And how hundreds, perhaps thousands of millions of pounds' worth of bearer bonds vanished without trace into the well-tailored pockets of their anonymous bearers?
And how tens of tons of top-grade refined cocaine at airstrip prices went conveniently missing somewhere between the west coast of Colombia and the Free Zone of Colón, to resurface in sensibly controlled quantities, never too much at a time, on the joyless streets of Middle Europe?
And Joe Strelski and Pat Flynn and Amato and their team? All their miles in the saddle? For nothing? Handed to Pure Intelligence on a plate? Not even to Pure Intelligence, but to some sinister brotherhood within it?
The secure phone rang. Burr grabbed the receiver. It was Rooke, reporting from Curaçao on his field handset.
"The man's jet landed here an hour ago," he announced, with his built-in reluctance to mention names. "Our friend was of the party."
"How did he look?" Burr asked eagerly.
"Fit. No scars that I could see. Nice suit. Smart shoes. Had a crusher either side of him, but that didn't seem to cramp his style. Pink of condition, if you ask me. You said to ring you, Leonard."
Burr stared round him at the maps and sea charts. At the aerial photographs of tracts of jungle ringed in red. At the heaps of files littering the old deal desk. He remembered all the months of labour, now hanging by a thread.
"We stay with the operation," he said.
He flew to Miami next day.
The friendship between Jonathan and Roper that, as Jonathan now realised, had been budding throughout the weeks at Crystal burst into flower the moment the Roper jet cleared Nassau International Airport. You might have thought the two men had agreed to wait for this shared moment of release before they acknowledged their good feelings for each other.
"Christ," Roper shouted, gleefully unfastening his seat belt. "Women! Questions! Kids! Thomas, good to have you aboard. Megs, bring us a pot of coffee, darling. Too early for shampoo. Coffee, Thomas?"
"I'd love some," said the hotelier. And added winningly: "After Corky's performance last night, I could do with rather a lot of it."
"Hell was all that stuff about you having a Roller?"
"I've no idea. I think he must have decided I was going to steal yours."
"Ass. Sit over here. Don't lurk across the aisle. Croissants, Megs? Red jelly?"
Meg was the stewardess, from Tennessee.
"Mr. Roper, now when did I ever forget the croissants?"
"Coffee, hot croissants, bread rolls, jelly, all round. Get that feeling sometimes, Thomas?
"Sure am, Mr. Roper."
"Where's the juice? Forgotten the juice. Typical. Sacked, Megs. Fired. Better leave now. Jump."
Unperturbed, Meg set out their two breakfast trays, then brought the fresh orange juice and coffee and hot croissants and red jelly. She was a woman of about forty with the trace of a harelip and a bruised but gallant sexuality.
"Know something, Thomas?" she asked. "He
Roper let out a raw laugh. "Next
He crushed a bread roll in his fist, using all his fingers at once.
"Good living's a duty. Whole point of it all. Living well's the best revenge. Who said that?"
"Whoever he was, he got it absolutely right," said Jonathan loyally.
"Set a high standard, let chaps strive for it. Only way. Turn the money over, world goes round. You worked in smart hotels. You know the score. Jelly's off, Megs. Fizzy. Right, Thomas?"
"To the contrary, it's to die for," Jonathan replied firmly, with a wink for Meg.
Laughter all round. The Chief is on a high; so is Jonathan. Suddenly they seem to have everything in common, including Jed. Gold lace lines the cloudbanks, sunlight streams into the plane. They could be on their way to heaven. Tabby is in the tail seat. Frisky has placed himself forward by the bulkhead, covering the pilots' door. Two MacDanbies sit in the middle of the plane, tapping at their laptop computers.
"Women ask too many questions, right, Megs?"
"Not me, Mr. Roper. Never."
"Remember that hooker I had, Megs? Me sixteen, her thirty, remember?"
"I surely do, Mr. Roper. She gave you your first lesson in life."
