“Yes, I am certain of it; in fact, if this case is successfully concluded, it will probably help him,” said his visitor with as much conviction as he had shown at any time since his arrival. “Good Lord, man, I wouldn’t want you to be divided in your loyalties. What good would that do anyone?”

  Fleming nodded. “I take your point.”

  “And what do you say about it?” His guest waited. “If you will undertake this for the government, you will find that we are not ungrateful.”

  “An implied bribe?” said Fleming.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way—not with so much at stake,” said his visitor. “I’d say rather that I am appealing to your devotion to duty.”

  “Of course you would put it that way. You have reason to ask for my help out of your patriotic concern, and you rely on mine to support your request.”

  “You have shown yourself to be reliable and patriotic,” said his visitor. “Unlike many who served the country for the duration of the War and now want nothing more to do with the defense of the Empire, you know that the war isn’t over, and the battles we won have continued in another form. You appreciate how much more perilous our victory has become in the last year.” He leaned toward Fleming. “You can’t imagine peace, can you? Not peace without danger, without threat.”

  “I know many problems remain from the War,” Fleming allowed, weighing his thoughts carefully. “I tell you what, Sir William,” he went on, using his guest’s name for the first time, as if he finally was willing to acknowledge his purpose. “I will look over the material you have brought with you, and I will give you my advice and my decision after I have seen for myself what you have on hand. I cannot offer anything fairer than that.”

  “You’re being very autocratic,” Sir William complained. “I would rather you give your commitment to the project before I show you any of it, but—”

  “Yes. But. Give me a little credit, Sir William. If I do not comprehend what the mission entails, what sort of assurances can I provide in regard to my abilities to carry out what you need me to do?” He offered a predatory smile, one that hinted of strong emotions beneath his cool exterior. “I know what kind of a snake-pit this may turn out to be, and I am in no hurry to be dragged into it needlessly, with or without a license to kill.”

  “And what should I do while you are busy here?” Sir William asked.

  “Perhaps you can return to the friend you were visiting earlier,” Fleming suggested.

  “That might not be wise,” said Sir William, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger. “It wouldn’t be prudent to have it known I’ve been here, if you understand me? I rely upon you to keep my visit confidential. It may be of the utmost importance that my role in all this remains clandestine.”

  Fleming nodded. “You would prefer not to go into Kingston for the same reason, I take it? You don’t want to be recognized.”

  “Yes.” Sir William looked about. “Have you any other suggestions?”

  “Relax; this is a wonderful place, and so long as you are here, enjoy it,” Fleming recommended, the intensity gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Is there something you would like to do? Somewhere you might go and not have to worry about your security?”

  Sir William snapped his fingers. “I think I’ll walk on the beach.” He stared in the direction of the window. “I’ll give you an hour or so with the material I’ve brought you. I’m sure your cove is a pleasant place for a stroll.”

  With a knowing glance, Fleming said, “A good idea. By the look of you, you could use a little exercise. I’m sorry we haven’t a generator. Only kerosene lamps when the sun goes down, and candles, of course, but you can be comfortable enough if you don’t set your expectations too high.” He took a long sip of his gin-and-tonic. “Considering what you have told me, you shouldn’t begrudge me a night to review your reports.”

  Sir William shook his head. “I wanted a faster answer. Shall we say two hours, as a compromise?”

  “That is hardly a compromise, if you don’t mind my saying so. You are forcing my hand.” He managed to keep a cordial manner, but there was an edginess in his voice that made him seem more formidable than he had intended. “If you mean to have an ill-considered answer, then it would have to be a refusal. But as it is a case of some delicacy, as you have said, then I should think you would prefer I take my time and acquaint myself with the particulars before I make up my mind. You would not like me to underestimate the problems to be faced, would you?”

  “Of course not,” said Sir William grudgingly.

