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  Jordan stared at Ryan with knowing and caring eyes. Her compassion and sincerity did not go unnoticed as Ryan sensed a level of comfort that he had not felt in years and began to speak more freely.

  "It was near that time that my mom died from ovarian cancer. It was at her funeral that I made a commitment to go back to school and earn my doctorate degree and devote my life's work to finding a cure. I know now that this was a naive goal, but at the time I was as certain as a person can be that I was capable of making the miracle happen."

  "There is a fine line between confidence and naivety and that is nothing to beat yourself up over, Ryan."

  "There may be a fine line between the two, but it's that same fine line that separates success and failure, winners and losers, and . . ." He paused. "Life and death."

  Jordan did not attempt to counter Ryan. She simply agreed with him and asked that he continue.

  "Three years later, everything was going as planned. We were blessed with the birth of our son, Jake. I was still pursuing my doctorate and spending every spare moment I had working on my thesis. When I was finished, my theories drew much critical acclaim and by the time I graduated, I had more offers than time to legitimately consider all of them."

  "Sounds like a good problem to have."

  "It was not really a problem. I was so focused on what I wanted to accomplish that when I was approached by a venture capital firm that fancied itself as an incubator for start-up biotechnology firms with an offer of virtually unlimited funding to pursue my research, I jumped at the opportunity."

  "Wow!" Jordan smiled. "That must have been some thesis."

  "I guess it was, but it was only a thesis, a hypothesis, supported with facts, but, unfortunately, not yet backed up with results. As I mentioned earlier, we had some miraculous breakthroughs as we attempted to prove my theories and develop a serum that would cure ovarian cancer, but that is another fine line."

  Jordan shifted in her chair and cleared her throat. "I guess that was a foolish statement I made about a fine line."

  "I didn't mean it like that, Jordan."

  "I know, but it was a stupid comment and condescending. I am a scientist like you and know full well the difference between close and exact. Unfortunately, if you are on the wrong side of the fine line in our work, the results are not . . . are not . . . well, let's just say it is not like the difference between a triple and a home run."

  "Amen. Listen, I really do not need to dump all of this on you. After all, I am supposed to be comforting you."

  "Nonsense. I am feeling very much comforted by your willingness to open up to me. Please continue."

  Ryan hesitated and shook the ice in his now otherwise empty glass. "A few days after Cindy's annual OB-GYN appointment, the doctor called to tell her that routine test results indicated that she had a pelvic mass. Follow-up blood tests revealed advanced-stage ovarian cancer."

  Ryan stopped and took a deep breath to steady himself. Jordan reached for his hand.

  "She was given less than a year without surgery and chemo. But we both knew that that would only buy her another six to twelve months. Instead of living out the rest of her life in a hospital, we decided to move to Exuma and try to enjoy her remaining days free from the pain and misery that accompany the only treatments practiced for stage four ovarian cancer." "Why Exuma?"

  "This is where we spent our honeymoon. We fell in love with the beauty, serenity, and wonderful people. I came down before everyone else to set up our living arrangements. Cindy, Jake, and Karly boarded an island hopper in Miami for the last leg of their trip. About halfway here . . . ," he paused and looked out at the waves playing upon the bay, ". . . the plane malfunctioned and crashed into the sea."

  Jordan squeezed his hand but kept silent. Even the birds had ceased their constant warbling, as if in respect for the gravity of Ryan's loss. Then, without warning, Jordan sprang from her chair and said, "Do you mind if I take a swim? The water looks wonderful and I need a pick-me-up."

  Ryan had started to relax thanks to the alcohol's effect but was still plagued with the feelings dredged up from his revelations. Jordan's abrupt outburst sliced like an axe through his emotions and he began to regret opening up to her. Was his sad story depressing her and now she wanted to change the subject? How could she be this insensitive?

  "Well . . ." he fumbled, "I don't have any women's swimsuits."

  "I've got one in my tote bag. Would you like to join me?"

  To his surprise, he found himself rising. "I guess I need to clear some cobwebs, too."

