"Is there a number for this Mr. Lawrence?" asked Devereaux.

"Sure. Here."

"Did you try to contact him?"

"No. The line would have to be open. And why would he discuss a client with a complete stranger on the phone? He might just tip the client off."

"You're right. You'll have to go. Use scheduled flights. Have Cassandra get you on the first flight. Trace Mr. Lawrence. Pay him if you have to. Find out who our inquisitive friend with the camera was and why he was there. Do we have a station in Georgetown?"

"No, next door. Caracas."

"Use Caracas for secure communications. I'll clear it with the station chief."

Studying his wallsized photo montage, Cal Dexter's eye moved from the escarpment into the peninsula known simply as El Punto. Running along the base of the escarpment wall was a runway, taking up two-thirds of the fifteen hundred yards available. On the estate side of the runway was a chain-link fence that enclosed the entire airfield, hangar, workshops, fuel store, generator house, and all.

Using a pair of compasses and estimating the hangar length at one hundred feet, Dexter was able to start calculating and marking distances between points. These put the cultivated farmland at around three thousand acres. It was clear that centuries of windborne dust and bird droppings had created a rich soil, for he could see grazing herds and a variety of lush crops. Whoever had created El Punto had gone for complete self-sufficiency behind the ramparts of escarpment and ocean. The irrigation problem was solved by a glittering stream that erupted from the base of the hills and flowed through the estate before tumbling in a cataract into the sea. It could only originate in the high inland plateau and flow through the protective wall in an underground flue. Dexter noted the words: "Swim in?" Later he would cross them out. Without a rehearsal, it would be crazy to attempt a passage through an unknown underground tunnel. He recalled the terror inspired by crawling through the water traps of the tunnels of Cu Chi, and they were only a few yards long. This one could be miles, and he did not even know where it began.

At the base of the runway, beyond the wire, he could see a settlement of perhaps five hundred small white blocks, clearly dwelling units of some kind. There were dirt streets, some larger buildings for mess halls, and a small church. It was a village of sorts; but it was odd that, even with the men away in the fields and barns, there were no women or children on the streets. No gardens, no livestock. More like a penal colony. Perhaps those who served the man he sought had little choice in the matter.

He turned his attention to the main body of the agricultural estate. This contained all the cultivated fields, the flocks, barns, granaries, and a second settlement of low, white buildings. But a uniformed man standing outside indicated these were barracks for the security staff, guards, and overseers. By the look and the number and the size of the quarters, and the likely occupancy rate, he put the guards alone at around one hundred. There were five more substantial villas, with gardens, apparently for the senior officers and flight personnel.

The photographs and the slides were serving their purpose, but he needed two things more. One was a concept of three dimensions; the other was a knowledge of routines and procedures. The first would need a scale model of the whole peninsula; the second would require days of silent observation.

Kevin McBride flew the next morning from Dulles direct to Georgetown, Guyana, landing at 2:00 P.M. Formalities at the airport were simple, and with only a suitcase for a one-night stay, he was soon in a taxi.

Lawrence Aero Enterprises was not hard to find. Its small office was in a back alley off Waterloo Street. The American knocked several times, but there was no reply. The moist heat was beginning to drench his shirt. He peered through the dusty window and rapped again.

"Ain't no one there, man," said a helpful voice behind him. The speaker was old and gnarled; he sat a few doors away in a patch of deep shade and fanned himself with a disc of palm leaves.

"I'm looking for George Lawrence," said the American.

"You Briddish?"

"American."

The old-timer considered this as if the availability of charter pilot Lawrence was entirely down to nationality.

"Friend of yours?"

"No. I was thinking of chartering his plane for a flight, if I can find him."

"Ain't been there since yesterday," said the old man. "Not since they took him away."

"Who took him away, my friend?"

The old man shrugged, as if the abduction of neighbours was usual enough.

"The police?"

"No. Not them. They were white. Came in a rental car."

"TouristsÉclients?" asked McBride.

"Maybe," admitted the sage. Then he had an idea. "You could try the airport. He keeps his plane there."

Fifteen minutes later, a sweatdrenched Kevin McBride was heading back to the airport. At the desk for private aviation he asked for George Lawrence. Instead he met Floyd Evans. Inspector Evans of the Georgetown Police Department.

He was taken back downtown yet again, this time in a patrol car, and was shown into an office where the airconditioning was like a longdelayed cold bath and delicious. Inspector Evans toyed with his passport.

"What exactly are you doing in Guyana, Mr. McBride?" he asked.

"I was hoping to pay a short visit with a view to bringing my wife on vacation later," said the agent.

"In August? The salamanders shelter in August down here. Do you know Mr. Lawrence?"

"Well, no. I have a pal in Washington. He gave me the name. Said I might like to fly into the interior. Said Mr. Lawrence was about the best charter pilot. I just went to his office to see if he was available for charter. That's all. What did I do wrong?"

The inspector closed the passport and handed it back. "You arrived from Washington today. That seems clear enough. Your tickets and entry stamp confirm it. The Meridien Hotel confirms your one-night reservation."

"Look, Inspector, I still don't understand why I was brought here. Do you know where I can find George Lawrence?"

"Oh yes. Yes, he's in the mortuary down at our general hospital. Apparently he was taken from his office yesterday by three men in a rented 4 X 4. They checked it back in last night and flew out. Do these three names mean anything to you, Mr. McBride?" He passed a slip of paper over the desk. McBride glanced at the three names, all of which he knew to be false because he had issued them.

"No, sorry, they mean nothing to me. Why is Mr. Lawrence in the morgue?"

"Because he was found at dawn today by a vegetable seller coming to market, dead in a ditch by the roadside just out of town. You, of course, were still in the air."

"That's awful. I never met him, but I'm sorry."

"Yes, it is. We have lost our charter pilot. Mr. Lawrence lost his life and, as it happens, eight of his fingernails. His office has been gutted, and all records of past clients removed. What do you think his captors wanted of him, Mr. McBride?"

"I have no idea."

"Of course, I forgot. You are just a travelling salesman, are you not? Then I suggest you travel back home to the States, Mr. McBride. You are free to go."

"These people are animals," protested McBride to Devereaux down the secure line from Caracas Station to Langley.

"Come on home, Kevin," said his superior. "I'll ask our friend in the south what, if anything, he discovered."

Paul Devereaux had long cultivated a contact inside the FBI on the grounds that no man in his line of business could ever have too many sources of information and the Bureau was not likely to share with him the very gems that would constitute true brotherly love.

He had asked his "asset" to check in the archive database for files withdrawn by Assistant Director (Investigative Division) Colin Fleming since the request from on high had circulated regarding a murdered boy in Bosnia. Among the withdrawals was one marked simply AVENGER. Kevin McBride, weary and travel stained, arrived home the following morning.