A Matter of Time (29 page)

“You don’t want that any more than I do,” replied his guest with a quiet smile.

Put off by his calm demeanor, the owner wheeled on him. “You don’t seem to get it!
They know who you are!
A witness saw you dispose of the Jones boy’s body. An artist has done a sketch. It’s going to be on the news tonight, and
on the front page of every paper tomorrow! A remarkably good rendering, by the way; you really should have it framed!”

Dupré stood up and shot him a glance. He’d had enough. “No, Monsieur le Grand!” he retorted, a hard edge to his voice. “It’s
you
who don’t seem to ‘get it’! If I go down because you have refused to help me, guess who’s going down with me!”

The owner glared at him and said nothing. Then he slowly smiled. “I was wondering if it would come to this.
I can promise you that before you could open your mouth to implicate me, you’d be shot ‘attempting to escape.’”

Instead of replying, the guest held up a large manila envelope, stamped and addressed. “This is a letter which I’m about to
mail to my associate in New York. In it are three other sealed envelopes addressed to Bermuda’s Prime Minister, to the Leader
of the Opposition, and to the Governor General. My cover letter instructs my associate that in the event of my untimely demise
while in custody, they are to be mailed immediately. Each contains the identical document—a detailed description of our operation
from its inception. Dates, times, names, Bermuda bank accounts, Swiss bank accounts, plus the names of our agent on each island.
Your role, my role, Vincennes’ role—
le tout ensemble!
”

The owner blanched.

Dupré let him chew on that. Then in a more moderate tone, he added, “But if I die under circumstances that are not suspicious,
they will not be sent. Or if I am caught through my own stupidity, I will keep my mouth shut. I will preserve your precious
anonymity—and the possibility of eventually resurrecting our joint venture.”

His partner relaxed somewhat, but the Frenchman wasn’t finished. “Stupidity is one thing, however; the callous refusal of
aid to a comrade in peril is quite another. That is tantamount to betrayal.”

Both men knew that, as it once was in the Resistance, in their high-risk field of endeavor, betrayal was the darkest of crimes.

The owner smiled. “I think we can reach an accommodation. What exactly is it that you would like from me?”

“As I said before, I want to meet the Carringtons. At
the club. This afternoon. They know Anson Phelps. And he knows someone who can help me.”

“Sorry, but I told you that was impossible. Nothing’s changed, I’m afraid—”

The Frenchman simply waved the envelope.

The owner stared at it, perhaps imagining the reaction of—his friends—when they read its contents. “All right, I’ll make a
call,” he said with a sigh. “But I want that envelope before you leave.”

“Oh,” replied the Frenchman with a wry smile, “there is one more thing. I need $50,000, U.S.”

“There’s more than that in either of the accounts.”

“And whose name are those accounts in? Monsieur Devereux, I’m afraid, has been declared
persona non grata
. I’d be picked up immediately.”

The owner tapped his fingers together, his brow furrowed as he considered his options. There were none. “Wait here. I’ll get
it for you.”

“I’ll come,” countered his guest.

“Suit yourself.”

They went into the library, a long paneled room whose temperature and humidity were carefully controlled to protect the five
thousand volumes on shelves from floor to ceiling. To reach titles on the upper shelves, there was an elegant wheeled step-ladder
of Bermuda cedar.

At the far end was a huge oil portrait of the owner in a colonel’s field uniform, with a burning jungle in the background.
On the wall to the left of the portrait was a dress sword, and beneath it on the polished teak floor a regimental drum. To
the right of the portrait was an illuminated display case with all the owner’s decorations.

As the Frenchmen examined them, the owner seemed
pleased. “I still wear them,” he murmured, “to the Governor General’s reception on the Queen’s Birthday.”

His guest made no reply.

The owner pushed a hidden button on the frame of the display case, and it swung away from the wall, revealing a small safe.
He stepped in front of it, to block his guest’s view of exactly where the dial stopped, as he spun it deftly, left, right,
and left. Opening it, he brought out five packets of U.S. hundred dollar bills.

The Frenchman, looking over his shoulder and seeing more packets in the safe, said, “Better make it eight.”

“You said $50,000.”

“I’ll need walking around money.”

“That’s ridiculous! You’ll be carrying cashier’s checks for $20 million!”

“All sealed, with receipts for each agent, in waterproof wrapping. What would you have me do? Borrow from our employees?”

The owner turned back to the safe and withdrew three more packets, which he handed to his guest. Then he closed the safe firmly,
as if to emphasize that there would be no further demands.

“I shall keep an account of your expenses!”

“Suit yourself,” replied the Frenchman with a shrug.

But he did relinquish the envelope. Honor was restored.

“Darling, are you almost ready?”

“I’m in the shower, darling.”

“I know that. Are you almost ready?”

“How can I be ready if I’m in the shower?”

“Darling, I told Dieter our ETD was 1800 hours.”

“And darling, I told
you:
Never talk nautical to me.”

“Sorry.”

“But you keep
doing
it! If you were sorry, you’d stop!”

“All right. I told Dieter we wanted to leave at six.”