  He remained standing, immobilized in the thought of Cindy, Jake, and Karly, while Jordan changed in the bathroom. She emerged a few minutes later wearing a lime-green bikini, ready for a frolic in the sea.

  "Hurry up and get your suit," she said. "I'll be in the water."

  By the time he got down to the beach, all he could see was her black, shiny hair disappearing in the crystal-clear surf. He plunged in and stroked out toward her. The ocean was cool and refreshing. The salt water buoyed his body and the exercise invigorated his spirit.

  By the time he caught up with her, he was panting. She was out farther than he had thought. Must be a good swimmer to come way out here. She stretched out on her back and floated with her face to the sun. He followed suit. It was a transformation, a cessation of all things worldly. He could have gone to sleep, and nearly had, when she said, "We're drifting out pretty far. Better get in closer."

  They set out swimming until they were in safer waters near shore. Jordan was the first out of the water, striding up the beach. Ryan followed close behind and settled onto a blanket he had brought out with him. She wrung the water from her hair before dropping down next to him, tugging at the bottom of her bikini.

  Stretched out side by side, with the huge fluffy cumulus clouds racing by, both of them dozed off in the afternoon sun.

  ***

  The sun was beginning to sink on the second day since the tragic explosion when a four-door Chevy, outfitted with standard law enforcement communications equipment and a government license plate, pulled into Ryan's driveway. When Ryan answered the door, he found Superintendent Pritchard and a tall, thin man he had seen several times, but never met before, standing on his front porch. Pritchard introduced the man as Neville Bradshaw, his lead investigator.

  Once inside, both men greeted Jordan; neither looked surprised to see her there. The superintendent said, "I thought we might find you here. We have some information about the explosion that might interest you."

  Ryan had been on friendly terms with Pritchard ever since his first visit to the island. Since taking up permanent residence, they had become true friends. They got together for dinner and cocktails several times a year and, as a result of Ryan's specialized background, Pritchard had even consulted with him on several official matters, off the record, over the past few years.

  Ryan invited them back to the patio. As they took their seats around the outdoor fire pit, he offered drinks. Both men declined, as did Jordan. Noticing that Pritchard was not his usual jovial self and that the man he introduced as Neville Brad-shaw was as stiff as a board, Ryan felt a twinge of tension and decided to excuse himself. He returned moments later with a snifter of Jameson mixed with a couple ice cubes.

  Pritchard, who was seated between Jordan and Ryan, skipped the small talk, plunging right into the topic on everyone's mind. "Nassau surprised me with a rare bout of efficiency and sent a couple of salvage divers down yesterday."

  Jordan leaned forward expectantly.

  "Okay, here it is," Pritchard went on. "As I told you, I sent one of my men to follow those three strangers. Except now one of them is missing and customs has no record of his departure. This made me wonder about the unidentified charred body from the yacht. It's too early for a positive ID, but the man had a brass charm on his wrist that escaped the explosion. It was a voodoo charm, which makes me think he may have been from Haiti. Haitians, of course, are well known for their strong belief in v
oodoo. Anyway, we now believe we know who he is. . . . or was. He'd only been on the island for a few months and went by the name of Gerard Duval. We've identified the others as Rene Edmond and Manno Sanon, also from Haiti and both arriving just a few weeks ago. I'm still waiting on background checks on these men from Interpol."

  Ryan took a belt of his drink before prodding Pritchard along. "And?"

  "And we just received the report back on the boat wreckage that was analyzed by Nassau."

  Ryan and Jordan waited, full of expectation.

  "It was definitely a bomb, and a sophisticated one at that. These guys were obviously well financed. The man we suspect to be Gerard Duval was the one who placed the bomb. At this point we are operating under the theory that he screwed up the timing mechanism and it went off prematurely."

  Bradshaw pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket before speaking up for the first time. "Dr. Carver, we have received information dat on da very day of the explosion you spoke with dis Duval character at Talbot's Market."

  Jordan hesitated before responding, choosing her words with care. "Yes, I was out shopping and I do remember talking to a black man at the market. I had no idea who he was."

