Part Ten

Frustration tightened Virgil's grip on the arms of his wheelchair. Being pushed through the hospital by a porter made him feel like a fraud, as if he were stealing attention from those who needed it more. He wanted to get up and walk back to the paediatric ward on his own, he felt as if he should, and it was mind-blowingly irritating to realise that he couldn't.

Waking up curled beside his sleeping father had felt safe and warm, only the growing throb of discomfort every time he moved his chest troubling him. It wasn't until the nurse had touched his shoulder and told him she'd sent for someone to take him back to the children's ward that he'd started to be embarrassed about it. He was eleven years old, but he'd reverted to a little kid, clinging to his father. True, Dad hadn't seemed to mind, but then Dad was used to having Gordy and Alan to cuddle. Maybe he'd just forgotten that Virgil was meant to be one of his older sons.

That Virgil was more than likely now his eldest.

It was a frightening thought, almost as much because of the responsibility as because it meant that he'd never see Scott again. He and Dad hadn't talked about that much. It was just too big an idea to put into words.

They hadn't really talked much at all before both of them had drifted off to sleep. That bothered Virgil when he came to think of it. Dad had been asleep all night, and Virgil for most of it. He just didn't get why they were still so tired. Too tired, in fact, to get out of the chair he was in, even if his aching ribs hadn't made even the thought of it painful.

"Almost there," the orderly pushing him encouraged. Virgil frowned, looking up to realise he'd not even noticed the elevator ride up. The swing doors of the paediatrics ward opened ahead of him, letting him back in to its world of forced cheerfulness and primary colours. He slumped a little deeper in his chair, wishing he were back in his dad's room.

Dr Evans was waiting for him, her hands gentle as she helped him from the chair to sit on his own bed. She frowned at him when he gasped in pain, hand pressed to his ribcage.

"Your father's nurse said your pain medication was wearing off," she noted, feeling his temperature and then checking the time on her watch. "And she's right."

She reached into her pocket and shook out a couple of pills from the bottle there, handing them to Virgil with a glass of water. "Now, are you going to be good for me and swallow those down, Virgil, or do I have to put you back on a drip?"

Virgil swallowed obediently, struggling to get the large tablets past his throat and sipping the water to help them down. Task accomplished, he held the half-full glass out to the doctor. She shook her head, refusing to take it and instead topping it up from the jug on his bedside table.

"Drink it down, Virgil. All of it. You're still a little dehydrated, and I want you to be on top form to keep your Dad company."

"What's wrong with him?" It was the first thing she'd said that Virgil found interesting enough to respond to. He couldn't keep the thin edge of worry out of his voice. His Dad was meant to be tall, strong, unbreakable. At the time, Virgil hadn't processed the image, but now his first glimpse of his father – lying in a hospital bed, pale and in pain – came strongly into his visual memory. He shuffled backwards to lean against the headboard, and pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them. It felt like every foundation in his world was trembling.

Dr Evans sighed, perching on the edge of the bed and studying the huddled child. He could see understanding in her eyes.

"He banged his head, Virgil. That made him a bit sick. He'll be all right; it'll just take him a little time before he feels better. He's going to be tired and sleep a lot for a couple of days, that's all."

Virgil looked at her with exhausted eyes. He'd driven himself as hard as he could, held on when he was on his own, done everything he could to help Scott and Gordon. When they'd taken him down to Dad, he'd thought he might finally be able to relax and let the grown-ups take over.

"I want my Mom."

"I know, sweetheart. I wish she could be here, I really do. She'll be here tomorrow. Now, do you want to try and sleep for a little? I could close your curtains?"

Virgil shook his head wearily. He was tired, yes, but he'd been awake for less than half an hour. His mind was still too active for more sleep, even if his body was drained of energy. He looked around the room, feeling the need to be doing something.

