“Spike,” he said, “-or do you prefer Spencer?”

“Spike will do.”

“Well, Spike, as you might expect, we popped over here to ask you a couple questions.”

Cooper jerked his head toward Laramie. Laramie noticed that Cooper did not take his eyes off of Gibson as he did it. “To begin with, my friend here-‘EastWest7’-asked me to inquire as to the business purpose, or theme if you will, of the convention held here by the aforementioned dictators.”

Gibson gulped most of the remainder of his shake. Hiram watched. “We don’t divulge the identity, itinerary, or agenda, if any,” Gibson said, “of our guests.”

“I didn’t think you would answer that one. It was somewhat broad in nature. My question, however, is a little more specific.”

Gibson inclined his head.

“You ever get any boats around here, running forty-five, maybe fifty feet? I’m thinking specifically of an old Chris-Craft, kind of a shitty, rusting gray. Pretty sure it operates out of Jamaica. In fact, the boat I’m thinking of stopped a few miles west of here, and drifted for maybe two hours before turning around and heading back to Bob Marley’s homeland.”

Spike Gibson turned his head to the side and shook it a little. “This is the West Indies, friend, so we see quite a few boats come through here,” he said. “But some like that? Hell, I couldn’t tell you.”

“See, that particular boat was loaded up on the Jamaica side with a half-dead Kingston rummy, who, it seems, had been abducted and sold as a kind of modern-day slave, at least the way I’m figuring it. It’s funny-I find this to be an interesting coincidence.”

“Oh?”

“See, it just so happens that another guy, actually a resurrected, well, zombie, recently turned up dead for the second time-I know this sounds complicated, but I think I have it right-on a beach in Road Town. This would have been one day after a hurricane passed southeast to northwest across your resort and was downgraded to a tropical storm as it made its way up to the British Virgins. Road Town, of course, being part of the BVIs.”

“Of course.”

“The Road Town zombie appears to have died from an intriguing combination of causes: burn wounds caused by direct contact with non-weapons-grade uranium, and gunshots to the back. Put another way,” Cooper said, “what do an illegal nuclear power plant, zombie slave laborers, and a dozen disappearing communist dictators have in common? Besides you, me, EastWest7, and Hiram here with the assault pistol in his backpack, that is.”

A high-pitched girl’s voice peeped from the vicinity of the pool. To Cooper it sounded as though the voice had said, “Spike?”

Gibson excused himself and walked toward the pool. Between bar stools and cabanas, Cooper and Laramie caught glimpses of Gibson and what looked to Cooper like a sixteen-year-old girl talking, gesturing, and finally touching, as the girl handed Gibson a vial of tanning lotion and Gibson proceeded to take a full fifteen minutes to lube her sunburned body from head to toe. The girl was topless and didn’t shift her position-face-up-on the poolside recliner for the duration of Gibson’s massage, including the grip she had on what appeared to be a mai tai. When Gibson completed the massage, he slapped the girl on the side of the ass and came back over to his stool at the bar.

“I don’t really have an answer to your question,” he said.

Cooper nodded; Laramie said and did nothing. The resort’s maid floated past, dropping a short stack of bright white towels on a table near the bar. Cooper and Laramie noticed separately that for a member of the housekeeping staff, the woman leaving the towels on the chair was exceedingly muscular. Her appearance, from the black coffee skin to the sinewy neck, was strikingly similar to Hiram’s, though she was considerably shorter. Once she had deposited the towels, the maid moved off to busy herself with some other task on the opposite side of the pool.

Cooper said, “Mind if we have a look around?”

“Yes,” Gibson said, “we mind.”

“Private property,” Cooper said.

“Private property.”

Cooper stood. Laramie stood. Gibson stood. “Thank you for the drink,” Cooper said. “Are you still a signatory for Global Exports?”

Gibson smiled, said, “Nice having you,” and motioned toward the beach. Cooper and Laramie followed his cue, Cooper keeping his head turned at an angle that kept Gibson and Hiram in full view for the full stroll.

When they reached the boat, Hiram helped untie the line. He waded out to the boat, helped Laramie aboard, and stood, prepared to push the boat back from the shallows as Cooper faced Gibson.

“Spence,” he said, “at some point you and I will have a conversation about the boys who stopped by for a drink at the Conch Bay Beach Club.”

Cooper flung a leg into his skiff, and when Gibson didn’t say anything to him, Cooper said, “Live slow, mon,” and pushed the boat out into the lagoon without Hiram’s help. He got the outboard humming and sped across the lagoon, churning up enough sand and coral chunks to form a wedge of dirty water, the skiff painting a nasty stripe of brown across the otherwise pristine bay.

Admiral Li found Spike Gibson in his private gym, where Gibson was on his fourth repetition on a bench press of 360 pounds. The rippling musculature of Gibson’s upper chest was striated with a spiderweb pattern of blue veins, a beastly, unnatural feature that looked somehow appropriate beneath Gibson’s acne-scarred, grease-spattered face.

Gibson had been made aware of Li’s approach by a series of indicator lights on a wall-mounted console that would pass for a thermostat to the untrained eye.

“Admiral,” he said in Mandarin during the exhale phase of his twelfth rep.

“Who were those people?”

“Random visitors.” Gibson exhaled with a hiss and pushed up number thirteen.

“You seemed to know each other.”

“Did we?” Fourteen.

“What did they want? Why did you have them up for a drink?”

“It’s resort policy to be cordial and unassuming,” Gibson said. He concluded the set with no discernible effort and sat upright solely with the use of his abdominal muscles. He massaged his hands, then separated his arms and reached backward, stretching his chest.

“They knew something,” Li said. “I watched, and understood some of their words.”

Gibson enjoyed watching Li’s transformation, slight though it was-no man, he believed, could resist it. Island life influenced you like a gravitational pull, and however imperceptibly, Li’s hard-nosed attitude was under the influence. The rear admiral of the People’s Liberation Navy, standing there with his assigned tropical-print-shirt-and-khaki-shorts disguise, unwittingly allowing it to affect his manner. Gibson remembered a beer commercial he’d seen, two people sipping a cold one on a tranquil beach, a caption beneath them saying “Change your whole latitude.” He liked that commercial; that was what had happened to him, and that was what he was seeing develop in Li. Not that the admiral had taken to doing laps in the pool, or baking on the beach, but it was still there, more in the angle of the man’s shoulders than anything else. Stay long enough, Gibson thought, and it mellowed you out-that was what the islands did.

They changed your whole latitude.

“Those visitors,” Gibson said, “will be taken care of. This is nothing you or General Deng need concern yourselves with.”

Li stared at the grotesque, inhuman figure before him.

“It is Premier Deng now,” he said.

Actually Gibson had lied again: he had no intention of risking exposure by sending another assault team to deal with Albert Einstein. Gibson’s time on Mango Cay had just about concluded, and he’d decided he no longer gave two shits whether Einstein and his girlfriend ratted out Deng. As long as they didn’t do it in the next twenty-four hours, it just didn’t matter. He didn’t think they would anyway. In fact, it didn’t seem to him that Einstein and friend knew anything besides what they’d seen in the photographs. The speculation the man had tried to bait him with on the topic of his disposable labor pool meant nothing, since as long as Einstein and his bicoastal babe were here alone, it was only that: speculation.