  "What did you talk about?" Bradshaw probed.

  "I think he was admiring my dress and hitting on me, but I had a difficult time understanding him."

  "Yes, da Haitian dialect can be difficult for Americans to understand, but dat shouldn't surprise you."

  Jordan bristled at the accusatory tone in the man's voice. "Wait a minute. What are you saying? I want to know wh—"

  Bradshaw cut her off. "I'm sorry, Dr. Carver, but in an official investigation—and dis is one," he emphasized, "I ask da questions. You will please answer."

  Ryan tried to intervene but Pritchard put his hand up to silence him. "Please, Ryan. It will not help Dr. Carver."

  Bradshaw continued. "We have a report that you spoke to your uncle on da phone about an hour before da explosion. What was dat call about?"

  Ryan interrupted. "It was her uncle wondering when she was coming on board."

  Jordan nodded. "That's right."

  Bradshaw jotted that down in his notebook. "We'll have to check dat out, of course." His voice was laced with skepticism. It was apparent to Ryan that Bradshaw had already drawn his own conclusions.

  Not five minutes had passed before Pritchard rose to his feet. "That's all for now. But I'm going to have to ask you to remain on the island while I complete this part of the investigation. Now," he said, putting out his hand, "I need to ask for your passport."

  Jordan stomped into the house for her purse. Returning, she thrust the passport at him.

  "Can I expect you to be here if I need you?" Pritchard asked.

  She glanced at Ryan.

  Ryan stood up and drained his drink. "Jordan will be staying here, Everett. But you're barking up the wrong tree."

  Pritchard gently grabbed Ryan by the elbow and led him out towards the ocean. When they were safely out of earshot, Pritchard spoke. "I never bark Ryan, you know that. This is protocol and right now I need you to respect what I have to do."

  Ryan started to speak, but Pritchard cut him off. "For god's sake, man, get your head on straight and lay off the booze. I just informed you that one of America's most prominent citizens and his wife were murdered in a most sinister way on our little family island and the suspects are still at large. The world is watching and I will not be taking any shortcuts or leaving any stone unturned."

  Pritchard released Ryan's elbow. "And if Dr. Carver is involved in any way, she may not be safe."

  Chapter 6

  "They're ready for you, Senator."

  Senator Edward McNally acknowledged his aide with a tip of his head and brushed the dust off his suit jacket. It was showtime. Even here, in some godforsaken village in the middle of Nigeria, a hundred miles from the nearest city and a world away from the game back in D.C., he could still feel a little extra jolt of adrenaline course through his veins as he assumed the role he'd been born to play. At forty-four, and midway through his third term, he wasn't the youngest member of the U.S. Senate anymore. But he was still the superstar of that legislative body, one of only a select few with legitimate presidential aspirations. Since joining the Senate at age thirty, the minimum age required for office, he had been riding a wave of popularity as media darling, brilliant young statesman, and budding political rock star all wrapped up in one. And in the last decade his reputation had only grown: he easily won reelection twice, authored a handful of important bills, cultivated crucial rela- tionships with influential members of Congress and Washington power brokers alike, and nailed down an important leadership post as chairman of the FDA's oversight committee.

  How else to explain why a gaggle of journalists, whether belonging to the New York Times, Washington Post, Fox News, NPR, or some fledgling blog on the Internet, followed him wherever he went, even to Africa? Slipping away anonymously from his hotel back in Abuja had been no easy task, but the subterfuge had thrilled him to the core. Now here he was in some dusty village, nicknamed "Dung Hill" by his security detail due to the locals' habit of burning cow shit for fuel, to witness in private what one of his most influential contributors had been doing beyond the scrutiny of the nosy regulatory agencies back home.

