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surprised.
    “Miram Shah either is or was the deputy head of Pakistani security. I gather he has spent a fair amount of time in Washington interacting with the CIA. But you don’t sound like CIA to me, Mr. Trembath.”
    He barked out a laugh. “No, no, definitely not CIA. British Intelligence a world ago. MI-6.”
    “That’s what? Britain’s external intelligence service?”
    “Correct. More formally known as the Secret Intelligence Service. I was assigned to Islamabad ten years ago, liaising with the then-deputy chief’s staff. That’s how I got to know Miram. When he retired, he persuaded me to go along with him and provide security.”
    “And help find lost girlfriends?”
    Trembath took the jibe in stride. “Let’s just say the job comes with unexpected demands.”
    “What’s he doing on Useppa Island?”
    “Why, this is where he lives, Mr. Callister. He’s fallen in love with your wonderful country, and one of your wondrous women, and now you can help him find her.”
    “What do you think, Mr. Trembath? Any idea what’s happened to Elizabeth?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t, old chap. I’ve been pretty much kept out of the loop on this whole matter.”
    Chandio re-emerged from the house, carrying the gin and tonic in one white gloved hand and a gray-metal strongbox in the other. He handed the gin to Trembath and then placed the box on the glass-topped table. “Ah, here we are,” Trembath said, taking a long sip from his drink.
    Chandio stepped away, standing casually at attention as Trembath opened the strong box to reveal stacks of hundred dollar bills that looked as though Chandio had just run them off a printing press in the house. Trembath grabbed at a wad of bills as if he planned to disperse them to the egrets flying past. Instead, he quickly counted out a pile of hundreds and offered them to Tree. “There’s three thousand dollars to get you started.”
    Tree looked at the money in Trembath’s hand and said, “I’m not sure what I can do.”
    Trembath just smiled. “Why don’t we find out?”
    Tree took the money. He noticed Chandio. His sober face was devoid of expression. His black eyes, however, filled with a combination of fire and disdain for these duplicitous westerners.

6
    On the trip back, Tree kept his eyes focused on Captain Jim’s back, while marveling how he once again had allowed himself to be talked into getting tangled up with Elizabeth Traven.
    A former journalist before she married the now-deceased media mogul Brand Traven, Elizabeth had written biographies of Lenin and Trotsky. But inside the writer, beat the heart of a conniving, manipulative liar who could never, never be trusted.
    The mask of her beauty allowed Elizabeth to get away with, literally, in Freddie’s estimation, murder. She accused Tree of being like most of the men Elizabeth encountered, totally infatuated, and thus blind to her devious nature.
    Tree hotly denied this, even as he knew that as part of Elizabeth’s seemingly endless campaign to twist him around her little finger, she had once awkwardly attempted to seduce him. The memory of that night lingered, no question, but that did not stop him from protesting loudly that he was not attracted to Elizabeth Traven—he loved his wife too much—and even if he was, he was too smart to ever get mixed up with her again.
    Yet try as he might he could not—or would not—resist the temptation. Was it the money? That’s what he would tell himself. But maybe something else as well, a strange alchemy that inevitably drew him to her. Plain curiosity, too, he supposed—what the devil was Elizabeth up to now?
    He drove south away from the South Seas Island Resort after Captain Jim dropped him off, deciding that since Elizabeth’s house on Captiva Drive was nearby, he would stop by for a visit, and perhaps get some understanding of what this was all about.
    Was she really planning to marry the former head of Pakistani security? With a former spy from MI-6 as