"Not much longer; even my strength is wearing out.... But lets not talk about the inevitable, Tye. We must talk about now."

"What?"

"Courtesy of my uncles neighbors, I spoke to my husband this morning. I must fly back to Paris tonight. He has business with the royal family in Monaco and wants me with him."

"Tonight?"

"I cant deny him, Tye, hes done so much for me and demands only my presence. Hes sending a company jet to Martinique for me. Ill be in Paris in several hours, do a flurry of packing and shopping in the morning, and meet him in Nice later in the day."

"Youll disappear again," said Hawthorne, the long-absent champagne suddenly slurring his speech. "You wont come back!"

"Youre so terribly wrong, my darling ... my love. Ill return in two or three weeks, believe me. But for now, for these few hours, be with me, stay with me, make love to me!" Dominique rose from the chair, removed the jacket of her white pantsuit, and began unb.u.t.toning her blouse. Tyrell got up and removed his clothes, pausing to refill their gla.s.ses. "For G.o.ds sake, love me!" cried Dominique, pulling them both to the bed.

The smoke of their cigarettes floated up to the ceiling in the glow of the outside afternoon sun, their bodies exhausted, Hawthornes brain relaxed by the intensity of their lovemaking, along with long swallows from the bottle of champagne. "How is my love?" whispered Dominique as she rolled over on his p.r.o.ne, naked body, her generous b.r.e.a.s.t.s encompa.s.sing his face.

"If theres a heaven beyond this, I dont have to know it," answered Tyrell, smiling crookedly.

"Thats such a terrible remark, Im forced to pour you another gla.s.s. Me too."

"Its the last bottle, and were overdoing the booze, lady."

"I dont care, its our last hour-until I see you again." Dominique reached over the bed and poured the last of the champagne in their gla.s.ses, pools of liquid in circles on her side of the floor. "Here you are, my darling," she said, holding the gla.s.s to Tyrells lips. She raised her right breast and placed it next to his cheek. "I must remember every moment with you."

"You look and feel only outstanding ... I think thats a military term."

"Ill accept it, Commander-oh, I forgot, you dont like that t.i.tle."

"I told you about Amsterdam," said Hawthorne, barely coherent. "I hate the t.i.tle.... Oh, Christ, Im drunk, and I cant remember when-Ive been drunk before-"

"Youre not anything of the sort, my darling, were just celebrating. Didnt we agree to that?"

"Yes ... yeah, sure."

"Make love to me again, my dearest love."

"What ...?" Tyrells head fell to the side; he had pa.s.sed out, the long, unfamiliar heavy intake of alcohol too much for his blood.

Dominique rose quietly from the bed, went to her clothes draped over the chair by the window, and dressed quickly. Suddenly, she noticed Hawthornes tan cotton jacket on the floor where he had dropped it; it was the common island uniform, a lightweight guayabera with four outside pockets worn over bare flesh in the hot tropic sun. However, it was not the jacket itself that caught her attention; instead, it was a folded, half-crumpled envelope bordered by blue and red stripes, the sort frequently used by governments or private clubs wishing to appear official. She knelt down, pulled it out of the pocket, and withdrew the contents, a concise and precise handwritten note. She moved to the window to read it clearly; it was written on a yacht clubs stationery: Subjects: Mature woman traveling with a young man approximately half her age.

Details: Descriptions incomplete but could be Bajaratt and youthful escort as spotted in Ma.r.s.eilles. Names on St. Martins hydrofoil manifest: Frau Marlene Richter and Hans Bauer, grandchild. Bajaratt has no record of employing German names previously, nor has it been established that she speaks German, but its entirely possible that she does.

Contact: Inspector Lawrence Major, chief of Island Security, St. Barts.

Intermediary: Name withheld on demand.

Method/Operation: Approach subjects from behind, weapons drawn. Shout out the name Bajaratt and be prepared to fire.

Dominique squinted in the windows afternoon sunlight as she replaced the note in the envelope, crossed back to the cotton jacket, and restored the paper to the pocket. Straightening up, she stared at the naked figure on the bed. Her magnificent lover had lied. Captain Tyrell Hawthorne, Olympic Charters, U.S. Virgin Islands, was once again Commander Hawthorne, naval intelligence, Amsterdam, recruited to hunt down a terrorist from the Baaka Valley whose journey from Ma.r.s.eilles had been tracked to the Caribbean. How tragic and how tragically ironic, thought Dominique as she walked to the desk and picked up her purse. She then crossed to the bedside table, snapped on the radio, gradually turning up the volume until the harsh, violent beat of the island music filled the room. Hawthorne did not stir.

