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rolling in it. His villa's worth two million, the boat's worth three hundred and fifty grand, and wait till you see his women. ..."
His energized state persisted throughout a visit to the police station in Marbella. After that it began to drop away as the red tape piled up. They were eventually told they would have to pursue their business in deeper bureaucratic detail at a nearby government building.
Extradition, it transpired, was not straightforward. It began to look as if it belonged in the category of near-impossible procedures. One sheaf of paper promptly generated another, and each set of regulations they signed— without being offered options—effectively reduced their functional flexibility as police officers on foreign territory. After an hour in the government building Larry said he was going to call the Foreign Office in London and complain. Falcon restrained him.
"Come on now, Larry," he soothed. "Calm down. We've got to go through the procedures—"
"But they agreed! It's him!" Larry could see victory sliding out of his grasp. It was retribution, the penalty for being a fool. "How many more bloody papers have we got to sort through?"
The bureaucratic marathon finished a few minutes after two-thirty. As the three men were shown off the premises they were given a parting piece of information tailored to send Larry into a spiraling depression. Twenty minutes later, kneeling by Susan on the beach, he tried to explain.
"It's unbelievable," he told her, shaking his head. "They won't let us arrest him. They have to—'
"I don't want to hear." She was on her belly, her bathing suit pulled down at the back. The skin across her shoulders had gone deep pink. "I just don't want to hear. Have you got that?"
"Aw, come on," he cajoled, "this'll mean promotion. I knew it was him! I mean, just think what that'll mean, me spotting him and setting all this in motion. . . ."
DI Falcon appeared, still wearing his tie, carrying his jacket over his arm. He was a young man, only a couple of years older than Larry, with the tailor's-dummy tidiness of the career policeman. He dropped down on the sand beside Susan, first slackening the knees of his flannels.

"These bastards have got it sewn up over here," he announced. He had come from ten arduous minutes on the hotel telephone, being updated on the case by Comisario Dominguez. He squinted at Larry. "You remember

they picked up Frankie Day? Six months they held him and then let him go. He was on that bullion raid—we know it, they know it, but he's still here sunning himself. It's a ruddy fiasco!"
"So what about Myers?" Larry said.
"They're gonna get a search warrant, charge him with using a false passport. Shit, it's hot . . ." Falcon thumbed open the neck of his shirt and flapped a hand in front of his face. "Whatever rap we've got, it comes second in line." He frowned darkly at Larry. "I doubt if we'll get him out, you know."
"What?" Larry was incensed. "Myers doesn't come under their extradition policy!"
"Just calm down." Falcon said. "I think Dominguez is on our side." He glanced at Susan and nudged her gently. "You're looking a bit red."
Susan rolled over, deftly covering her breasts with a towel. She sat up, scowling.
"It could be rage," she said. "Larry, just see if the kids are okay, will you? They're in the water . . ."
"And get your skates on," Falcon added. "We've got to get back to the station—eef eet ees con-veen-yenti!"
"Don't bother!" Susan snapped. She scrambled to her feet, furious because Larry still hadn't moved. She hugged the towel about her. "Tony!" she screeched, marching off down the beach. "John!"
DI Falcon watched her go. He turned to Larry.
"Having a bit of aggro, are we?"
Larry started to say something, then he spotted DC Summers running toward them. Summers stopped in a flurry of sand, panting for breath.
"They're going to pick up Myers," he gasped. "The warrant's been issued. They got guys going over to his villa right now. . . ."
The ensuing