“He would not have gone,” said Bathsheba.

  “And she’s supposed to thank you for that?” Joshua stepped around to confront Fleming. “You think we’ll just bow down before you, grateful that you gave one of us the chance to get killed for you?”

  “Joshua,” said Bathsheba. “This isn’t the time. Your uncle wouldn’t—”

  “My uncle is dead! Because of him!” He pointed at Fleming.

  Bathsheba reached out and slapped Joshua suddenly. “Have you no respect, boy?” she asked in the full dignity of her mourning. “Cesar wouldn’t leave Mister Fleming. He was not one to shirk his duty. You have to respect that, and his death.” She paused to wipe her cheeks. “I cannot have you behaving like a spoiled child. My husband is dead. It is for us to arrange for his burial. You will have to talk to the priest, and I will have to arrange to have his body brought home.”

  “He’s still at the clinic in Eastport,” said Fleming. “They are expecting you later today.” He looked at Joshua. “I share your indignation, little as you may think I do.” He gave Bathsheba his full attention again. “I’ve told the doctor I’ll pay his bill. You need not worry on that head. And if you’ll send me the accounts for his funeral, I’ll be very much obliged.”

  “You may pay the doctor,” said Bathsheba with surprising command of herself. “But I will pay to bury my husband. I have money enough for it, and I will do what I must for him.”

  “Aunt!” Joshua protested. “Make him pay for it! It’s his fault.”

  “We all die,” said Bathsheba. “When we die, we are owed a burial. This is what the living do for the dead. I have money for his funeral,” she repeated. “I will not dishonor this family by having Mister Fleming pay for what it is mine to do.”

  “But he’s responsible!”

  “So I think.” Fleming was feeling embarrassed. “Bathsheba … if you change your mind …”

  “I will remember your offer,” said Bathsheba. “Joshua, go to Alphonse and tell him that I will need him, and his delivery lorry, this afternoon. And don’t you go raging at him because of what has happened. Just tell him that Cesar is dead and that we must fetch his body home. If I find out you have spoken out against Mister Fleming, you will answer to me.” She looked back at Fleming. “You didn’t do this to Cesar. Don’t you be thinking you did.”

  “It feels bloody like,” said Fleming.

  “If it does, then you go and find out who did this. You make him pay for killing my man.” Her voice almost broke, but she gathered her will and fought off the tears. “Do this for me, Mister Fleming, and I will be forever in your debt.”

  “No, you will not,” said Fleming. “It is the least I can do.”

  “You’re right about that,” Joshua almost spat out the words.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Bathsheba ordered him. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

  Joshua glared. “I know if it weren’t for him, my uncle would still be alive.”

  “I agree with you,” said Fleming. “And I want to make recompense.”

  Bathsheba nodded. “Then you be about your business, Mister Fleming,” she told him as she motioned toward the door, adding quietly, “and I will be about mine.”

  Chapter 38

  DRIVING INTO Kingston, Fleming pushed his Rapier to speeds higher than he knew were prudent, given the time of day and his state of mind. Three times he nearly collided with lorries, and once he almost clipped the back of an ox-cart as he raced for Merlin Powell’s office, feeling as if he had turned to granite. He hated the sky with its veil of high, thin clouds; he hated the turbulent sea; he hated the frisky wind that slapped at his face as if to bring him out of his funk. It was too uncaring of the world around him to appear as if nothing had happened.

  “Watch where you’re going!” a pedestrian shouted as Fleming came hurtling around a corner.

  Fleming touched his forehead in what could be taken as a salute, then he roared on toward the imposing building where Powell was waiting for him. He parked at the kerb near the entrance to the building and for once he didn’t bother to pull the canvas cover over his seats and steering wheel before he bolted through the tall doors and up the stairs.

  “You look like death warmed over,” Powell said as he caught sight of Fleming striding toward his office. “Up all night on my story?”

  “No,” said Fleming.

  “You aren’t going to tell me you don’t have it ready,” Powell protested as Fleming barreled into his office.

  “I don’t,” Fleming stated.

