We were on the move, too. Sampson and I had gotten there on an early-morning flight from D.C. The weather was glorious. Blue skies, warm breezes. We heard strains of English and Jamaican Creole at the airport, reggae and ska. The rustle of the banana trees as the sea breeze rushed through them was like a soft chorus.

The hotel in Ocho Rios was very private and old-fashioned, just forty-five rooms overlooking the sea. We arrived there simultaneously with four English teams. There were also two teams of detectives from Kingston.

The English High Commission office in Kingston had been alerted about our presence and our purpose here. Full cooperation had been promised. Everyone was committed to bringing down all four game players, whatever the consequences, and I was very impressed with the English group, and also with the local detectives.

We waited for Geoffrey Shafer. Sampson and I were strategically positioned to watch the narrow, shaded road that led to the hotel. We were on a lush hillside between the hotel and the sparkling blue Caribbean sea. Andrew Jones and another agent were in a second car hidden near the hotel’s rear entrance. Six of Jones’s agents were posing as porters and maintenance workers at the hotel. The Jamaican detectives were also posted on the grounds.

We’d had no news about Shafer. He had finally lost us. But we believed he would join the others. Jones complained that there weren’t enough of us to stop Shafer if he was coming after the others. I agreed; if Shafer was playing kamikaze, there would be no adequate defense.

So we waited and waited. Continual updates came in over the car’s short-wave radio. The messages didn’t stop all afternoon. They were a kind of electronic heartbeat for our surveillance detail.

“Oliver Highsmith is still in his room. Doesn’t want to be disturbed, apparently. …”

“Bayer is in his room as well. Subject was spotted on the terrace about ten minutes ago, checking out the beach with binoculars. …”

“Bayer has left his room. He’s taking a dip in the deep blue sea. Subject is in a red-striped swimming costume. Difficult to miss. Makes the job easier. Not on the eyes, though. …”

“Black Mercedes arriving at the front gate. Driver’s tall and blond. Could be Geoffrey Shafer. You see him, Alex?”

I reported immediately, “The blond man isn’t Shafer. Repeat, it isn’t Shafer. Too young, probably American. Young wife and two children tagging along. False alarm. It isn’t Shafer.”

The radio reports continued.

“Highsmith has just ordered up from room service. Two English breakfasts in the middle of the day. One of our people will take it up to him. …”

“Bayer is back from his swim. He’s well tanned. Little guy, but muscular. Tried to hit on some ladies. Struck out.”