“So you’re saying whoever damn near sliced Nelson’s head off was after the diamond.”

“Most likely.”

“Maybe it’s Silas Jackson.”

“Possibly, but not likely.”

“Why?”

“Did a guy by the name of Paul Wilson contact you?”

“No, who is he and why would he contact me?”

“He works for the British government, and I told him you’re running the investigation into the murders.”

“Okay, O’Brien, I’m assuming he’s a field agent. Those guys play by no rules of engagement and jurisdiction. I doubt I’ll hear from him unless there’s something he needs and can’t find for himself. So the Brits want to get involved in this scavenger hunt. This must become real sticky across the pond.”

“A priceless diamond and a blood-stained Civil War contract with their name on it has a way of making things sticky.”

“Yes, so does four known deaths connected with what I’m calling the utter definition of a blood diamond — Professor Kirby, Don Roberts the hotel clerk, Jack Jordan, and now Cory Nelson. The slow-motion video damn sure indicates Nelson was the triggerman in Jordan’s murder…so who the hell slipped a wire around Nelson’s neck?”

O’Brien was silent.

“Gotta go, Sean. Looks like a fisherman found something near the river.”

O’Brien disconnected and turned toward Dave Collins. He was hunched over his laptop, punching the keyboard, white light bouncing off his bifocals. O’Brien said, “Detective Dan Grant said they just found the body of Cory Nelson, almost beheaded. The killer used a garrote.”

Dave said nothing for a moment. He looked up from his laptop. “If Nelson was complicit in the killing of Jack Jordan, and it looks like he was…maybe someone’s pawn…who’s the real mastermind behind the thefts, the killings, and presumably the blackmail of the Royal Family?”

“Did you locate that number Laura gave me?”

“Indeed.” He looked up over the top of his bifocals. “It’s a number connected to the British Consulate in Miami. Interesting. Did Jack Jordan dial it, or did he receive the call?”

“According to Laura, the call was made to his phone.”

“So who inside the British Consulate in Miami would be speaking with Jordan after the discovery of the diamond?”

“Someone who has access to Prime Minister Duncan Hannes.”

Dave eased back on the couch. He stared out the open doors to the cockpit, a forty-foot sports fishing boat was heading out of the marina into Ponce Inlet and the ocean. He said, “Looks like the proverbial excretion is about to hit the international fan. I’ll try Paul Wilson’s phone. He wrote his mobile number on the back of a charter captain’s brochure that Wilson picked up on the docks.” Dave pointed to a fishing brochure on the far end of the coffee table. “Sean, can you pass that to me? If I can’t reach Wilson, I’ll call Alistair Hornsby, my old colleague in London.” Dave glanced at his watch. “It’s about midnight London time.”

O’Brien picked up the card brochure, turned it over and looked at the hand-written number on the reverse side. He stared at it, concentrating.

Dave asked, “Something unusual?”

“Very. This is the number that was on Ike Kirby’s cell phone the night I found him.”

“What?”

“It was the last number Ike dialed before he died.”

O’Brien caught movement on the port side of the boat. Max turned her head, ears cocked. Within seconds, tanned legs and worn flip-flops marched by the open windows on Gibraltar. Nick Cronus jumped straight from the dock onto the cockpit. He wore an unbuttoned tropical print shirt and faded orange swim trunks. “I swear to God—”

Dave held his palm up for a second. “Hold on, Nick. We have a situation.” He turned back to O’Brien and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me that Ike knew agent Paul Wilson. Why…what’s the connection? Was Ike somehow involved in this — the blackmailing of the prime minister and the Royal Family?”

O’Brien stood next to the salon’s open door, the breeze blowing his shirttail. “I don’t think Ike was involved. But I do think we have one very smart blackmailer and killer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe it was the killer who made the last call from Ike’s phone?”

“The killer…why?”

“Because he wants to double-cross the man he’s working with — the guy with the expertise, the means and the encryption savvy to open the gates to the prime minster and the Royal Family. And that guy is agent Paul Wilson.”

“Really? How so?”

“Because, whoever killed Ike and hit the send button to Wilson’s number, wanted to lay a trail to Wilson — to suggest that Wilson and Ike had a liaison. Is that Frank Sheldon or someone working for him…or someone from the British Consulate in Miami? And, remember, when I first met Wilson here at the marina — I asked him if the Koh-i-Noor in the Crown Jewels was the real diamond. He hesitated, thought a second too long about his answer. When he said it was real and had been there 170 years, I suggested that this key information could take the wind out of the blackmailer’s threats because it would mean the Civil War contract might be a fake, too. But he shrugged it off, saying even a replica diamond could have been used as collateral with the contract.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that he knows the diamond pulled out of the river is real because they’ve tested the one in the crown. And whomever made the fake call to Wilson’s phone is brilliant and very deadly.”

Dave inhaled a chest full of air, slowly releasing it. “I’ll call Alistair and let him know he has one hell of a mess on his hands.”

“We’re dealing with a very cunning and diabolical assassin. And, right now, he probably has Paul Wilson in his crosshairs.”

Nick folded his thick arms across his chest and said, “Sean, Dave…listen, you got more than one situation, there’s another one down by the river. Switch it to Channel Two News. They’ve been running live news bulletins on a body found in the river. I never wanted for anything bad to happen to Sarvarna or Malina — or whatever her name was.”

“Was?” Dave asked, changing channels.

Nick nodded. “Hell yes, was. It has to be her.”

Dave switched channels. The video showed police and emergency personnel in a remote and heavily wooded section of the St. Johns River. Blue and red lights flashing, two sheriff marine boats on the river, a news helicopter hovering in the hard blue sky. The caption in the lower portion of the screen read: Eyewitness News LIVE feed. The camera panned to the right where EMT’s lifted a gurney covered in a white sheet. They rolled the body into the back of a dark blue van.

The reporter’s voice-over said, “Police are calling this a brutal homicide. To recap: they were alerted to the location of a woman found dead in the river, the body wedged up against exposed cypress tree roots. The cause of death is under investigation. However, the fisherman, Harold Frost, who first spotted the body, is here on the scene with me.” The shot pulled out wide, revealing a sixtyish man wearing overalls, Detroit Tigers cap, and white T-shirt and orange rubber boots. His weathered face was dotted with gray whiskers, eyes nervous. The reporter asked, “Mr. Frost, please tell us what you saw.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I was fishin’ for bass in the shoals when I saw what I thought was some kind of trash caught in the cypress knees. I motored my John-boat in closer and could see it was the body of a woman. I could tell she was dead. Poor thing.” He exhaled and licked his cracked lips. “She seemed to be in her thirties. Dark brown hair. Wearing a business suit of some sort. I could see that…” He paused and shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at the river. “It looked to me like some sorry S-O-B had tried to decapitate her.”

“Did you see anything else? Maybe signs of someone in the area?”