At the far side of the ward, the other two children admitted here were playing. He'd been introduced to them that morning: eight-year-old Amelia, who was learning to walk again after eight weeks with both broken legs in plaster, and six-year-old Susie who'd been having treatment for something serious over on the mainland and was well enough to come back to Dominga, but still too sick to go home. Susie's mom was playing with the two girls, helping them arrange some kind of complicated scenario involving dolls from the toy chest and lots of clothes. Even when he was well, little girls were something of an unknown commodity to Virgil. He tended to ignore the ones at school and, with an abundance of little brothers, his world had a decidedly male bias. These two seemed nice enough, but their attempts to entice him into their games before Dad woke up just left him more tired, and he felt no desire to join them now.

His eyes slid past them and across to the arts and crafts play area. He looked back at Dr Evans and she smiled before he could ask, crossing the room to bring back not just a large flip-pad of the coarse-grained paper sheets and the black crayon from the night before, but also a handful of other pencils and, thank goodness, a pencil sharpener to go with them.

"Now, technically," the doctor said with a smile, "we're not allowed to take these out of the play area. But I won't tell if you don't, Virgil."

Virgil gave her a brief, grateful smile as she deposited her haul on a tray. Reluctantly, he eased out of his huddle, tugging the pillow up behind his back and straightening his legs on the bed as the doctor settled the tray across them.

He tuned her out, oblivious to her watching him, as he sharpened a soft-leaded pencil. He sketched in the first few lines: the blocky shape of the life-boat's stern, seen from the prow, and centred in it a hunched shape. He added details quickly, desperate to get the image down on paper so he could get it out of his head. Water sprayed over the boat's rails and streaked from the sky, blurring everything and crossing every straight line. Gordon was barely visible, his torso made bulky by the life-vest, his face hidden in Scott's chest so only the back of his head showed. Scott himself was kneeling. He was bent over his little brother, holding the boy tight, but his head was raised and looking directly out of the paper. His expression, the last glimpse Virgil had seen of him, was one of total, terrified horror.

Virgil made the sketch detailed, working in thick, dark lines, before reaching for the coloured pencils the doctor had brought him. They were a crude set; perhaps twenty shades spanned the complete spectrum. Virgil didn't think for a moment they were enough for a full, colour picture, but he used them to highlight his pencil drawing. He added hints of brown and grey to the boat, a touch of orange to Gordon's life-vest, and the subtlest hints of orange and yellow to his little brother's hair. The cresting waves were picked out in dark green and blue, splashes of white on top of the black outlines to suggest the roiling foam. Scott, he left untouched, a monochrome focus in the tinted world, except for one thing: Scott's eyes stared out desperately from the paper, a deep midnight blue.

It took over an hour to get the effect he wanted, working with inferior tools, and with eyes that seemed to go blurry from time to time until he blinked the excess moisture away. When he looked at that inner picture, he could feel the deck heaving under his feet and his desperate need to get to his brothers. He could feel the sting of waves against his cheeks and hear the roaring of the angry ocean. He tried to put that on the canvas, knowing he didn't have the skill.

He looked down at the paper for a long time when he'd finished, eyes locked with his brother's, trying to feel the comfortable connection he'd always felt when they were together. When he eventually looked up, he blinked back unshed tears, startled to find Dr Evans sitting by his bedside, but in a different position as if she'd gone and come back while he was absorbed with his drawing. She held out her hands in a 'may I?' gesture. Virgil shook his head, holding onto the pad himself but tilting it so that she could see more clearly.

"That's very good, Virgil," she said gently. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Virgil shook his head, knowing he didn't have words. He'd never been much of a one for flowery language. That was why he was drawing after all. He flipped over the top sheet of the pad, frowning at the smooth surface as he began to picture a new sketch. He was lifting his pencil when a glass of water was thrust between his face and the paper.

"Drink it," Dr Evans ordered her eyes and voice compassionate but firm. "The whole glass, or I take the paper away."

