“I don’t envy you that mission.” He chuckled and tapped his big fingers on the desk. “Still, soonest done, soonest over.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He didn’t think he should mention Agent Hotchkiss, not yet. “If I get home at a reasonable time, I’ll do a rough draught for you. If I don’t, we’ll discuss what it’s to have in it.”

  “Acceptable, provided I have your first installation by noon tomorrow.” Powell held out his hand. “You have something for Eccles?”

  Fleming pulled out his wallet and handed over the unspent money. “Count it and give me the receipt. Sorry this was such an expensive trip. I’ll give you a full listing on all my expenses, and you can give it to Eccles at your leisure.”

  “You didn’t indulge your taste for high living, did you?” Powell asked sharply as his hand closed around the money.

  “I was only in New Orleans for a couple of hours. I don’t know that there is high living in Roswell, New Mexico, or any of the other places I went. Certainly no gambling, other than poker, and only one woman showed any real interest, and that was because the building was on fire.” He thought of Myra for a moment and said, “She was hardly seduceable: married, not young, not the sort you’d look at, usually, but she was attractive in her own way.”

  “Doesn’t sound like your usual flirt,” said Powell.

  “She wasn’t,” Fleming agreed.

  “How much did you spend on her?” Powell asked wearily as he counted out the few remaining dollars and the pounds.

  “I bought her a meal in a diner and a tankful of petrol,” said Fleming. “It was all she wanted.”

  Powell laughed his incredulity. “If you’re brazen enough to say so, I’m gullible enough to believe you.” He took a sheet from his memo pad and wrote out a receipt. “There. I see you didn’t use any of the real money.” He tapped the roll of pounds. “All here.”

  “Almost all. I’ll tell you about it all tonight.” Suddenly he yawned. “Sorry. It’s catching up with me. I slept in the airport lounge last night.”

  “That must have been unpleasant,” said Powell.

  “You can’t imagine,” said Fleming. “I want to sleep the clock around.” He said it lightly enough, but he knew it was the truth.

  “What about tonight, then? I need your story tomorrow, but if you’re going to fall asleep—” He let the matter hang between them.

  “I won’t fall asleep,” said Fleming, a bit curtly. “But I may not rise at dawn, either.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Shall I expect you at five? Tea and sherry?”

  “Five it is,” said Powell, and waved Fleming away. “And give me your expense records then.”

  “I will. I have them in my luggage.” Fleming cocked his head.

  “Your luggage is with you,” Powell reminded him.

  “Oh, very well,” said Fleming, and got his bags, opened up the outer compartment and took out his notebook, flipped it to the back and tore out a sheet of paper. Then he handed over a number of crumpled receipts paper-clipped together. “This is what I kept. There’s a bit more in my notes, but not for significant amounts.” He closed his bag. “Anything more?”

  “If you would, explain why you needed a jacket and shirt and trousers?” Powell said, glancing over the page.

  “I took one full change of clothing. It was damaged by smoke and soot. I’ll tell you the whole of it later.” He started toward the door. “May I ask Miss Butterly to pave the way for me with Lord Broxton?”

  “Certainly, if you want him to build up a full head of steam before you get there.” Powell winked.

  “Ordinarily I wouldn’t, but I’ll have to ask to use a secure line to talk with the FBI, and for that I’ll need some soothing done in advance. She’s adept at soothing, isn’t she?” Fleming waited for the agreeing nod, then pulled the door open and stepped out of the office.

  Miss Butterly smiled at Fleming, a bright, professional smile that even an American could envy. “Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “Not at all,” said Fleming. “And you could make it better by calling Lord Broxton and informing him I have some confidential intelligence to deliver to him. I’ll also need a secure line to place a call to an American FBI agent in New Mexico. I’d appreciate it if you could explain that to him, or to his assistant Stowe, and make the appropriate arrangements.”

  There was a long silence from Miss Butterly as if she were trying to determine whether or not he were serious. Then she said, “If you have the gall to ask this of me, I have the nerve to make the call.”

