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Hannah stood with his back to the steel door, walked forward two paces, and dropped to his knees. He was still too high. He went on his stomach and propped his torso on his elbows, his eyes thirty inches above the grass. He stared at the point where Sir Marston would have been standing, having risen from his chair and taken one step forward. Then he was up and running.
“Parker!” he yelled. “Get off that ladder and come down here!”
Parker almost fell off, so loud was the shout. He had never seen the phlegmatic Hannah so disturbed. When he reached the terrace, he scampered down the steps to the garden.
“Stand there,” said Hannah, pointing to a spot on the grass. “How tall are you?”
“Five foot ten, sir.”
“Not tall enough. Go to the library and get me some books. The Governor was six foot two. Jefferson, get me a broom.”
Jefferson shrugged. If the white policeman wanted to sweep the patio, that was his business. He went for a broom.
Hannah made Parker stand on four books on the spot where Sir Marston had stood. Crouching on the grass he aimed the broom handle like a rifle at Parker’s chest. The broom sloped upward at twenty degrees.
“Step to one side.”
Parker did so and fell off his books. Hannah stood up and walked to the steps that ran up the wall to the terrace, rising from left to right. It was still hanging on its wrought-iron bracket, as it had for three days and before that. The wire basket, packed with loam, cascaded brilliant geraniums. So thick were the clusters, one could hardly see the basket from which they came. As the forensic team worked on the wall, they had brushed the streaming flowers out of their faces.
“Bring that basket down,” Hannah said to the gardener. “Parker, bring the murder bag. Jefferson get a bedsheet.”
The gardener moaned as his work was strewn all over the bedsheet. One by one, Hannah extricated the flowers, tapping the loam clear of their roots before placing them on one side. When only the loam was left, he separated it into hand-size clods, using a spatula to break the clods into grains. And there it was.
Not only had the bullet passed through the Governor intact, it had not even touched the wire frame of the basket. It had gone between two strands of wire and stopped dead in the middle of the loam. It was in perfect condition. Hannah used tweezers to drop it into a plastic bag, wrapped the bag, and dropped it into a screw-top jar. He rocked back on his ankles and rose.
“Tonight, lad,” he told Parker, “you are going back to London. With this. Alan Mitchell will work through Sunday for me. I’ve got the bullet. Soon I’ll have the gun. Then I’ll have the killer.”
There was nothing more he could do at Government House. He asked that Oscar be summoned to drive him back to the hotel. As he waited for the chauffeur, he stood at the windows of the sitting room looking out over the garden wall toward Port Plaisance, the nodding palms and the shimmering sea beyond. The island slumbered in the heat of midmorning. Slumbered—or brooded?
This isn’t paradise, he thought. It’s a bloody powder keg.
Chapter 5
In the city of Kingston that morning, Sean Whittaker was having a remarkable reception. He had arrived late and gone straight to his apartment. Just after seven the next morning, the first call had come in. It was an American voice.
“Morning, Mr. Whittaker. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, not at all. Who’s that?”
“My name is Milton. Just Milton. I believe you have some photographs you might care to show me.”
“That would depend on who I am showing them to,” said Whittaker.
There was a low laugh down the line. “Why don’t we meet?”
Milton arranged a rendezvous in a public place, and they met an hour later. The American did not look like the head of the
DEA field station in Kingston, as Whittaker had expected. His casual air was more that of a young academic from the university.
“Forgive my saying so,” said Whittaker, “but could you establish any bona fides at all?”
“Let’s use my car,” said Milton.
They drove to the American Embassy. Milton had a headquarters office outside the embassy, but he was persona grata inside it as well. He flashed his identity card to the Marine guard at the desk inside, then led the way to a spare office.
“All right,” said Whittaker, “you’re an American diplomat.”
Milton did not correct him. He smiled and asked to see Whittaker’s pictures. He surveyed them all, but one held his attention.