  The senator squinted into the midday sun as he emerged from the climate-controlled, window-tinted comfort of a stylish but conservative navy-blue Hummer. Trim, just over six feet tall, and boasting a full head of sandy blond hair, he had more than charisma going for him. He still sparkled with youth, the promise of better days ahead. So what if he had already peaked? If he was already bought and paid for? Politics was the art of illusion, and Senator McNally's true talent lay in his ability to wield the disparate elements— sunny optimism, cool-headed realism, magnanimous bipartisanship, unflinching ruthlessness— and turn them into political gold like some medieval alchemist.

  Before him sat a prefab building, not much more than a trailer and as dingy as its earthen surroundings, serving as a medical clinic for local villagers as well as farmers from the surrounding countryside. Lean men, worn down by years of manual labor and a life of scarcity, stood alongside children and peasant women, some of them pregnant, all of them weighed down with newborns or toddlers barely old enough to walk, in a long line that snaked through the dust from the building's entrance to a sprawling acacia tree several hundred feet away. The children had distended bellies and saucer-like eyes, the hallmarks of malnourishment. No one was starving, but no one was living, either, at least not by Western standards. These people, ghosts hollowed out by the ravages of poverty, disease, and local violence, couldn't have formed a starker contrast to the soft, fleshy pharmaceutical workers who had come to "help" them.

  An American man, balding and ample around the middle, emerged from the building just in time to greet the senator near the entrance. "Good to see you, Senator," he said, offering a firm handshake. "We're pleased you were able to make the trip out—without the usual entourage."

  Senator McNally shook his head grimly. "It wasn't easy. My friends in the press take a keen interest in whatever I do." Friends, in this case, meant bloodsuckers. Keen interest? Unrelenting obsession.

  "Yeah, well, I suppose it comes with the territory."

  "It sure does. So what have you got to show me, Gus?"

  Gus Witherspoon, an expert in his field, was part scientist, part public relations manager, a knowledgeable salesman who dealt discretely but forthrightly with a select clientele made up of industry bigwigs, politicians, and other well-connected insiders. He served on the front lines of a secret war, paving the way for research and experimental drug trials on foreign soil while keeping his company out of the spotlight and beyond the prying eyes of regulatory agencies, journalists, and would-be do-gooders.

  "Just this," Gus said, handing the senator a crumpled spreadsheet.

  Senator McNally stared at the figures, some of them stained by coffee. "Wh
at's this? I don't speak microbiology."

  Gus, placing a hand on the senator's shoulder, ushered him away from the crowd at the front door, and back along the caked-mud drive to the Hummer, where no prying eyes or ears lurked. "That, dear Senator, is a one hundred percent success rate. As of this morning, we've given the full treatment to one hundred and thirty-six patients. And we're batting a thousand."

  "Impressive." The senator glanced back and surveyed the long line, which was growing steadily. "Are all these people sick?"

  "No. Shoot, half of them don't even know what we're doing here. But they know we're making people better, so they're coming by the droves. We had one old man walk fifty miles to get here."

  "Barefoot, I suppose."

  "Who needs shoes when the floors are made of dirt?"

  Senator McNally gave a polite chuckle. "But aren't you worried about how fast the word is spreading?"

  "Nope," Gus said nonchalantly. "Most of the people in line will receive a few free vaccines and a vitamin B shot—good PR for the company and a perfect cover for the program. Only a select few have been screened and given full treatment."

  The senator nodded his approval and then spotted an angry villager trying to work his way past the minders at the entrance, shouting something to the people in line behind him. "What about him? Another happy FSW customer?"

  Gus smiled wryly. "Oh, there's always some conspiracy nut out there who's certain we've come to castrate their men, impregnate their women, and poison their crops."

  The senator gazed past Gus, toward the lonely hills that lay beyond the village. It was a move he had practiced countless times over the years, one meant to display seriousness, deep thought, gravitas. In this case, it wasn't a show. "If he only knew."

  Chapter 7

  William Craven made sure the drapes were closed before answering the door to his hotel room, which, like his accommodations back in Nassau, was tailored to the needs of a businessman who traveled first class. His new room had a better view, of course, and a more tranquil setting, but that was to be expected of any place worth the real estate it was sitting on here in the heart of tiny, picturesque George Town.