by Stuart Woods
Time passed. The telephone suddenly rang, the extra-loud bell that Finbar had rigged cutting over the howl of the wind. I wished to God that I could answer it. It rang twelve times before it stopped. It had to be Mark, and when he got no reply he’d assume that I hadn’t gone to the boatyard. It began to sink in that no help would come before morning, when Finbar or Mark arrived. My legs were getting tired, I was having to switch about every three minutes. I knew I would not be able to hold out for another ten or eleven hours. I craned my neck and looked up at the hull. I knew, too, that I could not let go of the timber and get out of the way fast enough before the hull fell on me. I was stuck, and as well as being tired, I was starting to get scared.
A cramp started to creep into my left leg, which was pushing to keep the pressure on the timber. I made the switch, and almost immediately my right leg began to cramp, too. I was going to have to let go and try to get out of the way; maybe I could dive under the hull and get clear near the keel, but if the lead keel hit me, that would be even worse than being struck by the hull, which, without all its interior supports, might at least give a little. Changing back to my left leg, I measured the distance; six or seven feet to get clear, I reckoned. God, I thought, tomorrow morning they’re going to find me under the smashed hull, squashed like a bug. Poor Mark, he was going to lose three, four months on rebuilding. I gathered myself for the dive, taking deep breaths; I would go on three. One … two …
There was a loud, metallic clank from across the shed. Someone had slid back the iron bolt that fastened the door. The door creaked open, and I heard a footstep on the cement floor.
“Mark?” I called out. There was no reply. My leg was cramping badly, trembling with fatigue; I was not sure I could switch to the other leg, now, without losing the timber, everything. Footsteps walked slowly toward me; I couldn’t see over my shoulder.
“And what would you be doing, Willie?” a voice asked. I knew the voice.
“For Christ’s sake, get some weight on this with me! I’m about to lose it!”
A figure appeared in the corner of my eye. I heard the scrape of another timber on the concrete, heard it bump against the hull. “Hang on,” the voice said. He walked a few steps away and came back. I could feel the shock through the hull and down my timber as he pounded the other four-by-four into place with the sledgehammer. “Hang on another minute,” he said, then repeated the process on the other side of me. “Okay, relax.”
I let go of the timber and sank to my knees, panting. “You all right?” he asked, taking my arm. “Better get out from under there in case it goes.” He helped me move a few steps away. My legs were both cramped up, and I could not walk properly. I sat back and looked into his face for the first time, trying to relax.
“Denny?” Now I was worried again.
He shook his head. “Donal.”
I heaved a great sigh. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
“What happened? How did you get into that fix?”
I told him. He didn’t seem surprised. “What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“What are you both doing here?” The voice made us both jump. Mark stood just inside the door; as he walked toward us I saw the .45 automatic pistol in his hand, dangling at his side.
Donal recovered first. “I was passing and saw Willie’s car. I found him holding that up, all by himself,” he said, pointing at the hull.
“Jesus,” Mark said, “Let’s get some more support in there.” I tried to get up but couldn’t. Mark and Donal quickly picked up the other timbers and jammed them into place. When the hull was secure, Mark put a ladder against it, climbed in, hooked the chain lift to the inside of the hull and took up the slack on the chain. “That’ll hold it till morning when the full crew gets in. We’ll have to get it vertical again, then rechock it and hammer the chocks to the concrete with spikes.” He checked to see that the little rail car on which the hull rested was still safely chocked. “Now, what the hell happened?”
I told my story again while rubbing my legs. “It’s damn lucky you came by when you did, Donal. What made you stop?”
“Dunno. Just a feeling something was wrong, I guess.”
Mark nodded. “I had the same feeling.”
Donal didn’t ask Mark why he was carrying a gun. He seemed to think it perfectly normal.
23
WE AGONIZED over the near-loss of the hull (and of me) for a day or two, but in the end could only put it down as an accident. Mark reckoned that one supporting beam had fallen, setting up a slight rocking motion that dislodged others. We had no evidence whatever that it had been deliberately done and had to accept the timely arrival of Donal O’Donnell as simply fortuitous.
Things continued at the yard in a perfectly normal way. Work progressed; Denny O’Donnell remained surly but useful. He was the yard’s electrician and did his work well. Donal remained friendly, if a bit removed. We fitted the engine into the hull before the decks went on, for easier access. Denny began work on the installation of the wiring harness, which Mark had designed. We were tense for a while, half expecting another “accident,” but nothing happened, and after a while we relaxed. I did, at least. Mark seemed to be increasingly worried about something. I waited for him to tell me about it, and when he didn’t, I finally asked.
“Thrasher told you he would be in touch, is that right?”
“It was the last thing he said to me in London.”
“Well, I haven’t heard from him, and our next payment to the yard is due on December fifteenth, less than a week to go. I’m going to have to come up with more than thirty thousand pounds.”
“He didn’t give you all the money at once?”
Mark shook his head. “No, it was to come in installments.”
“Why don’t you call him, then?”
Mark looked grim. “I tried. The London number he gave me has been disconnected. I called his building firm’s offices, but was met with a blank wall. They wouldn’t even take a message.”
