by Stuart Woods
Three SUVs rolled up to the airplane, and two Secret Service agents who resembled the Lees got out. They walked down the airstair, waving at the little knot of media behind a fence a hundred yards away, and the SUV’s door closed behind them. Billy understood the ruse, and he knew that he was spending his vacation in Georgia with his pony and his aunt Bee.
The airplane taxied to the end of the runway and took off. Its radio call sign was still Air Force One.
—
Stone set down the CJ3 at Key West International at dusk and taxied to the ramp, where a van waited to receive them and their luggage. Once in the van, Stone asked to be taken to the U.S. Coast Guard installation in Key West Harbor. “Everybody brought their passports, as requested, right?”
He got an affirmative noise from the group.
“Give them to me, please.”
After a ten-minute drive they reached the gate of the base. Stone handed the passports to the uniformed guard and they were admitted. He dealt out the passports to their owners.
Breeze, wearing the British White Ensign, was docked next to a smaller yacht, Scout, in what had been the old Key West submarine base, now occupied by the Coast Guard. A Secret Service agent checked their passports, and the crew carried their luggage aboard and settled them in their cabins. After unpacking, they met in the yacht’s saloon for a drink.
Stone raised his glass. “Welcome aboard,” he said, and everybody drank. “Let me explain exactly what’s going on,” he said.
“Please do,” Peter said. “This is all very mysterious. To begin with, why is the yacht flying the British White Ensign? I thought that was the exclusive right of Royal Navy ships.”
“If you had seen the stern you would have learned that Breeze is now called Trafalgar III. She is now carried on Lloyd’s List as a British-registered vessel owned by the commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, the British members of which are also allowed to fly the White Ensign. Foreigners like me are also allowed to fly it, as long as their vessels are registered in Britain, which we now are—temporarily. We’re also flying the Squadron’s burgee, which is a triangular version of the White Ensign.
“Kate and Will’s flight is timed to land after dark, just about now, at the Key West Naval Air Station. They dropped off Billy in Georgia earlier.”
“Why all the secrecy?” Celeste asked.
“They just don’t want to attract attention while on vacation,” Stone said.
—
As he spoke, Air Force One set down at the Naval Air Station, on Boca Chica Island, a few miles away. From the ramp the aircraft was towed into a large hangar, and the Lees disembarked there and were driven to the Coast Guard base. They were welcomed aboard by the rest of their party, and after they had settled into the owner’s suite, they joined the others for a drink. The yacht’s engines started.
As their arrival was toasted, the yacht moved slowly into the main channel and, followed by the smaller vessel, left Key West under a bright moon.
“We’re going to anchor off one of the smaller islands,” Stone said, “in order to attract as little attention as possible. The other yacht is carrying Secret Service and other support personnel and some communications equipment that goes everywhere with the President.”
An hour later, they anchored and were soon called to dinner.
“I apologize for all the secrecy,” Kate said to the party, “but we didn’t want to be hounded by the press on this cruise.”
“We quite understand,” Stone replied.
The captain appeared to greet them. “I thought you’d like to know that the radio traffic in Key West Harbor was all about the British yacht. They seem to think that there’s a high British official aboard or maybe a rock star. When you wake up tomorrow morning we will already be under way, and our destination will be Fort Jefferson, a pre–Civil War fort in the island group called the Dry Tortugas, about sixty or seventy miles west of Key West.”
—
Later, in their cabin, Stone gave Holly her Christmas gift. “I thought you might want to wear it on our cruise.”
Holly slipped the cashmere robe over her naked body. “What do you think?” she asked, modeling it for him.
“A perfect fit. I think it looks great on you, but I prefer the earlier, more naked version.”
They fell asleep in each other’s arms.
45
Gloria was dropped off by Benton Blake at her apartment, and the chauffeur carried her bags upstairs. The Bermuda trip had gone off without a hitch, and they had decided to go back there to be married.
As she was unpacking, her phone rang. “Hello?”
“Oh, thank God you’re back,” Hazel, her editor at Just Folks, said. “I’ve got an assignment for you.”
“Oh, Hazel, I just got in.”
“What, you no longer need the money? I’ll give you five grand for the piece and pay your travel expenses to Key West.”
“Key West? In the dead of winter? You bet your ass I’ll do it. I can keep up my new tan!”
