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Before leaving Government House, Sergeant Sinclair had quietly slipped Favaro a loaded Colt Cobra, which now nestled in the American detective’s waistband beneath his loose shirt. The sergeant had also offered one to Reverend Drake, who had shaken his head.
The two vans were driven by the remaining two constables. Newson and Sinclair crouched by their open side doors. The police sergeants were in the last van.
At a sedate pace, the Jaguar rolled into Shantytown. Down the long main street people stopped and stared. The two figures in the back sat up straight and looked ahead.
At the gates to the walled compound of Mr. Horatio Livingstone, McCready ordered the car to stop. He descended. So did Lieutenant Haverstock. A crowd of several hundred Barclayans emerged from the surrounding alleys and watched them, mouths agape. McCready did not ask for admission; he just stood in front of the double gate.
Sergeants Newson and Sinclair jogged up to the wall. Newson cupped his hands, Sinclair put a heel in them, and Newson heaved. The lighter man went over the wall without touching the shards of glass along its top. The gates were unlocked from the inside. Sinclair stood back as McCready entered with Haverstock at his side. The vehicles rolled after them at a walking pace.
Three men in gray safari suits were halfway across the compound, running for the gate, when McCready appeared. They stopped and stared at the two white-uniformed figures walking purposefully toward the front door. Sinclair disappeared. Newson darted through the open gates and did the same.
McCready walked up the steps of the verandah and into the house. Behind him, Haverstock stood on the verandah and stared at the three gray safari suits. They kept their distance. Favaro and Drake, Jones, the two police sergeants, and three constables left their vehicles and came after them. One constable remained with the cars and vans. Haverstock then joined the group inside. There were now ten of them and one outside.
In the big reception room the policemen took positions by the doors and windows. A door opened, and Horatio Livingstone emerged. He surveyed the invasion with ill-concealed rage.
“You can’t come in here! What is the meaning of this?” he shouted.
McCready held out his warrant. “Would you please read this?” he said.
Livingstone read it and tossed it contemptuously to the floor. Jones retrieved it and handed it back to McCready, who restored it to his pocket.
“I would like you to summon all your Bahamian staff here—all seven of them—with their passports, if you please, Mr. Livingstone.”
“By whose authority?” snapped Livingstone.
“I am the supreme authority,” said McCready.
“Imperialist!” shouted Livingstone. “In fifteen days I will be the authority here, and then—”
“If you decline,” said McCready calmly, “I will ask Chief Inspector Jones here to arrest you for attempting to subvert the course of justice. Mr. Jones, are you ready to carry out your duty?”
“Yes, sir.”
Livingstone glowered at them all. He called one of his aides from a side room and gave the order. One by one the men in safari suits appeared. Favaro circulated, collecting their Bahamian passports. He handed them to McCready.
McCready went through them one by one, handing each to Haverstock. The lieutenant glanced at them and tut-tutted.
“These passports are all false,” said McCready. “They are good, but they are forgeries.”
“That’s not true!” screamed Livingstone. “They are perfectly valid!”
He was right. They were not forged. They had been purchased with a very substantial bribe.
“No,” said McCready, “these men are not Bahamians. Nor are you a democratic socialist. You are, in fact, a dedicated Communist who has worked for years for Fidel Castro, and these men around you are Cuban officers. Mr. Brown over there is, in fact, Captain Hernan Moreno of the Direccion General de Informacion, the Cuban equivalent of the KGB. The others, picked for their pure Negroid appearance and fluent English, are also Cubans from the DGI. I am arresting them all for illegal entry into the Barclays, and you for aiding and abetting.”
It was Moreno who went for his gun first. It was tucked in his waistband at the back, hidden by the safari jacket, as were all the guns. He was very fast, and his hand was behind his back reaching for the Makarov before anyone in the reception area could move.
The Cuban was stopped by a sharp shout from the top of the stairs that led to the upper floors: “Fuera la mano, o seras fiambre.”
Hernan Moreno got the message just in time. His hand stopped moving. He froze. So did the six others, who were in the act of following his example.
Sinclair’s Spanish was fluent and colloquial. Fiambre is a collation of cold meats, and in Spanish slang, a stiff, or corpse.
The two sergeants were at the top of the stairs, side by side, having entered through upper windows. Their touristic pouches were empty, but their hands were not. Each held a small but reliable Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistol.
“These men,” said McCready mildly, “are not accustomed to missing. Now, please ask your men to put their hands above their heads.”
Livingstone remained silent.