  This didn’t seem too encouraging to Fleming, but he nodded to show he accepted her offer. “Thanks,” he said, taking his bags and going toward the stairs, all but running down them, already feeling he was lagging behind.

  Chapter 31

  STOWE TOLD Fleming that Lord Broxton was expecting him. “Lord Broxton has a distinguished visitor with him; you will have to wait to speak with him. By the way, your office rang up and requested a secure line for your use.”

  “I’ll be glad to wait,” said Fleming, then added, “perhaps you could provide me with that secure line while I’m waiting? That way I’ll have an up-to-the-minute report to give his lordship.”

  “Second office on your left. We’ll see that you get your call through.” Stowe had not changed his expression by so much as a hair, but Fleming had the clear impression that he was enjoying this.

  “Very good; I’ll appreciate it,” said Fleming, wondering how secure the secure line would be. He decided to proceed on the assumption he was being overheard, no matter what he said, and was uneasy about the larger implications of that conviction. It distressed him to know that even within this center of government, he could not be entirely safe. He went into the office—it was anonymous enough: a desk, three file cabinets, two chairs, two lamps, and a hunting print on the wall—and sat down behind the desk, then reached for the receiver. He noticed there were no ashtrays on the desk, and so kept his cigarettes in his pocket.

  The Government House operator responded at once. “You are requesting a secure line. Overseas or Jamaican?”

  “Overseas. United States. New Mexico.” He took his notebook out and gave her the number at the Pecos Vista. “I’ll speak to extension fifty-one there.” He waited while the operator placed the call, heard the American operator connect the call, and heard Bert answer. Finally, he listened for the coffee-grinder noise of a secure line being activated, and a moment later, Lemmuel Hotchkiss picked up the telephone and the noise stopped.

  “It’s Ian Fleming,” he said.

  “I thought so. It was you or Captain MacGregor of the RCMP, and I talked to him twenty minutes ago. Not to say that I won’t hear from him again.” Hotchkiss cleared his throat. “Good for you, calling back this way. I have a little more to tell you. You got something to write on?”

  “That I do,” said Fleming, slapping his notebook open and reaching for his pencil. “Go on. I’m ready.”

  “Okay. Here goes.” He coughed. “This is as much as we’ve been able to verify, between our sources, the RCMP, and MI5. At the end of the War, three men were approached by a French industrialist called—”

  “Soleilsur,” Fleming said.

  “Yes. How did you know about that?”

  “His name has come up in connection to this case,” said Fleming, deliberately unspecific.

  “I can just imagine,” Hotchkiss said, and went on, “The three men were a J. Julian J. Cathcart, who apparently accepted his offer; a Geoffrey David Angus Krandall, who did not; and Preussin, who you know about already. He turned down Soleilsur and left for the backwoods of Canada for reasons that still aren’t entirely clear, but from what the RCMP told me, Preussin thought Soleilsur was up to no good—what that no good might be is anyone’s guess. There were notebooks, all burned but for a few scraps, one of which seems to be about methods of mining harbors with atomic mines, and using them to control shipping all over the world. That’s partly a guess, based on three charred bits of paper, and it is a bit of a stretch to come to that conclusion on so very little evidence, although it does fit. However, since we’ve no notion what was lost in the fire, we cannot assume that we have the whole of it. It could be real, it could be the kind of writing some madmen do. Hell, it could be part of a novel, or God knows what.”

  “Nothing else?” Fleming said as he looked over his sparse notes, hoping he would be able to make sense of them later. He poised his pencil and gave Hotchkiss his full attention.

  “Maybe. The Mounties have a file on Soleilsur, and I’m supposed to be getting a copy of it.” He paused. “I’ll send you the salient points, if you like; I’ll use the address of your publisher, if that’s satisfactory.”

  “It will be. I’ll let Powell know to expect it. That should please him now that he has my expense record to deal with.” Fleming chuckled slightly. “He could have had to pay a great deal more.”