“All right, I’ll see if we can buy a seat on a charter jet. Oh, and pick a photographer and tell him to bring some long lenses. We’ve chartered a little boat that you two can live on and use to chase the big boat. Got a pencil?”
“Always.”
“Okay, the yacht you’re chasing is called Trafalgar III, and she belongs to the commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, who’s not aboard. That means there’s a big fish to catch, maybe even the prime minister, or at the very least a movie or rock star. He wouldn’t lend his yacht to just anybody.”
“Good deal.” She wasn’t going to see Benton for a week or so, anyway; he had a lot to do, and the press would be paying too much attention. “Let me know when my flight leaves.” Gloria stopped unpacking and started repacking. Fortunately, her Bermuda wardrobe would do just fine for Key West.
She called a British photographer friend, Robert Marks. “Hey, Bobby, would you like a week in a warm place?”
“Depends which warm place.”
“Key West and environs.”
“What are we shooting?”
“A fugitive celebrity—bring your longest lenses.”
“When are we leaving?”
“Today, very shortly. Pack and wait for my call. Travel is first-class all the way, and we’ll be living aboard a yacht.”
“Can I bring a girl?”
“Absolutely not—it’s just you, me, and the crew.”
“Oh, hell, all right.”
“I’ll call you when I know the time, so be ready.”
“Righto.”
She hung up and continued packing. Her phone rang. “Yeah?”
“I got you seats on a Challenger. Be at Atlantic Aviation, Teterboro, at three PM sharp, with your seat belt buckled. I’ll send a car for you at one-thirty.”
“Gotcha.”
“And bring your passports to identify yourselves to the charter company.”
“Gotcha.”
“Call me with news.”
“Gotcha.” She called her photographer and told him to bring his passport.
“It’s stitched to my arm,” he said.
“I’ll pick you up at one forty-five.”
“Done.”
She closed her bags and called Benton, glancing at her watch: 1:15.
“Yes?”
“Hey, hon, I’ve got an assignment in Key West, car’s coming in fifteen minutes.”
“How long?”
“A week, maybe.”
“Call me when you arrive, so I’ll know you’re safe. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” She hung up.
—
At 3:30 PM she and Marks were buckled into their seats, she clutching an envelope with the charter boat papers inside. A hedge-fund manager and his girlfriend sat opposite them, ho
lding hands. They offered only first names by way of introduction, Gary and Sheree. Gloria looked them over. He’s married, she said to herself, and not to her.
—
Just after dark they landed at Key West International and took a cab to the Galleon Marina, where they found the berth number. Her name was Ciao, and she was glorious: fifty feet, very nice condition, two nice cabins, a couple to skipper and feed them.
Captain Hal and his wife, Judy, offered them a drink and sat down. “So,” he said, “where would you like to go?”
“There’s a yacht called Trafalgar III, flying a British flag,” Gloria said. “We want to go wherever she goes, but we don’t want to crowd them.”
Captain Hal’s eyebrows shot up. “Come with me,” he said.
Gloria and Bobby followed him on deck, where Captain Hal stood and pointed. “There she is.”
Trafalgar III was steaming past them fifty yards away, in the main channel.
Gloria gaped, while Bobby snapped. “Follow that yacht!” she said, clapping her hands and jumping up and down.
—
Stone woke early, only shortly after dawn. He pulled back the curtain over the port next to their bed, and a big red ball was rising out of the sea.
“What’s up?” Holly asked sleepily.
“Sun’s coming up.”
“Happens every day.”
“Not like this. Come see.”
She came and stood next to him. “Wow.”
“How about a morning dip?”
“I’m on.”
“Nobody’s up—be bold.”
They went aft, to the fantail. Wearing only robes.
A steward stood there holding a silver tray bearing two Bloody Marys.
“You’re up early,” Holly said. “Oh, what the hell.” She grabbed one. “I’m on vacation.”
They drank them hurriedly, then went and stood near the aft rail. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
They shed their robes and dove in, then came up shouting. “The water’s perfect!” Stone yelled.
—
A couple of hundred yards away Ciao swung at anchor, and Bobby Marks was pointing a camera at the swimmers, with a lens that looked like a cannon. Gloria peeked out of the main companionway. “What’s going on?”
“Life has showed itself,” he said, snapping away.
Gloria looked up just in time to see a man and a woman climbing up a ladder, then diving off the fantail of Trafalgar III. She squinted at them.