  Exasperated, Powell slapped the top of his desk. “That’s unacceptable. You assured me that—” He stopped. “Good God, man, what happened to your hands?”

  Fleming cut him off before he could work into a good tirade. “After you left last night, someone shot Cesar.”

  Powell stared at him. “Egad! Is he all right?”

  “He’s dead.” Fleming dropped into the wooden chair by the filing cabinets. “I took him to the clinic in Eastport. They worked on him most of the night—even called in a man for a transfusion—but he’d lost too much blood before they …” His voice dropped.

  “And your hands?” Powell asked.

  “I cut them on glass on the floor. You should see my knees, and shins,” he said, trying to make light of his misadventure. “Cesar took the full assault. It was terrible.”

  “Who did it? Do you know?” He had sank back into his chair.

  “No.” He felt so tired that he was shaky. “I need to make a telephone call to the States again.”

  Powell glowered in his direction, then shook his head and asked, “About what’s happened?”

  “Yes,” said Fleming. He had decided on the way into town that he had to talk to Hotchkiss one last time, on the off-chance that the FBI agent would have that one missing bit of information he sought.

  Powell shoved himself to his feet. “Go ahead. I’ll take my elevens now. Do you want a cup of tea?”

  Blinking at this very mundane suggestion, Fleming heard himself say, “Yes, please, white, two sugars.”

  “You’ll have it.” Powell started out of his office. “Um, Fleming. I’m very sorry about Cesar. You’ll express the appropriate sentiments to his family for me, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Fleming, reaching for the telephone and asking the operator who answered to be connected to the overseas operator, to whom he gave the number of the Pecos Vista in Roswell, New Mexico, U.S.A. When Bert answered the ring, he greeting Fleming as soon as they were connected.

  “Good to hear from you again, Limey,” he said with rough cordiality. “I suppose you want to talk to Uel Hotchkiss?”

  “Yes; if you would ring me through,” said Fleming.

  “He’s having breakfast. I’ll call him.” There was a clatter as he put his head-set down and went off to find the FBI agent. Two minutes later he picked up the head-set again and said, “I’ll put you through.”

  “Thanks,” said Fleming, and gave his full concentration to what he had to find out.

  “Good morning,” said Hotchkiss. “I was wondering if I’d hear from you again. I was planning to give you a call later today.” He sounded a bit grim. “This isn’t a secure line, is it?”

  “No. Sorry,” said Fleming. “Can’t be helped.” His tone grew sharper. “Do you have something for me?”

  “I think so,” said Hotchkiss. “I spoke to the RCMP last night, pretty late. They called me.”

  “Oh?” Fleming didn’t want to throw Hotchkiss off, so he waited for what he had to say.

  “They’re looking for a man who may have called on Preussin shortly before he was killed. They wanted to know if I had any information about him.”

  “Soleilsur,” Fleming said.

  “Nope. They say he’s a Brit,” Hotchkiss repeated. “But he’s also probably in cahoots with Soleilsur, or that’s what the Mounties think. They established some kind of link between the two.”

  “This man, this Brit—do they suspect him in Preussin’s murder?” Fleming asked.

  “They aren’t saying so, but I’d bet on it without a qualm. It smells that way—you know what I mean? I didn’t recognize the name, but I thought you might, him being part of Military Intelligence, and all.” Hotchkiss coughed gently. “He has some connection to SS Industries, that much is certain.”

  “Not Cathcart or Krandall?” Fleming asked. “Or Walter Sissons?”

  “No,” said Hotchkiss. “Who is Walter Sissons? You mean the industrialist? No. Not him, in any case,” and shocked Fleming as he went on. “The guy’s name is Sir William Potter.”

  “Potter?” Fleming repeated in disbelief.

  “You know him?” Hotchkiss asked with keen intent.

  “I … yes. He came to my house … He was the one who started me on this mad excursion. His name came up in the material I received at Los Alamos, but—” He was grappling with this revelation, wanting to find an explanation for this turn of events, and arriving only at the conclusion that was possible: Potter had set him up. No wonder he hadn’t wanted his visit known.

