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at St. Moritz. He was there only until recognized. Then he disappeared minutes ahead of the French security people. Probably returned to safe haven in Syria.”
    Paco popped the tops and handed one of the frosty bottles to Jason. “Shudda known it’d be somebody causin’ shit. You don’ do much other ’n spoil somebody else’s party, go after the guys dealin’ in killin’ folks. Almost like you got somethin’ personal against ordinary international crooks.”
    The statement was more astute than Jason would have expected from Paco. He took the beer and put it to his lips before answering. “I just do my job and collect my pay.”
    It was obvious Paco didn’t accept this observation, buthe didn’t choose to challenge it, either. “Ho-kay. I unnerstan’ we bring this one back alive to question.”
    Jason was on more certain ground. “Like I said, I’d guess our soon-to-be pal Alazar sold some really bad shit to the wrong people. Our customer would like to know what and who. We bring him back alive, turn him over to the spooks. They turn him over to someone who thinks the Geneva Convention is a meeting of watchmakers and chocolate manufacturers. They can make him talk. Some set of bad guys find out their secret isn’t so secret anymore.”
    Paco had already emptied his bottle. He tossed it into the garbage with a wistful look at the refrigerator. “I get it: no more stink like the ’merican press made a few years back about puttin’ panties on some fookers’ heads, havin’ dogs bark at ’em, in that prison in Iraq, Abu Ghraib.”
    Jason shrugged, a signal of indifference. “Suit me fine to punch his ticket right here, but orders are orders. Besides, taking him prisoner we got a real talking point, things don’t go so well aboard that boat.”
    Paco was digging around in the little refrigerator for something to eat. Over his shoulder he asked, “How’d we know th’ fooker was here, anyway?”
    Jason shook his head. “Don’t ask me; I just work here, same as you. I do know the boat flies the Cayman flag.”
    Under the table, where Paco thought it wouldn’t be seen, his hand was rubbing Pangloss’s long snout. Paco’s dislike of the dog was a charade that gave the burly Hispanic something to grouse about. “So does ever’ big yacht in the Caribbean. No tellin’ where it really came from.”
    â€œThis one came from over there.” He pointed to where the hills of St. Martin were clearly visible less than twenty miles away. “At least, that’s where Alazar boarded her.”
    â€œIsland’s half French, half Dutch,” Paco said, as though that explained its role as a point of origin.
    â€œYep,” Jason agreed as he slid out a computer keyboard concealed underneath the table. He typed in a brief message.When he hit enter, the electronics would automatically encode and compress the words into an unintelligible beep of less than a second’s time. A satellite overhead would relay what sounded like mere static to equipment that would decode and print the words. The signal would be untraceable and indecipherable.
    He finished and pushed the keyboard back in, then lifted the tabletop. He stretched and yawned. “May as well nap. We aren’t going to get a lot of sleep tonight.”
    Though neither would admit it to the other, both men knew there was no chance the adrenaline pumping through their systems would permit sleep.
    By midnight the dark water of the harbor reflected lights from the adjacent bars and restaurants like jewels on black velvet. Music from Escalier, a gathering place for the younger visitors to the island, reverberated across the harbor with enough volume to cover the sounds of the small craft that scooted between entertainment establishments like water spiders. It was because of the activity of the island’s