style="font-size:15px;"> “He falls in. Cannot swim!”
Which made the eighth man as good as dead, thought Trott. He glanced at Cosima’s crew. They stood watching, waiting for the order.
The lifeboat was gliding almost alongside now.
“A little closer,” Trott called down, “and we’ll throw you a line.”
One of the men in the lifeboat reached up to catch the rope.
Trott turned and gave his men the signal.
The first hail of bullets caught its victim in midreach, arms extended toward his would-be saviors. He had no chance to scream. As the bullets rained down from the Cosima, the men fell, helpless before the onslaught. Their cries, the splash of a falling body, were drowned out by the relentless spatter of automatic gunfire.
When it was finished, when the bullets finally ceased, the bodies lay in a coiled embrace in the lifeboat. A silence fell, broken only by the slap of water against the Cosima’s hull.
One last explosion spewed a finale of sparks into the air. The bow of the Max Havelaar—what remained of her—tilted crazily toward the sky. Then, gently, she slid backward into the deep.
The lifeboat, its hull riddled with bullet holes, was already half submerged. A Cosima crewman heaved a loose anchor over the side. It landed with a thud among the bodies. The lifeboat tipped, emptying its cargo of corpses into the sea.
“Our work is done here, Captain,” said Trott. Matter-of-factly he turned toward the helm. “I suggest we return to—”
He suddenly halted, his gaze focused on a patch of water a dozen yards away. What was that splash? He could still see the ripples of reflected firelight worrying the water’s surface. There it was again. Something silvery gliding out of the swells, then slipping back under the water.
“Over there!” shouted Trott. “Fire!”
His men looked at him, puzzled.
“What did you see?” asked the captain.
“Four o’clock. Something broke the surface.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Fire at it, anyway.”
One of the gunmen obligingly squeezed off a clip. The bullets sprayed into the water, their deadly rain splashing a line across the surface.
They watched for a moment. Nothing appeared. The water smoothed once again into undulating glass.
“I know I saw something,” said Trott.
The captain shrugged. “Well, it’s not there now.” He called to the helmsman, “Return to port!”
Cosima came about, leaving in her wake a spreading circle of ripples.
Trott moved to the stern, his gaze still focused on the suspicious patch of water. As they roared away he thought he spotted another flash of silver bob to the surface. It was there only for an instant. Then, in a twinkling, it was gone.
A fish, he thought. And, satisfied, he turned away.
Yes, that must be what it was. A fish.
CHAPTER ONE
“A SMALL BURGLARY. That’s all I’m asking for.” Veronica Cairncross gazed up at him, tears shimmering in her sapphire eyes. She was dressed in a fetching off-the-shoulder silk gown, the skirt arranged in lustrous ripples across the Queen Anne love seat. Her hair, a rich russet brown, had been braided with strands of seed pearls and was coiled artfully atop her aristocratic head. At thirty-three she was far more stunning, far more chic than she’d been at the age of twenty-five, when he’d first met her. Through the years she’d acquired, along with her title, an unerring sense of style, poise and a reputation for witty repartee that made her a sought-after guest at the most glittering parties in London. But one thing about her had not changed, would never change.
Veronica Cairncross was still an idiot.
How else could one explain the predicament into which she’d dug herself?
And once again, he thought wearily, it’s faithful old chum Jordan Tavistock to the rescue. Not that Veronica didn’t need rescuing. Not that he didn’t want to help her. It was simply that this request of hers was so bizarre, so fraught with dire possibilities, that his first instinct was to turn her down flat.
He did. “It’s out of the question, Veronica,” said Jordan. “I won’t do it.”
“For me, Jordie!” she pleaded. “Think what will happen if you don’t. If he shows those letters to Oliver—”
“Poor old Ollie will have a fit. You two will row for a few days, and then he’ll forgive you. That’s what will happen.”
“What if Ollie doesn’t forgive me? What if he—what if he wants a…” She swallowed and looked down. “A divorce,” she whispered.
“Really, Veronica.” Jordan sighed. “You should have thought about this before you had the affair.”
She stared down in misery at the folds of her silk gown. “I didn’t think. That’s the whole problem.”
“No, it’s obvious you didn’t.”
“I had no idea Guy would be so difficult. You’d think I broke his heart! It’s not as if we were in love or anything. And now he’s being such a bastard about it. Threatening to tell all! What gentleman would sink so low?”
“No gentleman would.”
“If it weren’t for those letters I wrote, I could deny the whole thing. It would be my word against Guy’s, then. I’m sure Ollie would give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“What, exactly, did you write in those letters?”
Veronica’s head drooped unhappily. “Things I shouldn’t have.”
“Confessions of love? Sweet nothings?”
She groaned. “Much worse.”
“More explicit, you mean?”
“Far more explicit.”
Jordan gazed at her bent head, at the seed pearls and russet hair glimmering in the lamplight. And he thought, It’s hard to believe I was once attracted to this woman. But that was years ago, and he’d been only twenty-two and a bit gullible—a condition he sincerely hoped he’d outgrown.
Veronica Dooley had entered his social circle on the arm of an old chum from Cambridge. After the chum bowed out, Jordan had inherited the girl’s attentions, and for a few dizzy weeks he’d thought he might be in love. Better sense prevailed. Their parting was amicable, and they’d remained friends over the years. She’d gone on to marry Oliver Cairncross, and although Sir Oliver was a good twenty years older than his bride, theirs had been a classic match
