by David Manuel
At 8:30 the following morning, René Dupré, a.k.a. Laurent Devereux, received a call on his cell phone. “We need to meet. Call me back on a land line where you cannot be overheard, at this number.” And he gave him a number that only two other people knew.
28 captains courageous
Wednesday afternoon was O.K. Corral time for Anson Phelps and the boys from Marblehead (plus Colin Bennett). One of the seeded skippers had remained in New Zealand because after September 11, his syndicate, which had already invested $100 million in their effort, was loath to risk their ace flying anywhere near America. As a result, in the first round on Wednesday seven of the eight pairings would match a surviving unseeded skipper against a seeded one in a best-of-five duel. But the eighth match would pit two unseeds against each other: Anson Phelps and the very hot Danish captain, Søren Jansen, whom Anson had nicknamed Sørenski. The two were close friends who’d drained many a pint of Foster’s together, but on the racecourse they were fierce competitors.
This afternoon they would meet on the two-buoy course, with two windward and two leeward legs. The first crew to win three races would go on to the Quarter Finals on Friday. The other crew would go home. They were welcome to stay to the end, but most did not care for the taste of ashes and departed as quickly as they could get their stuff together.
The two captains had eaten a late breakfast together. At the end of the long bar on the RBYC terrace was a huge stainless steel coffee urn and beside it, a smaller, hot water urn for the tea drinkers. The competitors were thin, short-haired, and deepy tanned, except around the eyes, where their Oakleys had shielded them. The uniform of the day was khaki shorts, boat shoes or sandals, and polo shirts, mostly white, with racing insignia from previous Gold Cups, the older the better. (No one but cruise-shippers wore short sleeved, button down shirts.) They were cheerful, nonchalant—but tension was already building under the smiles.
Søren, nursing a Bloody Mary, admitted to being a bit hung over—but not as badly off as two of his crew, Bjørn and Goran. They’d been billeted with Gladys Bancroft, one of the stalwarts of the RBYC, whose sons and now grandsons regularly rounded the cans on Saturday afternoons.
Bjørn and Goran, three sheets to the wind and surfing home on a breaking wave of Foster’s, had gone to the wrong address. In the wee hours of the morning they had fumbled their way into the house—of the former prime minister. Shushing each other so as not to wake up their hostess, they had made their way upstairs in the dark and attempted to get into the large bed—which was already occupied by the former prime minister’s wife.
She was, in a word, shocked! But impeccably polite. As was her husband who, clad in bathrobe and pajamas, bundled the tipsy Danes into his Mini and delivered them to their rightful abode.
“But,” Søren had assured his rival, “they will be ready to sail this afternoon. And so will I.”
A captain’s mood invariably impressed itself on his crew. If the captain was calm and confident, so were they. Anson was tense. That morning, Charlie Thompson, the head of the Marblehead syndicate, had called him from 30,000 feet. He and his wife Katy were aboard his corporation’s Lear, and with them was a potential new backer who could make it largely possible for them to put a second boat in the water. They would ETA Bermuda at noon, in time to get to the yacht club to cheer on the Marble-headers. “And tonight, Anson,” added Charlie softly, so his passenger pigeon could not hear him, “we’re going to lighten his corporate wallet by twelve million dollars. So look good out there!”
“I’ll give it my best shot, Charlie. I always do, man!”
All captains were tense before a race like this; the stakes were too high. And the tension mounted as they entered the pre-race tableau. At some of the tonier, blue-blazer yacht clubs of New England, the four-minute countdown to the starting gun was signaled by a ceremonial brass cannon aboard the Commodore’s yacht. Things were a little less formal at the RBYC: The committee boat used an old shotgun. But the signal flags came up and down just as smartly, and the Race Director and his crew watched just as closely for the slightest infraction.
Half the races were won or lost right here, in the frantic pre-start maneuvering known as “the dance.” The boat that managed to cross the line upwind had the initial advantage and was often able to maintain it. But cross one second too soon, and you had to circle back around and cross again.