“What time is it now?

“Three-twenty.”

“See? You can do it, if you want to.”

“Do what?”

“Talk normal time.”

“Darling, are you almost ready? I want to say goodbye to Anson.”

“You think
I
don’t?
I’m
the reason we’re here, remember?”

“Yes.”

“And
I
invited Tim and Lydia, and Stuart and Stacey.”

“You’ll be glad to know, they were able to get on the last plane.”

“That’s a relief! I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“Listen, put a shake on it, will you?”

“Darling, I’m packed! Have you checked us out?”

“Yes.”

“Then cool your jets! I’m almost done!”

“I got a call from the Vice Commodore. Apparently there’s a French entrepreneur over at the club, who might be interested
in joining the Marblehead syndicate. He asked me to introduce him to Anson.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? All that mumbo-jumbo about 1800 hours! Darling, be a darling and bring me that towel?”

36
  
  
force nine

On the flagpole in front of Harbour Radio, the red flag of Bermuda with the Union Jack in the hoist quadrant was starched
by the rising wind. High above, the clouds were racing as before, but the sky was no longer blue. It was a milky, gray-white.

Inside the command center, every scope was manned, and voice communication was kept to a minimum. Only Senior Watch Officer
Shackleton could ask questions, and he asked a lot of them. The answers were instantly forthcoming.

“Moberly, any idea how long this—
thing
is going to sit on us?”

“Bermuda Weather does not expect movement until early tomorrow morning. Then it will track out of here to the north.”

“Current wind velocity?”

“At 1500 hours, it was steady at thirty to thirty-five knots, gusting to fifty.”

Shackleton moved down the row. “Marshall, what have we still got to worry about in Hamilton?”

“The
Royal Dane
has cleared the channel and is now
in open water. The yachts
Fairborn
and
Allesandra
are due to weigh anchor within the hour.”

Shackleton moved to the next scope. “Lightbourne? St. George’s.”

“The
Scandinavian Sovereign
couldn’t make it. She’s going to tough it out at Ordnance Island.”

“Get the tugs on her that I promised. And tell her to double her lines.”

“The captain’s already done that, and the tugs are underway.”

“Good. What about yachts?”

“All away, except
Laventura
. She’s due out at 1800.”

“Some people always wait to the last minute,” muttered Shackleton.

The alert bell rang. “Mr. Shackleton?” It was Moberly. “Hurricane Center in Miami’s just upgraded our little event again.
It’s now a force nine gale.”

Chaos reigned as Colin pulled up to the club. The Gold Cup had been canceled. Boat owners were taking what measures they could
to ensure the safety of their craft.

In the midst of all this activity, the inside paneled bar was an oasis of calm. People were having drinks there, as if nothing
unusual was going on about them. It gave Colin the eerie feeling of what it must have been like in the First Class Lounge
on the
Titanic
—after the iceberg but before the summons to the boat deck.

One of the group at the bar was Anson, who detached himself and waved him over. “Where’ve you been, man? Your cell phone’s
not working.”

Colin pulled it out and looked at it. “I turned it off over
at my brother’s and forgot to turn it on again.” He remedied that. “My nephew’s missing. The police think it may have something
to do with the murder.”

“Oh, man, that’s heavy! Are the police—optimistic?”

“Not really. They’ve never dealt with anything like this.” Colin looked at his friend. “How come you’re still here? I heard
nothing but storm warnings on the way over.”

“I’m on the last flight to Boston, if it still goes.” Anson glanced at his watch, a black-faced Submariner like Colin’s—awarded
them on the same long-ago afternoon. “I’ll be heading for the airport in about ten minutes. I was just hanging, to see if
you’d show before I had to go.”

Anson lowered his voice. “Listen, Beater! I’ve got a hot one for you. You know your—problem?” He beamed. “I may have the solution.”

Anson nodded toward the bar, to the group he’d just left. “See the guy with Neil and Marcia? He’s French, name of René Dupré.
The Vice Commodore put him in touch with them. He’s a venture capitalist, heading up a consortium of high rollers in Paris.
Since France doesn’t have a boat in the next America’s Cup, he wants to join our syndicate. I gave him Charlie’s card and
told him to call him.”

“Charlie’s gone?”

Anson nodded. “Bugged out a couple of hours ago, at the first sign of bad weather.”

Colin glanced at the bar. Each evening the Carringtons had insisted on buying them supper, which was fine with him. And now
Marcia, seeing him looking their way, waved. He waved back. The Frenchman looked vaguely familiar. Had he been at the White
Horse a couple of nights ago, when Colin had stopped for a nightcap?

He frowned. “Nice for you, Anson, but what’s that got to do with me?”

“After I gave him Charlie’s card, he asked me if I knew anyone with a sailboat for charter. Said he’d been working wicked
hard all year long—as point man for his group—and wanted to go on holiday. A
long
holiday—all winter long. Soon as possible. He wanted to hire a boat and its captain to take him down to the islands, and
just beat around the Caribbean.” Anson grinned. “I immediately thought of you, man.”