“I have a cyber-team coming to your office. They’ll begin tracking immediately.”

“You said you might have isolated it. What do you mean?

“We believe the point of origin is in the states. Possibly Florida.”

“That makes sense because that’s where they found it. This person is threatening to send the information to the news media. That cannot happen.”

“I understand Prime Minister Hannes. We’re working around the clock on it.”

“This threat is unprecedented. If what this blackmailer says is accurate, it could very well open a Pandora’s Box between Britain and India. He or she — whoever sent this demand — this utter blackmail, they alleged to have tangible evidence that could make the Royal Family complicit in the tragedy and horror of something that remains controversial to this very day. The Queen and her family will not be held hostage to their ancestors on my watch.”

“We’ll begin chasing up the latest correspondence immediately.”

“Correspondence? Justin, correspondence is a letter, perhaps a telephone call, even a damn text message. This is a strong-arm blackmail of the worst kind. It involves three nations and has the potential to drag the Royal Family into the dark terrors of something better left buried.”

“Sir, could you read the email to me?”

“Most of it reiterates what was previously stated. The new addendum threatens to release everything to the news media unless ten million pounds is wired into a Cayman Islands account, attached to a letter of impunity from pursuit and prosecution and signed by a member of the Royal Family. Justin…”

“Yes sir?”

“I’m looking out the window across the River Thames to the Tower of London in the distance. And, at this moment in time, I’m not certain whether one of the most famous of the Crown Jewels is authentic.”

Sean O’Brien turned to Max and said, “Let’s pull your head back inside the Jeep. We’ll park, unload groceries, and go to work. At least I’ll go to work. You might find old Joe the cat to play a hard-fought game of hide n’ seek. On second thought, maybe not.” O’Brien’s ten-pound dachshund, Max, balanced herself, hind legs on the passenger seat, head out the open widow, hound dog ears flapping in the wind. Her nose tested the air as O’Brien drove across the parking lot adjacent to the Tiki Bar at the Ponce Marina, oyster shells cracking under the tires.

He got out of the Jeep and stretched his 210-pound, six-two frame. Max scampered across his seat, diving from the floorboard to the parking lot like a paratrooper on a mission. She could smell the scent of blackened redfish, garlic shrimp, and hushpuppies, all coming from the Tiki Bar. O’Brien laughed. “Whoa, if Kim’s on duty, you’ll be fed.” He unloaded a bag of groceries, two cans of boat wax, and followed Max and her nose into an open-air dining experience that blended the smells of sunblock with deep-fried mullet.

The Tiki Bar was a restaurant on stilts, a place that appealed to bikers, babes, fishermen and vacationing families. Beyond the food and drinks, it evoked a 1950’s picture postcard atmosphere addressed from a Florida of simpler times. Fifty percent of the customers came from the marina neighborhood of live-a-boards and transients, mariners with seafaring gypsy blood in restless genes. Many were men who worked the shrimp boats for a paycheck and the distance the sea could place between them and their troubles anchored to land-bound conflicts. The Tiki Bar’s hardwood floors were stained into a piebald splatter of spilled beer, grease, and more than a few drops of blood. Bar art.

This Saturday morning, all the isinglass windows were rolled up, the sea breeze delivering the smell of grilled fish across the marina. One person sat at the rustic bar. A dozen sunburnt tourists and charter boat deckhands were seated at the tables made from large wooden spools that, in a former life, were used to wrap telephone cables around them. The big spools were shellacked and turned on their sides. Three chairs to each spool. The hole in the center — a great place for tossing peanut shells.

Kim Davis beamed when O’Brien and Max approached. Kim’s chestnut hair was pinned up. Her caramel-colored eyes were bright, like morning sunlight shining through amber stained glass. She stood behind the bar, rinsing a beer mug and timing a slow-pour of a draft Guinness.

“Sean, you ever notice Miss Max is always leading you? She’s the only female that can get away with it.” Kim smiled, dimples appearing on her tanned face. She handed the Guinness to a charter boat captain who sipped it before returning to his table. “Hold on, Max” she said, picking up a small, chilled shrimp and walking around the end of the bar. She knelt down, Max almost jumped in her lap. “Hi, baby. Here’s one of your favorites.” Max took the treat, tail wagging, and sat to eat.

O’Brien said, “She’ll be back for cocktail sauce.”

Kim smiled, standing, pressing her open palms against the blue jeans that accentuated her hips. “I heard you were coming to the marina today. Nick said you called. Are you getting a little lonely out there on the river?”

“Sometimes,” O’Brien smiled. “My old cabin is a lot like owning an old boat. It’s always in need of a coat of paint or wax.” He held up a tin of boat wax.

“I’m off at four, if you’re still at it, I’ll ice down a few Corona’s for you.”

“Sounds good, but you’d first have to sneak them by Nick’s boat.” O’Brien could feel someone staring at him. He glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with an older man sitting by himself at the very end of the bar. The man wore his white hair neatly parted on the left, ruddy thin face, polo shirt, and khaki pants.

Kim said, “He’s been waiting for you.”

“Who is he, and how did he know I was coming here today?”

“I didn’t get his name. He’s been sipping black coffee for two hours, and guarding that folder in front of him like a hawk. He asked at the marina office whether or not you lived aboard. Nick was in the office paying his rent and overheard the man. Nick told him he knew you and that you had plans to work on your boat today. So the gent’s been waiting your arrival.”

“I wonder what he wants.”

“Maybe you should find out. On second thought…oh, what the hell, Sean. He’s just a harmless, elderly gentleman, right? But what if something in that folder isn’t so harmless? I’ll keep an eye on Max for you.”

Jack Jordan felt as if he’d prepared for this exact moment most of his life. After all of the research, after all of the long weekends of heat and rain — and mosquitoes, after the hundreds of battlefield reenactments, this felt about as real as it gets. He proudly wore a Confederate uniform, authentic from the gray slouch hat down to the black cavalry boots. A week’s worth of burgundy whiskers sprouted from his tanned, lanky face. He felt his pulse quicken, waiting for the director to start the scene.

Jack glanced down at the replica of the Smithfield rifle he held in his hands. He looked up across the landscape of pine trees and scrub oak and took a deep breath. A mockingbird called out from a dead, leafless cypress tree. Jack could smell the wood smoke beyond the pines, hear the snort of the horses behind him, and almost see the Union soldiers slipping through the forest.

A young private looked up at Jack and whispered, “You ready, Sergeant?” the private’s cheekbones smeared with charcoal dust, his Confederate cap pulled down to his blond eyebrows.

“I’ve been ready for this all my life. Feels damn good. Let’s defend the South.”

“Quiet on the set!” came the command through a loud speaker. “And roll cameras.”

“Speeding,” came a voice through a walkie-talkie held by an assistant director standing below a motion picture camera, one of five, mounted on a crane.