Sighing, Virgil downed the glass of water before looking up at the doctor in mute appeal. She smiled gently, leaving him to it.

Two hours later, Virgil was looking down at a new picture. His own image stood at his father's right side. Dad's arm was around Mom's shoulder and she was holding Alan in front of her, John standing on her left. He'd started this sketch a dozen times, trying to get it right. Even in the final version his parents looked gaunt and unhappy. John was scowling, Alan's bottom lip quivering. His own expression just looked dead. He couldn't get the faces right, didn't know what to do with hands or postures. Even the heights seemed wrong. He couldn't find an arrangement that worked, no way that their family of seven could make sense as a family of five. Angry, distressed, he slashed at the picture with his pencil, leaving a heavy black line cutting through his parents' chests. It wasn't enough.

The duty nurse came over from her station when he tore the sheet from the pad with a loud ripping sound. She tried to take the picture from him, not understanding when he resisted, holding onto it, only to tear it first in half and then into quarters and eighths. She backed off when Dr Evans arrived a minute or so later, but Virgil wasn't in the mood to talk about it. He let the fragments of paper fall from his fingers, kicking the tray off his bed with a loud clatter, and feeling instantly guilty about it.

"Sorry," he muttered quietly. "Can I sleep now?"

"Can't we talk about this, Virgil?"

Virgil pulled his knees back to his chest, rocking slightly. "No. I'm tired."

"It's almost lunchtime," she coaxed. "Aren't you hungry?"

Virgil turned away from her, squirming down from his sitting position so he was curled on his side. "I just want to sleep. Please?"

There was a long minute of silence, the doctor waiting for him to break. He heard her gathering up the scattered pencils and paper, and then a deep sigh.

"All right, Virgil," she told him, drawing the curtains around his bed. "But I'm here if you want me, okay?"

Virgil ignored her, too tired to resist the sleep creeping over him, and too tired to hide from the dark dreams that came with it.

By Domingan standards, seen as one of a chain that included everything from Dominga itself to seamounts and reefs that barely broke the surface, San Fernando was a mid-sized island. Perhaps ten miles long by five wide, its profile was dominated by a tall volcanic peak rising out of thick jungle. To the west, a second mountain rose from the ocean floor, its ridge-like summit just a couple of hundred metres above the water's surface. The two islets had merged into one, connected by a mile-wide isthmus with a long narrow inlet to the north of it and a sheltered bay to the south. The only speck of land for a hundred miles in any direction, it should a welcome sight. If it wasn't for the cold, uncaring face of its owner, it would have been.

Auguste Villacana stood on the jetty, his expression closed as he watched the police hydrofoil approach. He'd hailed them as they neared the island's twelve mile limit, the short-range radio cracking and popping, but marginally comprehensible as he demanded that they turn away from the private waters. The hydrofoil's captain – a uniformed officer more accustomed to chasing down suspected smugglers and running fellow policemen between the major islands than diplomatic wrangling – was more than happy to hand the microphone over to his technical superior. Inspector Travis hadn't bothered with diplomacy either. He'd simply stated that Villacana needed to answer questions on an active case and that the hydrofoil required docking permission, and then cut the radio signal, unwilling to shout across a difficult connection when he had travelled for more than two hours to see the man face to face.

Travis and Kearney waited impatiently, letting the two junior members of the hydrofoil's crew cast mooring lines to a waiting pair of Villacana's staff on the dock. The island's owner stayed back, studying the two detectives and studied in turn.

Travis knew of Villacana by reputation, as he'd explained to Vaughan, and he'd looked through the man's file as the hydrofoil flew across the now-calm ocean. Rationally, he knew that the man's youth shouldn't surprise him. Despite that, some part of him had still expected to see a greying, middle-aged millionaire more typical of Domingan island owners, rather than a wiry, unimposing man in his mid thirties. Villacana's expression was neutral, showing neither anger nor any hint of welcome, but there was a bitter twist to his lips and his dark eyes hinted at his hostility. He didn't so much as raise a hand when the hydrofoil's boarding ramp was run out, but his two servants fell back behind him, standing poised to obey his orders, their eyes lowered.