  “Great hopping—” Hotchkiss exclaimed. “So you know the guy?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He showed up to ask me to undertake some unofficial work for him. He persuaded me to look into this situation. I wonder why he did it?” He began to chide himself inwardly for being so gullible. In his eagerness to make his position clear, he hadn’t bothered to question Sir William too closely—he had accepted Potter’s claims of covert precautions as an ordinary part of the task. “He called upon me, literally and figuratively, to help him, implying that it wasn’t safe to have the investigation carried on within MI5. It was the first time I had met him.”

  “Pardon me, but shit,” said Hotchkiss. “The guy’s been chucked out of MI5, very quietly, about a month ago, for conducting a private vendetta and using British agents to do it, or that’s what the RCMP was told.”

  “Good God,” Fleming muttered.

  “I suppose he didn’t mention any of this when he came to see you?” Hotchkiss inquired.

  “Nary a word,” said Fleming. “Not that one would expect him to.”

  “Pitched a lot of patriotic guff at you, I suppose?” Hotchkiss asked.

  “Precisely,” said Fleming. “I have some files he left with me, but they’re about three men who worked for him during the War, at Los Alamos, code names Moan, Groan, and Sigh. Krandall, Cathcart, and Preussin, it seems.” He knew he was saying too much, but just at present he didn’t care.

  “Did you have those files with you when you were here?” Hotchkiss asked.

  “Yes,” Fleming admitted.

  “Damn it, Fleming,” said Hotchkiss.

  “I know; I know,” Fleming said. “I still have them. I don’t remember seeing anything in them that would implicate Sir William in anything … irregular.”

  “He wouldn’t leave that lying around, would he? He probably wants to cover his trail, and you’re being used that way. You might not be the only one.” Hotchkiss challenged, “Can you get photostats of the files and send them to me, air mail special delivery? Can you do it by tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll do it this afternoon. You should have them by Friday.” He knew this was the least he could do, and under the circumstances, he needed to do all that he could to rectify the wrong he had helped to commit.

  “Great. That’ll help, I hope.”

  “I’ll include everything I’ve turned up. It may prove useful in finding him,” said Fleming, wondering who he should talk to at MI5 about this. “He disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” It was Hotchkiss’s chance for incredulity. “Disappeared how?”

  “I don’t know. We only found his coat—it had been slashed.” Fleming could feel his mind working, the pieces of this deadly puzzle shifting and combining into new, ominous patterns. “If he was hurt—”

  “So he’s got away,” said Hotchkiss condemningly.

  Fleming thought about it. “I wouldn’t say that,” he told the FBI agent. “He may still be here on Jamaica.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Hotchkiss.

  “No.” Fleming could hardly keep up with his thoughts: why had Potter come to him? Was he the only one Potter had approached? Was it Potter who had been following him all along? Was Potter responsible for Cesar’s death? “When he vanished, he had to get away in a small open boat.”

  “Which could take him to a yacht or freighter or who-knows-what,” said Hotchkiss.

  “That’s possible, but it doesn’t feel right.” Fleming began to give his thoughts free rein. “Whatever he’s up to, I think he wants to begin it here on Jamaica. He’s probably ready to make his next move, but before he does, he’s got rid of anyone who could blow the whistle on him, and so he’ll want to eliminate anyone who could interfere with his plans.”

  “Got any ideas about that?” Hotchkiss asked him, curious in spite of himself.

  “As a matter of fact, I do: Soleilsur and Sissons are hosting a big occasion, something to do with harbors and harbor expansion. If Potter really is part of this, he’d want to be around for the event.” He was guessing now, but he felt he had got it right.

  “Harbor expansion,” said Hotchkiss speculatively. “I’ll get to work on that, see if I can dig up anything on Potter that might—”

  “Check out Soleilsur and Sissons while you’re at it,” Fleming interrupted. “I think it could have something to do with mines.”

  “Mining?” Hotchkiss asked. “Or bombs?”

  “The latter. Mining harbors could effectively control the world’s shipping as submarines never could. Think about it.” Fleming had been scribbling on a pad, and now tore off the sheet.

