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MADELYN GIBBONS WAS pretentious. Every word she spoke was measured and calculated. Jack suspected she knew more than she was saying. About him. About the agency she worked for. And about the hundred thousand dollars. Though shifty and shrewd, she hadn’t completely dismissed him. Far from it. She reeled him in with her unconventional beauty, her cool regard, and her invitation to dine.

She met him promptly at six, dressed more casually than at the office. She carried a briefcase, a brown satchel bag with double handles and detachable shoulder strap, and she set it close to her feet. After the waiter arrived with menus, she said, “If you haven’t already noticed, Nauruan cuisine leaves much to be desired. Since the island is so remote, and freight and transport infrequent, what fresh vegetables and fruits we have are grown locally. The wine, though, is always superb.” She ordered for them.

The dining room was furnished with rattan chairs and handcrafted tables, and open to the outdoors. Ceiling fans lazily whirled above. Hurricane candles flickered on the tables. Torches lights sputtered out on the patio.

When the wine arrived, was dutifully decanted, and poured with alacrity into sturdy crystalline goblets, she offered a toast. “To fruitful relationships.”

After sipping the neon-red Shiraz, Jack nodded approvingly. From the start, neither had much to say. They were feeling each other out, and assessing weaknesses and strengths simply from body language and eye contact. Their earlier meeting had been contentious. This dinner was a truce, and an informal way to feel each other out.

After exchanging pleasantries about the island and the sights, Jack made a direct request. “I would like to set up several offshore accounts. On behalf of my client. Maybe here in Nauru. Maybe in other tax havens. Do you have some advice? Where to go? What to do?” His motives were pointed. He wanted to put off the contentiousness of their earlier meeting and pretend they were just two people talking money. He also wanted to get around the shell game they had been playing and aim straight at the heart of dirty money and everything that implied.

She dug into her purse and drew out a packet of cigarettes, lighting up before rattling off the well-rehearsed script. “The usual. Mexico. Cyprus. Seychelles. Cayman Islands, of course. The Channel Islands off England ... Guernsey, Jersey, and the Isle of Man. Bahamas. Turks and Caicos. Nevis. Barbados. Netherland Antilles. St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Bermuda. Panama. Switzerland, naturally, and nearby Austria. Cyprus. Costa Rica. Belize. And Vanuatu—our neighbor, so to speak—only six-hundred kilometers due south. We all offer IBCs—international business corporations—where ownership is hidden behind the name of the trustee.”

“Trustee?”

“An agency like ours. Or wherever the offshore account is set up. Often close to where an expatriate settles down. Not that this is your plan, mind. Or should I say, your client’s plan.” She let the implication sink in before going on. “In fact, you could live anywhere in the world since the money is only a debit card away. Parking funds in this way serves two purposes. Avoiding taxation. And hiding illegal activities.” She applied a slight lilt to the last word, almost like a question mark, as if suspecting his imaginary client of similar improprieties. “Not that your client’s business is any business of mine, except of course on a purely practical level. I only handle the disposition of said assets. Most clients like yours usually trust the people they’re dealing with to handle everything. It can be simple for those of us who daily work the loopholes. Or complicated for those who don’t.”

She possessed a practiced art of looking askance at him, as though putting her faith on intuition and instinct to a greater degree than direct observation. She was also testing him, trying to find out what he was about and how far she should trust him. In her line of business, relying on her gut was not only routine but the stuff of survival.

“You should also establish an OAPT—that’s an Offshore Asset Protection Trust, sometimes known as a Foreign Security Trust—where reliable individuals are named as beneficiaries. Again, a trustee is appointed to manage your account and underlying investments, making it impossible for litigants, lawyers, or governments to get at the assets. As an extra measure of security, an ancillary bank account is often set up in a country other than where the IBC is located, though this is purely a matter of preference. The bank issues a debit card to the bearer, which makes the funds available anywhere in the world. You should also establish an offshore mailing address. Depending on the country or countries you choose, everything can be set into motion within ten to twenty days.”

It wasn’t lost on him that she repeatedly used the words you and your. He pointed out the omission. “You probably meant to say him and his.”

“How astute of you to pick up on that.” She smiled thinly, as if both of them were in on the joke.

“And your percentage?”

“Fifteen,” she said without blinking. “It may seem steep, but in the end, it’s a true bargain, given our visibility and potential liabilities. If you’re in agreement, we can start with that hundred thousand dollars of yours. Yes, I know, I know. I led you to believe the money’s gone. How was I to know you are who you say you are?” Slyly she said, “Mister Finlay. Or is it still Mr. Harrier? Or perhaps ...” She let the sentence drift like the smoke at the tip of her cigarette. “Mr. Coyote?”

