“No. It’s a very remote section of the river.”

“Thank you, Mr. Frost.” The camera shot zoomed in on the reporter. “Police say they don’t believe the woman was from the area, or the country, for that matter. They found a blue Ford Escape, a rental car on a secluded back road not far from where the body was recovered. One detective told us the car was rented six days ago at Miami International Airport. They say a passport, from India, was found in a small purse hidden under the front seat of the car. They haven’t released the name of the murder victim. From Marion County, Liz Phillips, Channel Two News.”

Nick hugged his upper arms, his face heavy, eyes darkened by the shock of the news. He walked behind the bar. “Dave, you mind if I have a shot of your Jameson. I normally don’t drink the whiskey, but this isn’t a normal damn time.”

“Help yourself.” Dave turned toward O’Brien and said, “Remember, too, I told Paul Wilson that the Civil War contract was most likely being examined by my old friend. Ike Kirby. At that point, I might as well have given Ike the death sentence.”

O’Brien shook his head. “But you didn’t know at the time. Regardless, the killer had broken into Laura Jordan’s home. From there, he was immediately on the trail of Ike. And he hasn’t stopped there. He’s, most likely, killed his pawn, Cory Nelson, then killed the Indian IB agent because she was tracking him.”

Dave grunted. “I wonder how the killer got on her radar so quickly.”

“Maybe she found Paul Wilson first.”

“Why would Wilson tell her anything? Maybe he didn’t unless he became aware that the killer, his assumed partner, was throwing him under the bus. Wilson could have used Malina to take out whoever double-crossed him.”

Nick shook his head. “And the shit hit the fan for me not long after I watched her suck an oyster clean outta his shell. Not in my wildest dreams would I have thought I was eatin’ oysters and knockin’ back ouzo with a beautiful spy.” He glanced at the muted TV screen, the news video repeating the images of a white-draped gurney being loaded into a coroner’s van. Nick made the sign of the cross. “What a waste of a beautiful woman. I forgive her.”

Dave looked at his watch. “I’m calling Alistair Hornsby in London.” He placed the call and stepped onto the cockpit to speak. He gave Hornsby a complete assessment and said, “It looks to me like you’ve got one hell of a breach on your hands.”

Hornsby was silent for a few seconds. He exhaled a weary breath into the phone and said, “We never suspected Paul Wilson. But we did have initial suspicions about a man who once trained Wilson.”

“Who was that?”

“You met him, Dave, at Vauxhall in London a few years ago. His working alias at the time was Bradley Edwards. His real name is Johnathon Fairmont. He led counter-intelligence for M16 leading up to the 2012 Olympics in London.”

Dave closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the man’s face. “Why just leading up, why not through the games?”

“Duncan Hannes, that’s why. Hannes replaced him with an old college friend who worked mid-level as an SIS domestic officer. Fairmont took a reassignment to the British consulate in Miami. Sort of a place in the sun where aging intelligence officers go to spend their last years. Initially, Fairmont made his displeasure quite clear. He’s been silent for a few years. Now it all makes sense. Fairmont has to be the brains behind the blackmailing. He’s used Paul Wilson like a steer headed to the slaughterhouse.”

“And Fairmont, no doubt, was the man who killed my dear friend, Ike Kirby. After he shot him in the head, Fairmont used Ike’s phone, making a dummy call to Wilson in an effort to divert suspicion to Wilson. You need to eliminate Fairmont immediately.”

“It’s not that easy. He was one of the very best in his prime. Almost wrote the SIS book on deception and leaving only trails you want the enemy to follow. When Fairmont was in the field, he had more than two-dozen known kills. Probably more. He’s very smart, deadly and absolutely ruthless. The prime minister has less than forty-eight hours before Fairmont releases the Civil War document and the results of what he alleges as an independent gemologist examination of the diamond.” Hornsby blew out a long breath. “Dave, you mentioned that your friend, Sean O’Brien first suspected Paul Wilson, correct?”

“Yes.”

“That was quite astute of him. Where can I find O’Brien?”

“Why, Alistair?”

“Maybe a man of his talents is for hire. Do you think he might be persuaded to help?”

“You can ask him. Here’s standing twenty feet from me.”

“Dave, please…whatever you do…don’t let him leave. I will ring you back in five minutes.” Hornsby disconnected.

Dave stood on the deck of the cockpit, a chop from the rising tide slapping the hull. He now knew who killed his dear friend, Ike Kirby. The assassin was an intelligence agent he’d briefly met years ago. Dave opened and closed his fists, his anger rising like the marina tide. He was hesitant to step back inside Gibraltar, now knowing that Alistair Hornsby was about to ask Sean O’Brien to face one of the most sinister rogue intelligence agents in British history.

Max stared at Dave standing at the open cockpit door. She sat up on Nick’s lap, cocked her head, her face inquisitive. Nick glanced at Max and looked up as Dave walked to his leather chair next to his reading lamp. He lowered his large frame into the chair as if his knees ached.

Nick said, “Dave, you see a ghost out on the deck? You look like I felt when I realized Malina had put an evil spell on my Johnson.”

O’Brien watched Dave and asked, “What’d Hornsby tell you?”

“The name of the man who killed Ike Kirby.”

“What?” Nick asked, sitting up. “How’d he know?”

“He didn’t, at least not originally. It became evident in the last part of our conversation.” Dave looked at O’Brien. “You knew, Sean. You just didn’t know his name. You were right about the killer making the call to Paul Wilson as a set-up ploy. What you didn’t know was the killer’s name. It’s James Fairmont. At one time, he was one of M16’s best field agents. Prime Minister Hannes reassigned Fairmont to the consulate in Miami, hence the displeasure on Fairmont’s part. Paul Wilson was trained by Fairmont and used by Fairmont. Alistair called it ‘leading a steer to the slaughterhouse.’

O’Brien shook his head. “That implies that Fairmont will take out Wilson. Why doesn’t M16 simply hunt them both down?”

“They can and will, but maybe not before the Royal Family blackmail goes down. Perhaps, for Fairmont, the international scandal, the embarrassment of Hannes and the Royals is worth more than the sale of the diamond.”

“What’s Hornsby going to do?”

Dave blew air out of his cheeks. “He’s going to call you?”

“Me? Why?”

“Because they know of your track record. Because you’re right here…deep in the middle of this defecation. You can always turn them down.”

O’Brien glanced out the port side window for a second. “But I can’t turn you down, Dave. I made a promise to you — I said I’d find Ike’s killer. Now, it looks like I’m a lot closer.”

Through his open shirt, Nick touched the bronze cross that hung from his neck. He scratched Max behind the ears and made a silent prayer.

O’Brien reached for his wallet. “Wait a minute…Frank Sheldon.”

“What?” Nick asked.

“It was something that Sheldon said on television.”

Dave folded his arms. “He did a lot of boasting.”

“Something he said just made me think back to the behind-the-scenes video I’d seen in the editing suite the day I watched the slow-motion playback of the musket-firing scene from the set of Black River.” O’Brien pulled a business card out of his wallet. The title read: Shelia Winters — Casting Agency