  “That seems a little far-fetched,” said Hotchkiss. “It would take a long time to do, and it would be dangerous.”

  “Only if anyone bothered to look,” said Fleming, remembering what David Dunstan had told him on his flight from Houston.

  “How could they get into place?” Hotchkiss asked, dubiety making his question edgy.

  “If they had submarines of their own—” Fleming began.

  “Submarines are very expensive,” said Hotchkiss. “You can’t make them and just hide them away under some regular docks. They have to be outfitted and supplied and fueled, and the crew has to—”

  “Soleilsur is very rich, and he has the matériel to build and maintain his own private fleet of submarines. He already has more than twenty cargo ships. Who’s to say he hasn’t a few others he hasn’t bothered to register?” As he spoke, Fleming decided that this was likely.

  “He has a private island,” said Hotchkiss, finally recalling this crucial fact. “There’s a maintenance yard on it, for his ships. He might be able to—”

  “Have that island checked out,” said Fleming.

  “On what pretext?” Hotchkiss asked, then went on, “Never mind. I’ll think of something.”

  “Excellent,” said Fleming. “Get the CIG on it, if Hoover will allow it. Just be careful how much you tell MI5—who knows what Potter has done to corrupt the intelligence about him.” He hated saying this about his own service but he was certain that precautions needed to be taken.

  “I get your point,” said Hotchkiss. “Okay. I’ll do what I can, and I’ll get back to you. You have any idea what we’re looking for?”

  “Submarines, stockpiled ordnance, who knows what else?” Fleming said, anxious to get moving.

  “I’ll do my best,” said Hotchkiss.

  “Make sure it’s good enough,” said Fleming. “If there’s as much riding on this as I think may be, you could have the world on your shoulders.”

  Hotchkiss took a deep breath. “Okay. Talk to you Thursday.”

  “Until then,” said Fleming, and hung up. He paused to scrawl a note to Powell, promising him a story by Thursday, and then he headed out of the office.

  Chapter 39

  LEAVING POWELL’S office, Fleming encountered the editor returning from his elevens with a cardboard tray holding a mug of tea; he accepted two mouthfuls of it, told Powell he’d be back later in the day, then rushed down to his auto and drove off to Henry Long’s chandlery; he parked behind the building next to Henry’s ancient Aston Martin, and entered the shop from the rear.

  Henry Long was behind his counter, his linen shirt crisply pressed, his churchwarden’s pipe curling out a thin wraith of smoke. He did not look around as he said, “Pity about Cesar Holiday.”

  “It’s a crime, not a pity,” Fleming responded, unsurprised by Henry’s lack of greeting.

  “That, too,” Henry agreed.

  “How did you hear about it?” Fleming asked as he came up to the counter. He looked about to see if any other customers were in the shop and was relieved to discover they were alone.

  “You know. One hears things.” Henry waved his hand as if to imply that such information came on the breeze. “You took him to Eastport. That was good of you.”

  “I wasn’t about to let him bleed to death on my kitchen floor; he was shot on my account. I have to do something for him,” said Fleming with a sudden rush of indignation. “I don’t know what more to do. Bathsheba won’t let me pay for the funeral.”

  “Of course she won’t. She’s a proper woman,” said Henry. “And she would rather you bring his killer to justice than give her money to put her husband in the ground.”

  “Good God, you can be blunt,” said Fleming.

  “No doubt,” Henry agreed. He took a lungful of smoke, blowing it out in rings. “And what did you want me to tell you? Do not tell me that you had no such purpose in coming to me, for I will not believe it—you hear me?”

  “I hear you, and you’re right,” Fleming said, feeling a wave of exhaustion go over him like a storm surge. “I have much to do, and not much time to do it.”

  “So tell me how I am to help,” said Henry Long. “I will do whatever you ask, if it is within my power.” He folded his big hands and managed a smile that Ho Tai would be proud of. “I would like to have Cesar avenged, too.”

  “Very well,” said Fleming. “I need to know everything you can tell me about Soleilsur and his business. I want to know what he’s doing, with whom he does business, anything. I need the information immediately, but I’ll settle for tomorrow morning, if I must.”