Now the chopper veered sharply east, heading away from the string of keys and out over open water. They flew for so long—ten minutes, maybe more—Pickett began to wonder if the pilot was lost. Ahead lay only blue, stretching out to the sea horizon.

But no—that was not quite true. Squinting through his dark glasses, Pickett could just make out a tiny speck of green, appearing now and then almost coquettishly over the most distant waves. He looked a moment longer, then reached back into the passenger compartment and grabbed the heavy marine binoculars. Through the glass, the speck turned into a self-contained oasis of greenery, a tiny ecosystem amid the ocean.

He lowered the binoculars. “Is that it?”

The man nodded.

Pickett glanced down at the map. “There’s nothing on the chart.”

The man nodded again, this time with a grin. “I’m still wondering how much that little bitty piece of land cost.”

Pickett took another look at the island as the chopper skimmed over a coral reef. It was approaching quickly now, the placid water turning pale emerald as the bottom shallowed. What had seemed a riot of jungle sorted itself into palm trees, as trim and serried as lines of grenadiers. He could make out shapes between the trees, bone-white against the green: strategically placed guard towers, discreet but equipped with machine guns. And now a long, low boathouse appeared, artfully hidden in the verdant growth, two vessels barely visible within, next to a long pier that stretched out into the turquoise.

The chopper slowed, banking around the boathouse. On the far side of the pier, a pair of helipads had been built out over the water. They sparkled as if barely used.

The pilot circled as he descended, then landed neatly on one of the pads. Pickett grabbed his briefcase, opened the door, and stepped out into the blinding sun. As he did so, two men appeared from the shade of the trees and walked down the dock to meet him. Their skin was the color of cinnamon, and they were dressed in black berets with bloused olive shirts and matching shorts, neatly pressed—straight out of the British Raj, with a touch of Caribbean.

They smiled and shook hands, then led Pickett back up the dock and along gracefully curving paths of crushed shell, punctuated by marble benches set into the foliage, heavy with tropical flowers. They climbed a set of marble stairs, went down another pathway, climbed again. Despite the sun, it was cool under the palms, and a gentle but constant breeze stirred the flower-fragrant air. Now and then, Pickett spied buildings between the trees: alabaster marble, like every other structure. Here and there a peacock strutted across the walk, and huge parrots stared down at them from bottlebrush trees. The island appeared sparsely occupied, just a few men and women whom Pickett infrequently glimpsed at a distance through openings in the trees, or across long, verdant areas of grass, dressed in the same garb as his guides.

At last, after mounting yet another staircase, grander and longer, and skirting a sculpture of Poseidon, the two guides stopped before a shadowy passage. They indicated he was to go on alone. He thanked them, paused a moment, then walked forward through the archway.

He found himself in a roofed colonnade, supported by Corinthian columns of the same snowy marble. As he began to walk down its length, stripes of sun painted the walkway, and a distant murmur of conversation from ahead was almost drowned out by birdsong. At the far end, the colonnade opened into a peristyle surrounding a courtyard lined with potted plants. At the center, two artfully poised cherubim fountains sent streams of water puckishly at each other.

At the rear of the courtyard, several chairs had been placed beneath a vined trellis, and it was here Pickett at last spied Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast. He was wearing a white linen suit similar to the one Pickett recalled from their meeting a fortnight or so earlier at a rooftop bar in Miami Beach. One leg was flung over the other, and beautifully made loafers of buttery leather were on his feet.

Two men in the same omnipresent uniform stood on either side of the trellis. But there was another person present as well. To Pickett’s surprise, a woman occupied the chair nearest Pendergast. She was young, in her early twenties, and as Pickett approached he saw she was strikingly beautiful, with violet eyes and dark hair cut in a short, stylish bob. She was dressed in pale organdy and was holding a book in one hand—a French book, apparently, titled À rebours. She looked him over with a cool impassivity that for some reason made Pickett uncomfortable. This must be Constance Greene, Pendergast’s ward. He had heard a little about her, and had tried to learn more, but there seemed to be scant information, even in the FBI databases. There was something almost otherworldly about her that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was the eyes. It was as if, Pickett thought, those eyes, so cool and steady, had seen everything, and were thus fazed by nothing.

The girl cleared her throat to speak and, realizing he was staring, Pickett glanced away.

“Look, my lord,” she said in a surprisingly deep, velvety contralto. “It comes.”

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” Pendergast murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Pickett asked after a moment, taking a step forward.

“You must forgive Constance her little jokes.” Pendergast turned to her. “My dear, I’m afraid ADC Pickett does not share your fondness for literary allusions.”

She nodded. “Perhaps it’s for the better.”

Pendergast motioned Pickett toward an empty chair. “Please, have a seat. And may I introduce the two of you: Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett of the FBI—my ward, Constance Greene.”

Pickett took her hand and sat, placing his briefcase down. In the silence that ensued, he glanced past the courtyard and down the colonnade, flanked with its stately palms. He could see the light jade of the ocean in the distance, beyond the line of greenery. It was a beautiful spot: impossibly private, impossibly tranquil—and no doubt impossibly expensive.

Pickett disliked unnecessary opulence. But this place nevertheless appealed to him on a visceral level. It seemed as elegant, and as rarefied, as a rainbow arcing over a waterfall. Yes, he could indeed get used to it.

“Would you care for a drink?” Pendergast raised his glass, containing a cloudy crimson beverage.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Our hosts tell me it’s a native concoction, good for the digestion.”

“Don’t try it,” Constance warned. “I’ve had a sip of the ‘native concoction,’ and it tasted like brined formaldehyde.” She gestured at Pendergast. “He’s been drinking them practically since we arrived. Don’t you notice his head beginning to shrink already?”

In response, Pendergast took a deep sip. “Constance, don’t make me send you to your room without supper.”

“May I ask what you’re drinking?” Pickett asked her.

“Lillet Blanc with a wedge of key lime.”

Pickett wasn’t inclined to take a chance on that, either.

Pendergast called over one of the uniformed men, who asked for Pickett’s order. “Daiquiri,” he said. The man retreated with a faint nod, almost immediately returning with the drink.

“Leave it to you to find this place,” Pickett said. “Something about it makes me think of Atlantis.”

“And like Atlantis,” Pendergast replied in his honeyed drawl, “nature will no doubt ensure it shall soon be submerged. Now seemed the ideal time to enjoy it.”