Anson had allowed Søren to get the jump on him and came across downwind, five seconds behind. At this point he should have shaken it off and concentrated on his tactics. Instead, he vented on his crew. And as their spirits sank, things started going terribly wrong.
Kerry yanked the jib line and managed to jam it—again. Then Anson really lost it, tearing a verbal strip off Kerry’s back. Though they managed to get it unstuck, they were 32 seconds behind at the first buoy. In match racing, that was an almost insurmountable lead.
But the Marbleheaders were actually sharper rounding the buoys, managing to pick up six seconds at the first, eight at the second. On the second upwind leg, Anson tried every trick he could think of to get out of Søren’s wind. He feinted and double-feinted…. To observers ashore the two boats were tacking and counter-tacking so fast they seemed to be almost shivering.
Once Anson even did the opposite of what his instincts were telling him, and Søren covered that, too, as if he was inside Anson’s head. That really unnerved the captain of the red-spinnaker boat.
As they cleared the last buoy and set up for the final downwind run to the finish line, Søren had a ten-second lead. The Marbleheaders gained on them, but not enough; the red spinnaker crossed the line four seconds behind the blue.
As they readied themselves for the next race, the Marblehead boat seemed shrouded in a blue haze of invective. Anson was a towering inferno, and Colin caught the brunt of it.
“You were no help to me out there, man! No help at all! Where is the Beater? You said he’d be here, but he’s not in the Marblehead boat, that’s for sure!”
Colin made no reply. And to make matters worse, at the beginning of the next race he blew the countdown, taking them over the start line two seconds ahead of the gun. They had to re-cross it, and it didn’t matter that they were now sailing much better—calm, smooth, and in synch. It didn’t matter that they actually picked up 43 seconds on the other boat on the last three legs. They still lost by six.
But at the end of the second race, Anson was no longer mad, no longer tense. What he was, was a great captain. “Now listen, guys, we’ve got them just where want them.”
They looked at him, mystified.
“You know the best tank the army ever had? It’s the Abrams.”
Now they were truly mystified.
“It’s named for General Creighton Abrams, and you know what he said during the Battle of the Bulge? ‘They’ve got us surrounded again, the poor bastards!’”
Colin smiled as Anson went on. “Well, these poor Danes think they’ve got this match in the bag! But what’s going to happen, as soon as we start pulling ahead? They’re going to tense up! While we get even more relaxed. I mean, guys, we’ve booted it anyway, so we might as well have some fun. Relax and enjoy ourselves!”
The rest of the crew began to smile.
“We’re sailing beautifully out there now, in case you haven’t noticed. We may have only one bullet left, but, you know what? We’re not going to miss. This boat is moving for us now. We’re faster than they are, and they know it. Just keep cool, keep your focus, have fun! And when we get done this afternoon, get your laundry done. Because we’re not going home. We’re going to the Quarters!”
“All right!” cried Kerry, as the others grinned, believing.
“Kerry, you’re smooth, man! And Alex? Just remember to breathe!”
They all laughed.
He turned to Colin. “You’ve got it now! The Beater’s back! Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. And pretty soon, you’re going to know it, too!”
“I know it now,” Colin decl
ared. “Anson, Søren’s been crowding the committee boat at the start. I know the Race Director. He doesn’t appreciate that particular tactic. Watch what he does. If I’m right, he’ll angle the start line. If we start at the other end, we should get a ten-foot lead.”
“You sure?”
“Trust me.”
“All right, Beater.”
Colin was right. The boats crossed the line together, one second after the shotgun. But the red spinnaker was just a little ahead.
And Colin found he could read the wind again—the next wind. “When we round the buoy,” he shouted to Anson, “hold off on the spinnaker. They’ll raise theirs, but let them. Just use the jib. The wind’s going to be coming from over there,” and he pointed to the southwest.