Kearney eyed them warily, letting his colleague take the lead as they headed towards the ramp.

"You've got to wonder what he does to keep them so scared," he observed under his breath. Travis nodded grimly, forcing a smile onto his face as he stepped onto dry land and approached their host.

"Detective Inspector Charleston Travis," he announced himself, offering his hand. "Good to meet you, Mr Villacana."

Villacana took his hand, giving it the minimal, perfunctory shake that etiquette required before dropping it. "I wish I could say the same, Inspector. However, I've made my desire for privacy quite clear in the past, as well as a mere twenty minutes ago on the radio. I do not appreciate unexpected visitors, even official ones."

Kearney was bridling visibly, making it perversely easier for Travis to keep his temper as he gestured to his partner to calm down. "My colleague, Detective Inspector Michael Kearney." He waved a hand beside him as he deliberately introduced the rest of his companions to see how Villacana would react. "The hydrofoil's captain, police sergeant Walter Oksahi, constables Taylor and Andres."

As he'd half expected, Villacana ignored the hydrofoil crew, and didn't even consider introducing his own people. This was a man with a very clear sense of what was worthy of his attention. Obviously his servants and other lesser beings didn't come close. Travis suspected that he wouldn't make the cut himself if it wasn't for his capacity to disturb Villacana's lord-of-all-I-survey idyll. The man kept his eyes fixed on Travis' face, as if expecting an explanation accompanied by their instant departure.

Thoughtfully, Travis waved one hand, giving Oksahi permission to cast off. There was a sudden bustle of movement behind him as the police hydrofoil made ready for departure, and Villacana's servants started forward to help, taken by surprise. Now Villacana did react, raising one hand to stop his people.

"I must insist that you return to your vessel," he said coldly. "I cannot allow it to leave you here."

Travis faced him, eye to eye. As Kearney had cautioned him, there was no reason to believe that the recluse knew how big an error of judgement he'd made in concealing the Santa Anna's location. Despite that, there was something in the man's demeanour that made it almost impossible not to dislike him. The man had to know why they were here, but there was no hint of regret or apology in his expression. Travis couldn't help wondering what would have become of Virgil and Jeff Tracy if Villacana had been alone when he found them, rather than in the company of a rather more human crew.

"Mr Villacana, I'm afraid you can and you must. We have some crucial questions to ask you regarding the events of the evening before last, and the hydrofoil is urgently needed elsewhere. It will return for us in two hours, at which point we may or may not be forced to place you under arrest, but I can assure you, we are not leaving until we have answers to our questions."

For the first time, there was a crack in Villacana's façade. The man's eyes flashed with irritation and a hint of something else that Travis had no time to identify. Perhaps it had been the threat of arrest. Travis didn't need the look Kearney threw him to know he'd pushed his luck with that one. At most, what they knew of Villacana's activities warranted a fine and a caution, but the reaction made him wonder whether just possibly what they didn't know was far more interesting.

The man glared at them, and turned abruptly. "Follow me," he said.

They did, trailing the island's owner to a small 4x4 vehicle that waited by the dock. They climbed onto its rear bench at a gesture from Villacana, not entirely surprised when their host didn't take the wheel but rather the passenger seat, waiting for one of his servants to chauffeur them. The vehicle bounced along a winding path that climbed steeply north-west from the dock to a house perched high on the smaller western half of the island. Villacana sat rigidly, his back turned to them, not looking around at his visitors but managing to project his distaste for them nonetheless.

Kearney snorted quietly, leaning across the seat toward his colleague. "Do you think he'll brush us off on the doormat, like the dirt we evidently are?" he whispered.

