“I see you found the place,” Harry said.
“It was easy,” Stone replied. “There’s only one mountaintop in St. Marks.”
“You have a point,” Harry said. “Come on in, and let me get you a drink.” He led them into a fairly large, comfortably furnished living room and waved them to seats. “Irene’s busy in the kitchen; she’ll be out in a little while. Are you still drinking those vodka gimlets? I made some.”
“You betcha,” Holly said. “It’s easy to sell this crowd gimlets.”
Harry produced martini glasses and a frosty Absolut bottle, the liquid inside tinged with green, and poured for everyone. “Cheers,” Harry said, raising his glass.
“Wait for me,” Irene said from the kitchen door. She entered the room looking cool and well pressed, not like someone who had been cooking all afternoon.
The men stood and greeted her, and Harry handed her a gimlet. “I’m afraid I had one too many of these last night,” she said, “but this time I didn’t get a head start.” Everyone sat down.
“This is a marvelous place,” Holly said. “How’d you find it?”
“The usual way, through an agent. Actually, Thomas Hardy was a big help. He knew that Sir Winston Sutherland had bought up here and that he was bringing in electricity and water. The place had been on the market for a long time for lack of utilities. There’s a large cistern under the house, and water was collected from the roof, and although the house had been wired in hope of power, it didn’t happen until the PM made it happen. Before there were just a small generator and a lot of oil lamps.”
“So, you got in ahead of the rise in property values that must have come with the utilities?”
“Thanks to Thomas, yes. I got the place for half what it would bring now.”
“Where is Sir Winston’s place?”
“Just down the hill a couple of hundred yards, after what used to be the guesthouse for this one. I couldn’t afford the guesthouse when I bought, and an expat English couple bought it, but they seem to be rarely here. I’ve never met them.”
“I’ve noticed,” Stone said, “that since the last time I was here the island has taken on an air of prosperity. Has St. Marks attracted some new manufacturing or something?”
“Or something,” Harry said. “It’s called offshore Internet gambling.”
“How does that work?” Genevieve asked.
“A business establishes what amounts to a casino, except it’s entirely virtual. Anyone with an Internet connection, anywhere in the world, can play, and winnings or losses are credited or debited to a credit card. There are half a dozen establishments here, and they are hugely profitable. Each of them employs a lot of people, many of them islanders. The managers and computer people are almost entirely from abroad-the States, Europe and Asia-and those people are buying property and building houses. Irene got in under the wire, but it’s getting harder and harder to hire construction people. I tell you, if I lived here I’d start a construction company.”
“Is there any sort of regulation for the industry?” Dino asked.
“Not really. The United States is trying to ban Internet gambling, but not very successfully. When they started pressing the credit card companies not to process charges from offshore casinos, the casinos just offered their own credit cards, through offshore banks. A gambler can go online, fill out an application and get a credit line in less than two minutes. The card is mailed to him within a week, and he can use it anywhere, like any other credit card.
“The U.S. has arrested a couple of casino operators when they passed through American airports, but as long as they don’t enter the States, they’re safe. The U.S. and St. Marks have no extradition treaty, and negotiations have been bogged down for years.”
“Is there any local regulation in St. Marks?” Dino asked.
“A government department has been set up to regulate the casinos, but rumor has it, the only enforced regulation is to pay Sir Winston Sutherland for the privilege of operating.”
“Sir Winston seems to have a finger in every pie,” Stone said.
“Indeed he does,” Irene said. “There are rumors that he’s pulling in over a hundred million dollars a year for himself, and he’s established an offshore banking system much like that of the Cayman Islands. He owns his own bank, and his friends own all the others.”
“So he’s St. Marks’s Papa Doc, then?” Dino asked.
“Sir Winston is, practically speaking, almost as much a dictator as Papa Doc Duvalier was in Haiti, but he’s smarter and more benign; he spreads the wealth around. The per capita income on the island is said to have doubled within the past few years, and it’s expected to double again. Of course, it was pretty low to begin with, but now there are businesses like car dealerships where there were none before. A few years ago, if you wanted a car, you had to go to a dealer in St. Martin or Guadeloupe or Antigua. Now you can buy a Toyota or a Volkswagen off the lot, and there are rumors that Mercedes and BMW dealerships are on the way.”
“I can guess who’s going to own those,” Stone said.
“Sir Winston and his friends, of course,” Irene replied.
“So who’s getting hurt?” Holly said.
“The suckers,” Harry replied, “the losers at gambling. The casinos have a slightly lower profit margin than the Las Vegas establishments, so they’re attractive to gamblers, but they still lose, just like in Vegas. The casinos operate without infrastructure-they don’t have to invest in building hotels or producing entertainment. There are rumors that those things are in the offing, though, and that will goose tourist income enormously.”
A uniformed black woman came into the living room. “Dinner is served, Miss Foster,” she said.
Irene rose, led them into the dining room and seated them at a beautifully arranged table, while Harry poured a French wine.
Stone nodded toward the view from the dining room window. “I can see a couple of roofs,” he said.
“The big one is Sir Winston’s,” Irene replied. “The two smaller ones are the former guesthouse, now owned by the Weatherbys, and another small house, owned by the Pembertons; I haven’t met them, either.”
16
It was nearly midnight when they left Irene’s house, after a good dinner and a lot of talk.
“That must be the driveway to the old guesthouse,” Holly said, as their headlights flashed over a gate. “And then the Pembertons, and this one coming up must be Sir Winston’s place. I wonder why there’s no guard.”
“Look,” Stone said, pointing, “there’s a guard shack up the driveway, about thirty yards after the gate.”
“So the big man is not unprotected.”
“I guess not. This jungle is so thick, there could be a company of infantry hidden in there.”
“St. Marks doesn’t have an army,” Genevieve said. “I read it on the Internet. The island has a police force, but that’s all.”
“Well, it’s not a banana republic, is it?” Dino said. “And I haven’t heard anything about a drug problem. If anything, Sir Winston must be guarding against that, if his police are shooting drug smugglers on the beach.”
“If he allowed the drug lords in,” Stone said, “they’d own him in no time, or they’d kill him and install somebody more cooperative.”
“I’m beginning to think this guy is very smart,” Dino said. “How’d you manage to beat him in court?”
“Beat him? My client was hanged, or at least, I thought she was. I didn’t beat him. She paid a million-dollar bribe to the old prime minister, without my knowledge, and was allowed to leave the country.”
“I wonder how the old prime minister met his demise,” Holly said.
“Maybe he didn’t,” Dino said. “Maybe he’s rotting in prison.”