"How much?"

"I'm no expert at this, but I should think fifty to a hundred thousand dollars would go a long way toward accomplishing what we want. Woodman and Weld would hire and instruct them, and you'd have to pay their fees, too. Will the insurance money cover it?"

"Yes," she said, but she looked doubtful.

"What's the problem?"

She shrugged. "I just don't know if I want to be that kind of celebrity. I'm really a very private person."

"Allison, let me put this to you as strongly as I can. If we don't do something you're going to be a very dead private person. In St.Marks, Sir Winston holds all the cards; he's in control. But he can't control the rest of the world. This island subsists mostly on tourism; if he wants to become prime minister he's not going to want somebody telling the world's tourists that if they come to St.Marks they're liable to be arrested, tried, and hanged on spurious charges. That translates into a lot of empty hotel rooms and a catastrophic loss of revenue for the government."

She wrinkled her brow. "Why don't I just get the hell off this island? There must be a way."

"Didn't you listen to His Lordship this morning? If you try that and they catch you, it's tantamount to conviction; they could hang you before the week is out. Even if you made it off the island, they could come after you, maybe extradite you; then you'd be worse off than you are right now; you'd be guilty."

She shrugged and said nothing, but she seemed to be imagining something terrible.

"Will you let me get this PR campaign in gear?"

"All right," she sighed.

"Good. I suggest you get a hundred thousand dollars sent to Bill Eggers at Woodman and Weld as soon as possible. Nobody's going to want to extend credit to you in the circumstances."

"All right; I'll call my bank in Greenwich; the insurance money is supposed to be deposited there soon."

"Allison, speaking of insurance, did you mention to the investigator that you had been charged with the murder of the insured? That might make them reluctant to pay."

"It never came up," she said.

"Hello, Bill, it's Stone."

"What's happening?"

"Allison Manning is sending you a hundred thousand dollars from her Greenwich bank tomorrow."

"How nice! Do I have to do anything for it?"

"I want you to get ahold of the hottest PR firm you can find and have them start a campaign in the media to get Allison Manning released."

"I believe I get the picture," Eggers chuckled. "Barbaric islanders persecuting American blonde?"

"You're a quick study, Bill."

"How much does she want to spend?"

"I told her I thought fifty thousand would do the job; spend more if necessary.By this time the day after tomorrow I want this island overrun with wild-eyed reporters, photographers, and television crews. See if you can get 60 Minutes interested, but tell them they have to move fast; she goes on trial on Monday, and she could be strung up by the middle of next week. It's this Sunday night, or nothing."

"They'll want as much background on her as possible."

"Call Bob Cantor." He gave Eggers the number. "He's researching her husband; tell him to copy you on anything he finds. Paul Manning was a well-known writer, so lots of people should have heard of him. Try to be careful what you release to the PR people; don't let anything unfavorable get into the mix."

"I get the picture."

"The firm has got a lot of Washington connections, right?"

"Right."

"Find out who her congressman is in Greenwich, get ahold of him and both Connecticut senators and tell them they're about to lose a voter. Get them to get on to the State Department and tell them an American abroad is being railroaded. There's no consulate here, but there's bound to be one on a neighboring island. Have them issue the strongest possible protest to the St.Marks government."

Eggers was laughing now. "Why don't we get the president to send a cruiser down there to drop anchor in the harbor, with her guns pointed toward the capitol building?"

"Send a fucking aircraft carrier, if you can."

"Are there any communists in the St.Marks government? That always helps, especially in the Caribbean."

"Let's assume there are, for the moment; we can always apologize later."

"Call me tomorrow."

"Right." Stone hung up and walked downstairs, where Thomas was getting the bar ready for lunch. "Thomas," he said, "you'd better prepare for some business. Maybe we can even make up for the New York blizzard."

"Sounds good to me," Thomas said, laughing.

Stone dialed the number and waited. "This is Stone Barrington," his own voice said. "Please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you." "Arrington?" he said into the phone. "Pick up, Arrington." Nothing. He hung up.

He felt he had done all he could for the moment, so he left the room above the restaurant and walked down to his chartered yacht; he was weary and aching, as if he had run several miles. He fell onto his bunk and slept.

A rapping on the hull woke him; a glance through the hatch showed him dusk outside. He poked his head up.

Allison was standing on the pontoon between their boats. "How you doing?" she asked.

"How you doing is a better question."

"I had a little cry; now I feel better. Come over and have some dinner with me?"

"Sure, I'd like that."

She held up a finger. "One condition: no talking about my problems; I've put them out of my mind until tomorrow."

"Agreed. Give me time for a shower? I've been asleep, and I'm a little groggy."

"I hate a groggy date," she replied. "See you in half an hour."

Stone hunted down his razor, then squeezed himself into the tiny head and turned on the cold-water shower. In St.Marks, it wasn't all that cold.

He rapped on the deck of the big blue yacht and stepped aboard.

"Come on down," she called out from below.

Stone walked down the companionway ladder, which, on a yacht this size, was more a stairway. Allison was at work in the galley, and the saloon table had been set for two, side by side. Whatever she was wearing was mostly concealed by a large apron.

"Can you make a decent martini?" she asked.

"I believe I can handle that."

"The bar's over there." She pointed. "Just open those cabinet doors."

Stone followed her instructions and found a hand some bar setup, nicely concealed. He found a cocktail shaker, two glasses, and ice cubes, then the gin and vermouth. "You sound awfully cheerful," he said as he mixed the drinks. "I don't know how you do it."

"It's a gift," she said. "For my whole life, when faced with something awful, I do as much as I can, then I put it out of my mind. I mean really right out of my mind. Then I find that the next day, things seem clearer."

"That's a great gift," he said.

"You can cultivate it if you work at it."

He handed her a martini. "I'll start right now."

She was sauteing chicken breasts in a skillet on the four-burner gas range, which was large for a yacht.

"When did you find time to get to the grocery store?" he asked.

"I didn't. I provisioned in the Canaries, and I've got lots of cold storage here, plus a large freezer. There won't be a salad, though; sorry about that."

They clinked glasses. "Better times," Stone said.

"I'll drink to that." She took a swig of her martini. "Expert," she said.

"A misspent youth. I tended bar in a Greenwich Village joint one summer, during law school." He leaned against a galley cabinet and sipped his drink. "Tell me about you," he said.

"That's easy," she replied. "Born in a colonial village in Litchfield County, Connecticut, father a country lawyer, mother a volunteer for this and that; went to local private schools, then Mount Holyoke, in Massachusetts; did a graphics course at Pratt, in Brooklyn, worked as an assistant art director for an ad agency in Manhattan, met Paul, married Paul; lived… well, lived. What about you?"