So terrible, so unnecessary ... so full of a pain she dared not acknowledge, yet by denying it increasing the hurt. She had fantasized an existence that in another life she would have killed to live. An inconsequential husband who supported her causes unfailingly, leaving her to find what happiness she could without interference in a world of treachery and deceit. Would that it were all so simple, so unenc.u.mbered, but it was not! She loved the naked man on the bed, loved his mind, his body, even his suffering, for she understood them all. But this was the real world, not a fantasy.

She opened her purse and slowly, carefully, withdrew a small automatic, placing it against the pillow which she folded against Hawthornes left temple, her index finger curved around the trigger, millimeters from the pull, as the reggae-calypso music reached successive Crescendos.... She could not do it! She loathed herself but she could not do it! This was a man she loved, as fully as she had loved the firebrand of Ashkelon!

Amaya Bajaratt returned the weapon to her purse and raced out of the room.

Hawthorne woke up, his head splintered, his eyes unfocused, abruptly aware that Dominique was not beside him in the bed. Where was she? He leapt to his feet, instantly steadying himself, and looked for the antiquated phone. He saw it on the opposite bedside table and threw himself across the sheets, lifting the receiver and dialing the operator. "The woman who was here!" he shouted. "When did she leave?"

"Over an hour ago, mon," said the desk clerk. "A nice lady."

Tyrell slammed down the phone, walked into the small, inadequate bathroom, and filled the inadequate sink with cold water. He plunged his face into it, his thoughts on the island of Saba. Surely she would not return to Paris without seeing her uncle once more.... Before that he had to reach Geoffrey Cooke in Virgin Gorda, if only to tell him that his sighting was a bust.

"Christiansted was a toilet too, old boy, and so was Anguilla," said Cooke from Virgin Gorda. "I guess we were all chasing feathers. Are you coming back this afternoon?"

"No, Im following up something else."

"You found something?"

"Found and lost, Geoff. Its important to me, not to you. Ill check in later."

"Please do. Weve got two more reports which Jacques and I will cover."

"Leave word with Marty where I can reach you."

"The mechanic fellow?"

"And then some."

The pontoons of the seaplane crunched down into the calm waters and taxied in a semicircle into the rockhewn cove of the private island. The pilot maneuvered the aircraft toward the short dock, where one of the lupo-armed guards stood waiting. The capo caught the overhanging wing, steadying the seaplane as Bajaratt stepped down on a pontoon, gripped the attendants briefly freed hands, and climbed onto the dock.

"The padrone has had a good day, signora," the man said in heavily accented English, shouting to be heard over the sound of the propellers. "Seeing you again is better than all the treatments in Miami. He sang opera while I bathed him."

"Can you manage things here?" asked the Baj quickly. "I have to go to him right away."

"What is there to manage, signora? I push the wing away and our amico silenzioso does the rest."

"Va bene!" Amaya raced up the stone steps, catching her breath as she reached the top. It was better not to show anxiety. The padrone dismissed anyone who displayed signs of losing control, which she had not, but the fact that her presence was known in the intelligence circles that covered the islands was a shock. She could accept the padrones knowing, for he had debts owed to him throughout the world of the Baaka Valley, but for a hunt to have been mounted that reached the point of recruiting the retired Hawthorne was not acceptable. Breathing deeply, Bajaratt walked up the flagstone path and yanked down the bronze handle of the door. She pushed it open, holding her place in the frame, only to see the frail figure in the wheelchair waving childishly at her from halfway across the huge stone foyer.

"Ciao, Annie!" said the padrone, smiling weakly, and with what minor enthusiasm he could muster. "Did you have a fine day, my only daughter?"

"I never got to the bank," replied Bajaratt curtly, walking inside.

"Thats regrettable. Why not? Adore you as I do, my child, I will not permit any funds to be transferred to you from my accounts. Its far too dangerous, and my familiars in the Mediterranean can well afford to send you anything you need."

"Im not concerned with the money," said Amaya. "I can return tomorrow and get it, but what does concern me is that the Americans, the British, and the French know Im in the islands!"

"But of course they do, Annie! I knew you were coming; where do you think I learned that?"

"I a.s.sumed through the Baaka financial establishment."

"Did I not mention the Deuxieme, MI-6, even the Americans?"

"Forgive me, padrone, but the brilliant film star in you often leads to exaggeration."

"Molto bene!" laughed the invalid, rasping with constricted vocal cords. "Yet not entirely true. I have Americans on a distant payroll; they informed me that there was an alert out for you down here. But what area, what island? Impossibile! No one knows what you look like, and you are a master-perhaps I should say a mistress-of different appearances. Where is the danger?"