Travis couldn't help chuckling. He waited until Villacana had glanced over his shoulder and turned back before answering in a low voice. "Wander off the path and you might not get that far. Reckon there's any truth to the booby trap rumour?" He nodded at the tree branch arching over the path ahead of them, and the glint of reflection from the glass lens it supported. Security cameras, discreet but apparent to the two trained observers, kept every turn in the path under thorough surveillance. Kearney shrugged, gesturing ahead to point out the compound coming into sight ahead of them.

Perched on a ridge-line, the house overlooked the northern inlet. A steep slope below it and gradually rising jungle beyond the sheltered water formed a wide, sweeping valley that separated the residential compound from the volcanic peak dominating the island's mainland. It was a nice house, Travis noted as the entered; he had to give his host that. The rooms were large and open-plan, every utility on hand and every comfort saving device employed. On the other hand, the steel and glass furniture, vid-screens and complex electronics on open display couldn't be further from the 'primitive' aesthetic that most island-owners aspired to. The sitting room's picture window contrasted the lush green of the jungle spread out below with the sparkling diodes and polished metal shells of some of the most elaborate stereo and video equipment Travis had ever seen. The place would be a sparkling beacon at night, hidden from the sea, but proclaiming its indifference to nature over the entire island.

Villacana stood in front of the glass wall, gazing across the jungle rather than looking at his guests. From time to time, he glanced to his left, at a blank screen that he evidently expected to be live with information. Travis remembered what he'd read: that this man had been responsible for some major breakthroughs in information technology while still in his late teens. A man like that, a man who surrounded himself with the number of gadgets on display, would not appreciate the effective information blackout the induction pulse was still causing.

Kearney gave an impressed whistle as he settled into the chair Villacana indicated. "For someone who wants to escape from the modern world, Mr Villacana, you certainly have a lot of it here."

Villacana turned, his gaze drifting across that screen before settling disdainfully on the detectives. Again there was a brief hint of emotion from the man, and this time it was definitely anger.

"If I wished to have people comment on my private arrangements, Inspector Kearney, I would have put up 'one dollar per entry' signs on the dock-side."

Travis shot his partner a quick look, asking him to think before he spoke. He had to admit that their host had a point. They were here to talk business, not interior design. Kearney sighed and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his notebook and a pen in a silent offer to record what was said, leaving Travis to concentrate. Travis nodded, turning calmly to the cold man by the window.

"Mr Villacana, I believe you and your motorboat picked up two ship-wrecked tourists yesterday, sometime around noon or in the early afternoon."

Villacana didn't blink, didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"And transported them almost to Dominga before handing them to a local fishing vessel."

"Your point?"

"Why did you pay the fishermen to lie about the sequence of events?"

Villacana turned a cold gaze on him. "Have you any evidence that I did?" he challenged.

Travis winced internally, keeping his face calm. "I have the sworn statement of the men involved, and evidence that they returned from the trip substantially wealthier than when they departed. When I question your captain, I suspect he'll be able to verify that you spoke to the fishermen. Don't you think it's possible that he even saw something exchanged?"

"All circumstantial." Villacana waved a dismissive hand.

Kearney leaned forward. "I notice you've not denied it," he noted.

Villacana gave a miniscule frown. Travis was getting a headache. Reading any kind of emotion off the man was an uphill battle to say the least, taking careful inspection and a lot of concentration. Even so, he recognised the moment when Villacana decided to give in to the inevitable.

"Residual charge from the storm was causing my motor to misfire. Since my boat was unable to reach Dominga, it seemed unnecessary to remain involved in the situation at all. Relocating the event did no harm, and I have never been fond of the presence of strangers near my home. I saw no need to draw attention to San Fernando for the sake of a couple of tourists and a freak natural occurrence. Inspectors, I have yet to see anything in your questioning that warrants the degree of intrusion and offence…"

Travis spoke across him, flicking his fingers at Kearney with an instruction to watch the other man carefully. Kearney nodded, continuing to record the conversation in his notebook, but doing so mostly without looking, only the occasional glance checking what he'd written.