  “Kept you on a short leash, did he?” Hotchkiss asked and, without waiting for an answer, continued, “Soleilsur does marine salvage, and other kinds of undersea engineering; he’s been working around the Mediterranean for twenty years, and has been expanding his business since the War—lots of work for him to do, and he’s made a fortune at it. There are other business enterprises, but exactly what they may be we haven’t found out yet. That’s what makes Preussin’s work troubling.”

  “No fear,” said Fleming in agreement.

  “Actually, I’m becoming quite afraid. Everyone worries about the Russkies getting the Bomb, but we keep pretty good tabs on them. What worries me is if someone we don’t know about develops atomic capabilities: what then? All this shit about Communist infiltration of the CIG won’t mean anything if the real trouble has nothing to do with Marx and Stalin. If we’re up against a greedy man with enough money and the materiel—” He stopped suddenly, as if aware that he was speaking against current FBI efforts. “Just thought I should mention it.”

  “And I thank you for doing it. My government has many of the same assumptions, and as you say, it leaves them badly exposed if they aren’t correct in their suppositions.” He had a moment of feeling queasy, a recognition of just how dangerous an unknown power with atomic weapons could be.

  “Well. Keep your eyes—”

  “—peeled,” Fleming finished for him, glad for the tweak of amusement the expression provided.

  “Just what I was going to say.” He coughed again. “Look, Fleming, I don’t want to discourage you, but you’re in pretty damn deep, and you might want to get out while you can. This isn’t a job for newspaper reporters, if you take my meaning.”

  “I haven’t always been a newspaper reporter, you know,” Fleming reminded him gently.

  “So MI5 told me,” Hotchkiss responded. “But that was during the War with your government behind you. Right now, all you have is an editor, and I wouldn’t count on him to back you up if this turns bad on you.”

  Privately Fleming shared Hotchkiss’s doubts, but he kept up a game front. “I don’t think the government would hang me out to dry, not if this is as big an issue as you imply it is.”

  “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Hotchkiss told him. “Give me a call tomorrow. We can trade information.”

  “I’ll try. I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” Fleming said. “If I do call, it’ll be from my editor’s office on an unsecured line.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Hotchkiss. “In the meantime, good luck. I think you’re going to need it.”

  “Thanks. You, too,” Fleming said, and rung off, unhappy thoughts clumping in his mind like public school oatmeal. He slapped his notebook closed, put his pencil back in his inner pocket, and stepped out into the corridor.

  From his desk, Stowe regarded him narrowly. “It will be a while before you can go in. Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting.”

  “Yes, if you would. White, please,” he said as he dropped into one of the uncomfortable chairs along the wall.

  Stowe lifted his receiver and gave a terse order to the operator who answered, then went back to reviewing the stack of newspapers that had been brought to him. “Don’t see your name on many of these articles, Mister Fleming,” he observed.

  “I do features work,” Fleming said, only partially listening. He was preoccupied with what he had just heard from Hotchkiss and paid little attention to Stowe’s dig.

  “A luxury for you,” said Stowe, and went back to reading.

  Fleming shrugged off the comment, putting it down to the jealousy of petty bureaucrats. Much as he wanted a cigarette, he waited, not wanting to give Lord Broxton any excuse for complaint. When a steward brought a pot of tea with a cup-and-saucer and a jug of milk on a tray, Fleming accepted it, and realized he was famished. He poured the tea, noticing it was strong and fragrant, quite unlike the cat-lap he had had to endure in America. Adding the milk, he had a sudden thought of how easily he could be poisoned: something in the milk, something in the tea, or something in the cup, and he would keel over for no apparent reason, and that would be the end of the investigation. He told himself he was being foolish, that here in Government House he was as safe as he would be at Whitehall. This reassurance did not have the effect he sought, for he was still aware that he could be done away with there as readily as anywhere else. As he picked up his cup, he made himself swallow, ignoring his own trepidation. What was the matter with him? He was acting as if he were in the enemy camp. Finishing the tea, he considered leaving and returning at a later time, but knew he had offended Lord Broxton already, and didn’t want to compound the error.

