He nodded, satisfied; job done. “Right, you get yourself changed and I’ll phone the admiral.”
Francesini sat opposite Inspector Bain having introduced himself and thanked him for seeing him at relatively short notice. As head of the Bahamian C.I.D., Horatio Bain had a well-appointed office within the heart of the police headquarters in Freeport. Francesini could see trappings of power, but decided it was all relative; the chief of detectives in New York would probably inhabit a far superior office and hold the rank of Captain, yet still do a similar job to the inspector here in Freeport.
Bain ordered tea for them both and assured him that he was happy to help the CIA in any way he could and having dispensed with the niceties asked Francesini how he could help him.
Francesini wanted to explain everything he could to the big, black policeman, but he felt constrained in that much of what he knew was either guesswork, intuition or a State secret. But he did his best to accommodate the inspector’s questions and fill in as many gaps as he could. Francesini’s emphasis was on the fact that Greg Walsh had come to him, not the Bahamian authorities, because he believed the Americans might be under a terrorist threat which was to be launched from the Grand Bahamas. It was a poor lie, but there was little else Francesini could tell him, or wanted to for that matter.
While he was talking, a young police officer brought in a tray with two cups of tea, milk and sugar on the side. Bain was not only polite and reassuringly attentive but seemed a genuinely nice guy too. He put sugar into his own cup, splashed a little milk and lifted the cup to his lips. He sipped the first mouthful of tea and asked Francesini what he thought he could get from Marsh at this time that he had been unable to get when Marsh was in hospital in Miami.
“I did ask him to have a look through his partner’s papers,” Francesini admitted.
“And did he?”
Francesini shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I rang him a couple of times before I flew over here, but he’s not answering his phone.”
“There’s a good reason for that, I believe,” Bain said, putting his cup down with a degree of care. “You see, Marsh has disappeared.”
Francesini sat bolt upright in his chair. “Disappeared?”
Bain nodded and told Francesini about Helen’s kidnapping and believed that Marsh’s apparent disappearance was linked to it.
Francesini was used to knock-backs in his profession, but the speed of this development took him by surprise. He was quiet for a while as he tried to digest the implications of what the inspector had just revealed to him. And Francesini had to admit that everything had just got worse. The amazing turn of events had deepened his worry that Greg Walsh’s fears were now taking on a life of their own and running away from him.
“Do you have any idea,” he began, but his question was cut short because Bain was shaking his head already.
“We have a witness to Helen Walsh’s kidnapping, but unfortunately he can’t be relied on.”
Francesini took a cigar from a leather cigar wallet. He asked the inspector if he could smoke. Bain nodded and Francesini began the task of lighting it. Bain picked up his cup again and drank from it.
“What haven’t you told me?” Bain asked him suddenly, an expression on his face that was a mixture of enquiry and threat.
Francesini nearly choked on his cigar. “I’m sorry?”
Bain put his cup down, his action quite positive. Now he seemed to be getting down to business.
“Please do me the courtesy of not assuming that I am a little policeman on an island that has only to deal with tourists, Mister Francesini.” The expression on his face changed and Francesini could see a hardness there that belied the inspector’s urbane nature. “The CIA does not send one of their top men on a boy’s errand. You must be worried about something that you haven’t told me about. Whatever this threat is to your country, it must be more serious, and closer I would think than you are prepared to admit. And I don’t believe the threat comes from this island.”
He opened a draw in his desk and pulled out a file. Francesini watched, but said nothing. Bain laid the file on the desk in front of him and opened it.
“Does the name Mancini mean anything to you?
Francesini was stunned. He thought he had been controlling the conversation; just feeding the inspector with a little information, just sufficient to make it appear that he was treating the inspector as an equal. But now he knew how wrong he had been; the inspector had been playing him along and allowed him to stumble into a bog of his own making.
“Should it?” he asked, still clinging grimly to a sense of some dignity.
“Mister Francesini, we can either be completely frank with each other, or we can terminate this interview here and now. It’s your choice.” He opened the file and began reading.
“Harry Mancini died a few months ago. He was a retired CIA agent. His widow is a natural Bahamian; that’s why they retired here. Last week, Mancini’s widow brought some files into us that she didn’t understand, but was intuitive enough to know that they could be important.”
He tossed the file across to Francesini who took it and looked through the pages, turning them slowly. Some of it was a technical report on geological survey work, obviously carried out by Greg Walsh that was beyond Francesini’s limited knowledge. But there was a summation at the end that had Walsh’s signature at the bottom of the page. He knew then that this is what he had hoped his men would find when they had searched Marsh’s home and that of Walsh’s widow, Helen.
And he knew that it would be dynamite once it had been broken down into everyday English.
“You know what this is?” Francesini asked him tentatively.
Bain reached over and retrieved the file. “I had somebody I know, not connected with the police department, look over it for me. He told me it was too heavy for us to deal with. He said it was dangerous.”
He laid the flat of his hand on the file and stared at Francesini for a few seconds.
“It has been on my mind for a couple of days now,” he said. “And it has made me think a great deal about whom to pass it on to. I suppose I must have been waiting for a ‘trigger’, you know; for something to happen that would convince me how serious this file was.”
Francesini could understand his dilemma. “And it’s happened, right?”
Bain nodded. “It has, and I’m prepared to let you have the file; but not until we have reached a complete understanding. Do you agree?”
Just then a young officer knocked at the door and came in with a folder which he laid on Bain’s desk.
“We’ve had some luck with the fingerprints, sir.” He glanced at Francesini for a moment and was obviously not impressed with the smoke from Francesini’s cigar.
“They found a palm print and four fingerprints on the door of the pick-up truck. There were no others like it on the car. We checked the witness’s statement and it’s possible the prints belong to one of the kidnappers.
“Do we have a face?” Bain asked.
“Yes sir; Sweeting Maclean.”
Francesini thought he saw a flash of dismay cross the inspector’s face. He tried not to let it bother him. Bain nodded thoughtfully, and then he looked up at the young policeman.
“I want him tailed, but not picked up yet. Keep me informed.”
“Could that be our man?” Francesini asked when the young officer had left.
“There’s every chance,” Bain answered hopefully. “Maclean has a record as long as your arm, but he’s been quiet lately. He was mixed up in a big Obeah scandal a couple of years ago. That’s our local witchcraft,” he explained. “What you might call ‘voodoo’. He nearly went to prison for a very long time, but he got off on a technicality.”
“A good lawyer?” Francesini asked euphemistically.