A Matter of Time

by David Manuel

  “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 sup
per, 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.”

  Colin stared at his friend, hope beginning to build for the first time since the FedEx had arrived. “Is he—for real?”

  “I think so. I said I knew someone who might be available, and of course, Marcia, piped up, ‘Oh, you mean, Colin?’” He shook his head. “That woman—”

  “Hurry up, man,” Colin urged his friend. “You’ve got to go, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He glanced at his watch, and his eyebrows rose. “I really do! Anyway, he asked me how much this Colin would charge, and I asked him how much was he prepared to pay.”

  Colin shook his head and grinned. “I can’t believe this! Go on.”

  “When he mentioned two thousand a week, I said no way! The gig’s worth at least three. He said, three? I said, we’re talking about the best skipper in Bermuda! And what’s more, he’s going to need a signed contract for twenty weeks. A letter of agreement will do, but he’s got to see half the money up front!”

  Colin’s mouth fell open. “Did he—swallow that?”

  Anson laughed, “Well, he looked as if he was going to choke, but—he accepted it.” He clapped Colin on the shoulder. “Man, that’s thirty long! And with this,” he produced an envelope with Colin’s name on it, “you’re two-thirds there! Just take the boat and this client and—disappear. By the time you come back here, you’ll have your nut.”

  Colin was dumbstruck.

  “Come on, man, you got to meet this guy, ‘cause I’ve got to go!”

  “Wait a sec,” Colin said, his voice thick, “I got to tell you, Anson; you’re the—” He couldn’t finish it.

  “Forget it, man,” Anson replied gruffly, taking his friend by the arm over to the group. “Like I said, me and the Beater’s going to be doing a lot of sailing together.”

  To the Frenchman he announced, “Here’s the man I told you about. And now I’ve got to take off!” And he did, like a shot.

  “Colin,” said Marcia, ever the hostess, “this is René Dupré. He knows friends of ours at the Cap, and he wants to charter you for the whole winter! Isn’t that absolutely fabulous?”

  Colin looked at the Frenchmen, who met his gaze. Neither man spoke.

  Marcia, puzzled, was about to speak, when Neil turned to her and quietly said, “Just shut up, darling.”

  “But shouldn’t they be negotiating, or something?”

  “They are.”

  “Oh. A guy thing.”

  “Yes, darling. Be still now.”

  Colin didn’t care for the feeling he was getting from this man. He seemed charming enough, but there was cold steel behind those eyes. In fact, under any other circumstances he’d decline this proposition—graciously, of course. This was not a man he wanted to spend a week with, let alone a winter. But beggars could not be choosers, he reminded himself, and he could put up with a lot to keep Care Away. For three grand a week, he could even put up with this one’s faux charm.

  Colin turned to Marcia and gave her the full Lands End smile. He hadn’t used it in years, but it still had the desired effect. “Marcia,” he said sweetly, “we need to be alone now, for just a few moments.” He beamed at her. “We’re going to sit down over there, do our deal, and come back, soon as we’re done, I promise.”

  “Actually, take your time,” Neil said. “We’ve got to leave ourselves. Right now,” he said, glancing at Marcia, so she would know he meant it. “We’re sailing at—1800 hours.” (Marcia would just have to learn that this was the way men of the sea talked.)

  “Well, I hope it all works out!” gushed Marcia at Colin. “From what René tells me, you’re going to be in a lot of the same ports we are, at around the same time. Think of the fun we’ll have!”

  “Come along, darling. It’s nearly 1630.”

  Colin and the Frenchman sat down. “I gather Anson gave you my terms.”

  The Frenchman nodded.

  “They’re acceptable?”

  “Quite.”

  Colin smiled. “Good. I also understand you’d like to leave ASAP. Is Saturday soon enough? The storm will be well out of here by then, and far enough to the north that we should have smooth sailing all the way down.”

  “I want to leave now. This afternoon.”

  “Oh, man! Have you got any idea how rough it’s going to be, if we head south?”

  “The Carringtons are leaving now.”

  “Yeah, under power. They’ll be seventy miles south of here by the time this storm reaches its full intensity! I talked to their captain last night. Their real captain. Their engine’s bigger than my whole boat! And they’ve got enough fuel to motor halfway to England, if need be.”