  A single ring to Stowe’s telephone brought a prompt response from the fussy secretary, who snatched the receiver from the cradle and spoke in an obsequious hush. “Very well, my lord. I will do as you request.” He hung up the receiver and looked directly at Fleming. “Lord Broxton’s guest is about to leave, but you are asked to go down to the office now. You know the way, do you not? Down the hall to the end?”

  “Yes, I do. Thank you, Stowe. I appreciate the tea. If I may leave my bags with you?” Accepting Stowe’s nod for agreement, Fleming slipped his notebook into his jacket pocket and strode down the corridor, keenly aware of the revolver lying against the small of his back and the knife in his pocket. What would Lord Broxton think if he knew Fleming was armed? He dismissed the matter from his mind and headed toward the door.

  The door to Lord Broxton’s office stood open and Fleming could see the choleric peer standing beside his desk talking to a tall, imposing man in a finely tailored business suit; there was something vaguely familiar about him, but Fleming couldn’t place him. The visitor wore an expression of slight condescension that startled Fleming, who didn’t suppose that Lord Broxton was often treated to that mild contempt.

  “ … and we will expect you and Lady Broxton on Thursday night,” the visitor was saying. “Don’t disappoint us.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, Mister Sissons. This is a pleasure indeed. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to receive your invitation. Now that you’ve returned to Jamaica, I hope we might become better acquainted.” Lord Broxton sounded almost giddy with excitement. “We shall be there at three.”

  “We dine at five, sherry at four. The concert is at eight. You will stay until Sunday, of course. Monsieur Soleilsur and I will not hear of anything less. We count on your expert opinion in regard to our project.” Mister Sissons’s smile was a bit reptilian; Fleming almost expected to see a thin, forked tongue flick over his lips.

  “We will look forward to it, Lady Broxton and I. Thank you and Monsieur Soleilsur again for your gracious—” His effusions were cut off.

  “Yes. Our pleasure. I’m sure this will be a most profitable venture for us all. Your endorsement will be a valuable service to us.” He picked up his hat from the seat of the upholstered chair facing the desk. “I won’t keep you. No doubt you have many demands on your time, Lord Broxton.”

  Lord Broxton glowed with importance. “Indeed I do.”

  “Then I am doubly grateful for the time you have given me,” said Mister Sissons in growing haste to be gone.

  Lord Broxton wasn’t quite finished emptying the butter-boat over his visitor. “But I can always make time for you, Mister Sissons, and for Monsieur Soleilsur. I anticipate our dealings will be satisfactory to all of us. Your SS Industries will be a boon to everyone in Jamaica. I am encouraged by what you have shown me of the new harbor installation plans; I am confident that this will prove a great asset to the island.” His obsequious smile surprised Fleming as much as it disgusted Mister Sissons.

  Mister Sissons said, “Until Thursday, then,” and left before Lord Broxton could think of a way to detain him. Passing Fleming in the corridor, he gave a glance such as one might show to an insect impeding his path.

  So that was Alysa Sissons’s husband, Fleming thought as he went on to Lord Broxton’s door, the man who had met her in New Orleans, the man with political ambitions and a personal fortune. Fleming regarded his departing figure with wary interest, trying to convince himself that seeing the man here was just another coincidence.

  Chapter 32

  “THERE YOU are, Fleming,” Lord Broxton almost shouted, his subservience replaced with his customary self-important bluster. “About time you got back here.”

  Fleming resisted the urge to speak brusquely to Lord Broxton, for that would accomplish nothing more than renewed animosity between them. “I’m sorry, Lord Broxton. My work turned out to be more complicated than I had first thought it would be.”

  “So your office informed me,” said Lord Broxton abruptly.

  “For which I am grateful; my travels proved more extensive than I had first anticipated,” said Fleming. “It has been a demanding time.”