by Stuart Woods
Stone looked down at the space between them and found that his own shoes were getting wet. “We seem to have sprung a leak,” he said, heading for the dock.
By the time he reached it and got Marisa out of the boat, Stone was ankle deep in lake water. With the help of the dockmaster, he wrestled the boat onto the pontoon and tipped it over enough to empty out most of the water. “Are all your boats this leaky?” Stone asked the man.
“None of them, until now. They’ve all been recently refurbished.”
Stone inspected the little hole in the stern, then the sun glinted on copper. He reached into the boat and came back with a jacketed slug.
“What’s that?” the dockmaster asked.
“Something that fell out of my pocket,” Stone replied, looking carefully around for opposition but seeing none.
“Shall we get another boat?” Marisa asked.
“Let’s go home and get some dry shoes,” he said.
19
Stone and Marisa went upstairs to change, and he dumped his trousers, damp to the calf, into a hamper, along with his sweaty shirt and underwear, and put trees into his wet shoes. At least they had grown up wet, being alligator.
The phone rang, and he sat on the bedside and answered it. “Hello?”
“It’s Ed Rawls. How you doing?”
“I’m not sure,” Stone replied.
“That sounds ominous.”
“I was on the boat lake in Central Park after lunch, and somebody put a round through the stern of my rowboat. I found a .23 slug in the bottom of the boat after we hauled it in.”
“Just sitting there, not in your leg?”
“I figure it must have been fired into the water at the stern, and that took a lot of muzzle velocity off it, otherwise it might have hit one of us.”
“So you were rowing a lady around the Central Park boat lake? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“It doesn’t feel like me, either,” Stone said, “but I was cajoled into it with the promise of better things.”
Rawls chuckled. “Better collect before she forgets.”
“In the meantime, I’ve had a shot across my bows, even if it was into the stern.”
“They’re not going to go on warning you forever,” Ed said. “Maybe it’s time you made a move.”
“Maybe so. You got any suggestions?”
“Well, my source tells me that Macher is spending a few days on St. Clair’s yacht up here,” Rawls said. “I’ve seen the chopper going back and forth from Rockland.”
“You don’t have a rocket-propelled grenade launcher handy, do you?”
“Well, no, but I could probably find you one pretty quick. But that might be more of a statement than you want to make at this point in the game.”
“I guess so.”
“I wouldn’t rule it out for later, though,” Rawls said, “if they hurt somebody. In the meantime there might be another alternative.”
“Tell me.”
Rawls told him.
“I like it,” Stone said. “It’s better than tit for tat, but it doesn’t escalate things to the point where he’ll have to respond with something life-threatening.”
“I’ll take care of it, then,” Rawls said, and the two men hung up.
Marisa had sat down next to him, equally naked. “I seem to recall promising you better things in return for the boat ride.”
She pushed him back onto the bed.
“Do with me as you will,” Stone said.
And she did.
—
ERIK MACHER AND his guests were just finishing their second bottle of wine with their lunch, when the captain came and motioned for Macher to leave the table.
“What is it?” Macher asked. “We’re having lunch.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the Coast Guard has just hailed us, and they’re coming aboard for an inspection.”
“What kind of inspection?” Macher demanded. He didn’t know anything about boats or the Coast Guard.
“It will be a routine equipment inspection,” the captain said. “They’ll want to see everything on the required emergency equipment list—life rafts, vests, flares, that sort of thing.”
“Is there any reason why that should disturb our lunch?”
“I just wanted you to be aware of their presence,” the captain said. “They’re coming aboard now from a rigid inflatable. Please excuse me.” He went to receive the boarding party.
A moment later, a young woman in uniform appeared in the dining room. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Graves of the United States Coast Guard. We’ve come aboard to conduct an investigation.”
“An investigation?” Macher said. “I thought this was an equipment check.”
“That, too,” she replied. “Now, I’ll need the names, addresses, dates of birth, and Social Security numbers of everyone aboard, crew and guests, and I’ll need photo IDs for everyone. Please fill out these forms individually.” She distributed documents and pens.
“We’re in the middle of lunch,” Macher said, outraged.
“Not anymore,” she replied. “Please bring the completed forms, one at a time, to the afterdeck. In the meantime, members of my crew will be conducting a search belowdecks for contraband.”
“Contraband? What sort of contraband.”
“We’ll know it when we see it,” she said. “Now please fill out the forms, then come to the afterdeck, one at a time.”
“I’m terribly sorry about this,” Macher said to his guests, “but I suppose we’ll have to permit it.” Everyone began filling out the forms.
—
MACHER BROUGHT UP the rear of the procession to the afterdeck and handed the lieutenant his completed form. The yacht’s captain was there, watching as she inspected the yacht’s paperwork.
“Mr. Macher, you’re the owner here?”
“The owner, as you will have seen in our registration documents, is a Delaware corporation,” he replied stiffly.
“Do you represent the owner?”
