Another day passed while Karen waited for Charles’s instructions. This time she wasn’t nervous or afraid. Or surprised when she finally received them.

Just resolved.

Karen knew the place. They had sailed around there a couple of times. It was a beautiful spot on a horseshoe cove, a cluster of thatched bungalows nestled right on the beach. Completely remote.

Charles added:

There were many things Karen thought to say to him. But all she wrote back was:

RONALD TORBOR WRESTLED with what to do. That very morning he had looked up and seen Steven Hanson, the American, standing in front of his desk.

Come to close out his accounts.

The bank manager tried to camouflage his surprise. Since the two Americans had been to his house, he had prayed he would never see this man again. But here he was. All the while they talked and conducted business, Ronald’s heart was hammering out of his chest. As soon as the man left, Ronald rushed into the office bathroom. He splashed cold water all over his burning face.

What should he do?

He knew it was wrong—what those awful men had asked him to do. He knew it violated every fiduciary oath. That he would be fired if anyone found out. Lose everything he had worked for all these years.

And Ronald liked him. Mr. Steven Hanson. He was always cheerful and polite. He always had a good word to say about Ezra, whose picture was on Ronald’s desk and whom Hanson had seen once before when Ezra and Edith had been visiting in the bank.

But what choice did he have?

It was for his son that he was doing this.

The mustached man had promised—if he ever found out that Ronald had screwed him, they would be back. And if they had traced Hanson this far, they could trace him further. And if they found out his accounts had been transferred out, it would be worse for them. Edith and Ezra.

Far, far worse.

Ronald realized there was a lot more at stake than just his job. There was his family. They had threatened to kill him. Ezra. Ronald had vowed he could not see that look of fear in his wife’s eyes again.

Mr. Hanson, please understand. What choice do I have?

There was a pay telephone on the far end of the square outside the bank. Next to a bench, with an election poster on it, a picture of Nevis’s corrupt incumbent minister over the slogan TIME COME FOR DEM TO GO.

He put a pay card in the slot and punched in the international number he’d been given. Make sure I hear from you, Ronald, the mustached man had said as he left, patting Ezra’s head. “Nice boy.” He winked. “I’m sure he’ll have quite a future in life.”

The call connected. Ronald swallowed back his fear.

“Hello,” a voice answered. Ronald recognized its tone. Just hearing it again sent a shiver of shame and revulsion down his spine.

“It’s Ronald Torbor. From Nevis. You said to call.”

“Ronald. Good to hear from you,” the mustached man replied. “How’s Ezra? Getting along?”

“I’ve seen him,” Ronald said without responding. “The man you’re looking for. He was here today.”