"I've got it, but I don't buy it. You don't even sound like yourself."

"You can't tell her that, Doctor. If you're my friend, you can't tell her anything like that."

"Stop it, David. This Jekyll-and-Hyde crap doesn't wash anymore."

"Don't tell her that, not if you're my friend."

"You're spiraling, David. Don't let it happen. Come to me, talk to me."

"No time, Mo. The fat cat's limousine is parking in front of his house. I've got to go to work."

"Jason!"

The line went dead.

Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine walked down the jet's metal steps into the hot Caribbean sun of Montserrat's Blackburne Airport. It was shortly past three o'clock in the afternoon, and were it not for the many thousands of dollars on his person he might have felt lost. It was remarkable how a supply of hundred-dollar bills in various pockets made one feel so secure. In truth, he had to keep reminding himself that his loose change-fifties, twenties and tens-were in his right front trousers pocket so as not to make a mistake and either appear ostentatious or be a mark for some unprincipled hustler. Above all, it was vital for him to keep a low profile to the point of insignificance. He had to insignificantly ask significant questions around the airport regarding a woman and two small children who had arrived on a private aircraft the previous afternoon.

Which was why to his astonishment and alarm he heard the absolutely adorable black female immigration clerk say to him after hanging up a telephone, "Would you be so kind, sir, as to come with me, please?"

Her lovely face, lilting voice and perfect smile did nothing to allay the former judge's fears. Far too many extremely guilty criminals had such assets. "Is there something wrong with my passport, young lady?"

"Not that I can see, sir."

"Then why the delay? Why not simply stamp it and allow me to proceed?"

"Oh, it is stamped and entry is permitted, sir. There is no problem."

"Then why...?"

"Please come with me, sir."

They approached a large glass-enclosed cubicle with a sign on the left window, the gold letters announcing the occupant: DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF IMMIGRATION SERVICES. The attractive clerk opened the door and, again smiling, gestured for the elderly visitor to go inside. Prefontaine did so, suddenly terrified that he would be searched, the money found, and all manner of charges leveled against him. He did not know which islands were involved in narcotics, but if this was one of them the thousands of dollars in his pockets would be instantly suspect. Explanations raced through his mind as the clerk crossed to the desk handing his passport to the short, heavyset deputy of immigration. The woman gave Brendan a last bright smile and went out the door, closing it behind her.

"Mr. Brendan Patrick Pierre Prefontaine," intoned the immigration official reading the passport.

"Not that it matters," said Brendan kindly but with summoned authority. "However, the 'Mister' is usually replaced with 'Judge'-as I say, I don't believe it's relevant under the circumstances, or perhaps it is, I really don't know. Did one of my law clerks make an error? If so, I'll fly the whole group down to apologize."

"Oh, not at all, sir-Judge," replied the uniformed wide-girthed black man with a distinct British accent as he rose from the chair and extended his hand over the desk. "Actually, it is I who may have made the error."

"Come now, Colonel, we all do occasionally." Brendan gripped the official's hand. "Then perhaps I may be on my way? There's someone here I must meet."

"That's what he said!"

Brendan released the hand. "I beg your pardon?"

"I may have to beg yours. ... The confidentiality, of course."

"The what? Could we get to the point, please?"

"I realize that privacy," continued the official, pronouncing the word as privvissy, "is of utmost importance-that's been explained to us-but whenever we can be of assistance, we try to oblige the Crown."

"Extremely commendable, Brigadier, but I'm afraid I don't understand."

The official needlessly lowered his voice. "A great man arrived here this morning, are you aware of that?"

"I'm sure many men of stature come to your beautiful island. It was highly recommended to me, in fact."

"Ah, yes, the privvissy!"

"Yes, of course, the privvissy," agreed the ex-convict judge, wondering if the official had both his oars in the water. "Could you be clearer?"

"Well, he said he was to meet someone, an associate he had to consult with, but after the very private reception line-no press, of course-he was taken directly to the charter that flew him to the out island, and obviously never met the person he was to confidentially meet. Now, am I clearer?"

"Like Boston harbor in a squall, General."

"Very good. I understand. Privvissy. ... So all our personnel are alerted to the fact that the great man's friend might be seeking him here at the airport-confidentially, of course."

"Of course." Not even a paddle, thought Brendan.

"Then I considered another possibility," said the official in minor triumph. "Suppose the great man's friend was also flying to our island for a rendezvous with the great man?"

"Brilliant."

"Not without logic. Then it struck me to obtain the passenger manifests of all the incoming flights, concentrating, of course, on those in first class, which would be proper for the great man's associate."

"Clairvoyance," mumbled the once and former judge. "And you selected me?"

"The name, my good man! Pierre Prefontaine!"

"My pious, departed mother would no doubt take offense at your omitting the 'Brendan Patrick.' Like the French, the Irish are quite sensitive in such matters."

"But it was the family. I understood that immediately!"

"You did?"

"Pierre Prefontaine! ... Jean Pierre Fontaine. I am an expert on immigration procedures, having studied the methods in many countries. Your own name is a fascinating example, most honored Judge. Wave after wave of immigrants flocked to the United States, the melting pot of nations, races and languages. In the process names were altered, combined or simply misunderstood by armies of confused, overworked clerks. But roots frequently survived and thus it was for you. The family Fontaine became Prefontaine in America and the great man's associate was in reality an esteemed member of the American branch!"

"Positively awesome," muttered Brendan, eyeing the official as if he expected several male nurses to barge into the room with restraining equipment. "But isn't it possible that this is merely coincidence? Fontaine is a common name throughout France, but, as I understand it, the Prefontaines were distinctly centered around Alsace-Lorraine."

"Yes, of course," said the deputy, again, lowering his voice rather than conceivably winking. "Yet without any prior word whatsoever, the Quai d'Orsay in Paris calls, then the UK's Foreign Office follows with instructions-a great man is soon to drop out of the sky. Acknowledge him, honor him, spirit him off to a remote resort known for its confidentiality-for that, too, is paramount. The great one is to have total privvissy. ... Yet that same great warrior is anxious; he is to confidentially meet with an associate he does not find. Perhaps the great man has secrets-all great men do, you know."

Suddenly, the thousands of dollars in Prefontaine's pockets felt very heavy. Washington's Four Zero clearance in Boston, the Quai d'Orsay in Paris, the Foreign Office in London-Randolph Gates needlessly parting with an extraordinary amount of money out of sheer panic. There was a pattern of strange convergence, the strangest being the inclusion of a frightened, unscrupulous attorney named Gates. Was he an inclusion or an aberration? What did it all mean? "You are an extraordinary man," said Brendan quickly, covering his thoughts with rapid words. "Your perceptions are nothing short of brilliant, but you do understand that confidentiality is paramount."