“I am the president and chief executive officer of St. Clair Enterprises, which owns all of the stock in the corporation.”
“Then you are the owner, for the purposes of our investigation.”
“I suppose so.”
“Who, may I ask, occupies the large cabin and sitting room forward in the yacht?”
“That is the owner’s cabin, and I and my companion occupy it.”
“Then,” she said, holding up a zippered plastic bag half-filled with a white powder, “this belongs to you?”
“It does not,” Macher said. “What is it?”
“I suspect it of being cocaine. I would think that there was more in the bag recently.”
“I have never seen that before.”
“Who occupied the cabin before you?”
“That would be Mr. Christian St. Clair, who is deceased. This is the first time I have been aboard the yacht, and I did not bring that powder, whatever it is, aboard.”
“Were you personally acquainted with Mr. St. Clair?”
“I was. I was his principal colleague in the company.”
“And did you know him well enough to suspect that he was an abuser of illegal substances?”
“We were not close personally,” Macher replied.
“Very well, Mr. Macher. We will confiscate the powder and have it analyzed.” She consulted his form. “This is your correct business and personal address?”
“It is.”
“Then we will be in touch following the completion of the lab work. In the meantime, you may wish to consult an attorney with maritime experience.”
“I shall certainly do so,” Macher replied.
The coastguardsmen and their captain returned to their vessel and departed the yacht, and Macher was left to explain to his guests why they had been disturbed.
He was so furious he forgot about his planned afternoon tryst.
20
Jake Herman stood at a loose parade rest before Erik Macher’
s desk in Christian St. Clair’s old library. He noticed that Macher seemed to have acquired a slight facial tic, the sudden lifting of his left eyebrow for no apparent reason.
“Good morning, sir,” Jake said.
“Not so,” Macher replied. “I have just had a long weekend of cruising aboard my yacht interrupted by a visit from the Coast Guard.”
“Ah, yes, that happens, sir. They like to check to see if a boat has all the required emergency equipment.”
“This was something more than that,” Macher replied. “They did an investigatory search of the yacht, going through the guest cabins and the owner’s cabin.”
“Did they find anything of consequence?”
“They came up with a plastic bag containing a white powder.”
“Uh-oh.”
“It wasn’t my white powder!” Macher yelled, losing it for a moment, then regaining control of himself.
“Of course not, sir.”
“St. Clair must have left it there.”
“Most probably, sir. Were there any consequences of this discovery?”
“A stern lecture from the captain of the Coast Guard vessel—a woman, for God’s sake! She’s having it tested in their laboratory, said she’d get back to me.”
“I don’t believe the Coast Guard has a laboratory, sir, so it probably went to the FBI lab for analysis. Have you taken any defensive steps?”
“The woman advised me to hire an attorney with maritime experience.”
“That’s probably good advice.”
“I have a call in to Tommy Berenson, our corporate counsel.”
“A good move.”
“What happens if the powder is cocaine?” Macher demanded.
“Well, conceivably, charges for possession could be brought, or if there is a substantial quantity, a charge for intent to sell might be added.”
“It was the first time I’d ever set foot on the yacht! I hadn’t even unpacked my bags!”
“In that case, a good attorney might be able to persuade them not to bring charges, since it was clearly left there by a previous occupant—one now deceased, I might add, and that should stand in your stead.”
“Jake, I smell a rat here, one named Stone Barrington. Do you think he might have been able to instigate these events?”
“Well, sir, anyone could call the Coast Guard and report that a yacht carrying drugs is sailing in Penobscot Bay, and the Coast Guard would be obliged to investigate such a report.”
“Even if the report were anonymous? I can’t imagine Barrington giving them his name.”
“Yes, sir, even an anonymous report. Of course, any person making such a report that was false and malicious would be subject to arrest for making a false report.”
“Aha!”
“However, if the substance found aboard turns out to be cocaine or heroin or some other illegal drug, the report would not have been false. In some circumstances he might even be financially rewarded, if the drugs were of sufficient value.”
Macher made a groaning noise.
“Sir, I would suggest that this incident is unlikely to result in a prosecution because of insufficient evidence. I think the best thing would be to consult your attorney to see if any legal moves were indicated, then to just be patient and wait for the lab to issue its report.”
“I am a little short of patience,” Macher said.
“Sir, I originally came in to report on yesterday’s incident in Central Park.”
“Oh, yes, I had forgotten. What happened?”
“We found Barrington and the Carlsson woman in a rowboat on the Central Park lake. One of my men very carefully fired a silenced round into the boat, causing it to spring a serious leak.”
“Heh, heh,” Macher said.
“Barrington managed to get the boat to the dock before it could sink, but he was seen to recover the spent round from it, so he knows that he has received a warning.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear!” Macher said, brightening visibly. “Now he knows where we stand.”
“Sir, this event took place early Saturday afternoon. When did your brush with the Coast Guard happen?”
“Late Saturday afternoon.”
