Shannon rapped on the cockpit port. Jim opened it a crack but caught a faceful of spray anyhow. "What's up?" "The cat would love this, you know."
It was not a moment, he decided, to talk sense. "Maybe Nancy could FedEx her."
Nancy was cat-sitting, but Jim had forgotten that, when determined, Shannon lost all sense of irony. "You're right! FedEx or UPS. I read somewhere that one of them does cats."
"I'm going to close this before the bed gets wet."
While mulling over ways to keep the boat, Jim began to get a bad feeling about sailing into Stanley Harbor. There'd be too many officials in the capital. But what were their options? He went to Will's desk, and opened his old logs for Runner and the yacht he had named Cordelia. It was ten
years since Will had sailed in from Plymouth, England. Would the approach to Cordi's home on West Falkland Island be the same? Kelp beds might have gotten bigger or smaller. On the plus side, the minefields sown during the Falklands War would be cleared by now, or at least marked.
Will had recorded the courses so meticulously you could probably go in at night with the GPS if you absolutely had to. By day, if the weather wasn't too hairy, it was a precise road map off the ocean, into a bay Will had dubbed Cordi's Bay, and "Cordi's Cove"
within. Will had noted landmarks—a very tall rock at the entrance, an abandoned jetty half-submerged by breaking seas—even a range mark into the inner anchorage, where he lined up a white house with the peak of a rocky hill behind it.
He found Will's chart. His ten-year-old course was penciled on it. Ten years. Did Cordi even live there anymore? On the other hand, with Will's notes and chart, this would be a lot easier and safer than trying to land anywhere else in the rock-bound islands.
What if they got caught? According to the Sailing Directions a military commissioner maintained security in the British Crown Colony, as well as defense, obviously a holdover from the war. On the other hand, the two main islands and hundreds of smaller ones had an eight-hundredmile coastline and a landmass the size of Connecticut, but fewer than three thousand people farming sheep, processing wool, and fishing for squid.
An excellent place to get lost. Who would even notice a single sailboat? He took final heart in a Sailing Directions note that the legal system was based on English common law. So getting lined up against a wall to be shot wasn't going to happen.
He brewed some tea and brought it up to Shannon in the cockpit. She greeted him with a big smile. The wind was blowing hard and Hustle was starting to labor even with three reefs in the main and the jib rolled into a sliver.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"So have I," she said. "I've been thinking about Stallone. Can you imagine being so completely destroyed and still making a life?"
"Some life. He's living in a garbage dump."
"But he's made a life. Those children—it's awful the way they live, but he's made some kind of a home for them. And given them more of a family than I'll bet any of them ever had. I mean, he could still be festering in some slum hospital. Instead he's a kind of daddy to a whole village."
"Well, 'Daddy' saved our asses. That's for damned sure. Listen, I've been thinking, too."
"What?"
"Umm ." He looked around. The light was fading already, though it was only three in the afternoon. "Maybe we better raise the storm sail. Let's head up and crank in the jib."
They reduced sail. Jim clipped on and went forward to raise the storm sail. When he got back to the cockpit, Shannon said, "What?"
"We could have problems in Stanley."
"What kind of problems?"
"Your passport was stamped in Argentina, so I can't say we sailed in from Nigeria or Barbados. Barbados is my last stamp. In. I never even got one going out. So if we try to clear customs we could have paperwork hassles, and they could lead to where-is-Will-Spark hassles."
"They'll figure it out. I mean, you didn't kill him. He died."
"I've got the log and Angela's e-mails and his will. Of
course, with Angela dead, her corroboration isn't worth
squat. But yeah, they'd figure it out eventually. Problem is,
when they do, they might seize the boat." "why?"
"I told you. Will said he was wanted for fraud in the UK. The Falklands are part of the UK."
"We didn't think of that."
"I was too worried about the McVays and food and diesel and all."
"So what are you thinking?"
"What if instead of going to Stanley, we just 'popped in' on this Cordi friend of Will's?
