Laura nodded. “I’ll call them right after we’re done.”

O’Brien looked over Laura’s shoulder, out the front door window just as a satellite news truck rolled into the parking lot.

Dave Collins sat in a deck chair on the cockpit of Gibraltar, working a crossword puzzle when he received the call. His screen flashed ID UNKNOWN. He thought about ignoring the call, but with the unexpected chain of recent events, his instinct told him to answer. He did and the voice, a British accent, said, “Dave, Alistair Hornsby here. How’s retirement in Florida treating you?”

“My golf game’s become worse, but I get senior rates at the course, and I can play anytime.”

“That’s the problem with old analysts like us. Presented with too much time on our hands, we overanalyze everything, even hobbies. But I suppose golf is a head game.”

“When are you hanging up the magnifying glass?”

“Soon, but remember ol’ boy, I’m a bit younger than you.” He paused a few seconds. “Dave, the reason I am ringing you is because we have a twenty-five year history. We worked a good number of situations together. I like to believe the world is a little better off because of it.”

“Maybe. Now that I have time to explore it, in hindsight, I sometimes wonder if we made the right choices for the right reasons, and for the right people. I had no illusions then, today I have reservations.”

“We live in a complicated world. Yes, very often it’s much to gray, diluting the easier choices made in a black and white condition. But someone has to do what we do…or it could be worse. I think that’s what has kept me in the wheelhouse this long.”

“What’s up, Alistair? If you’re planning a visit to Florida, let’s do some serious fishing followed by consuming responsible amounts of gin martinis.”

“Give me eighteen months. Prime Minister Hannes has a unique situation on his hands, blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“Royal blackmail to be precise.”

“What happened — did one of the queen’s grandsons get caught with his pants down, someone shoot a few below-the-belt selfies and is threatening to post them on the Internet?”

“I wish that were the matter. We could easier deal with that. Fact is, the blackmailer may be there in Florida, perhaps very close to you, at least as a geographical reference.”

“What do you mean?”

“His encrypted messages to the prime minster, although routed from many global servers, indicate his presence somewhere in Florida, and the hotspot is there.”

“Hotspot? Cutting to the chase, I’m sure your call is related to the alleged discovery of a diamond that was found by a documentary producer. He called it the Koh-i-Noor, which is supposed to be in the crown jewels.”

“That’s exactly some of it. The other half, if I may borrow your term alleged — the alleged unearthing of a Civil War contract that may connect the UK to that bloody American war, ostensibly Queen Victoria and the Royal Family. These are some dark and potentially damaging skeletons in the closet. In order to prevent the rewriting of history books, to keep India at arm’s length, the damn contract, if it exists, and the diamond, must not tangibly validate one another.”

“I see your dilemma. Why call me? I’m out of the game.”

“Because of our history together combined with the rumor that you are doing some consulting work from time to time.”

“That was when a friend of mine found a World War II U-boat sunk off the Florida coast with weapons-grade uranium for cargo. He became part of the salvage op when a Russian arms dealer and a Jihadist terrorist group were en route to the dive site.”

“We followed it closely, of course. I assume the friend you are referring to is Sean O’Brien.”

“You’ve done your research.”

“He wasn’t invisible in the heat of taking the hostiles down. Maybe he works free-lance.”

Dave said nothing for a moment, a sea gull squawking from the top of a sailboat mast. “Alistair, why don’t you ask him?”

He chuckled and said, “Perhaps, I shall. In the meantime, whoever is sending in the blackmail threats is extremely sophisticated, or his coconspirator is, at encryption. And he seems to know British protocol well. We have an agent there in Florida, sifting through the murky details.”

“Do I know him or her?”

“Him…and I don’t think so. He was a field op in the Middle East, great at cracking codes. He predicted the rise of Isis half dozen years ago. He’s one of our best. He might drop by your marina to introduce himself to you. Because this suspected diamond was discovered not far from your area, if you hear anything, please let me know…for old times’ sake. Dave, don’t overanalyze golf. It’s just a sport, and the only one you play facing a motionless ball. Unless, of course, billiards is your game, and that’s where you’re always looking for the angles. Cheers.”

O’Brien led Laura and Paula further into the restaurant. He said, “Let’s get another table in a quieter section. Maybe a little more private.” He spotted a table in a corner. “This will work well.” He pulled the chairs out for little Paula and Laura and then sat facing the door across the restaurant. Paula continued coloring. O’Brien looked at Laura and asked, “What happened during the news conference?”

“They asked why I uploaded the video. I told them, told them I knew Jack’s death wasn’t an accident. Then most of the questions had to do with the diamond — had I seen or held it before Jack’s death? Did I think it was authentic? What had Jack and I planned to do with it? Where did I think it was? They asked about the contract between England and the CSA, specifically where the original copy was located, and if they could see it.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said both the contract and the diamond had looked real to me. I stressed that Jack wanted to have it shipped to England per the terms of the Civil War contract…but he was killed before he could do that. And I said I believed the diamond is with the person who killed him.”

“Did they ask to see the letter?”

“No. They did want to take video and pictures of the contract. I told them it was very old, fragile, and that wouldn’t be a good idea. In the meantime, it was secure and out of the elements in a safe deposit box.”

“But it’s really in a safe in your home.”

“Yes, but they don’t need to know that. Maybe no one will come for it if they think it’s in a bank vault.”

“That’s where it should go until this thing is solved. It might be a good idea to have an expert in handwriting analysis take a look at the contract. Better yet, my friend Dave Collins introduced me to an old friend of his who is recognized as one of the foremost authorities on Civil War history. He’s written books about the Civil War. He has a Ph.D. on the subject, and he teaches it at a university. His name’s Professor Ike Kirby. I had dinner with him. He knows his stuff. He should examine the contract.”

“That sounds good.”

“If it’s authenticated, that’s even more proof that the diamond could have been sent here directly from Windsor Castle or the Tower of London. And it would further suggest whoever killed Jack was well aware of that.”

An hour later, O’Brien paid the check for the lunch and walked with Laura and Paula out the restaurant door into the white wash of sun in the parking lot. A half dozen reporters were there to greet them. With TV cameras rolling, microphones extended, the herd closed around them. One tabloid TV reporter, a round, perspiring man, with pink skin and jowls that flapped when he spoke, said, “The British prime minister is saying the supposed contract, and the diamond, are both some kind of hoax. He’s suggesting that your allegations are an attempt to star in a reality TV show. How do you respond to that?”