For a moment Jed is as uplifted as the rest of them. She may not join in the applause, but it is clear from her smile and the way she squeezes Roper's hand that, however briefly, his diatribe has granted her a lightening of the guilt, or doubt, or perplexity, or whatever it is these days that clouds her customary pleasure in a perfect world.
But after a few minutes, she slips silently upstairs. And does not come down again.
* * *
Corkoran and Jonathan sat in the garden of Woody's House, drinking cold beer. A red halo of dusk was forming over Miss Mabel Island. The cloud rose in a last ferment, remaking the day before it died.
"Lad called Sammy," Corkoran said dreamily. "That was his name. Sammy."
"What about him?"
"Boat before the Pasha. The Paula, God help us. Sammy was one of the crew."
Jonathan wondered whether he was about to receive Corkoran's confession of lost love.
"Sammy from Kentucky. Matelot. Always shinning up and down the mast like someone out of Treasure Island. Why's he do that? I thought. Showing off? Impress the girls? The boys? Me? Rum. Chief was into commodities in those days. Zinc, cocoa, rubber goods, tea, uranium, any bloody thing. Sit up all night sometimes, selling forwards, buying backwards, sideways, buying long, selling short, bulling, bearing. Insider stuff, of course, no point in taking risks. And this little bugger Sammy, nipping up and down the mast. Then I twigged. Hullo, I thought. I know what you're up to, Sammivel, my son. You're doing what I'd do. You're spying. Waited till we were anchored for the evening, as usual, sent the crew ashore, as usual. Then I fished out a ladder and pottered up the mast myself. Nearly killed me, but I found it straightaway, tucked into an angle beside the aerial. Couldn't see it from the ground floor. Bug. Sammy'd been bugging the Chief's satcom, shadowing him on the markets. Him and his buddies on shore. They'd pooled their savings. By the time we nabbed him, they'd turned seven hundred bucks into twenty grand."
"What did you do to him?"
Corkoran shook his head. "My problem is, old love," he confessed, as if it were something Jonathan might solve for him, "every time I look into your Pan eyes, all my chimes and whistles tell me it's young Sammy with his pretty arse shinning up the whatnot."
* * *
It is nine o'clock the next morning. Frisky has driven across to Townside and is sitting in the Toyota, trumpeting the horn for extra drama.
"Hands off cocks and pull on socks. Tommy boy, you're on parade! Chief wants a quiet tit-ah-tit. Forthwith, immediately, and get your finger out!"
* * *
Pavarotti was in full lament. Roper stood before the great fireplace, reading a legal document through his half-lenses. Langbourne was sprawled on the sofa, one hand draped over his knee. The bronze doors closed. The music stopped.
"Present for you," said Roper, still reading.
A brown envelope addressed to Mr. Derek S. Thomas lay on the tortoise-shell desk. Feeling its weight, Jonathan had a disconcerting memory of Yvonne, pale-faced in her Pontiac beside the highway.
"You'll need this," Roper said, interrupting himself to shove a silver paper knife toward him. "Don't hack it about. Too damned expensive."
But Roper did not resume his reading. He went on watching Jonathan over his half-lenses. Langbourne was watching him too. Under their double gaze, Jonathan cut the flap and extracted a New Zealand passport with his own photograph inside it, the particulars in the name of Derek Stephen Thomas, company executive, born Marlborough, South Island, expiry three years off.
At the sight and touch of it he was for a moment ridiculously affected. His eyes blurred, a lump formed in his throat. Roper protects me. Roper is my friend.
"Told 'em to put some visas in it," Roper was saying proudly, "make it scruffy." He tossed aside the document he had been reading. "Never trust a new passport, my view. Go for the old 'uns. Same as Third World taxi drivers. Must be some reason why they've survived."
"Thanks," Jonathan said. "Really thanks. It's beautiful."
"You're in the system," Roper said, thoroughly gratified by his own generosity. "Visas are real. So's the passport. Don't push your luck. Want to renew, use one of their consulates abroad."
Langbourne's drawl was in deliberate counterpoint to Roper's pleasure. "Better sign the fucking thing," he said. "Try out some signatures first."
Watched by both men, Jonathan wrote Derek S. Thomas, Derek S. Thomas, on a sheet of paper until they were satisfied.
He signed the passport, Langbourne took it, closed it and handed it back to Roper.
"Something wrong?" said Langbourne.
"I thought it was mine. To keep," said Jonathan.
"Who the hell gave you that idea?" said Langbourne.
Roper's tone was more affectionate. "Got a job for you, remember? Do the job, then off you go."
"What sort of job? You never told me."
Langbourne was opening an attaché case. "We'll need a witness," he told Roper. "Somebody who can't read."
Roper picked up the phone and touched a couple of numbers.
"Miss Molloy? Chief here. Mind stepping down to the study a moment?"
"What am I signing?" Jonathan said.
"Jesus, fuck, Pine," said Langbourne in a pent-up murmur. "For a murderer on the run, you're pretty bloody picky, I must say."
"Giving you your own company to manage," said Roper. "Bit of travel. Bit of excitement. Lot of keeping your mouth shut. Big piece of change at the end of the day. All debts paid in full, with interest."
The bronze doors opened. Miss Molloy was tall and powdery and forty. She had brought her own pen of marbled plastic, and it hung round her neck on a brass chain.
The first document appeared to be a waiver in which Jonathan renounced his rights to the income, profits, revenue or assets of a Curaçao-registered company called Tradepaths Limited. He signed it.
The second was a contract of employment with the same company, whereby Jonathan accepted all burdens, debts, obligations and responsibilities accruing to him in his capacity as managing director. He signed it.
The third bore the signature of Major Lance Montague Corkoran, Jonathan's predecessor in the post. There were paragraphs for Jonathan to initial and a place for him to sign.
"Yes, darling?" said Roper.
Jed had stepped into the room. She must have talked her way past Gus.
"I've got the Del Oros on the line," she said. "Dine and stay and mahjongg in Abaco. I tried to get through to you but the switchboard says you're not taking calls."
"Darling, you know I'm not."
Jed's cool glance took in the group and stopped at Miss Molloy. "Anthea" she said. "Whatever are they doing to you? They're not signing you up to marry Thomas, are they?"
Miss Molloy turned scarlet. Roper gave an uncertain frown.
Jonathan had never seen him at a loss before.
"Thomas is coming aboard, Jeds. Told you. Setting him up with a bit of capital. Giving him a break. Felt we owed him one. All he did for Dans and so on. We talked about it, remember? Hell's going on, Jeds? This is business."
"Oh, well, that's super. Congratulations, Thomas." She looked at him at last. Her smile was distancing, but no longer so theatrical. "Just be awfully careful you don't do anything you don't want, won't you? Roper's terribly persuasive. Darling, can I tell them yes? Maria's so madly in love with you, I'm sure it'll break her heart if I don't."