"Do you remember a man named Hawthorne?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course. A discredited officer of U.S. intelligence, navy, I believe, once married to a Soviet double agent. You found out who he was and engineered a meeting, then enjoyed him for a number of months while you were recovering from your wounds. You thought you might learn something from his expertise."

"What I learned was of little value, but hes now back in business, hunting for Bajaratt. I ran into him this afternoon, I was with him this afternoon."

"How extraordinary, my daughter," said the padrone, his watery blue eyes studying Bajaratts face. "And how fortunate for you. You were a very happy woman during those months, as I recall."

"One takes minor pleasures where one can find them, my father. He was merely an unknowing instrument of instruction should there be anything I might use."

"An instrument that produced music in you, perhaps?"

"Rubbish!"

"You sang and pranced about like the child you never were."

"Your cinematic memories warp your observations. My wounds were simply healing, thats all.... Hes here, dont you understand? h.e.l.l go to Saba and look for me there!"

"Oh, yes, I recall. An imaginary old French uncle, wasnt it?"

"He must be killed, padrone!"

"Why didnt you kill him this afternoon?"

"There was no opportunity. I was seen with him, Id have been caught."

"Even more extraordinary," said the old Italian quietly. "The Baj of high regard always created her own opportunities."

"Stop it, my only father! Kill him!"

"Very well, my daughter. The heart is not always resolute.... Saba, you say? Its less than an hour in our cigarette boat." The padrone raised his head. "Scozzi!" he cried, summoning one of his attendants.

Speed was everything, for memories were short in the islands, almost always intentionally. Saba was not a usual charter stop, but Hawthorne knew it from the few times he had sailed there. Everyone on the docks in the immediate islands of Saint T. and Tortola accommodated the charter captains. It paid to do so, and Tyrell counted on that native trait.

He hired a seaplane out of Barts and flew into the islands modest harbor; he wanted all the cooperation he could engender. He appeared to get it, yet nothing made sense.

No one in the marina knew an old man with a French maid. Nor had anyone seen a woman fitting the description of Dominique. How could they not know her, a tall, striking white woman who came so often to visit her uncle? It was strange; the dock boys generally knew everything that took place in the small out islands, especially on the waterfronts. Boats came in with supplies, and supplies had to be delivered, and deliveries were paid for; it was the custom of the trade to know all the roads that led to every house on such a place as Saba. On the other hand, as he and Dominique had agreed, her uncle was the "recluse of recluses," and there was an airstrip as well as a few unpretentious stores whose fare could be augmented by provisions flown in by air. Perhaps it was enough for a frail old man and his maid.

Tyrell walked in the blistering heat to the islands shanty post office, only to be told by an arrogant postal clerk that "you make no sense, mon! No box for such a person or a woman who talk like a French mama."

That information was stranger than what he had heard at the marina. Dominique had explained years earlier that her uncle had a "rather decent" pension from his firm; the payments were sent to him every month. Again, there was the airstrip, which could provide another explanation. Mail was erratic in the minor islands; perhaps Paris sent their retired attorney his stipend by air from Martinique. It was certainly both safer and more efficient.

Tyrell learned quickly from the postal clerk where he could hire a motorbike, Sabas favored means of transport. It was simple; the man had several in the back for rent. All he had to do was leave a large deposit along with his drivers license and sign a paper stating he was responsible for all repairs, to be deducted from his deposit.

Hawthorne spent nearly three hours bouncing over the roads and through the hills, going from house to cottage to shack, invariably met by sullen residents wearing holstered firearms and protected by snarling island dogs. The exception was his last stop, a retired Anglican priest with a swollen nose and a blotched, red-veined face, his affliction obvious. Rum was immediately offered along with the opportunity to freshen up and remove the dust from his clothes and body. Both were gently declined due to the visitors haste, and as Tyrell questioned the disheveled elderly prelate, his anxiety was apparent.

"Im truly sorry to say there are no such persons on this island, young man."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes, oh, yes," the priest had replied dreamily, yet not without subtle amus.e.m.e.nt. "Knowing my weaknesses, there are times of clarity when I feel the need to do G.o.ds work as I used to do. Like the wandering Peter, I go from place to place, bearing the Word of G.o.d the Father. I realize that I am quite rightfully treated like an old fool, but for a while I feel somewhat cleansed, and I can a.s.sure you my wits are about me. Over the past two years since Ive been here, Ive visited every residence-rich and poor, black and white-once, twice, three times.... Theres no one on Saba such as youve described. Are you sure you wont have a rum? Its all I can offer, all I can afford, but I grow limes and mangoes; their mingled juices go well with the Cruzan."

"No, thank you, Father. Im in a hurry."