Show her Will's will—she gets everything but the boat, whatever that is. Maybe she could sell us food and diesel and we could just get the hell out of here and head north.
She's way down on the southwest
coast of West Falkland Island. Stanley's to hell and gone a hundred miles away on the northeast side of East Falkland."
Night was nearly fifteen hours long this far south. Jim thought that they could mask most of their approach in darkness, timing their arrival so as to navigate the dangerous coastal waters in the light of dawn.
"I've got Will's charts and his sailing notes from his old log. The forecast is heavy cloud and fog. Maybe we could just slip in 'under the radar.' We'd have a short day there, loading up, and slip out just before dark."
"Slip out on the boat?" Shannon asked.
"Well, yeah, that's what I'm saying."
"Stay on the boat?"
"Isn't that what you wanted?"
"I would love that so much."
When the depth finder, which had been registering three and four hundred meters, suddenly clocked in at 180, the shallower water told them they were within sixty miles from the north coast of the Falklands. The first sign of civilization, however, was a surprise. Instead of the low, rocky islands dotted with white sheep and surrounded by fishing boats that they had been expecting, their first sight—while still thirty miles out—was of a multistory oil-drilling platform looming out of the fog.
"Looks like the Niger Delta all over again . . . well, not quite." The wind, the deepening cold, and the drifting fog belied the memory.
When Jim saw that the rig was on a barge, he gave it a wide berth, remembering Will's warning that where there was a tow there were tugboats. He switched on the radar and there they were, two tugs a half mile ahead of the platform barge.
Ten miles on, slow-moving targets began to speckle the radar monitor. They passed close to one, just as darkness was falling, and saw a large deep-sea fishing vessel with a high flaring bow and net-hauling machinery astern. Shannon eyeballed the nets with the night binoculars. "Those aren't
fish—oh, squirmy things. Squid! Oh, calamari. Calamari. I would kill for calamari."
Jim had the VHF radio on. But when the squid boat hailed them, he didn't reply, slipping into the fog, hoping that busy fisherman had better things to do than report un-communicative sailboats to the military commissioner a hundred miles away in Stanley. "
It's not like they're still in a shooting war," he called to Shannon, who was below, watching the radar.
"Another big target?' she called back. "Not a barge. It's moving too fast. Fifteen miles to the west." Thirty minutes later, she called, "Do you see anything? He's passing behind us.
Five miles."
"Too hazy." Jim looked back anyway, piercing the gloom. He had a faint sense of something large and boxy. The binoculars revealed a darker spot that might be a container ship. Then it was gone as the night rolled in in earnest.
The wind, which had been blowing at near thirty knots since morning, increased to forty and settled steady out of the, west, piling up an enormous swell. They sailed south across the swell, on a broad reach with the main fully reefed and the storm sail for a jib, and skirted the west coast of West Falkland Island.
Dawn showed them closer to the shore than they had thought. The cool numbers on the GPS that they had followed all night, and the reassuring eighty-meter readings on the depth fi
nder, did not prepare them for the sight of the heavy seas pummeling steep cliffs.
"Are we too close?"
Spray was shooting a hundred feet in the air, and when an errant back draft blew salty clouds of it over the boat, Jim said, "We're not sticking around to find out."
He headed up into the west wind. Close-hauled, shoved by the swells and gripped by currents he hadn't noticed in the dark, Hustle seemed caught by the opposing forces. She clawed off and fell back, clawed off again and fell back again. Jim continued hand steering, coaxing the boat. Shannon was trying to match the coast to the chart. "I think we're supposed to be on the other side of that point."
"Goddamned Will was always saying, 'Never get caught on a lee shore. Never get caught on a lee shore.' "
"From what I've read, this is a lee shore."
The point was marked by a stony bluff barely visible a mile ahead. Jim marked its bearing on the compass and watched tensely for an indication of movement either way. "
What's that in the water?" asked Shannon. "Oh, it's kelp."
