“How?”

“By stopping James Fairmont. You’re in the thick of things already. Boots on the ground, if you will. On behalf of the Queen of England, and the Royal Family, we are making a special request that you circumvent and stop Fairmont if possible. We can and will have manpower to assist you. However, Dave tells me you work alone. If you accept this assignment, I assure you that you will be well compensated.”

“That’s not my motivation.”

“What then?”

“Justice. Retribution. Your agent breach, Fairmont, killed Dave’s close friend of forty years. Fairmont broke into a widow’s home after he had her husband killed. He, no doubt, stole the diamond and the Civil War document. You mentioned a high-stakes auction. I think he’s been playing a bidding game between Prime Minister Hannes and the Royal Family against an American Billionaire by the name of Frank Sheldon.”

“Has he sold the goods to Sheldon?”

“I don’t know, but I’m about to find out.”

“Does this mean you will accept the assignment?”

“The last assignments I did were in college. You can tell the Queen I’ll do what I can to help. When did you last hear from Paul Wilson?”

“Five hours ago. He said he was getting close. Now we know how close he really was. Prior to his departure, unknown to him, we had a tracking device inserted in the heel of his right shoe. For the last three hours, his location has not changed even a meter.”

“Where is he?”

“Not too far from you and Dave, I suspect. I’ll send you over the GPS coordinates immediately. Maybe he’s with Fairmont, having a long dinner, plotting their spilt of the spoils from the sale of the diamond. However, Wilson doesn’t know that Fairmont has used him to get to the Prime Minister. Now that Wilson’s value is spent, I’m not sure what you will find. Whatever it is, please contact us immediately. Good luck, Mr. O’Brien. You will certainly need it. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“What does Fairmont look like?”

“Like everyone and no one. He’s a master at blending into his surroundings, even becoming his surroundings.”

“Send me the most recent picture of him that you have.”

“You’ll have it. Fairmont, like any really good field agent, can be like a ghost. Someone who almost walks through walls. He might not look exactly the same twice. He speaks six languages fluently. He, like a great actor, becomes who he wants to be. Excellent at disguises. He’s very good at getting people to talk about things they normally keep to themselves. He can look like a priest, when he’s really the killer in the adjacent confessional booth.”

O’Brien drove fast, following the directions of the GPS coordinates. He entered the phone number that Katie Stuart had given him, the number to art director, Mike Houston. When Houston answered, it was an abrupt and stiff, “Yes.”

“Hi, Mike. It’s been a few weeks. I hear you’re about to wrap Black River.”

“Who’s this?”

“I’m the guy you wanted off the set, Sean O’Brien.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“You stole a valuable Civil War painting that belongs to the widow of the man murdered on your film set. It belongs to Laura Jordan. You decided, instead, to sell it to Frank Sheldon. What’d he pay you with, underage boys?”

“Fuck you!”

“Before you hang up, before I alert the police to your theft, I’m willing to make a very simple deal. I want you to call your pal, Frank Sheldon, or whoever is in charge of the guests’ list and add my name.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Mike, you’re so articulate. Listen carefully. I have the waybill number with a charge receipt in your name. I have the delivery confirmation, and I have the behind-the-scenes video of you doing the deal. You never know when the camera’s rolling because it doesn’t blink. If my name’s not on the guest list, yours will be in the newspapers. I’m sure your one hundred million dollar movie could do without the further negative publicity. See you at the party, pal.” O’Brien disconnected.

“Your destination is ahead on the right.” O’Brien shut off the GPS and proceeded slowly. He was in a heavily wooded, remote section of the county. He turned down a dirt road, and drove another quarter mile, his headlights raking across what appeared to be an old barn on the edge of an overgrown field. He continued driving, looking for cars. Nothing.

After driving for thirty seconds more, he made a U-turn and drove back with his headlights out, steering by the moonlight. When he came to within one hundred yards of the barn he pulled his Jeep off the road, parking in the scrub oak, out of direct sight. O’Brien looked at his phone, the last call to Kim Davis. He placed his phone on vibrate mode and shut the Jeep’s dome light off, reached in the glove box for a flashlight, lifting his Glock from the console. O’Brien stepped out into the night. Cicadas droned in the pines. He heard the cry of a screech owl somewhere in the forest.

O’Brien kept in the underbrush, approaching the barn. He stopped. Listening. Trying to hear through the chanting of crickets and cicadas. He stepped around the perimeter of the old barn, the smell of damp hay and horse manure coming from the cracks and spaces between the weatherbeaten boards. He placed one ear to the boards and listened. He could hear something moving, frenzy, as if an animal was gnawing a bone.

He crept around to the front entrance, Glock in his right hand. O’Brien quietly lifted the unlocked hinged latch. He jerked open the door. Flashlight leveled with the barrel of the Glock. He swept the beam through the dark. Rats scattered. An opossum turned and stared, its snout bloodied. The animal jogged, hiding behind bales of hay.

The body was propped in one corner. A large rat scurried from the dead man’s lap. Paul Wilson. Face bluish. Eyes wide open. A single gunshot to the center of the forehead. Blood dried and dark. Rat tracks through the blood.

O’Brien’s heart hammered. He swept the flashlight beam in every corner of the old barn, rusted farm tools were strewn on the hard-packed dirt floor. A tattered scarecrow, straw protruding from holes in its red flannel wool shirt, sat up and cross-legged against one wall. There was a single horse stall, door open and leaning to one side, long since vacant. But the dried ordor of manure still clung in the airless structure mixing with the slight smell of burnt gunpowder, rat feces and human blood.

Where was James Fairmont? How did he lure Wilson into this place? Where would Fairmont go next?

O’Brien’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He lifted it out. The message was from Alistair Hornsby. Here is the latest image we have. Fairmont is six-two. Fifty eight years old. About one seventy-five. Natural hair color blond. Could be any color. Natural eye color green.

O’Brien looked at the face of James Fairmont. Looked into his eyes. Glanced over at the body of Paul Wilson and looked at the vacant, confused eyes. A man deceived. As Hornsby said: ‘a steer lead to the slaughterhouse.’ O’Brien stared hard at Fairmont’s face and remembered what Nick had said: ‘But when he bought a round of drinks, and started asking me stuff like had I been following the news about the diamond and the Civil War paper? When he asked, ‘was Sean helping the widow of the dead guy find the stolen stuff?’…I said yassas in Greek, which means I’m outta here.’

“What’d the guy look like?” Dave asked.

“About Sean’s height. Probably six-two. Blond fella. Green eyes. Maybe mid-fifties. He looked in good shape for his age.”

O’Brien sent a text to Hornsby: Found Wilson. Dead. You can send your cleaners in. No sign of Fairmont. But I think I know where he’ll go next.

A half hour later, O’Brien pulled his Jeep into the entrance of the Highland Park Fish Camp. He drove down a dirt road, the surface covered with gravel and crushed shells, the moon flashing through the branches of moss-covered live oaks. A plump raccoon waddled across the road. O’Brien drove past trailers and cabins, some with outside lights on. Others dark. The occupants gone to bed early, eager to fish on Lake Woodruff as the sun rose over the St. Johns River in the morning.