Stuart Woods - Shoot Him If He Runs

“I think I would enjoy avoiding further contact with him,” Stone said. “He gives me the creeps.”

“He is the second most powerful man on the island, and he seems to derive a certain pleasure from making miserable the lives of people he dislikes. And it doesn’t take much to incur his dislike.”

“You seem to get on well with him.”

“I have made a point of it,” Thomas said. “I have to make a living here, and that might be impossible if the colonel didn’t wish it to be so.”

“Thomas, we talked this morning about the means of escaping this island. I hope you have a way out, should it become necessary.”

“You needn’t concern yourself about me, Stone,” Thomas replied. “I have always been a survivor and, even though I am enjoying my success, I know very well that my position here could become untenable if I make the wrong move.”

Stone nodded. “If I can ever be of help, I hope you’ll call on me.”

“Thank you; I hope that won’t be necessary.”

“By the way, speaking of escape routes, I visited Don Wells at the airport this afternoon, and he told me of a new arrival on the island, one Robertson, who has an airplane in one of Don’s hangars. Do you know him?”

“He has been in for dinner.” Thomas looked at Stone. “Are you thinking he might be your man?”

“It’s a possibility; do you have an opinion?”

Thomas shrugged. “I’ve seen the man only once; he spoke with a very good British accent.”

Holly, Dino and Genevieve arrived in the bar, and Stone let the matter drop.

They ordered drinks and sipped them while Thomas tended to other guests. “Who was the man in the black suit?” Holly asked.

“That was the fabled Colonel Croft,” Stone said, “and I’m glad you didn’t get to meet him.”

“Why?”

“A very creepy person, and by all accounts, very dangerous. He also has a bit of an accent that I can’t place. He doesn’t sound like the other islanders.”

“So he’s the one who’s bugging our cottage?”

“I think we can assume that. I’m afraid I sort of put my foot in it with him.”

“How so?”

“We were talking about the tourist trade here, and I told him I’d heard that it would be expanded by the arrival of casinos. He didn’t like hearing me say that.”

“Why not? It seems innocuous enough.”

“According to Thomas, it’s a closely guarded secret,” Stone said.

“But Harry Pitts told us about it at Irene’s; if it’s so secret, how does he know about it?”

“It struck me that Harry was extremely well informed about just about everything to do with St. Marks-especially for someone who’s only been here for a few days.”

“Irene must have brought him up to date,” Dino suggested.

“Perhaps,” Stone said, “but from here on in, don’t mention the casino business to anybody. I don’t want to raise any more red flags with the colonel. And Holly, when you talk to Lance tomorrow ask him to find out what he can about the gentleman.”

The following morning at ten, Holly called Lance. “What did you find out about Robertson?” she asked.

“Very interesting,” Lance said. “Mr. Ian Robertson doesn’t exist. He doesn’t have a British passport, he doesn’t have a driver’s license, he doesn’t have an airplane registered in his name in the U.K., and he doesn’t have a birth certificate.”

“But there must be a number of people by that name in the U.K.; it sounds like it could be very common.”

“There are around two dozen,” Lance said, “but none of them squares with any of the information about himself that Mr. Pemberton gave to the St. Marks housing authority when he made application to buy a house here. Foreigners have to apply for permission to buy. None of the other Robertsons are his age, which he says is fifty-seven, none of them have his middle name, which he says is Osmond, and none of them owns an airplane. All of them, however, have driver’s licenses, and most of them have passports. The airplane registration number you gave me belongs to an airplane that has been removed from the British Registry and listed as destroyed in a fire.”

“I see. Lance, how did you come up with the information from the St. Marks housing office?”

“That brings me to another matter,” Lance said. “Write down this phone number.”

Holly found a pen and paper in her bag. “Shoot.”

Lance gave her the number. “It’s a cell phone; call that number at twelve-fifteen P.M. sharp, today, from your satphone. A man named Bill Pepper will answer. Make an appointment to meet with him.”

“Okay. Who is he?”

“He’s one of ours, planted in an offshore casino there as a computer programmer. You may be of help to each other.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him before?”

“It wasn’t necessary for you to know about him before.”

“Then why now?”

“Stop asking questions,” Lance said sharply. “Meet him; see what you can do for each other.”

“There’s something else,” Holly said.

“What?”

“Stone wants to know about a man in the St. Marks Home Office named Colonel Croft.”

“Ask Bill Pepper about him. Good-bye.”

Holly joined the others on the beach and reported on her conversation with Lance.

“I don’t get it,” Stone said. “If Lance already has a man in St. Marks, why did he send us down here?”

“How the hell should I know?” Holly said irritably.

“Take it easy; I’m curious, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m curious. I’m sorry if I was short, but Lance was very irritating. He’s usually very smooth and courteous.”

“Maybe something else is eating him.”

“I had the impression that he was introducing me to this Bill Pepper very reluctantly.”

“Well, if the guy is working undercover in one of the Internet casinos, maybe he’s concerned about blowing him.”

“Yeah, okay; maybe he was just in a bad mood,” Holly said.

At precisely twelve-fifteen, Holly dialed the number she had been given.

“Yes?”

“It’s Holly Barker.”

“My wife and I will be at the inn for dinner at eight this evening; I’ll be wearing a bright green linen jacket. At nine-fifteen, before the dessert course, I’ll go to the men’s room. You wait until I’m gone, then walk past the ladies’ room and out into the parking lot. I’ll be sitting in a white Toyota Avalon; join me. Got it?”

“Got it.”

He hung up.

Holly made sure her group was already seated for dinner when Bill Pepper and his wife arrived. They were placed three or four tables away, but the bright green linen jacket marked him well. He was in his late thirties, blondish hair, the very picture of the young American businessman.

Holly and the others talked through dinner about everything but why they were there-Robertson and the colonel. Holly was worried that even the tables might be bugged.

At nine-fifteen, Pepper rose from his chair and, ignoring them, walked out of the dining room toward the men’s room. Holly waited the prescribed minute, then headed for the ladies’. At the end of the hallway, past the restrooms, she opened a door with a big red “EXIT” sign over it and stepped into the parking lot. It took a moment for her eyes to become used to the darkness, then, a few yards away, the overhead light went on in a car, then went off again. She made her way to the white Avalon and got in. “I’m Holly Barker,” she said, offering her hand.

“Bill Pepper,” he said, shaking it.

“Is that a trade name?”

“Probably. What do you want to know?”

“Have you found out anything more about this Robertson? Or about Pemberton or Weatherby?”