He eyed her over the rim of his wine glass. “There are several people who would pay a great deal for that information.”

She placed a finger across her pursed lips. “Mum’s the word. Discretion is our credo. In our line of business, we have to be careful. Your troubles have preceded you. One has only to dig deep enough to find the bodies. So many of them seem to follow you around. No worries,” she said, shrugging. “Should I want to contact your government and let them know where you are, and should they consider you important enough to track you down here, you would have already left the island. But ...” She paused to consider her words. “That leaves what we’re saying ... here ... tonight ... just between you and me. On a gut level, my instincts tell me I should be worried about you. After all, this evil twin of yours has already attacked once. Perhaps more than once.” Yet again she applied a humorous lilt to her suggestion, trying to draw him out. When he said nothing, she shrugged and went on. “I decided to trust you, so long as I can keep our relationship on a strictly professional basis. Where money is concerned, I’ve dealt with far more dangerous blokes than you appear to be.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

Laughter sparkled in her eyes. “And ...,” she said, drawing the word out, “if you’re satisfied with our services, we can handle everything from wherever you are in the world.”

“It’s only a hundred grand.”

“Money is money. But yes, you raise an interesting point. I would not offer our Grade-A services unless I thought this was but a down payment on a lucrative partnership. Or have I read you incorrectly?”

“You haven’t.”

“Fifty million,” she said levelly. She sat back, swirling the wine in her glass. “We get internet here, you know.” With a devilish glint in her eye, she drained the glass with a lift of her chin even while her eyes glared down at him. She deftly lowered the glass and allowed him to refill it. “I take it you won’t be returning to the States. Now or ever.” Once again, she left an implicit question mark at the end of her sentence.

“What drew you to that conclusion?”

“It wasn’t anything you said. Or maybe everything you didn’t say. I’ve run into men like you before. Living behind a shroud of secrecy. Either very rich or very cautious or both. They’ve learnt a thing or two about disappearing. Some, I suspect, are psychos or sociopaths. Others, professional crooks. I am leery by nature. And I don’t involve myself in other people’s business. I take them at face value, the total of their assets, no more and no less.” She tilted her head like a bird listens for sounds. “But I’ve taken an interest in you. You don’t fit the paradigm. You’re not sleazy or oily or flattering. I still do business with those kinds of men, mind. It costs me nothing. But you? I can’t fit you into a box. Except to say, irrespective of your obvious troubles, you seem adrift. Having said that ....” She lifted her glass. “Shall we drink on it? I’ll handle your financial affairs in complete confidentiality while you go about your business, wherever they may take you.”

He met her glass with his, both taking the moment to study each other.

“Now that our business has concluded on a happy note, we can sit back and enjoy.”

They shared the meal by candlelight. Fresh seafood captured that very day, skipjack for her and yellowfin for him. Fried rice marinated with coconut and cassava on the side. Crusty baked bread straight from the oven. Lettuce greens and tomatoes lightly sprinkled with a tasty vinaigrette and croutons. An assortment of cheeses. To round off the feast, a bowl of cubed mango with papaya sherbet. Each course was simple though ample, and more than satisfying. While eating, they wrapped themselves in a cocoon of trivialities and idle talk that became fused with the mutterings of their fellow diners. They finished off the wine and shared pleasantries. She asked after his private life back in the States. He gave her the highlights. Born in Texas. Mother gone. Father gone too, but who the hell knew where. Raised by his aunt and uncle.

“Wife?” she asked. “Kids?”

“None that I know of.”

“Surely you would know if you had a wife.”

He laughed at that, enjoying her company, and the way she went back and forth between dead seriousness and winking levity.

“I come from a very ordinary family. My father is an electrician by trade. My mother, a schoolteacher. Happily married. One brother, one sister. I’m the middle child. Went to school as my parents expected. Earned a degree in finance and accounting. Worked at a bank for a few years. But ....” She shrugged as if her autobiography were nothing special when clearly it was the essence of who she was. “As a little girl, I yearned for adventure. New places. Interesting people. When this job came along, I jumped at the chance. Especially after the divorce. And here I am. No happier, truth be told. But wiser? I plan to stay on. For a few more years, at least. Does that sound crackers? It’s a good life. And I could be strapped with a passel of whiny brats. The married life is for other women. I’m not that sort. And there you have it,” she said on a whimsical sigh. “I don’t know why I’m blabbering on. I usually don’t. I’m very private.”

