The reporters were now being herded onto the two airplanes by uniformed policemen; Stone noted that nobody was being beaten with the truncheons the policemen carried, but their body language told him that the cops were brooking no argument. The truck with the luggage pulled up and suitcases were thrown hurriedly into the luggage compartment of the airplanes.

“Where’d the other airplane come from?” Stone asked.

“It’s a government plane, used only by high officials.”

“Where do you think they’re sending them?”

“I can only hope that they won’t be flown out to sea, then chucked overboard,” Thomas murmured. “Look, one camera crew and a couple of others are still in the hangar.”

The two airplanes were taxiing now, and in a few minutes they were both taking off and heading to the northwest.

“Antigua, do you think?” Stone asked.

Thomas shook his head. “Antigua’s due north; they’re flying northwest. St. Thomas is my guess; that’s the nearest U.S. airport; or maybe even to San Juan.”

“That is the most high-handed thing I ever saw,” Stone said, grinning. “Those people are going to go absolutely nuts when they get back to their respective news organizations.”

“And that pleases you, I suppose.”

“You bet your ass it does. If they were aroused by Allison’s plight, then they’re going to be mad as hell about their own treatment. The press never gets as angry as when their own freedom gets tampered with, and I’ll bet half a dozen cameras got the whole thing on tape.”

“You think this is going to soften up Sir Winston, then?” Thomas asked.

“When he finds out what they’re saying about him in Miami and New York, it just might.”

“Don’t count on it. Sir Winston and our prime minister are accustomed to dealing with a more compliant press; I doubt if they give a damn about what foreigners think.”

“Thomas,” Stone said. “I hate to point this out, but this business is not going to be good for your business.”

“I already thought of that,” Thomas said glumly.

Back at the Shipwright’s Arms, Federal Express had delivered two packages for Stone. One was from Bob Cantor and contained a copy of the Publishers Weekly profile of Paul Manning. The other package was from Alma, his secretary, and it contained two items: a brand-new black judge’s robe and a brochure on the Parker Sportster inflatable dinghy. Stone sat down at a table and read the article on Paul Manning, which featured a photograph of the writer and Allison, arm in arm, in front of a large, handsome house. It was pretty standard stuff about a writer, his lifestyle, and his work, and there was nothing in particular that interested him in the piece. The boat brochure was more interesting.