The Betrayers by Donald Hamilton

I could do it safely. Sometimes they’re gone for several days, of course, but once in a while they’re back in six hours or less. You couldn’t get to Hawaii and back in that time, not in the fastest boat in the Islands. You’d have to be averaging over sixty knots in open water. The boats they have are lucky to do thirty-five wide open in a sheltered lagoon.”
    My opinion of her was rising again; at least she’d got some facts and done some thinking about them. “Where do these speedboats hang out?” I asked.
    “Right here in the Honolulu yacht basin. There are two of them, registered under different owners—one outboard and one inboard—but only one is there now, the outboard. The other’s been missing since two nights ago. They usually make the trip at night. I suppose it’s at K. Maybe it took the Chinese delegation over with whatever they brought.”
    “But you don’t know what that is?”
    “No.”
    “Does Monk have some kind of house or headquarters around here?”
    “Yes, he’s renting a big house in a fashionable district behind Diamond Head, under the name of Rath. It’s a pink house with a swimming pool—”
    “Never mind that,” I said. “I’m not about to play detective around there unless the situation changes drastically. Let’s get back to K. Say you’re right, and we can eliminate Oahu, Maui, and Hawaii. What about the smaller islands? There are some, aren’t there?”
    “Well, Lanai is just a big pineapple plantation. It’s low and flat and pretty well cultivated. I can’t see it as a hideout. Kahoolawe is used by the military for bombing practice. It’s in restricted waters and any private boat sticking its nose in there would be challenged at once. Niihau is privately owned and strangers would be very conspicuous. And that’s about it. Of course there are plenty of small, deserted islets along the coasts, but most of them are just volcanic rocks sticking out of the water, hard to land on and mostly visible from shore, so any unusual activity would attract attention.” She shook her head. “I think it’s on one of the main islands close by. There’s a stretch on the northwest coast of Kauai that’s pretty deserted. I suppose K could be there.”
    “But you obviously don’t think it is,” I said. “Let’s hear your real theory.”
    “I think it’s on Molokai,” she said. “That’s only some thirty miles southeast of here, within easy range of a fast boat in good weather, and it has all of the qualifications. I’d be willing to bet five to one on Molokai.”
    “The leper colony?”
    “Please, Mr. Helm! We call it Hansen’s disease these days.”
    “And old fogies are senior citizens, and house trailersare mobile homes,” I said grimly. “Three cheers for the age of double-talk. But who’d park a hideout in the middle of a bunch of, er, victims of Hansen’s disease, with the flesh peeling off the bones? I mean, it’s a great cover, but what if you catch the bug?”
    Jill laughed. “It isn’t nearly as communicable as the old stories would make you think, Matt. Furthermore, contrary to the popular conception, Molokai is a fairly large and pleasant island inhabited mainly by ordinary, healthy people. The Kalaupapa colony occupies just a small, inaccessible peninsula below the sheer cliffs of the north coast. The rest is pineapple, sugar cane, and mountains. Quite high mountains. Five thousand feet or so. They take up the whole northeast corner of Molokai; actually most of the eastern half. There’s a road along the south shore, but it barely turns the end of the island. From there back to Kalaupapa on the north side—the windward side—are twenty-odd miles of empty shore on which nobody lives nowadays: some of the wildest coast you can imagine. Mountains rising right out of the sea. Deep gorges, high waterfalls, impenetrable jungles. And Molokai is the least developed of all the islands. It has no tourist accommodations to amount to anything; you