David Miller unbuttoned his navy blazer and gestured toward the double doors of the ship’s quiet library.

“I have a table reserved away from the lounge, Mrs.

Whitman,” David said.

I followed him into the dim room, where two green lamps cast circles of light across polished mahogany desks.

He pulled out a heavy armchair for me before taking the seat across from it.

From his coat pocket, he took out a thick cream envelope sealed with red tape and set it on the blotter between us.

“Marcus Vance asked me to track you down before the ship reached Cozumel,” David said.