Jim felt a chill. Kelp, warned the Sailing Directions, usually marked shallow water. But the depth finder said they were still okay. He tried to steer away from it, fearing the thick leaves of seaweed would slow them down.
"It's floating free," said Shannon. "It's not a bed. It's a piece that broke loose."
The first clue that the boat was making way was the sight of the rocky ridges of a string of hills behind the cliffs. The boat was moving off. Further out they glimpsed brown-green moors.
"What are those white dots?"
"Sheep."
Still close-hauled, holding Hustle as near to the wind as she would allow, Jim sailed off for nearly an hour before he felt safe to try to swing around the point. He had just turned back onto the broad reach and was planning the steps he had to take to jibe between the headlands that sheltered Cordi's Bay, when he heard a deep ripping noise approaching from the west.
"Is that thunder?"
"I don't know. It sounds—"
With a sudden shrieking crash, an enormous dark-colored jet fighter plane screamed overhead, skimmed the cliffs, and thundered east. They waited for it to swoop around for a second look. Jim couldn't meet Shannon's eyes. If the military plane spotted them they would have no choice but to radio who they were and try to clear customs.
A minute stretched to two and slowly to three before Jim said, "He must have been doing five hundred miles an hour. Maybe he didn't see us."
The sky was murky and the sea was spattered with whitecaps—foaming crests as big as the boat. After five more minutes they decided that the pilot had missed them. "Okay. Is that the point?"
Shannon consulted the GPS and the chart. Jim raked the coast with the binoculars and checked the depth finder. He snapped on his harness, went forward, and readied the anchor. Back in the cockpit, he started the engine. Shannon spread Will's notes on her lap. "
Let's do it."
The entrance between the cliffs was a third of a mile wide. All but dead center, however, was blocked by thick kelp beds. They lined up and swung nearly north, the sails banging around in a hard jibe. Jim felt the seas start to shove her off course. Then Hustle accelerated. He engaged the propeller for more push and drove a final hard, fast quarter mile down the center of the channel into a bay surrounded by a low, rocky coast.
The swell eased and the wind dropped.
"Straight across on two seventy."
He sheeted in the main and storm sails and powered into the wind, steering for the abandoned jetty Will had noted. They could smell wood smoke, sharp and sweet on the salty breeze.
"There's the tall rock."
"And there's her house."
A single-story whitewashed stone cottage with a slate roof slid into view. Smoke was curling from the chimney. There were long glass structures on either side, greenhouses that flanked the old stone house like gossamer wings. "Will said she's a hydroponic farmer."
When the peak of the rocky hill appeared to be behind the stone house, Jim motored into Cordi's Cove and steered for a sturdy dock that projected from the rocky beach twenty yards into the flat water.
The dock was an unexpected boon and he quickly ducked belowdecks for their mooring lines.
"Someone's coming," said Shannon. She waved.
A white-haired woman was running from the house, pulling on a windbreaker, calling "
Billy!"
THE OLD WOMAN caught the line Jim tossed and took a wrap around a piling while he backed Hustle against the dock and jumped onto it with the stern line.
"Where is Billy Cole?"
"Are you Ms. MacDonald? Cordi MacDonald?" Jim asked.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry. Billy was—injured. . . . He died three weeks ago."
"Oh, my lord."
She looked like she was going to faint. "I think ... I ought to sit down."
Jim grabbed her arm and seated her on one of the thick piles that held the dock. Shannon dragged herself closer, took Cordi's weathered hand in hers, and gently stroked it. Cordi sat blinking.
"Would you like something?" Shannon asked her. "Can we make you some tea?"
Cordi focused on the young woman gazing up at her. "Oh, my lord. Where are my manners? Come inside. I'll make the tea."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"Fine, fine, fine. Bit of a shock is all. Comes to all of us someday. . . . It's just when I saw the boat, I thought—do come in. Do you need a hand, young lady?"
"I don't want it."
"It could be worth a lot someday."
"I don't want anything that Billy Cole left because anything he left he likely stole."