"'Relocating the event' did a great deal of harm. And the circumstances of two nights ago can hardly be described as a 'natural occurrence'. There was definitely a human hand in it."

Villacana's eyes flickered, moving to something over Travis' shoulder and then back to his face so quickly he wondered if he'd imagined the motion. The man strode halfway across the room, pulling a steel chair from under a side table and sitting rigidly upon it.

"I understood it to be a malfunction of the weather control system. Isolated as San Fernando is, and given the interference, I have been unable to tune into my usual news broadcasts. Surely no one suspects that the storm was induced deliberately? Without warning, and so close to land?"

The urgency of his question was perhaps understandable given the close proximity of San Fernando to the storm's centre. Any landowner might have asked the same. Even so, there was something in the man's usually so-careful tone that seemed subtly wrong, too inquisitive given his demeanour. Travis had only meant to voice a little of his frustration with Commander Dale's Weather Station and humanity's tendency to strong-arm nature into submission with uncertain results. Sabotage hadn't even occurred to him as a possibility. He blinked as he made a mental connection. Hadn't Vaughan said he was "looking into it"? Why the hell would NASA security be looking into a freak technical problem?

Travis forced the questions aside with an effort, trying to keep his perplexity from his face. Even so, he was wary when he answered Villacana. "Can you think of any reason why your island would be the target of such an attempt?"

Villacana gave the slightest shake of his head, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he sat back in his chair.

"Certainly not. And I was involved in some of the early coding for the Weather Station project myself, many years ago."

"When you worked at NASA?" Travis pressed. He hadn't needed to wait for Vaughan to call back on that one. It had been in the former software engineer's file when he looked.

Villacana tilted his head in acknowledgement, his lips pursed and something that looked like anger smouldering in his eyes.

Travis sighed. Making conversation with the man was uphill work. You found yourself falling into his formal speech patterns and tying yourself in conversational knots.

"I was merely referring to the fact that the storm was artificial, Mr Villacana," Travis reassured him. "And, to return to the matter at hand, I have to ask what you know about the people you pulled out of the water."

Villacana flicked a hand dismissively. "A man and a boy. Barely alive." Not a flicker of interest in whether or not they'd survived. Even to wonder that would take a little empathy, and Travis was starting to suspect that the man had none.

"Did you recognise them?" Kearney asked, resting his pencil for a few seconds and drumming his fingers on the stiff-backed notebook. Villacana had all but ignored the second detective, seeing no need to communicate with anyone but the lead investigator. Now he spared Kearney a glance, but spoke to Travis.

"No, why would I?"

"The man was an ex-NASA employee, like yourself."

Villacana shook his head, apparently unsurprised and uninterested. "NASA has thousands of employees. I worked in a highly specialised department, almost ten years ago. Inspector, I fail to see why a couple of stray tourists should warrant this degree of investigation, or why their initial location was important."

"It's important, Mr Villacana, because while the two individuals you rescued are recovering in hospital, two other young children remain unaccounted for."

There was a definite, momentary flash of total surprise. None of the horror, sympathy and desire to help that every other rational person who'd heard the news exhibited. Travis had stopped expecting that, and its absence wasn't why he felt his heart sink. Despite the unlikeliness of it, he'd retained a lingering hope that, just possibly, the wild speculations the C.I.A. had put into his head might be true. In his heart, if not his head, he'd wondered if the boys actually had come ashore on San Fernando and been held for some nefarious purpose. It was better than the alternative: that they'd most likely been swamped and drowned within half an hour of being cast adrift, or died of exposure a handful of hours later. Unfortunately, that faint hope was gone. Villacana couldn't have cared less who he'd rescued, and news of the missing children had caught even the sanguine island-owner off guard.