  “Very well, then,” said Fleming, doing his best to mollify Sir William. “If you will hand me your files, I will begin at once. I’ll review them as quickly as possible; two hours is a bare minimum-I will do what I can in that time. I may have more questions for you when I’ve done.”

  “I shall endeavor to answer any you may have,” said Sir William, sounding exasperated.

  “Sir William,” Fleming said patiently, “you do not want me to jump at this as if I were a mere tyro. You say there is a great deal of danger, and I wish to see for myself what you mean by that before I agree to take on any of the work. If I gave you any other answer, you would not believe I comprehend the nature of the work, and you would not want to entrust the mission to me.”

  “You have a point,” said Sir William.

  “So enjoy the sunset. No one will disturb you. The sky is beautiful here; you won’t see its like in England. Two hours, Sir William, and I will give you my assessment of the project, and my decision about participating.” He reached out for a cigarette.

  “If you insist,” Sir William said. “I must admit that duty compels me to stay near at hand—I truly don’t wish to be observed.”

  “I’m very much afraid that I do insist; you needn’t go onto the beach, but you must let me make my review in private,” Fleming said. “I won’t tell you I’m not intrigued, because I am, but, Sir William, I am not a reckless man. I’ve had too much experience for that. I will not jump at this simply because you tell me that it is necessary.” He paused and smiled. “I can offer you a tolerable evening, if you have no objection to remaining about for an hour or two beyond my reading time. Dinner at seven-thirty, drinks at seven. I believe there is a tolerable conch chowder tonight. My cook knows his work.”

  Sir William shook his head. “What a time to be fussing over food.”

  “It is just the time,” said Fleming. “If this is the last decent meal I am to have, I want it to be truly enjoyable.”

  Chapter 3

  CESAR HOLIDAY, Fleming’s houseman, rang the bell for drinks at ten minutes to seven. Hearing it, Fleming rose from the chair where he had been sitting for the last two and a quarter hours. He stretched, put the papers back in their thick file-folder, and tucking it under his arm, went off to his room to change into his dinner jacket and a proper pair of trousers. His expression was thoughtful, a frown hinted at by the angle of his brows. As he passed Cesar in the corridor, he said, “Is Sir William dressing?”

  “I don’t know, sah,” said Cesar in his musical Jamaican idiom. “He went down to the beach more than an hour ago. Shall I send Joshua to look for him?”

  “No,” said Fleming. “I’m sure he’ll be along directly. It’s still light out.” He continued on to his room, slipping the file of top-secret material into the safe at the side of his bed, and then began to change, slipping off his sandals, setting his linen shirt aside to be washed and pressed during the night, and hanging his light-weight khaki trousers on the Silent Butler. He poured water from the ewer on the dresser into a flowered basin and gave himself a quick rinse, rubbed his face, arms, and neck with a hand-towel, then emptied the basin into the potted palm in the corner of the room, disturbing a gecko and a small herd of spiders in the process. He donned his boiled shirt and dark, tropical-weight wool trousers, then his dinner jacket, taking care to smooth the front of both shirt and jacket. That done, he ran his brush through his hair, and fixed his tie in place, making it match on both sides. Hardly grand enough for Mayfair, but more than acceptable for Jamaica. It had taken him just nine minutes, and as he put on his shoes, he wondered if he would arrive in the lounge before Sir William did.

  To his surprise, the lounge was empty. Fleming looked around, taking stock of the place as he poured himself another gin-and-tonic, adding a slice of lime. He lifted his glass in a silent toast, and took a small sip, not wanting to get too much ahead of Sir William.

  The clock struck the quarter hour, and Fleming became impatient. It wasn’t that difficult to get from his house to the beach, and the path was well-marked. The sun was just above the horizon, smoldering over the sea. He scowled at it, as if suspecting the sun of behaving rudely. “Cesar!” he called out.

  Within the minute, Cesar appeared in the door, his black face shining from his work in the kitchen. “Yes, sah, Mister Fleming.”

