“Be my guest.”

“I’m Paul Wilson.”

“Well, you know who I am. Since Allister is an old friend of mine, let’s walk and talk.”

They headed back toward the Tiki Bar, a brown pelican sitting on a dock post, turning its head to watch them, the bird shifting weight from one webbed foot to the other. Dave said, “I detect no trace of an accent. Where were you educated?”

“In the states, Columbia. Back in the UK, Oxford. Allister sings your praises.”

“He’s a good man. Paul, I know why you are here. But why come to this marina?”

The man took a small bite from the snow-come, his eyes scanning the docked boats. “Because it appears to be the epicenter, if you will, to the situation facing the Prime Minister, and for that matter, the Royal Family.”

“What do you mean by epicenter?”

“The purported diamond was found near here. Our intel indicates the blackmailer is making his calls from the Central Florida area. And your friend, Sean O’Brien, a man with an interesting background, I might add — was seen on video throwing a reporter’s microphone across a car park lot when reporters got too close to the woman whose husband was killed on the movie set.”

“And you think all of that is related?”

“The widow’s husband mentioned the so-called Civil War contract on the video. We saw a close-up image of the diamond he and his crew discovered in the river. At this point, we believe the blackmailer has, or has access, to the diamond and the document. We’d like to recover both as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

“Do you have any indication who may be behind the threats?”

The man tossed his snow-cone into a trashcan, waited a moment while two bikers on custom Harley’s pulled into the Tiki Bar parking lot and turned off their engines. “No, not really. He’s smart. Knows encryption and hacking well. His accent, even though he speaks just above a whisper, is spot-on British. So it’s either a Brit or someone who really knows the nuances of the language.”

Dave leaned up against a dock railing. “How can I help you?”

“You can tell me what Sean O’Brien knows.”

“He’s walking down the dock. You can ask him yourself.”

Max scampered ahead of O’Brien, sniffing the dock posts, pausing to watch four white pelicans sail over the boats in the marina. She trotted to Dave. He leaned down, picking her up. “Miss Max, I saw ol’ Joe, the harbor cat stroll by here a half hour ago. So be on guard. Sean, I want you to meet Paul Wilson. Paul joins us from London and New York. He works for a former UK colleague of mine. Paul’s been assigned to seek out the person or persons responsible for the blackmail threat to Prime Minister Hannes and, ostensibly, the Royal Family.”

They shook hands and Wilson said, “The situation is escalating. The blackmailer has given Prime Minister Hannes a deadline. We believe the perpetrator is operating out of Central Florida. Please share with me anything you can. For example, the man who was killed on the movie set, Jack Jordan…I’d like to ask how you came to know the Jordan’s, or at least the widow?”

“There isn’t a lot to tell. I fell into this by default because I was trying to track down an old Civil War era painting for a client of mine.” O’Brien gave him a brief overview.

Wilson asked, “Did you find the painting?”

“Not yet.”

“If you find the diamond whilst you search for the painting, would you tell us?”

“Probably.”

Wilson said nothing for a moment, the sound of a sailboat halyard clanking against a mast in the breeze over the marina. “So at this moment, the document is still in Laura Jordan’s possession, correct?”

“Maybe not,” Dave said, scratching Max behind her ears. “A dear old friend of mine, a professor of America history at the University of Florida, is meeting with Laura to examine the document. I suspect he’ll probably borrow it for further study at the university’s lab. The Civil War is his specialty. He’s written many books on the subject. His name is Professor Ike Kirby. I’ll give you his contact information. As far as the document’s next destination, I suppose that will be up to Mrs. Jordan. Let’s hope she is benevolent and willing to part with it.”

Wilson smiled. “Indeed. Let us hope. In the meantime, I’d like to chat with the men on Jack Jordan’s documentary crew. Perhaps one of them has an insight.”

O’Brien reached in his wallet and removed a business card. “This is the contact information for Detective Dan Grant. He’s a friend of mine and is one of the lead investigators on the case. He has all the names, players and maybe suspects. He’s investigating a Civil War re-enactor named Silas Jackson. Tell Dan that I referred you to him, and he may be generous and share what he has thus far.”

Wilson took the card. “Thank you. However, since he’s a friend of yours, I can assume that he’s shared some, if not all, of this information with you. Is there anything more that you can tell me?”

“No.”

“All right. I’ll write my mobile number down. Should you or Dave think of something more, please ring me up.” Wilson looked around, spotting an all-weather plastic container mounted to the pier railing in front of a docked and tied-down charter fishing boat. He lifted one of the brochures from the box and wrote his number on the back of it, handing the brochure to Dave.

O’Brien said, “There is something I’d like to ask you.”

“Absolutely. Give it a go.”

“Is the diamond in the Crown Jewels the real one? I assume you’ve looked.”

Wilson said nothing for a moment, his eyes following a sailboat entering the pass. He glanced over to O’Brien. “Of course. The Koh-i-Noor has been in the same spot for one hundred and seventy years. It’s not going anywhere, especially back to India.”

“Then the only issue is the unproven Civil War contract. If the diamond Jack Jordan found in the river is a fake, not the legendary Koh-i-Noor, then the contract is presumably bogus as well. And if that’s the case, there’s nothing real and tangible the blackmailer has to use against the prime minister and the Royal Family.”

“Perhaps, however, it doesn’t work that way. Even a replica diamond, one so close in size and quality of the Koh-i-Noor, couldn’t have been proven, considering the Confederate resources during the time of the Civil War. So the unflattering contract may still have been written on that pretense. It’s my job to find it. The stone, even though it’s a replica, would simply be an added bonus.”

Dave set Max down and asked, “What’s your intel pointing toward?”

“The perpetrator may be a British agent who breached, and we haven’t discovered it yet. Or he could be an American who somehow managed to secure the prime minister’s private line and hack his phone too. Regardless, he’s fearless, devious and very dangerous. All of this is creating storm clouds over the UK and India, potentially causing a major rift and fallout between the two nations. The additional salt in a newly opened wound is that Civil War document. If it’s certified real, it means England provided financial support to the Confederate States of America during what was always believed to have been a uniquely American Civil War with no backing or funding from other nations.”

Dave said, “And all of this is happening while Prime Minister Hannes conducts a fierce campaign for reelection.”

“Indeed. Hence the added haste to make it all go away. Sean, you mentioned one name, the name of Silas Jackson. Contingent on what Detective Grant shares with me, perhaps this gent, Jackson, would be a good fellow to have a dialogue with as well.”

O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. A sunburned fisherman, barefoot and in a baggy, wet swimsuit, scurried by carrying two large red snappers in either hand. He walked to a fish-cleaning station. O’Brien said, “You might want to speak with investigators before tracking down Jackson or any of the men in his group.”