He stood, stretching his back. The bench had been hard, and he felt chilled in his light khaki now, the mid-afternoon air seeming to have developed a bit of a bite. Perhaps it was just because he’d been sitting around too long in the breeze that whipped off the water.

He strode briskly back to the hotel, his intended lunch long overdue and forgotten, food immaterial now. He would ring Pete Vickers and arrange a meeting.

But the moment he stepped into the foyer, there was Pete, still waiting, still in the same armchair, where, by now, he’d spent most of the day.

At the sight of the big Texan, Pete jumped to his feet and crossed eagerly to meet him.

‘Well, Commander,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’

‘I think we need to talk. Is the bar open yet?’

‘Not quite. I checked. Four o’clock, another half-hour to go.’

‘Right. Coffee, then.’

Lyndon set off for the lounge, checking his stride so the reporter wouldn’t have trouble keeping up. But the reporter had no trouble keeping up at all. Pete Vickers, in his enthusiasm, seemed to be checking his own ungainly stride so he wouldn’t get ahead.

It’s as if the guy doesn’t even know he’s a cripple, Lyndon thought, kind of impressive that.

As they waited for their coffees, which seemed a long time coming, the Texan remained silent, apparently thoughtful, and Pete curbed his impatience. Things were going so well he didn’t dare risk irritating the bloke.

Then finally, once seated, coffees before them, he couldn’t resist asking again, ‘So, Commander, my report, what do you think?’

‘Fucking remarkable,’ Lyndon said. Then, his eyes keenly trained on Pete’s reaction, he added, ‘That is if it’s true.’

‘Every bloody word of it’s true,’ Pete’s response was unwavering, ‘I can swear to that. No embellishment, no exaggeration, just the facts as I discovered them through my investigations. Followed by my comments and analysis, of course,’ he added, ‘I’m a journalist, after all.’

Yes, Lyndon thought, you certainly are, and a good one at that.

‘Mind you,’ Pete went on, ‘I’m sure you’ll have noted there’s no specific data regarding numbers of deaths. I have no idea how many Negroes have been killed during black and white riots in town, or how many died drinking cyanide-laced hooch at Mount Isa. Or of course,’ he added meaningfully, ‘the numbers of dead resulting from the recent mutiny. The US military guards its secrets very closely.’

‘Of course,’ Lyndon said, ‘as it must.’ He took a long swig of his coffee, and looking down at the folder that sat on the table before him, asked the very same question he’d asked earlier. ‘What do you expect me to do with this?’