  “Where is Sir William?” It was an abrupt question, but for once Fleming did not apologize for his tone.

  “I haven’t seen him, sah. I set his bags in the room off the verandah. There was just the one, and a valise. I thought he would want to put on something less heavy before you ate.” He gave this as a kind of explanation for Sir William’s unaccountable absence.

  “Do you mean you think he has gone out to buy luggage? Or a shirt?” Fleming laughed aloud. “Why should he?”

  Cesar shrugged.

  “You told me he had gone to walk on the beach,” said Fleming. “Which is it?”

  “He went toward the beach, Joshua says. I can send him to fetch him.” Cesar lifted his head, sniffing the air. “I must tend to the chowder, sah, or it will scorch.”

  “Go on, then; can’t have scorched chowder,” said Fleming. He began to pace, anticipating the fast-approaching night. He disliked the notion of having to search for his guest, but he realized it was necessary. “I’m getting a lantern,” he called out as the clock struck seven-thirty. “He may have lost his way coming back.”

  From the kitchen, Cesar called out, “I’ll send Joshua with you.”

  “No need,” said Fleming. “I’ll manage.” There were lanterns hanging in the entry-hall. He took one and lit it with his gold cigarette lighter, adjusting the flame with care. He knew Sir William would be annoyed if he were led back to the house by a half-grown black boy in canvas shorts; Sir William was too much of a stickler for such relaxed standards. “Keep the chowder warm,” he added as he went out of the house.

  The lantern gave off enough light to make going along the pathway easy. He strode easily, swinging the lantern from side to side in order to provide more illumination as well as an obvious target for Sir William to fix on. As he made his way toward the beach, he heard the sound of a motorboat some distance away, and he wondered who might be out at this hour, for the day-time fishermen had all returned to port and the night-time fishermen had not yet left the harbor just beyond the point of land at the west end of the cove. There weren’t many tourists on this part of the island, which was one of its major attractions to Fleming. He walked a little faster, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to Sir William in regard to what he had read, for clearly the trouble was internal and Whitehall had real trouble: there was a traitor somewhere in Military Intelligence.

  Preoccupied with his thoughts, he walked out onto the fine white sand, and shaded his eyes as he scanned the beach. Seeing no one, he lowered the lantern and looked for impressions in the sand, and saw a line of footprints going off to the left toward the bend in the cove. Cursing slightly, Fleming set out, keeping to the right of the footprints, still swinging his lantern. Why on earth should an English bureaucrat take it into his head to venture so far from the house? And with such purpose, for the trail was a direct one, as if Sir William had a specific destination in mind. An uneasy feeling had come over him, one that he told himself was nonsense, the result of his reading material and the hint about a possible spy on the island, not of anything more immediately sinister. There was no reason for Sir William to be in any danger, not here.

  He crested a slight rise in the sand that was hardly enough to be called a dune, but more than a hillock, and the rest of the cove came into view. The white line of the spent waves marked the water’s edge, and the intense blue of twilight faded land and sea into a single wash of sapphire. Fleming blinked and stared out toward where the horizon had to be. The only difference between sea and sky was that the sea was shinier. Fleming could feel sand in his dress shoes, and it aggravated him. “William!” he called out, hoping for an answer; he deliberately did not use the man’s title, in case his call was overheard. “William Potter!”

  The silence that followed seemed ominous. Fleming shook off the apprehension that was turning his body cold. “Absurd,” he said aloud, as if that would increase his conviction. He made his way toward the water, following the footprints by lantern-light.

  The first evening breeze sprung up, skittering the sands ahead of it and beginning to obliterate the trail Fleming was following. “Bloody hell!” Fleming swore, but kept going toward the water. He swung the lantern more vigorously, and called out “William Potter!” again, and again, was answered by silence.

