The following morning at ten, Holly called Lance. “What did you find out about Robertson?” she asked.

“Very interesting,” Lance said. “Mr. Ian Robertson doesn’t exist. He doesn’t have a British passport, he doesn’t have a driver’s license, he doesn’t have an airplane registered in his name in the U.K., and he doesn’t have a birth certificate.”

“But there must be a number of people by that name in the U.K.; it sounds like it could be very common.”

“There are around two dozen,” Lance said, “but none of them squares with any of the information about himself that Mr. Pemberton gave to the St. Marks housing authority when he made application to buy a house here. Foreigners have to apply for permission to buy. None of the other Robertsons are his age, which he says is fifty-seven, none of them have his middle name, which he says is Osmond, and none of them owns an airplane. All of them, however, have driver’s licenses, and most of them have passports. The airplane registration number you gave me belongs to an airplane that has been removed from the British Registry and listed as destroyed in a fire.”

“I see. Lance, how did you come up with the information from the St. Marks housing office?”

“That brings me to another matter,” Lance said. “Write down this phone number.”

Holly found a pen and paper in her bag. “Shoot.”

Lance gave her the number. “It’s a cell phone; call that number at twelve-fifteen P.M. sharp, today, from your satphone. A man named Bill Pepper will answer. Make an appointment to meet with him.”

“Okay. Who is he?”

“He’s one of ours, planted in an offshore casino there as a computer programmer. You may be of help to each other.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him before?”

“It wasn’t necessary for you to know about him before.”

“Then why now?”

“Stop asking questions,” Lance said sharply. “Meet him; see what you can do for each other.”

“There’s something else,” Holly said.

“What?”

“Stone wants to know about a man in the St. Marks Home Office named Colonel Croft.”

“Ask Bill Pepper about him. Good-bye.”

Holly joined the others on the beach and reported on her conversation with Lance.

“I don’t get it,” Stone said. “If Lance already has a man in St. Marks, why did he send us down here?”

“How the hell should I know?” Holly said irritably.

“Take it easy; I’m curious, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m curious. I’m sorry if I was short, but Lance was very irritating. He’s usually very smooth and courteous.”

“Maybe something else is eating him.”

“I had the impression that he was introducing me to this Bill Pepper very reluctantly.”

“Well, if the guy is working undercover in one of the Internet casinos, maybe he’s concerned about blowing him.”

“Yeah, okay; maybe he was just in a bad mood,” Holly said.

At precisely twelve-fifteen, Holly dialed the number she had been given.

“Yes?”

“It’s Holly Barker.”

“My wife and I will be at the inn for dinner at eight this evening; I’ll be wearing a bright green linen jacket. At nine-fifteen, before the dessert course, I’ll go to the men’s room. You wait until I’m gone, then walk past the ladies’ room and out into the parking lot. I’ll be sitting in a white Toyota Avalon; join me. Got it?”

“Got it.”

He hung up.

23

Holly made sure her group was already seated for dinner when Bill Pepper and his wife arrived. They were placed three or four tables away, but the bright green linen jacket marked him well. He was in his late thirties, blondish hair, the very picture of the young American businessman.

Holly and the others talked through dinner about everything but why they were there-Robertson and the colonel. Holly was worried that even the tables might be bugged.

At nine-fifteen, Pepper rose from his chair and, ignoring them, walked out of the dining room toward the men’s room. Holly waited the prescribed minute, then headed for the ladies’. At the end of the hallway, past the restrooms, she opened a door with a big red “EXIT” sign over it and stepped into the parking lot. It took a moment for her eyes to become used to the darkness, then, a few yards away, the overhead light went on in a car, then went off again. She made her way to the white Avalon and got in. “I’m Holly Barker,” she said, offering her hand.

“Bill Pepper,” he said, shaking it.

“Is that a trade name?”

“Probably. What do you want to know?”

“Have you found out anything more about this Robertson? Or about Pemberton or Weatherby?”

“I think-and this isn’t official opinion yet, since not enough people at Langley agree-that Robertson, as he calls himself, is an Englishman named Barney Cox, who Scotland Yard believes is one of four men who robbed a shipment of money at Heathrow Airport about nine months ago. They got away with something over a hundred million pounds sterling.”

“I read about that in the papers; I didn’t know the police there had identified them.”

“‘Identified’ is too strong a word. All they know for sure is that Cox disappeared simultaneously with the robbery, and they only know that because his wife made a missing persons report a day later.”

“Did she have any information about the robbery?”

“No; all she knew was that her husband went to work one day and didn’t come back. They had been married for more than thirty years and had two grown children.”

“Did he have a criminal record?”

“No, he was an ordinary civilian; he sold computers to businesses. In fact, he was director of sales for his company.”

“Why do you think Robertson is Barney Cox?”

“Description, timing, money, and the fact that he says he’s retired from the computer business, which, if he is Cox, is a stupid thing to say.”

“Do you have any other possible identities in mind for him?”

“Well, I don’t think he’s the Lindbergh baby; did you have somebody else in mind?”

“Not really.”

“Then what are you doing in St. Marks?”

“I take it Lance didn’t tell you.”

“No, but he didn’t tell me not to ask, either.”

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay, sure.”

“And what you’ve just told me is as much as you have for thinking Robertson is Barney Cox?”

Pepper threw up his hands. “Lance told me to tell you what I know about him; that’s what I know and what I think. Oh, I forgot, he has a false identity, which is what Barney Cox would have, too. Anything else?”

“Tell me about Colonel Croft.”

“Ah, now there’s a piece of work. His real name is Maurice Benet, and he’s Haitian.”

“That explains the odd accent.”

“It explains a lot of things. When Benet was twenty, he was a captain in Papa Doc’s Tonton Macoutes. You know about them?”

“The Haitian secret police?”

“They were a happy band of murderers and torturers, whose main job was to scare the shit out of anybody who had a discouraging word to say about Papa Doc or his regime. They did this by kidnapping, torturing and murdering anybody who annoyed them, then delivering the mutilated corpse home to the family.”

“How did he end up in St. Marks?”

“When Baby Doc’s regime fell, Benet and a cohort of his escaped the island with a large bundle of various currencies and island-hopped for a while, ending up here, in the happy arms of Sir Winston Sutherland. Sutherland found a place in the police force for him and his buddy, and he’s been clawing his way up ever since. He’s been a little more restrained than when he was in Haiti, but he’s matured, I guess. He still scares the shit out of people, though.”

“How did you identify him?”

“I followed him into a bar and got his right index fingerprint off a bar glass. It’s confirmed; there’s no guessing about this guy.”