“Well, I’ve got a couple of thousand pounds in the bank, here, you’re welcome to that if you need it.”
“Thanks, Willie, but I’m going to have to give Finbar a much bigger check than that.”
“Won’t Finbar wait a bit?”
“I can’t ask him to do that. Finbar borrows to buy materials and pay for labor. If he doesn’t get paid, the bank will attach the hull and sell it, since the yard has title to it until the contract price is paid. Then, since he’s committed his yard to this project until the spring, he’ll have no other work and will have to lay off his crew. He could even lose the boatyard to the bank.”
“I may know another way to get in touch with Derek,” I said. I went into Finbar’s office, dug the card from my wallet and placed the call. It was some minutes before she came on the line. “Jane?”
“Will? How nice to hear from you! Are you coming to Paris?”
“Not right away. How’s the world of international banking?”
“Not bad, but the social life is killing me.”
“Not a bad way to go.”
“And I love every minute of it.”
“Listen, Jane, do you know where Derek is? Can you get in touch with him?”
There was a silence for a moment. “What’s the problem?”
I explained.
“I’m sorry, Will, but I haven’t seen Derek since London. I’ve talked with him once, briefly, but since the bomb in Berkeley Square he’s been keeping a very low profile. There were rumors that they were after him, personally.”
“I see. Well, if he should contact you, would you ask him to get in touch with Mark? It’s very important.”
“Of course, but it’s unlikely that I’ll hear from him. How are things in Ireland?”
“Damp. As usual. Paris?”
“Very nice, lately. Say, what are you doing New Year’s Eve?”
“No plans, yet. My folks are coming to visit my grandfather for Christmas, but they leave before New Year’s.”
“
Why don’t you come to Paris?”
“Paris for New Year’s?” Mark nodded and mouthed the word, ‘go.’ Connie had already asked me to a party, and I had accepted, but I didn’t hesitate. “That sounds terrific.”
“Wonderful! How long can you stay?”
“Not more than a couple of days. Things are going hot and heavy at the boatyard. Will you book me a hotel room?”
“Nonsense, you’ll stay with me. I’ve got a lovely flat.” She gave me the address. “Bring your dinner jacket. We get terribly elegant in Paris.”
“Okay.” I didn’t have a dinner jacket, but I had my new American Express card. We chatted for a moment longer, then hung up. I shook my head. “She doesn’t know how to reach him. But if she hears from him, she’ll ask him to call.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway. Not to worry, we’ve got a few days yet.” We headed back to the waiting boat, but he still looked worried.
On Saturday afternoon I went to see Connie and found Sister Mary Margaret there again. I had chatted with her briefly several times, now, and found her intelligent and, as a nun, disconcertingly attractive. I would catch myself trying to figure out what sort of body was hidden beneath the habit, and I think she suspected my thoughts once, because she blushed and left shortly thereafter.
“How goes it with the boat, Will?” Connie asked, when she had got me a drink.
“Very well, indeed, with the boat, but Mark hasn’t heard from the sponsor for a while, and there’s a payment coming due.”
“Where is your Mr. Thrasher these days?” Sister Mary Margaret asked. “The papers say he’s dropped out of sight.”
I was startled, then remembered that Connie had told her about Thrasher. “I’ve no idea, and, apparently, neither does anybody else since the bombing in London.”
“There’s been another one,” Connie said, handing me a newspaper. A restaurant in Chelsea had been ripped apart and two people killed.
“I don’t understand those creeps,” I said heatedly. “What do they have to gain by killing innocent Londoners in a restaurant?”
The nun looked at me sharply. “What makes you so sure they’re innocent?”
“You mean they might have been after somebody in particular?”
“No, but they were English.”
“And what does that make them guilty of?”
“They allow themselves a government that persecutes people in the North. When a people are fighting for their freedom as Catholics in Ulster are, the war has to be taken to the home of the oppressor. When England understands that the war will be taken to English cities and not just to Belfast and Derry, maybe they’ll consider that they’ve been in Ireland long enough.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this from a nun. “That’s the sort of thinking that’s behind things like the attack on the Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics.”
“If you like.” She was reddening, now.
“Oh, Will,” Connie broke in, “you mustn’t get Maeve started on the British in the North.”
The nun rose. “I’ve got to get moving, so you needn’t worry about a lecture.”
Connie walked her to the door. Shortly, I heard the convent van drive away. “Jesus, Connie, does she really believe all that stuff?”
“She’s stifled at the convent, Will. She has no one to talk with about this sort of thing, so when she does the marketing she stops by and chats with me, lets off some steam.”
“But does she really believe that terrorism is okay?”
Connie wheeled on me. “Now don’t you get started on something and somebody you don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? It sounded to me as though she was clearly taking a stand in favor of the murder of innocent civilians to achieve a political end.”
“Isn’t that what happens in any war? It’s what the Germans and the British did to each other, murdered each other’s civilians.”
“It’s not quite the same thing.”
“Well, the civilians were just as dead.” She held up a hand to stop me from speaking further. “Now listen, I’m not going to argue politics with you, Will Lee. If you want a pleasant evening around here, just you stop it right now.”
