Shoot Him if He Runs by Stuart Woods Page B

heard that it would be expanded by the arrival of casinos. He didn’t like hearing me say that.”
    “Why not? It seems innocuous enough.”
    “According to Thomas, it’s a closely guarded secret,” Stone said.
    “But Harry Pitts told us about it at Irene’s; if it’s so secret, how does he know about it?”
    “It struck me that Harry was extremely well informed about just about everything to do with St. Marks—especially for someone who’s only been here for a few days.”
    “Irene must have brought him up to date,” Dino suggested.
    “Perhaps,” Stone said, “but from here on in, don’t mention the casino business to anybody. I don’t want to raise any more red flags with the colonel. And Holly, when you talk to Lance tomorrow ask him to find out what he can about the gentleman.”
    T he following morning at ten, Holly called Lance. “What did you find out about Robertson?” she asked.
    “Very interesting,” Lance said. “Mr. Ian Robertson doesn’t exist. He doesn’t have a British passport, he doesn’t have a driver’s license, he doesn’t have an airplane registered in his name in the U.K., and he doesn’t have a birth certificate.”
    “But there must be a number of people by that name in the U.K.; it sounds like it could be very common.”
    “There are around two dozen,” Lance said, “but none of them squares with any of the information about himself that Mr. Pemberton gave to the St. Marks housing authority when he made application to buy a house here. Foreigners have to apply for permission to buy. None of the other Robertsons are his age, which he says is fifty-seven, none of them have his middle name, which he says is Osmond, and none of them owns an airplane. All of them, however, have driver’s licenses, and most of them have passports. The airplane registration number you gave me belongs to an airplane that has been removed from the British Registry and listed as destroyed in a fire.”
    “I see. Lance, how did you come up with the information from the St. Marks housing office?”
    “That brings me to another matter,” Lance said. “Write down this phone number.”
    Holly found a pen and paper in her bag. “Shoot.”
    Lance gave her the number. “It’s a cell phone; call that number at twelve-fifteen P.M . sharp, today, from your satphone. A man named Bill Pepper will answer. Make an appointment to meet with him.”
    “Okay. Who is he?”
    “He’s one of ours, planted in an offshore casino there as a computer programmer. You may be of help to each other.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me about him before?”
    “It wasn’t necessary for you to know about him before.”
    “Then why now?”
    “Stop asking questions,” Lance said sharply. “Meet him; see what you can do for each other.”
    “There’s something else,” Holly said.
    “What?”
    “Stone wants to know about a man in the St. Marks Home Office named Colonel Croft.”
    “Ask Bill Pepper about him. Good-bye.”
    H olly joined the others on the beach and reported on her conversation with Lance.
    “I don’t get it,” Stone said. “If Lance already has a man in St. Marks, why did he send us down here?”
    “How the hell should I know?” Holly said irritably.
    “Take it easy; I’m curious, aren’t you?”
    “Of course I’m curious. I’m sorry if I was short, but Lance was very irritating. He’s usually very smooth and courteous.”
    “Maybe something else is eating him.”
    “I had the impression that he was introducing me to this Bill Pepper very reluctantly.”
    “Well, if the guy is working undercover in one of the Internet casinos, maybe he’s concerned about blowing him.”
    “Yeah, okay; maybe he was just in a bad mood,” Holly said.
    A t precisely twelve-fifteen, Holly dialed the number she had been given.
    “Yes?”
    “It’s Holly Barker.”
    “My wife and I will be at the inn for dinner at eight this evening; I’ll be wearing a bright green linen jacket. At nine-fifteen,