Stone walked toward the car without another word. The shorter officer held the rear door open for him, closed it after him, and got into the driver’s seat; his tall companion sat up front, too. The car pulled out of the lot and headed inland, toward the capital.

“Where are we going?” Stone asked.

“Government House,” the tall officer said. “You in a lot of trouble, man.”

Stone remembered that the jail was in the basement of Government House. “What kind of trouble?”

“You see pretty quick,” the man said.

The remainder of the journey passed in silence. Stone wracked his brain for some notion of what they could be arresting him for, but the only motivation he could come up with was that he was representing Allison Manning. Perhaps in St. Marks that was enough.

Eventually, the car entered the little city and drove to its center, passing the front door of Government House and going to the side, to the jail door. Stone got out of the car and, with an officer on each side of him, walked to the door. The booking desk was dead ahead. He wondered what, if anything, Thomas could do about this.

“This way,” the tall officer said.

Stone turned to his left and found the officer holding open a door that led to a flight of stairs. He followed the man up two stories, with the short officer bringing up the rear. They emerged into a long, broad hallway, cooled by a row of ceiling fans and open to the air at each end, a tribute to the British desire to remain cool in hot places. The building seemed deserted. They marched to the opposite end of the hall, through a set of double doors, and into a waiting room.

“Wait here,” the tall officer said, then went through another door.

Stone looked around him. It was a large room, furnished with well-worn leather furniture, and on the wall was a large portrait of the prime minister, a benevolent-looking man who, Stone guessed, had been in his mid-seventies when he had sat for the portrait. He wondered how long ago that was.

The inner door opened, and the tall officer braced just inside. “This way,” he commanded.

Stone walked into a large office, and the officer stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Stone was quite alone in the room. A huge desk dominated the office; a single visitor’s chair sat before the desk. In a corner were a round conference table and eight chairs, and the walls were decorated with oils and watercolors, island scenes of a high quality. From somewhere came the muffled sound of a flushing toilet, then, a moment later, a door opened and Sir Winston Sutherland emerged, rubbing his hands briskly with a towel. He was dressed in white linen trousers and a rather loud short-sleeved sport shirt. He discarded the towel and strode toward Stone.