I knew what she meant by a pleasant evening, and I changed the subject very quickly. Later, she turned to me in the dark. “Say, I’ve got a lovely new dress for New Year’s; you’ll love it—lots of cleavage.”
I winced. “Jesus, Connie, I forgot. You know my folks are coming at Christmastime—well, they’re going on to Paris from here and have asked me to come with them. They called today. Do you mind?” I had not even thought about the lie; it just came rolling out.
“Oh. Well, sure, you’d better go, then.”
The disappointment in her voice was clear. If I hadn’t been such a shit I’d have felt like one.
24
I WOKE AT TEN the next morning to find the bed empty and a note saying she had gone to mass and was spending the day with her parents. I dressed and drove slowly back to the cottage, lured by the thought of the roast beef I knew Annie would be preparing. Mark and Annie had a strong streak of English traditionalism in them, and never was it more apparent than when Annie put a joint of beef or a leg of lamb on the Sunday table. I stopped in Carrigaline and picked up the English Sunday papers, The Sunday Times and The Observer. We didn’t see the papers often, but a nap after lunch and a browse through them seemed a pleasant prospect.
The smell of the cooking beef struck me before I was even inside the cottage. I closed the door. “Hey, that really smells good!”
“Shhh!” Annie cautioned, sticking her head out from the kitchen. “Mark’s sleeping in.” She pointed to a pad beside the phone. “Your father called last night and asked that you call him back at that number.”
She went back to her cooking and I called the international operator and asked for the number, which was to the apartment my parents kept in Atlanta. I waited somewhat nervously for the operator to call back. Neither of my parents used the long distance telephone with me very often, preferring to write and be written to. I was worried that something might be wrong. The ringing of the phone jolted me.
“Hello, Will?” my father’s voice came over the line, scratchy and faint.
“Hello, Dad, I’m afraid we haven’t got a very good line. I’m sorry to call so early, but I thought it might be important.” It was five hours earlier in Atlanta. “Is something wrong?”
“Not really; we’re all fine. But I had a call from a London newspaper yesterday. They knew about our dinner with Derek Thrasher and were calling to find out what I knew about him.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I confirmed that we had dinner and that I hadn’t met Mr. Thrasher before that time or since; said that he was an acquaintance of yours and Jane’s. They wanted to know how to get in touch with you; I said you were traveling in Ireland. I don’t know how resourceful they are, but I doubt if they’ll find you.”
“Why would they be interested in a dinner that took place nearly a month ago?
“They wouldn’t say. I had the impression they had some sort of story and didn’t want to leak any details until they’d published. Have you heard anything about him over there?”
“No, but I’ve just bought the Sunday papers. I’ll go through them and call you back if there’s anything. How are you and Mother doing?”
“We’re just fine. You knew Jimmy Carter won the governor’s race?” My father had been a strong supporter of Carl Sanders, Carter’s opponent.
“Mom wrote me. I’m sorry about that; I know it’ll cause some complications for you.”
“Probably. Well, at least we won’t have Lester Maddox there anymore. You knew he got elected lieutenant governor this time?” Maddox was a racist clown who had caused great embarrassment for moderate Georgians such as my father.
“Yeah, I guess you won’t be rid of him entirely.”
“Listen, read the papers and call me back if there’s
anything worth knowing. Your mother isn’t up yet, but she’s dying to know any news about Thrasher.”
I hung up and sat down with the papers. Mark appeared at the bedroom door, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on? What’s all the shouting about?”
“Sorry, Mark. I was talking to my father, and we had a bad line. He says he had a call from a London paper about Derek Thrasher. I’m just looking to see if there’s anything in today’s papers about him.” I had to look no further than the front page of The Observer. In the lower right corner I was greeted by the headline:
FINANCIER SOUGHT BY PUBLIC PROSECUTOR
DOCUMENTS MAY MEAN CHARGES AGAINST DEREK THRASHER
Mark snatched the newspaper from me and stared at it.
Annie came in from the kitchen. “Well, let us in on it, Mark.”
He read aloud:
“The Director of Public Prosecutions has expressed a keen interest in talking with mysterious financial wizard Mr. Derek Thrasher about exchange control violations and irregularities in Thrasher’s company reports to the Inland Revenue over the last two years. The Observer. has learned that an apparently disgruntled former employee of Mr. Thrasher, Mr. Patrick Fitzgerald Pearce, of Streatham, several days ago delivered a set of books from an investment firm principally owned by Mr. Thrasher that are said to be different from the books previously examined by the Bank of England and the Inland Revenue. A spokesman for the Prosecutor would confirm only that information about Mr. Thrasher’s business activities had been received, and, as a result, that the prosecutor wished to meet with Mr. Thrasher for “discussions” and sought to learn of his whereabouts. The spokesman denied that charges had been brought, though he declined to rule out that possibility in the near future.
Mr. Pearce worked as an accountant for Avondale Enterprises, said to be a company set up to invest profits of other Thrasher businesses in property and holiday resorts on the Continent. A spokesman for Avondale, who declined to be identified, confirmed that Mr. Pearce had been employed for some months by the company and that he had resigned a week ago, saying he wished to return to his native Ireland.