"You built it!"

"I didnt build anything, Hawthorne, it was built for me."

"This is Ingrid all over again!"

"Bulls.h.i.t! And I repeat, we have no one in the islands who knows anything about you or any woman!"

"Really, Captain? A couple of your clowns phoned me down here and tried to sell me a tale of D.C. panic. They knew where I was; the rest would be easy, even for them."

"Then they know something I dont! And since Im meeting with all of my so-called clowns this morning, maybe theyll tell me."

"They must have followed me to St. Barts, seen her with me, and grabbed her when she went out."

"Tye, for G.o.ds sake, youve got it all wrong! Of course I admit we tried like h.e.l.l to pull you back in-wed be d.a.m.n fools if we didnt. But in point of fact we didnt succeed, did we? The Brits and the French did, but we didnt! We have no one down there who knows you from a-what was it you used to say?-oh, yeah, a baked potato."

"Im not difficult to find; I even take out ads."

"And considering the fact that we want your help, the last thing wed do is to take into custody a friend of yours for questioning. Thats just too dumb.... Tye, are you back on the sauce?"

"A momentary lapse. Its irrelevant."

"Maybe it isnt."

"It is. I couldnt sail my charters if I were, and you know that."

"Youve got a point."

"We both do," said Hawthorne quietly. "She was on her way back to Paris today, then down to Nice. She didnt want to go."

"h.e.l.l, thats probably it. She also probably didnt want any long good-byes."

"I wont accept that!"

"Maybe your temporary lapse wont let you.... Is it possible?"

"You know," replied Hawthorne reluctantly, the fight suddenly out of him, "she did it before, she just disappeared."

"Ill bet my pension she did it again. Call her in Paris tonight; my guess is youll find her there."

"I cant. I dont know her husbands name."

"No comment, Commander."

"You dont understand-"

"I dont care to try-"

"We go back four ... five years."

"Now I really tune out. Thats when you left us."

"Yes, I left you. I left because I sensed something, sensed that something was really fouled up in Amsterdam, and itll stay with me for the rest of my life."

"I cant help you there," said the head of naval intelligence after several moments of silence.

"I dont expect you to." Again there was silence.

"Are you making any progress with MI-6 and the Deuxieme?" asked Stevens finally.

"Yes, as of less than an hour ago."

"I spoke with London and Paris at the suggestion of Gillette at Central Intelligence. Im sure youll want to confirm it, but since Im closest, Im to supply you with whatever you need."

"I dont have to confirm it. Youd be hanging yourself if you lied in a situation you cant control, Captain. Youre not p.r.o.ne to doing that."

"You know, Hawthorne," said Stevens quietly, "I can put up with your s.h.i.t only just so far-"

"Youll put up with whatever I care to dish out, Henry, lets get that straight! Youre a cog and Im an independent contract, and dont you forget it. I give the orders to you, you dont give them to me, because if you try, Ill walk away. Understood?"

A third and prolonged silence ensued before the naval intelligence chief spoke. "Do you want to give me a progress report?"

"Youre d.a.m.n right I do, and I want immediate activity. Ive got a number in Miami that has an access satellite relay to a phone here in the islands. I need the location as soon as you can get it."

"Bajaratt?"

"Its got to be. Heres the number." Tyrell recited it, requested confirmation for accuracy, gave him the airstrip number on Saba, and was about to hang up the telephone when Stevens broke in.

"Tyrell!" he said. "Our differences aside-and I mean that-can you give me any background, any fill?"

"No."

"For Christs sake, why not? Im your official liaison now, cleared, incidentally, by all your governments, and you know what that means-a cog says it very well. Ill be making heavy demands and people will want explanations."

"Which means the inner sanctum reports are circulated, right?"

"On a maximum security basis. Its standard, you know that."

"Then my answers emphatically no. The Baaka Valley could be a ski resort as far as youre concerned, but not to me. Ive seen their G.o.dd.a.m.ned tentacles reach out from Lebanon to Bahrain, from Geneva to Ma.r.s.eilles, from Stuttgart to Lockerbie. Your crowd is riddled, Henry, but you just dont see it.... If you get anything soon, call me here on Saba; if later, reach me at the yacht club in Virgin Gorda."

During the next hour and a half, three private aircraft flew into the Saba strip but none would consider the disheveled Hawthornes pleas of urgency and promises of money to fly him to Gorda. According to the radio operator, a fourth and last plane was due in approximately thirty-five minutes. After its arrival, the strip was shut down for the night.

"Does he make contact before landing?"

"Sure, mon, its dark up in the approach. If theres any wind, I give him direction and velocity."

"When the pilot checks in, I want to talk to him."

"Sure, mon, anytin for the govmint."

Forty-one anxiety-filled minutes later, the tower radio erupted. "Saba, this is incoming flight from Oranjestad, F-O-four-six-five, as scheduled. Are conditions normal?"

"Another ten minutes, mon, and you got no conditions cause we got rules. Youre late, F-O-five."

"Come off it, boy, my people are good customers."

"Not in that plane, mon. I dont know you-"

"Were a new run. I can see your lights. Repeat, is everything normal? Theres been a h.e.l.l of a lot of dicey weather recently."