He could have forgiven the man if he'd shown just a hint of compassion or even interest. Instead Villacana's only visible emotion after the surprise came and went was a slight irritable twitch and an unconcealed annoyance.

"I'll have my captain give you the coordinates where we located the shipwreck. As you'll see they are well north of San Fernando. I assume that you will be organising a search. I would remind you that this island and its waters are private property and that intrusion by search boats is unnecessary and unwelcome."

Kearney's expression was professionally neutral. Only his eyes told Travis of his intense dislike and distaste for their host.

"The search pattern is already being established. There will be almost forty vessels out here before the end of the day." The turnout had surprised even the coastguard personnel coordinating the search. Some of the smaller vessels would take all day just to reach the search zone, and anchor there overnight rather than making the trip back to Dominga. Others, including a few tourist yachts almost as big as Villacana's, would be reaching the designated area already, not far behind the coastguard and police hydrofoils. "The search zone ends just within your northern waters, Mr Villacana." It was the maximum distance from Virgil's coordinates that anyone thought an unpowered dinghy could have drifted in the time available. Kearney shook his head, almost disappointed. "We won't be encroaching on your precious island," he finished sarcastically. "We know just how important your privacy is."

Villacana looked at him with a deep, and barely-concealed distaste of his own. "Inspector Kearney, in my experience, the vast majority of my fellow human beings are ignorant, unintelligent savages who work only for their own benefit, often at the cost of others more deserving, and who believe that their petty affairs are more important than those of any other. Since many of them appear to object to my beliefs, I have chosen to remove myself from their society. I do not appreciate the attempts of others to inflict their company upon me, and nor do I welcome the disdain of one such as yourself. I have cooperated with your enquiries and done no more than assert my right to be left alone – a right I purchased, I would remind you, from your own government. Kindly keep your opinions and comments to yourself."

Kearney jumped to his feet, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to pin down any one thing in Villacana's calm but cold statement he could legitimately object to. Travis stood too, distracting the two of them from one another and falling back on cool formality to mask his own anger.

"Thank you for your cooperation, but I have to remind you that you intentionally misled the authorities about a serious nautical incident, knowing that it was likely to be referred to the police for investigation. While the Domingan state recognises your autonomy to govern San Fernando as you see fit, the Confederation treaty clearly requires you to comply with international law in your interactions with other islands and the larger world. Whether you consider it so or not, Mr Villacana, you have committed an offence, and an investigative visit such as this is only the mildest of the possible consequences."

"And it is one I've lived with and now regret," Villacana said calmly, no hint of the proposed regret in his tone. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe there is an office in the boathouse where you can interview the captain and arrange for him to return you to your hydrofoil."

Travis was astonished but careful not to show it. Kearney looked more openly surprised.

"We've travelled a long way to speak to you, Mr Villacana," Travis protested mildly.

"And, I believe, said everything that needed to be said." Again, Villacana spared Kearney a dismissive glance before looking briefly up at an apparently non-descript segment of wall above his head. "You've recorded my statement, and I can provide an electronic recording of it if necessary. Send a transcript when the interference has cleared and I will gladly append my signature file."

"Or visit Dominga to sign a paper copy?" Travis asked, more through annoyance than any real need to push the point. The man's lip curled.

"If hard-copy is strictly necessary, mail is carried by the servants' boat once weekly."

He didn't appear to move, but one of his silent servants appeared behind the detectives.

"This man will guide you to the boat house."

Kearney glowered. "You think we couldn't find it on our own?"

Again there was that glimpse of unexpected anger in Villacana's eyes. "I'm sure you're capable of exploring quite thoroughly, Inspector Kearney. However, the jungle surrounding this house can be a dangerous place. I should not like you to stray and become lost." He raised a hand, and the nameless servant circled the detectives, coming between them and Villacana and beginning to usher them towards the door.

"I'll take you up on that electronic recording, Villacana," Travis called over his shoulder.

The man didn't bother to acknowledge.