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d the corner of the island。 Each would make two dives； at places like Bonnie's Arch； Devil's Grotto； Eden Rock and Roger's Wreck Point； places he had dived and toured and guided through a thousand times。 Some of the places he had discovered himself。
The McDeeres approached； and Mitch quietly introduced his wife to Mr。 Abanks； who was not polite but not rude。 They started for the small pier； where a deckhand was preparing a thirty…foot fishing boat； Abanks unloaded an indecipherable string of mands in the general direction of the young deckhand； who was either deaf or unafraid of his boss。
Mitch stood next to Abanks； the captain now； and pointed to the bar fifty yards away down the pier。 〃Do you know all those people at the bar？〃 he asked。
Abanks frowned at Mitch。
〃They tried to follow me here。 Just curious；〃 Mitch said。 〃The usual gang；〃 Abanks said。 〃No strangers。〃
〃Have you noticed any strangers around this morning？〃
〃Look； this place attracts strange people。 I keep no ledger of the strange ones and the normal ones。〃
〃Have you seen a fat American； red hair； at least three hundred pounds？〃
Abanks shook his head。 The deckhand eased the boat ；uckward； away from the pier； then toward the horizon。 Abby sat on a small padded bench and watched the dive lodge disappear。 In a vinyl bag between her feet were two new sets of snorkeling fins and dive masks。 It was ostensibly a snorkeling trip with maybe a little light fishing if they were biting。 The great man himself had agreed to acpany them； but only after Mitch insisted and told him they needed to discuss personal matters。 Private matters； regarding the death of his son。
From a screened balcony on the second floor of a Cayman Kai beach house； the Nordic watched the two snorkeled heads bob and disappear around the fishing boat。 He handed the binoculars to Two…Ton Tony Verkler； who； quickly bored； handed them back。 A striking blonde in a black one…piece with legs cut high； almost to the rib cage； stood behind the Nordic and took the binoculars。 Of particular interest was the deckhand。
Tony spoke。 〃I don't understand。 If they were talking serious； why the boy？ Why have another set of ears around？〃
〃Perhaps they're talking about snorkeling and fishing；〃 said the Nordic。
〃I don't know；〃 said the blonde。 〃It's unusual for Abanks to spend time on a fishing boat。 He likes the divers。 There must be a good reason for him to waste a day with two novice snorkelers。 Something's up。〃
〃Who's the boy？〃 asked Tony。
〃Just one of the gofers；〃 she said。 〃He's got a dozen。〃
〃Can you talk to him later？〃 asked the Nordic。
〃Yeah；〃 said Tony。 〃Show him some skin； snort some candy。 He'll talk。〃
〃I'll try；〃 she said。
〃What's his name？〃 asked the Nordic。
〃Keith Rook。〃
Keith Rook maneuvered the boat alongside the pier at Rum Point。 Mitch； Abby and Abanks climbed from the boat and headed for the beach。 Keith was not invited to lunch。 He stayed behind and lazily washed the deck。
The Shipwreck Bar sat inland a hundred yards under a heavy cover of rare shade trees。 It was dark and damp with screened windows and squeaky ceiling fans。 There was no reggae； dominoes； or dartboard。 The noon crowd was quiet with each table engrossed in its own private talk。
The view from their table was out to sea； to the north。 They ordered cheeseburgers and beer…island food。
〃This bar is different；〃 Mitch observed quietly。
〃Very much so；〃 said Abanks。 〃And with good reason。 It's a hangout for drug dealers who own many of the nice homes and condos around here。 They fly in on their private jets； deposit their money in our many fine banks and spend a few days around here checking their real estate。〃
〃Nice neighborhood。〃
〃Very nice； really。 They have millions and they keep to themselves。〃
The waitress； a husky； well…mixed mulatto； dropped three bottles of Jamaican Red Stripe on the table without saying a word。 Abanks leaned forward on his elbows with his head lowered； the customary manner of speaking in the Shipwreck Bar。 〃So you think you can walk away？〃 he said。
Mitch and Abby leaned forward in unison； and all three heads met low in the center of the table； just over the beer。 〃Not walk； but run。 Run like hell； but I'll get away。 And I'll need your help。〃
He thought about this for a moment and raised his head。 He shrugged。 〃But what am I to do？〃 He took the first sip of his Red Stripe。
Abby saw her first； and it would take a woman to spot another woman straining ever so elegantly to eavesdrop on their little conversation。 Her back was to Abanks。 She was a solid blonde partially hidden under cheap black rubber sunglasses that covered most of her face； and she had been watching the ocean and listening a bit too hard。 When the three of them leaned over； she sat up straight and listened like hell。 She was by herself at a table for two。
Abby dug her fingernails into her husband's leg； and their table became quiet。 The blonde in black listened； then turned to her table and her drink。
Wayne Tarrance had improved his wardrobe by Friday of Cayman Week。 Gone were the straw sandals and tight shorts and teenybop sunglasses。 Gone were the sickly…pale legs。 Now they were bright pink； burned beyond recognition。 After three days in the tropical outback known as Cayman Brae； he and Acklin； acting on behalf of the U。S。 government； had pounced on a rather cheap room on Grand Cayman； miles from Seven Mile Beach and not within walking distance of any remote portion of the sea。 Here they had established a mand post to monitor the ings and goings of the McDeeres and other interested people。 Here； at the Coconut Motel； they had shared a small room with two single beds and cold showers。 Wednesday morning； they had contacted the subject； McDeere； and requested a meeting as soon as possible。 He said no。 Said he was too busy。 Said he and his wife were honeymooning and had no time for such a meeting。 Maybe later； was all he said。
Then late Thursday； while Mitch and Abby were enjoying grilled grouper at the Lighthouse on the road to Bodden Town； Laney； Agent Laney； dressed in appropriate island garb and looking very much like an island Negro； stopped at their table and laid down the law。 Tarrance insisted on a meeting。
Chickens had to be imported into the Cayman Islands； and not the best ones。 Only medium…grade chickens； to be consumed not by native islanders but by Americans away from home without this most basic staple。 Colonel Sanders had the damnedest time teaching the island girls； though black or close to it； how to fry chicken。 It was foreign to them。
And so it was that Special Agent Wayne Tarrance； of the Bronx； arranged a quick secret meeting at …the Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise on the island of Grand Cayman。 The only such franchise。 He thought the place would be deserted。 He was wrong。
A hundred hungry tourists from Georgia； Alabama； Texas and Mississippi packed the place and devoured extra…crispy with cole slaw and creamed potatoes。 It tasted better in Tupelo； but it would do。
Tarrance and Acklin sat in a booth in the crowded restaurant and nervously watched the front door。