where are their mobilettes?”
Ronald made a throwing motion. “The brush.”
Cloche said to Sanders, “They will be returned in the morning. A final word: Make no mistake about it—should you still be inclined to be… hasty… and go to the authorities, you will find that, officially, I do not exist. And should you try to get out of this by leaving Bermuda, you will also discover that, in reality, I exist everywhere.” His back stiffened.
“There will be no haven.” He turned to Ronald.
“Take them home.”
There was no conversation in the car during the thirty-minute ride to the Orange Grove Club. Ronald and the driver sat in front, David and Gail in back. As they pulled onto the main road, Sanders rolled down his window. When Ronald did not object, Gail rolled hers down, too.
The only sounds on the deserted road, other than the wind and the engine noise, were the calling of tree frogs and the chirruping of cicadas. The driver stopped the car at the entrance to Orange Grove.
He did not offer to drive them to their cottage; they did not ask. They walked silently up the driveway, stopping where the footpath to their cottage turned off to the right.
“You hungry?” said Sanders.
“Hardly.”
“We can order a sandwich from the room. I could sure use a drink.”
Inside the cottage, Sanders tossed the key on the dresser and walked toward the bathroom, where there was a refrigerator. “Scotch?” he said.
“Fine.”
He went into the bathroom, opened the refrigerator, pried some cubes loose from an old-fashioned ice tray, and dropped them into the two bathroom glasses. He heard Gail pick up the telephone, and he called, “I’ll have a turkey on white with lettuce and mayonnaise.”
Gail did not answer.
As he poured whiskey into the glasses, he heard Gail say into the phone, “Get me the police, please.” There was a pause. “Yes, that’s right.
No, there’s nothing wrong.” She sounded annoyed.
“Just get the police.”
Sanders set the scotch bottle on the sink and hurried into the bedroom. “What are you doing?” he said.
“What’s it sound like?” She spoke into the phone.
“What’s my room number have to do with anything? I assume this is a local call.”
“Hang up,” Sanders said. “Let’s talk about it.”
“What’s to talk about? We were kidnaped, for God’s sake! Threatened.”
“Hang up!” Sanders ordered. “Or I’ll hang up for you.” He held his index finger above the phone cradle.
Gail looked at him.
“I’m not kidding. Hang up!”
Gail hesitated for a moment, then said into the phone, “That’s all right, operator. I’ll try again later.” She hung up. “Okay. So talk.”
“Calm down,” Sanders said. He put his hand on her shoulder.
She brushed the hand aside. “I won’t calm down! Don’t you realize what we were asked to do?”
“Sure!” Sanders said as he went back into the bathroom to get the glasses. He handed one to her.
“But calling the cops is no answer. What are they going to do?”
“Arrest him.”