A breath of sea air blew past their table. The candlelight danced before stilling. Conversation buzzed around them. Diners at a nearby table laughed. The waiter came by with the bill.

Madelyn reached into her satchel. “No, I must,” she said, heading off Jack’s protest. After sending off the waiter with his bounty, she swept up her wine glass, but seeing that it was empty, said, “Oh well ...,” as if it had brought an end to their evening. She propped her chin on a fist and glanced around the room, purposely avoiding his stare. Her ashen hair glowed in the diffused lighting, imparting to her profile an angelic appearance quite different from the indomitable woman who greeted him at the shack. She met his eyes. “I know why you’re running. But who exactly are you running from?”

Caught off guard by her directness, Jack chortled and shook his head.

“Come now. You can tell me.” She cast her eyes around. “It’s only we two here.”

They stared at each other, an impasse that said much with little. He still didn’t trust her, and she him.

Her mobile buzzed. She tore her eyes away and glanced down, reading the text message. She shrugged apologetically. “I regret I have another engagement. Perhaps tomorrow? I’ll give you a call. We can formalize the paperwork then. You can come to the office. Better yet, we can take care of everything in a less formal setting. Would a pleasure cruise suit you? Since you’ll never pass this way again, you may as well enjoy our little island before you go. Did you know Nauru was originally called Pleasant Island?”

She gathered up her shoulder bag, and standing, held out her hand. Instead of the stiff businesslike grip she offered before, her hand was pliable and responsive. He lingered over it, fixing his eyes on hers. In the subdued light of the dining room, they appeared nearly translucent with flecks of green and gold. There were two sides of Madelyn Gibbons, he decided. The standoffish version. And this one ... the welcoming version. He gently let go of her hand.

“Tomorrow then.” She headed out of the dining room, her leave-taking nimble.

Few women could measure up to Madelyn Gibbons, with her off-putting graces and her enigmatic personality. Jack never thought himself a Lothario, a man who could sweep ladies off their feet and take them to bed on a whim. Often, probably too often, he settled for what he could get. Liz Langdon was the exception and the ideal. In many ways, Madelyn and Liz were like each other. Not so much in looks as the way they held themselves, kept him at arm’s length, and challenged him. Their inner selves were programmed to precision, tightly wound with intelligence, aloofness, and a kind of beauty far exceeding most of the silly and giggly girls. A place existed deep down inside each woman, which no man could reach or ever hope to capture in his fist as a prize. Kathy Heathland was also cut of the same cloth.

He wandered into the hotel gaming room. Piped-in island music borrowed heavily from Latin and Caribbean rhythms was nearly drowned out by the clank of slot machines, the din of idle conversation, and the occasional shouts of gamblers at the craps table. Left with his beer and his reminiscences, John Harrier found an isolated table.

In the aloneness of being, he had learned how to enter the comfort of darkness, roam around the dimensions until he found a hidden corner, and celebrate his solitude with forlorn thoughts. Pleasant breezes found him. The sound of waves rolling onto shore in rhythmic cadence was hypnotic, lulling him into complacency. Weeks of shedding an old image, acquiring the trappings of a new one, and becoming a man represented by neither was the convoluted path that brought him to this place at this time. John Harrier was a sham, put together with a nickel-and-dime disguise and a counterfeit mindset. If he believed himself to be John Harrier, then he was left-handed and not right-handed. Muscular instead of lean. Of medium stature rather than tall. Farsighted and not near-sighted. Naïve instead of world-weary. But if he believed for the briefest of moments he really was Jack Coyote, then he must be an imposter living under the guise of child who died years ago, a child whose name was imprinted on his passport. Finally, if he was John Finlay, the boy he had been before his aunt and uncle adopted him, he would have looked at the world through a kaleidoscope of changing colors instead of the blacks and whites of evil and good. Put together, the man sitting on this hard chair at this scratched table was a complicated collage of misaligned shapes and colors. Try as he might, John Harrier could not forget that other man, the one who disappeared on a road leading out of Washington D.C., or indeed, the former prisoner of circumstance and bad judgment who had stared vacantly through his impregnable glass enclosure. He chuckled. In more ways than he cared to count, his current situation was more difficult to escape than solitary confinement.

Strangely, he was relieved Madelyn had found him out. It would make their dealings simpler, absent subterfuge and lying. What she would do with the information, he did not know. He would have to trust her. He had no other choice.