Ben got out. The Jeep pulled a tight U-turn around him, throwing up spumes of sand, then roared back off down the track leaving him standing there alone. Four thousand miles from Paris, Ben had finally reached the island hideaway of the reclusive Tyler Roth.

Chapter 32

As Ben climbed the sandy wooden steps up to the house, he could hear the ocean’s steady roar and the crash of the waves breaking against the rocks below. And something else. The soft, melodic notes of a Spanish guitar drifting on the wind. He stepped up onto the wooden walkway that led around the side of the house to the decking, following the music.

The decking was bathed in warm light from the windows. Roth was sitting on a stool with his back to Ben, facing the ocean with the guitar cradled in his lap. Playing it well, with the practised air of a man who had a lot of time to devote to becoming proficient, and a depth of melancholic expression that Ben found surprising in a professional warrior whom he’d last seen with an automatic weapon in his hands. Roth seemed lost in the music, as though unaware of his visitor’s presence. A tall cocktail stood on a low table nearby, along with an ashtray in which rested a long, fat cigarette that hadn’t come from a packet. The faint tang of marijuana reached Ben’s nose.

At the sound of Ben’s footsteps on the wooden decking he stopped playing and turned to face his visitor.

‘Hey, man. It’s been a long time.’

‘Hello, Tyler.’

Roth laid down the instrument, stood and stepped towards Ben with a broad grin and an extended hand. He’d changed a good deal in sixteen years. Leaner than he’d been in his Delta Force days, when he and his men had spent all their down time pumping iron. His military buzz cut was grown out well past his shoulders, into a mass of sandy curly hair that was starting to turn silver and loosely drawn back into an untidy ponytail. He was barefoot, in ragged jeans cut off at the knee and a well-worn T-shirt that said BEACH BUM.

They shook hands. Roth said, ‘You want a beer? Or something with a little more punch, maybe.’ He motioned back at the cocktail on the table. ‘They got a drink on St Thomas called a Painkiller. Rum, pineapple, coconut, orange juice and a hint of fresh grated nutmeg. I just made up a batch. Heavy on the rum, blows your mind.’

Ben had already swallowed enough painkillers for one day. ‘I’m good, thanks, Tyler. I came four thousand miles to talk, not to drink.’

Roth shrugged his shoulders.

‘No problemo, amigo mio, whatever you say. I appreciate you coming all this way to see me. Don’t get a whole lot of visitors to the island.’