As they came off the buoy, only the blue spinnaker ballooned out—and then, as the wind suddenly gusted across the course, the Danish boat started rolling from side to side uncontrollably, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.
Anson got ahead—and stayed ahead. “We’re zoned, boys!” he cried, as they crossed the line nearly a minute ahead.
Just before the next race, as they circled tight to the start line, Anson shouted across to the other boat, “Hey, Søren-ski! Concede now, and we can start drinking early!”
“Big talk for someone who’s got to win two in a row!” the Dane shouted back. “You want to put a grand on it?”
“Absolutely!”
They crossed the start line side by side, working a fickle, shifting headwind. But all Colin’s old instincts were back. He knew what the wind was going to do, before the first telltale sign. As his confidence rose, Søren’s waned, until he paid the Marblehead boat the supreme compliment: Whatever tack they took, he copied them.
That technique worked fine, up until the last buoy, when Anson wound up with the starboard tack, forcing Søren to give way.
Now they were even at two up, and Anson, was ecstatic. As they circled in the final countdown, he called out, “Sørenski! I’ve got a bungee cord, a long one—you need it?”
Colin winced, throwing a look at Anson, who just laughed. “I’m gaming him,” he murmured. “Get him angry enough, he’ll start doing stupid things.”
He turned to the other boat and cupped his hands. “Yo, Sørenski! You’re looking really good today, man! I hope someone’s videotaping you! Highlights at eleven!”
“Anson, you—“and he called him a Danish expletive.
“Wait a minute,” shouted Anson back, thumbing through an imaginary Danish-English dictionary. “Hey, man, that’s not in here! But I think I got it from the context!”
That elicited a more vehement response. At the end of which Søren called to him: “You want to double?”
“Absolutely!”
This time, during the dance, Colin took them close to the committee boat—a little too close. They actually brushed it, which earned them a penalty. It could have cost them the race—and the match—except that Søren was laughing so hard, he forgot to watch where he was going and sailed out of the box. Another penalty. The race was even again.
And it stayed even, with neither boat gaining an advantage. But at the final buoy, Colin sensed that the wind was about to lighten. “Anson, drop the jib—now—and when we’re halfway round, start the spinnaker up.”
“You sure, man?” It was a risky maneuver. If Colin was wrong, if the wind stayed up, the spinnaker would blow out.
“I’m sure. Do it!”
As they rounded the buoy, Alex hauled the red spinnaker up. In the other boat, Søren grinned, convinced they’d gotten greedy and blown it.
And then the wind dropped—just enough. Like a big red umbrella popping open, the spinnaker ballooned out—eight seconds before the blue one.
With that slenderest of leads, Anson gave Colin the con. The latter anticipated each of Søren’s increasingly desperate maneuvers, so deftly it was as if he were inside the Dane’s head.
The two boats sailed in tandem down the final leg, like skaters waltzing. The wind was steady now, and in the cerulean sky above them, two Bermuda longtails soared as one.
“This is why we do this, guys!” exulted Anson at the top of his lungs. “This is the way we always dreamed it would be!”
They were ahead by eight seconds, as they approached the finish line—and roared with laughter. On the committee boat, the Race Director and crew, in the event of another too close encounter with the Marblehead boat, had all donned their yellow life vests!
When they’d tied up and turned over the sails and the boat to the yacht club staff, they walked four abreast down the long dock to the club. In their red sailing shirts, with a certain swagger to their gait, they arrived, looking like resplendent matadors.
And were showered with praise. Charlie Thompson’s friend was so excited, he was already talking about the second boat they would need. And one of Neil and Marcia Carrington’s friends wondered if it was too late to join the Marblehead syndicate.
Towards the end of the evening, Anson, feeling no pain, took Colin aside. At the same table at which they’d sat at a few days before, he said, “Listen, Beater, it looks like the second boat’s a lock. I want you at its wheel, man, and when we go for the Auld Mug, I want you right next to me, strategizing.”