Jim said, "Obviously, you knew him better than I did, but I had the impression that this Sentinel was actually legitimate. The patents and royalties could be worth something—though God knows where it is or how it works."
"That's Billy in a nutshell." Cordi folded the will and handed it back to Jim. "It's very good of you to bring this to me. But I don't want it. Thank you very much. Was he in terrible pain?"
"Sometimes. It was hard to tell. He was good at cover- ing."
"A past master."
While making tea and laying out sandwiches in her comfortable kitchen, Cordi kept glancing out the window. "I would get the boat off the dock sooner rather than later. We'
ve got a blow coming in."
"I'm curious," said Jim. "How did you know this was Will's boat? I mean, Billy's."
"He sent me a snap when he bought her in Hong Kong. Told me all about the refit. I think he was angling for an invitation."
"You stayed close?" asked Shannon.
Cordi turned to her with a smile. "I loved him. Loved him with all my heart, loved his enthusiasms, loved his charm. But Billy's greatest enthusiasm was pulling the wool over people's eyes. With all his talents, he would prefer a dishonest penny to an honest pound. That was bad enough. But when he got older, he grew greedy. He wanted too much. And he didn't care how he got it. I loved him. But my charming rogue became a grasping scoundrel, which was not a pretty sight. . . ." She stared out the window for a while. Then she turned to Shannon and addressed her alone, as if only another woman could really understand. "One of the things I've enjoyed about getting 'of an age' was finally knowing when to say no and mean it—excuse me."
A radio was crackling.
She opened a cabinet and donned a headset. "Cordi, here. Who's that? . . . Thank you, Willard. My regards to Jenny . . . Out."
She closed the cabinet and turned to Shannon. "Dear, did you report in to Stanley?"
"No. We sailed right in."
"It seems that British Security has put out an alert about your boat."
Jim stood up. "Why?"
"Apparently an RAF pilot tried to raise you and got no reply."
"We left the radio off."
"Well, you're going to have to do something about it. I know you're not Arg saboteurs.
But there are rockets going up all over.
The Royal Navy frigate is two hundred fifty miles southeast searching for a French sailor. But the fisheries inspectors will be on the lookout. And the RAF. And anyone with a radio, which is everyone."
Jim and Shannon looked at each other. Jim said, "Maybe we should report in. Take our chances."
Shannon shook her head and explained to Cordi, "Billy got into some kind of trouble in England. We're afraid that even though he left the boat to Jim, the UK authorities might seize it."
Cordi said, "I cannot tell you the memories you're dredging up. It's like he never died."
"Could you ask someone in Stanley if there are any Taiwanese or Russian ships in the harbor?"
"Whatever for?"
"Will—Billy--had some dealings and they are—"
"Say no more. I can imagine any number of Billy scenarios provoking hordes of Chinese and Russians."
Cordi radioed her friend Dora. She switched on the speakers so Jim and Shannon could listen in. Dora reported
that a Russian WorldSpan line container ship called Czar Peter had anchored south of Navy Point. But it had steamed away three hours ago.
"They just don't give up," said Jim.
"They're leaving," said Shannon.
Cordi's friend said, "But if it's Russians you're wanting, the paper says there are nine Russian squid boats fishing Falkland waters at the moment—ruddy great factory ships—and we wonder why the squid stocks are plummeting?"
"They're certainly not going to chase us dragging nets," Shannon said to Jim.
Dora said, "A humongous racing yacht put in this morning. I can see it from here.
Ruddy great thing. Black as the devil's frown. It's a catamaran, Cordi. It looks like two Viking ships in close formation come to pillage us."
"Racing yachts we don't have to worry about." Jim looked at Shannon. "What do you say?"
"Odd time of year to race," said Cordi.
Dora agreed. "That lunatic Frog is bad enough—one expects no less of the French—but Americans, racing in the winter! With a woman no less! It's our lads who'll have to go out when they get in trouble."
"Dora, do you see any Taiwanese ships in the harbor?"
"In my opinion it is absolutely irresponsible to sail the Southern Ocean in the winter.
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