“It’s…” Gail chastised herself for not having a ready-answer. “It’s about… smuggling.”
“I see. Something is being smuggled?”
“Yes. Well, not exactly. Not yet. But it will be.”
The voice became skeptical. “Exactly what? And when?”
“I’d rather not say over the telephone. Is there someone I can see?”
“May I ask who’s calling, please?”
“Yes.” Gail was about to say her name, when she remembered what Treece had said about Cloche: He has friends in many strange places. Quickly, she tried to determine whether the voice on the other end of the line belonged to a black woman. “I’d… rather not say.”
Now the voice was impatient. “Yes, madam.
May I ask, are you a Bermuda resident?”
“No.”
“Then I suggest you contact the Department of Tourism.” There was a click as the phone was hung up.
“That was a big success,” Gail said, running her finger down the list of government agencies. “I should have asked Treece who to go to.”
“I don’t think he’d have told you,” Sanders said.
She called two other agencies, but because she declined to give specifics over the telephone, at the end of each call she was again referred to the Department of Tourism. Finally, she called the Department of Tourism and asked to speak to the director.
“May I ask what this is in reference to?” said the woman who answered the phone.
“Yes. My husband and I are here on our honeymoon, and we have had an unfortunate experience. We’d like to discuss it with the director.”
“Does it have to do with money?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Money. Have you run short of funds?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“Oh. Good. I’m sorry, but I’ve been instructed to ask. We do get those calls.”
“No. It’s not that at all.”
“One moment, please.” The woman put her on hold for a moment, then came back on the line and said, “Would four o’clock be all right?”
“Fine.”
“May I have your name, please?”
“We’ll let you know when we get there. Thank you.”
Gail hung up.
They rode their motorbikes along South Road toward Hamilton. The rush hour had not yet begun, but, even so, the traffic leaving Hamilton was much heavier than the traffic going into town.
Businessmen, dressed in knee socks, shorts, short-sleeved shirts, and neckties, sat sedately on their 125-cc. motorcycles, briefcases strapped behind them. Women, finishing the day’s shopping, carried their children in wire baskets on the rear fenders of their motorbikes. Wicker baskets hung down both sides of the rear wheel, full of groceries.
The Department of Tourism shared offices with the Bermuda News Bureau on the second floor of a pink building on Front Street, overlooking Hamilton Harbour. A cruise liner was moored at the Front Street dock, and the milling tourists choked the traffic to a standstill. The Sanderses parked their motorbikes between two cars on the left side of the street, locked the front wheels, and waited for a break in the traffic to let them cross the street.
“I wonder…,” Gail said.
“What?”
“I’m ashamed to say it. But it’s true. What if this man turns out to be black?”
“I know. I thought of that, too.”
“I feel like I’m getting to be a racial paranoid. Every time I see a black face, I’m convinced Cloche has sent someone to get me.”
The receptionist was a pretty, young black woman.
As they approached her desk, Gail said, “I’m the one who called before.” She looked at a clock on the wall: it was 4:10. “I’m sorry we’re a little late. The traffic was terrible.”
“May I have your name… now?” said the receptionist.
“Of course. Sanders. Mr. and Mrs. Sanders.”
“The director is unavailable. There’s a convention of travel agents at the Princess, and he’s in meetings all day. I made an appointment for you with his assistant.” She rose and said, “Follow me, please.” She went to an office in the rear of the room and spoke through the open door. “Mr. and Mrs. Sanders.” She showed the Sanderses through the door and said, “Mr. Hall.”
The man stood to shake hands. He was white, about forty, tan, and lean. “Mason Hall,” he said.
“Please come in.”
Sanders shut the door behind him, and he and Gail sat in chairs facing the desk.
Hall smiled and said, “What’s the problem?” His accent was East Coast American.
Sanders said, “What do you know about a shipwreck off Orange Grove—
Hall thought for a moment.
“
They told Hall their story, eliminating both the clinical details of the assault on Gail and Treece’s suspicions about the existence of a Spanish ship. As they were finishing, Gail looked at David and said, “Treece was against our coming to the government.”
“I’m not surprised,” Hall said. “He’s had some run-ins with the government.”
“What kind?” Sanders asked.
“Nothing serious. And it’s all pretty long ago.
Anyway, I’m glad you did come. Even if nothing else happens, you’ve had more than your share of unpleasantness. I’m sorry, and I know the director would want me to extend his apologies, too.”
“Mr. Hall,” Sanders said, “that’s very nice. But we didn’t come here for apologies.”
“No, of course.”
“What can you do?”
“I’ll talk to the director this evening. I’m sure he’ll want to confer with the Minister, when he returns.”
“Where is he?”
“Jamaica… a regional conference. But he’ll be back in a few days. Meanwhile, we’ll check with the police and see if they know anything about this fellow Cloche.”
“The police?” Sanders said. “I told you, Cloche said he has friends in the police. I know he does.”
“We’ll do it all very quietly. I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.” Hall stood up.
“I do want to thank you for coming by. How long will you be here?”
“Why?”
“Because if it will make you more comfortable, I’ll be happy to have a policeman assigned to you.”
“No,” Sanders said. “Thanks. We’ll be all right.”
They shook hands, and the Sanderses left Hall’s office.
Outside, they walked along Front Street. The sidewalk was crowded with window shoppers from the Sea Venture,
who peered at the Irish linen and Scottish cashmere and French perfume in the window of Trimingham’s, and calculated the savings on the duty-free liquor advertised in the spirit shops.
“Do you think he believed us?” Gail said.
“I think so, but I think if we wait for him to do anything, we’ll die of old age.”
A few doors ahead, Sanders saw the Pan American ticket office. When they were abreast of the door, he touched Gail’s arm and pointed.
She stopped and looked at the foot-high blue letters “Pan Am” painted on the window. “We’re damned if we