It was a perfect evening, thought Colin, as he drove the old Hillman home. Well, almost perfect. Perfect would have been to have Amy there to share it.
When he got back to the apartment, there was a FedEx waiting for him. Opening it, he started reading, and all his euphoria drained away. It was the decision from the divorce court hearing. The judge had awarded custody of their son to Amy, with once-a-year visitation rights. And there would be a lump-sum settlement for child support: $50,000. It was due in thirty days, or his property would be sold at auction.
He had no money, and the only piece of his property that was worth anything was Care Away.
29 tying up loose ends
A weather front was moving in. Dark clouds roiled over Bermuda’s low hills. Against them the white houses seemed stark and ghostly. It would rain soon.
The two men sitting on the blue tile terrace were not enjoying the view. They were not enjoying anything this morning—least of all, this hastily arranged meeting.
“We have a problem,” said the owner in clipped, precise tones. “Let me rephrase: You have a problem.”
Dupré waited.
“Remember that potential ‘loose end’ you told me about?”
“The boy Eric?”
The owner nodded. “Well, it seems there are two loose ends! And they are about to unravel.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you also have a young associate named Darryl Jones? Goes by the name of Jonesy?”
Dupré nodded. “He’s in the Somerset Church’s youth group.”
“It would seem that, despite your precautions, your activities Saturday night were observed. Through a loose slat in the bathroom shutter. By Jonesy, who told Eric, who is scheduled to appear at the Somerset police station at four o’clock this afternoon.”
“What?”
“To meet with Cochrane.”
“Mercredi! You’re certain?”
The owner did not bother to answer what they both knew was a foolish question.
The Frenchman reflected on the evening in question. “I did check the shutters from the outside of the house. Though I was not expecting to use the bathroom—in that fashion. The boy must have come up to the house, even though the post light was off. Must have nosed about, perhaps heard something….” He looked at the owner. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Yes!” declared the latter with biting sarcasm. “Concerning something else you should have told me.” His colleague looked surprised; the owner had never taken this tone with him before. “Who’s this policeman from Cape Cod? Staying at Sandys House, like yourself?”
“What, Burke? He’s nothing!” He gave a dismissive flicking gesture. “I didn’t tell you
about him, because there’s nothing to tell. He’s a cipher.”
The owner frowned at him over the tips of his tapping fingers. “Well, it seems that your cipher is going to accompany the boy to the police station. He has apparently gained the boy’s trust and has persuaded him to talk to Cochrane.”
Dupré stared at him, speechless.
Thoroughly disgusted with the whole turn of events, the owner looked up at the gathering storm. “We should go in now. In five minutes, we’ll wish we had.”
Dupré, deep in thought, followed him in to the solarium. “Has the boy talked to Burke? Told him about—me?”
“If he had, you’d be in custody. But I gather he’s about to tell Cochrane everything.”
The Frenchman sighed. “Time to tie up loose ends.”
“I should think so! Clearly it should have been done before now.”
“There’s still time,” said Dupré calmly. “I’ve provided Jonesy with a pager. I’ll use it to summon him to the house after dark. He will be too frightened not to come. And Eric I will see this noon.”
“Won’t he be in school?”
The Frenchman nodded. “They have a recess after lunch. We have a system: Every Thursday, I drive past the school at 12:40. He sees me, and we rendezvous at a corner four blocks away, as quickly as he can get there. I supply him with what he needs, and he’s back in school by one o’clock.” Dupré smiled. “Today is Thursday.”
“He won’t be—apprehensive?”
“Why should he be? He has no knowledge that we’re aware of his intent. And he’s undoubtedly been advised to act as if nothing is different. I’ll wait at the corner for him, as always. He’ll get in the car, as always, and I’ll drive around the block, as always, while he tells me what he needs.”
It grew darker. Rain started to pelt the tall windows, and Dupré stood and went to the nearest one. He studied the pattern the drops made as they ran together, joining into miniature rivers.