"I dont think you want to thank me at all. Its in your very strained voice."

"Sorry. Im just confused."

"Who isnt, young man?"

Hawthorne returned the motorbike to the post office, received his license and one half of his deposit without arguing, and walked back down the road to the marina and his chartered seaplane.

It was not there.

He hastened his pace, finally breaking into a run. He had to get back to Gorda ... where the h.e.l.l was the plane! It had been secured to the pier; the pilot and the dock boys had a.s.sured him that it would remain in place until he returned.

Then he saw the signs, hastily painted and nailed to posts, several spelled correctly, most not. DANGER. PYLON REPAIRS IN PROGRESS. BOATERS STAY WAY TILL DAMAGE FIXED.

For G.o.ds sake, it was nearly six oclock in the evening, the waters darkening, the visibility underneath as opaque as night because of the lengthening shadows of the Caribbean sun. No one repaired pylons under those conditions; a pier could collapse, burying a scuba metal-man under its weight without the light filtering down from above to warn him. Tyrell ran through the demarcation line to the single machine shop far to the right of the extended dock, its conveyor rail and heavy winches leading down to the water. There was no one inside. It was crazy! Men working underwater at this hour without backups, without oxygen and medical equipment in case of an accident? He raced out of the shop and down to the beach that led to the steps of the pier, aware that a cloud cover blurred the rays of the setting sun. How could anyone work this way? He had repaired hulls under similar conditions, but only with backups and lines held by those above, prepared to yank him up in an emergency. He climbed the steps and cautiously walked out on the pier. The clouds intercepted the sun, darker clouds now, rain clouds.

His first instinct was to raise the metal-men, and with the authority of the military officer he had been, to yell at everyone and tell them how stupid they were, then dismiss them for the night.

His authority diminished with each step he took; there were no lines, no bubbles in the darkened water. There was no one on the pier or beneath it. The marina was deserted.

Suddenly, the docks floodlights atop aluminum poles switched on, the beams blinding. Then an ice-cold slice in his left shoulder was accompanied by a loud gunshot; he gripped the wound and plunged over the pier into the water, hearing a staccato volley of gunfire as he dove beneath the surface. For reasons he could never explain, he let his panic guide him. He swam underwater as long as his breath would permit to the nearest yacht he could recall. He surfaced twice, only his face, to inflate his lungs, and proceeded until he felt the hard wood of a boats hull. He surfaced again in its deepest water line, breathed again, and swam under to the other side. He raised himself on the gunwale and looked over at the pier, now half in blurred, streaked sunlight, half under the glare of floodlights. His two would-be killers were crouching at the end of the dock, peering into the water.

"Suo sangue!" yelled one.

"Non basta!" roared the other, leaping into a motor-driven skiff and starting the engine, instructing his a.s.sociate to release the line and jump in, his lupo at the ready. They crisscrossed the small harbor, an AK-47 and the shotgun of the wolf in their hands.

Hawthorne slithered over the gunwale of the yacht he had reached and found what he expected to find in nylon straps near the fishing tender-a simple scaling knife. He slipped back over the side and into the water; his shoes having disappeared, he removed his trousers, trying to remember where they sank, should he survive. He then wriggled his tan guayabera jacket loose, oddly thinking that Geoffrey Cooke would have to pay for his money, his papers, and his lost apparel. He swam into the darker waters, again suddenly aware that the driver of the small boat held a powerful flashlight which he kept roving over the sundown waters. Tyrell dove deep in the path of the skiff until he heard the motor above him.

Timing his moves, Hawthorne lunged to the surface directly behind the skiff and grabbed the pivoting metal casing of the engine, his head to the side, his hand in shadows, preventing the rudder from turning. Furious, and confused by the fact that the motor did not respond to his commands, the skipper leaned over the stern less than a foot above the wake. His eyes bulged at the sight of Tyrells hand as if it were some monstrous tentacle from the deep. Before he could scream, Hawthorne plunged the blade of the scaling knife into the killers neck, Tyes left hand surging up, gripping his would-be a.s.sa.s.sins throat so that no sound emerged that carried above the engine. He yanked the corpse over the stern into the water, and carefully moving the propeller to far starboard, climbed into the killers seat as the man in front obsessively moved his flashlight back and forth, scouring the watery path ahead. Hawthorne grabbed the AK-47 and spoke clearly.

"The waves splash a lot at this hour and the motors pretty loud. I suggest you put down your weapon or join your friend. You, too, would make a nice tenderloin for our sharks. Theyre really benevolent creatures; they prefer whats already dead."

"Che csa? Impossibile!"

"Thats what were going to talk about," said Tyrell, heading out to sea.