Ben turned it off, poured himself another drink and stood out on the balcony with a cigarette, watching the activity at the airport terminal across the way. Feeling suddenly very weary, he undressed and clambered into bed.

Today had been a long day. Tomorrow might be even longer, and he had no idea what it might bring.

Chapter 31

Two hours and forty-six minutes after takeoff from Miami, the Air Sunshine flight with one Paul Harris on board touched down on the runway on the island of St Thomas. Cyril E. King International airport was its own little peninsula stretching out over the ocean. From the air it looked like a grounded aircraft carrier. St Thomas was the largest of the islands, with a few smaller ones dotted around. An invisible line separated the US territory from the British Virgin Islands, just thirty kilometres across the water.

Mr Harris was travelling light, with just a single bag whose battered military appearance drew a few inquisitive looks from the customs officials. After clearing security he stepped out into the balmy early evening. The sun was beginning to set, casting shimmering hues of gold and crimson and purple over the ocean. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. It felt a long, long way from the cold and damp of northern France, and it was. Off-season, the island was far less packed with tourists than it might have been. The laid-back Caribbean vibe was in evidence everywhere, and under different circumstances a fellow could have been forgiven for making straight for the nearest beach bar and seeing out the glorious sunset with a rum cocktail or two. But Ben wasn’t here for the scenic tour.

While he was still en route to Charles de Gaulle, Keegan had called back to say that one of Roth’s ‘people’ would come to pick him up at the island airport. Ben hadn’t been waiting long when a bright-yellow Ford Mustang screeched into the parking lot and pulled up nearby. The guy who stepped out of the car wore dark glasses, a Panama hat and a tropical flowery shirt that hung loose enough around his middle to conceal a handgun.

‘You Hope?’ His mouth twisted when he talked, like a snarl.

Ben nodded. ‘What do I call you? Bugsy? Baby Face?’

‘I’m Angelo,’ the guy snarled back at him. Pulling out a phone he stabbed a number and muttered, ‘He’s here.’ As he put the phone away Ben got a glimpse of the revolver butt sticking out of Angelo’s cargo trousers.

Ben said, ‘I thought Roth didn’t use a phone, as a rule.’

‘He don’t.’ Angelo motioned towards the car. ‘Let’s go. He’s waitin’.’