“So that event could have been in response to the earlier one.”
Macher pondered that. “I see what you mean,” he said. “So the ball could be back in our court?”
“Possibly, sir.”
“Then we need to respond more forcibly.”
“If I may suggest, sir, it might be prudent to wait to hear from the Coast Guard before proceeding.”
“Oh, yes,” Macher said, sounding disappointed.
“I could do some preplanning for a response and get back to you,” Jake said.
“Yes, good, Jake, you do that.”
“Please let me know about the lab report from the Coast Guard,” Jake said. “It could affect our planning.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll do that.”
Jake left Macher as he had found him, including the eyebrow twitch, which was still there.
Macher got Tommy Berenson on the phone.
“Good day, Erik,” the attorney said.
“Good day. I may require some legal advice from an attorney with a knowledge of maritime law.”
“Shoot.”
Macher gave him an account of the stopping of the yacht and the subsequent search and powder found.
“First of all, Erik, I must ask you—and your reply is covered under attorney-client confidentiality—was this powder yours, and is it cocaine?”
“Tommy, I have just explained to you the exact circumstances.”
“Yes, but in this case, I need to know if we are up against an actual violation of the law, or just some awful coincidence.”
“Do not make me recount the events. What I have told you is the truth.”
“Then it is not cocaine?”
“I have no idea—it wasn’t mine.”
“Then it is not your cocaine?”
“Tommy,” Macher said, and his voice was a little shaky, “if I have to explain this to you again, I am going to do so with my hands around your throat.”
“I think it’s best to wait for the lab report, then discuss how to proceed from there.”
Macher slammed down the phone with a whimper.
21
Charles Fox listened to the recording from the tiny bug he had placed in Macher’s office and smiled. The man sounded as if he were coming unglued, and that was exactly what Fox wished to happen. He knew that a board meeting had been called for later that morning, and he would record that, as well.
—
MACHER ROSE AS the board members filed into his office and took their seats at the conference table. He sat down opposite them. “Good morning, gentlemen. What is the purpose of this meeting?”
“The purpose,” the chairman said drily, “is to discuss the failure of the takeover bid for the Carlsson Clinic.”
“Are you implying that this is my failure?” Macher asked.
“Erik, you are the CEO—the buck stops with you.”
“May I remind you that Christian St. Clair initiated the takeover bid, presumably with the agreement of this board? And that Christian made a bid that could only be described as ‘lowball,’ thus starting a bidding war?”
“While both of those things are nominally true,” the chairman said, “they are irrelevant. We are discussing your actions.”
“I took no actions,” Erik said.
“Exactly. And there are times when no action is an affirmative action.”
“Because of the lowball nature of Christian’s bid, my only option was to offer a price higher than I deemed the clinic to be worth,” Macher said through gritted teeth. “I am not in the business of paying more than a thing is worth. Had we offered the one hundred and fifty percent to begin with, we would now control the Carlsson Clinic. You may complain to the ghost of Christian St. Clair about that.”
“Also,” the chairman said, “
it has come to the attention of the board that you are now a suspect in the smuggling of a large quantity of cocaine aboard the company yacht.”
Macher shot a glance at Tommy Berenson, whose gaze was now directed at a point at the approximate height of the room’s crown molding. “I want you all to listen to me very carefully,” Macher said, and he gave them an account of the incident aboard the yacht. “I hope that is perfectly clear, because I am not going to explain it to you again.”
“So,” said the chairman, “as I understand it, we will not know for some time whether these charges are true.”
“There are no charges extant,” Macher said.
“I must tell you frankly, Erik, that if these charges are substantiated, we will be required to demand your resignation with immediate effect.”
“What charges?”
“Surely you have heard everything I have said,” the chairman said.
“Of course, but apparently you have heard nothing I have said. Let me put it this way—there are two possible outcomes to this investigation. First, that the substance found is not cocaine, in which case no charges will be filed. Second, that the substance is cocaine, in which case the culprit will be seen to be Christian St. Clair, who will not appear to speak in his defense.”
“So you say.”
“So I say. Is there anything else to discuss?”
“Not at this moment.”
“Good. This meeting is adjourned. Tommy, you remain.”
The men filed out, and Berenson remained. A thin film of perspiration had appeared on his upper lip.
“Erik, I have not violated your confidence,” Berenson said.
“Then how did news of the incident aboard the yacht come to the board’s attention?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know it would be brought up.”
“Tommy, if you are lying to me you will pay dearly.”
“I swear to you, I had no knowledge of this, and I have spoken to no one about our conversation.”
“Very well, I will take your word for it. You may go.”
Berenson went, and quickly.
—
IN HIS OFFICE, Charles Fox listened with considerable amusement. When the recording had finished, he took out a cell phone and called Ed Rawls.
“Hey, Charley, what’s going on around there?”
“In a word, Ed, pandemonium.”
“I’m happy to hear it. Is this the result of our collaboration on the Coast Guard event?”