  Colin laughed sardonically. “I’ve enough fuel to make it back into the harbor, if anything happens—as long as I’m not more than twenty miles out.”

  The Frenchman looked at him with his ball-bearing gaze. “I don’t care how rough it gets. I want to leave this afternoon.”

  Colin took a long time before replying. “Well, I’m sorry, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Laventura can get away from this storm. We can’t.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “You bet! Only a fool wouldn’t be. I’ve been through two gales at sea. I don’t ever want to go through another.”

  “I was told you’re the best sailor on the island.”

  “Anson tell you that? You should take what he says with a grain of salt.”

  “Anson—and others.”

  So he had been at the White Horse! Checking him out! “I’m sorry, Monsieur Du—”

  “René,” the Frenchman interrupted. “If we’re going to be spending the winter together, we might as well be informal.”

  “Well—René, the answer’s still the same. Unless you agree to wait until Saturday, you and I are not going to be spending the winter together—and incidentally, I do cherchez les femmes; les hommes are not my cuppa.”

  The Frenchman inspected his nails. “Regarding our departure, how much would it take to overcome your—reluctance?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Dupré pursed his lips, “suppose I were to increase the advance—give you, say $45,000, up front—would that do it?”

  Colin looked at him, his eyes narrowing. Someone at the White Horse must have talked. He tried to remember whom he told about the judgment. It was probably Mike. The bartender was a friend—but hardly a Sphinx.

  He took a deep breath. If he said yes, that would make a total of $48,000, plus what he could get for the Rolex. He could keep Care Away. And he wouldn’t even have to ask his brother for a loan. But it would mean putting his beloved boat—and himself—at extreme risk.

  When he didn’t respond, the Frenchman said quietly, “I will pay in cash.”

  Colin exhaled. $45,000! What kind of venture capitalist carried that kind of cash around?

  As if he could read that thought, the Frenchman explained, “In my business, checks often bounce. Even checks that one would assume were good as gold. Also, cash clears immediately—whereas, for a check of that size, one might have to wait a week for it to clear.” He smiled. “By that time, we’ll be halfway to Antigua.”

  He had a point—several points, in fact. Yet there was a distinctly unsavory aroma about this deal. The only people on the island with that kind of cash were druggies. But he was a friend of
Neil and Marcia’s, and was going to join the Marblehead syndicate. He had to be all right!

  Colin took it to the bottom line: Life without Amy and their son was misery. Life without Care Away, too, would be—unbearable. Not worth living. Might as well put his life on the line.

  Looking at his watch, he said, “I’ll pick you up at the East End Wharf on St. David’s, next to the Black Horse Tavern,” he glanced at his watch, “in one hour. How much gear will you have”

  “Two duffle bags and a hang bag.”

  “Got your passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to do it in. I’ll get the charts we need, and a couple of weeks’ provisions. Then I’ve got to go to the Harbormaster’s office and file our departure plan and intended destination: me and one passenger bound for Antigua—and points south.”

  “Must you file this plan? Can we not just go?”

  “Well, they’re a little sticky about that sort of thing. In fact, they wouldn’t let me leave without it. Normally we’re supposed to file the day before, but under the circumstances, with them evacuating all possible craft, I don’t think we’ll have a problem. They’ll be glad to have us out of there.”

  The Frenchman shook his head. “When you file, say nothing about a passenger. You’re sailing alone. And you’re not sailing to Antigua; you’re going to Bar Harbor, where you went last summer.”

  “Sorry, Monsieur—René, I can’t do that. It’s illegal. I’ll lose my license.”

  “So you changed your mind in the middle of the ocean? It can’t be that uncommon.”

  It wasn’t, thought Colin. But you were expected to advise your home port of any change in plan at your next port of call. He was liking the prospect of this voyage less and less.

  “We’ll make the advance an even $50,000,” said the Frenchman, and he stuck out his hand.

  This was no venture capitalist, Colin thought. He shuddered. If it was drugs this guy was into, he might know something about what happened to Eric. And if I pursue this thought any further—I’ll be going to the police, not Antigua, and Care Away will be going to the auction block. Besides, he rationalized, it was not as if he’d not done some shady running in his day; most of the captains had. He’d be careful, keep a weather eye out. And not pursue this thought any further.