  The sand underfoot grew firmer, damp. Each step left a spray off the toes of his shoes. The tracks were only oval impressions now, and as the sand turned wet, they disappeared altogether, succumbing to the great equalizing force of the spent waves. Fleming stood just beyond the limits of the water and stared along the beach, looking for something—anything—that might tell him where Sir William had gone. In the gathering darkness, his lantern seemed more and more minuscule against the night. He began to walk westward, toward the edge of the cove, hoping to use the outcropping of rocks there as a vantage-point.

  As the sand gave way to stone, Fleming noticed the cuffs of his trousers were wet. Cesar’s wife, Bathsheba, would be furious with him; she took care of his clothes and this was more than she would tolerate. He kept on, trying to decide what to do if he could not find Sir William.

  Then his lantern picked out something dark on the rocks, a heap of cloth that proved, on closer inspection, to be a jacket of dark, pin-striped wool with a Bond Street label sewn into it. There was a deep slash on the front of the jacket, running from the left shoulder to the lapel, and the dark shine across the fabric of something that could only be blood.

  Fleming picked it up and looked it over. Sir William’s diplomatic passport was in the inner pocket, along with a small leather slip-case containing a key. There were two shillings and a threepenny bit in his outer pocket, and a stub from a West-minster cinema, but nothing else but a small leather sleeve for business cards, empty but for one of Sir William’s and a small wedge of stiff paper with a linen finish, quite unlike the cream laid texture of Sir William’s card. His handkerchief, which had been so correctly placed in the outer breast pocket, was gone, and Fleming could see nothing on the rocks that was even suggestive of the pale-grey linen. A bit of lint in one pocket had nothing out of the ordinary about it. Fleming held on to the jacket and began to look around, hoping to find something more.

  For a quarter of an hour, he walked back and forth along the rocks, checking in crevices, trying to look deep into the sea for anything that would reveal Sir William’s whereabouts. Once he scrambled down under a stone overhang. All he found there was an old ring where sailors could tie their dinghies. He recalled the distant sound of a motorboat and wondered if the ring had anything to do with it. He scrambled back to the beach and walked along the water’s edge, studying the waves with care. The tide was going out, and it wouldn’t turn for another two hours. If he put Cesar and his nephew Joshua to work, they could make a very good search before the water rose and obliterated any evidence that might be left behind.

  He thought about the conch chowder and knew it was a pleasure he would have to forgo until late that night, for as soon as his search was complete, he ought to get into town and place a call to General Lord Peter Broxton, who ran the military mission for HM’s government in Kingston. He took a deep breath, already preparing for that call. Lord Broxton was a self-important martinet, one of those men who had learned his place in the world before World War I and was still convinced that nothing had changed since then. Fleming had avoided dealing with him in the past, but now he would have to. Perhaps he would wait until morning and approach Broxton in person, and spare himself the chore of running his lordship to earth by telephone tonight.

  He returned to his house a few minutes shy of eight o’clock, to find Cesar in dismay at the state of dinner, and worried for Fleming’s welfare. “I am sorry, sah, but dinner is …”

  Fleming held out the jacket. “Sir William is missing. I found this. I fear we will have to mount a search for him.”

  Cesar stared at the jacket. “Dear me,” he said. “That cut is most distressing.”

  “No doubt,” Fleming agreed. “Do what you can to salvage dinner for later, then you and Joshua join me. Sorry, but there’s nothing for it. Bring lanterns and help me make another search.”

  “Do you think Sir William … met with foul play?” Cesar seemed mesmerized by the slash in the jacket.

  “I think something has happened to him. I don’t know what yet, and I am trying not to leap to conclusions.” Fleming set his lantern down and blew it out, taking care to turn the wick lower. “This is almost out of fuel. If you’ll refill it when we return?”

  “Of course, sah,” said Cesar.

  “Excellent,” said Fleming. “We’d better be about our work.” With that, he went into the entry-hall to take another lantern, which he again lit with his cigarette lighter. He hung the ruined jacket on one of the pegs on the wall, and called out to Cesar. “Hurry.”