“Well, the guns won’t be any problem,” he said with an obvious Australian accent. “There are no metal detectors at ports such as this. I’ll board at approximately ten a.m., plant your trunk and your guns for you in your cabin on Five Deck, then meet you in the Café Centaur in St. George’s. I do hope you know what you’re doing, David, bringing firearms aboard the Queen Elizabeth 2.”

“Of course I know what I’m doing,” said David very politely, with a tiny playful smile. “Now, what do you have for us on our man?”

“Ah, yes. Jason Hamilton. Six feet tall, dark tan, longish blond hair, piercing blue eyes. Mysterious fellow. Very British, very polite. Rumors as to his true identity abound. He’s an enormous tipper, and a day sleeper, and apparently doesn’t bother to leave the ship when she’s in port. Indeed he gives over small packages to be mailed to his cabin steward every morning, quite early, before he disappears for the day. Haven’t been able to discover the post box but that’s a matter of time. He has yet to appear in the Queens Grill for a single meal. It’s rumored he’s seriously ill. But with what, no one knows. He’s the picture of health, which only adds to the mystery. Everyone says so. A powerfully built and graceful fellow with a dazzling wardrobe, it seems. He gambles heavily at the roulette wheel, and dances for hours with the ladies. Seems in fact to like the very old ones. He’d arouse suspicion on that account alone if he weren’t so bloody rich himself. Spends a lot of time simply roaming the ship.”

“Excellent. This is just what I wanted to know,” said David. “You have our tickets.”

The man gestured to a black leather folder on the wicker dressing table. David checked the contents, then gave him an approving nod.

“Deaths on the QE2 so far?”

“Ah, now that’s an interesting point. They have had six since they left New York, which is a little more than usual. All very elderly women, and all apparent heart failure. This is the sort of thing you want to know?”

“Certainly is,” said David.

The “little drink,” I thought.

“Now you ought to have a look at these firearms,” said Jake, “and know how to use them.” He reached for a worn little duffel bag on the floor, just the sort of beat-up sack of canvas in which one would hide expensive weapons, I presumed. Out came the expensive weapons—one a large Smith & Wesson revolver. The other a small black automatic no bigger than the palm of my hand.

“Yes, I’m quite familiar with this,” David said, taking the big silver gun and making to aim it at the floor. “No problem.” He pulled out the clip, then slipped it back in. “Pray I don’t have to use it, however. It will make a hell of a noise.”

He then gave it to me.

“Lestat, get the feel of it,” he said. “Of course there’s no time to practice. I asked for a hair trigger.”