"Normal, mon, except theres someone here who wants to speak to you, honkie."

"Who the f.u.c.k do you think youre talking to-"

"This is Commander T. Hawthorne, U.S. Navy," said Tyrell, grabbing the outdated microphone. "We have an emergency here on Saba and must appropriate your aircraft to fly me to British Virgin Gorda. The flight plan has been approved and you will be generously compensated for your time and inconvenience. Hows your fuel? Well get out a truck if necessary."

"Aye, aye, sailor!" came the excited response over the loudspeaker as Hawthorne stared out the large window that reached to the ceiling and overlooked the airstrip. Then to his astonishment, the lights of the descending plane swung upward, banking to the right, getting away from Saba as fast as possible.

"What the h.e.l.l is he doing?" yelled Tyrell. "What are you doing, pilot?" he repeated into the microphone. "I just told you, this is an emergency!"

There was no reply over the speaker, only silence.

"He don wanna land here, mon," said the radio operator.

"Why not?"

"Maybe cause you talked to him. He say he out of Oranjestad-maybe yes, maybe no, mon. Maybe he fly out of Vieques, which maybe mean he fly from Cuba."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Hawthorne slammed his hand on the back of a chair. "What are you people running here?"

"Don yell at me, mon. I make my reports every day but no govmint people ever listen. Bad planes come in here alla time, but n.o.body listen."

"Im sorry," said Tye, looking at the concerned face of the black radioman. "Ive also got another call to make. The navy will pay." He dialed interisland to Gorda.

"Tye-Boy, where the h.e.l.l are ya?" shouted Marty. "Yer supposed to be here."

"I couldnt-I cant-get a plane out of Saba. Ive been trying for d.a.m.n near three hours."

"Those minnow islands close up early."

"Ill survive until morning, but if I cant get a flight then, Ill call you to send one over."

"No sweat.... But you got a message, Tye-"

"From a man named Stevens?"

"If hes from Paris. The front desk called me a couple of hours ago askin if your charter was still here and, naturally, having talked to yer friend Cooke, I said I was takin all yer messages. I got it right here. Its from Dominique, with a telephone number in Paris."

"Give it to me!" Hawthorne grabbed a pencil from the tower desk. The mechanic from Gorda spelled out the number slowly. "One last thing," said Hawthorne. "Hold on a minute." Tye turned to the radio operator. "I obviously cant get a flight out tonight, so where can I stay? Its important."

"If its that important, mon, you can stay here-theres a bed in a room over there, but you wont get no food, except plenty of coffee. My superiors will bill the navy and take the money themselves, but you can stay here when I shut down. Ill bring you something to eat in the morning. I arrive at six."

"And youll get enough money from me to tell your superiors to pound sand!"

"That is attractive."

"Whats the number here?" The radio operator gave it to him, and Hawthorne returned to the phone, repeating it to Marty. "If a man named Stevens-h.e.l.l, if anyone calls me-give him that number, okay? And thanks."

"Tye-Boy," said the mechanic cautiously, "yer not into somethin over yer head, are you, lad?"

"I hope not," replied Hawthorne, cutting off the line and immediately dialing the number for Paris.

"llo, la maison de Couvier," a female voice said.

"Sil vous plat, la madame," replied Tyrell, his fluency in French adequate for the moment. "Madame Dominique, please."

"Im sorry, monsieur, Madame Dominique barely arrived when her husband called from Monte Carlo, insisting that she join him immediately.... As I am a confidante of the madame, may I ask if you are the man from the islands?"

"I am."

"She instructed me to tell you that all is well, and that she will return to you as soon as she can. I praise G.o.d, monsieur. You are what she needs, what she deserves. I am Pauline, and you must never talk to anyone in this house but me. Shall we have a code between us in the event the madame cannot be reached?"

"I know just the one. Ill say, 'Saba calling. And tell her I dont understand. She wasnt there!"

"Im sure there is a reason, monsieur, and Im certain madame will explain."

"I consider you a friend, Pauline."

"Forever, monsieur."

On his private island, the padrone hissed and giggled as he wheeled himself to the telephone and dialed the hotel in St. Barts, his new a.s.sistants racing behind him. "You were right, my only daughter!" he shouted into the phone after reaching the room. "He bought it! Hook, line, and sinker, as the ba.n.a.l Americans say. He now has a confidante in Paris by the name of Pauline!"

"Of course, my only father," said Bajaratt over the telephone. "But I can conceive of another problem, and it disturbs me greatly."

"Whats that, Annie? Your intuitions have proved too accurate to dismiss."

"Their headquarters are temporarily at the yacht club in British Virgin Gorda-what have they received from MI-6? Or even American intelligence?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Send an animale from Miami or Puerto Rico. Find out who they have there-and what they have there."

"It is done, my child."

It was four oclock in the morning when the telephone pierced the silence of the deserted control tower. Hawthorne rolled off the short bed in panic, blinking his eyes, trying to orient himself, and rushed through the open door to the telephone on the desk.

"Yes?" he cried. "Who is it?" he said rapidly, shaking his head to throw off the sleep.