“Anybody we know?”
“Let me see what you shot.”
He turned the electronic camera so she could see the screen. “Zoom in,” she said. “Let’s get a look at their faces.”
He did so. “Great resolution, isn’t it?”
Gloria put her glasses on and looked at the camera. “Holy shit!”
“What’s wrong?”
“The guy is named Stone Barrington, from New York. The woman is our celebrity—Holly Barker, the fucking secretary of state!”
“Holy shit!” Bobby said, taking more pictures.
46
As Gloria watched, two other naked people stood on the fantail and dived off with a shriek.
“Are you getting this?” she asked Bobby.
“Every bit of it,” Bobby replied, snapping away.
“Let me see their faces.”
Bobby showed her the display and zoomed in.
“Holy shit!”
“Who is it this time?”
“It’s the daughter of Senator Eliot Saltonstall and the son of the fucking President of the United States!”
“Holy shit,” Bobby said, taking shots of them climbing the ladder for another dive.
“The only thing better than this would be if the two presidents are aboard.”
“That would be pushing our luck,” Bobby said.
“Are you getting a Wi-Fi signal out here?”
Bobby checked his phone. “Nope, no Wi-Fi, no cell service.”
“Shit, shit, shit! I wanted to send these to Hazel. I can’t even call her!”
“Hey,” Bobby said, “Trafalgar III is weighing anchor.”
“Let’s get inside,” Gloria said, “I don’t want to be seen when they pass.” They dived into the saloon.
—
Stone, Holly, Peter, and Celeste sat in the fantail, laughing and toweling their hair. Another tray of Bloody Marys arrived.
“That was fantastic!” Celeste enthused. “We have to start every day that way.”
“You talked me into it,” Stone said, taking a sip from his drink. “Make my next one a Bloody Awful,” Stone said to the crewman.
“What’s that, sir?”
“No vodka.”
Kate Lee appeared in the doorway to the saloon, took one look and retreated. “Who’s that?” she shouted, pointing. They were steaming past Ciao.
“Just another yacht,” Stone replied. “They were anchored some distance from us last night.”
Kate waited until Ciao was well astern before emerging. She waved away a Bloody Mary. “Make it a Virgin Mary,” she said.
“It’s called a Bloody Awful,” Stone said.
“A better name. You never know when I might have to deal with the Russians, so I’ll be drinking very little on this voyage.”
“I will be,” Will said, emerging from the saloon and grabbing a Bloody Mary. “I’m not dealing with the Russians or anybody else, for that matter, and I don’t have to drive a car or tend a four-year-old.” He took a swig. “God, I haven’t had a Bloody Mary for years! It’s wonderful!”
A buffet was quickly set up, containing scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages, and pancakes, with assorted muffins and breads. Everybody dug in.
Stone picked up a large pair of binoculars and scanned the area aft. Ciao was weighing anchor, well behind their support yacht, Scout. “We must have woken them up,” he said.
—
They steamed west at a leisurely eight knots until late in the afternoon, when Fort Jefferson hove into view. The yacht followed the buoys around the island, and they entered the lagoon with the fort on their port side. They picked up a mooring, and the crew put out a stern anchor from a dinghy to hold the big yacht in place without swinging. Half an hour later Scout came into the lagoon and anchored in the same way, perhaps forty yards away. Shortly, her tender departed and came over to Trafalgar III, then four people in nautical gear came aboard.
The captain came aft to say good evening. “Some people from Scout are doing a communications check aboard, with the radio they installed, and the Secret Service are changing shifts. The others will be going back to Scout soon. By the way, although there’s no cellular service out here, we have a working satphone, and there’s a handset in the saloon, if anyone needs to make a call. You dial zero-one-one, then the area code, then the number, then press ‘enter.’” He went back to his duties.
Kate finished her drink and looked at her watch. “I’d better call Billy and see how he’s making out.” She left the group and went into the saloon.
“I can tell you,” Will said to the others, “Billy is doing just fine. He’d bring that pony into the family quarters at the White House if we’d let him.”
Cocktails were served a little later, and they watched the sun sink into the sea.
—
Ciao was anchored outside the lagoon, on the leeward side of the island. Gloria watched Trafalgar III through a pair of ten-power binoculars. “Can’t see much,” she said to Bobby. “And they’ve got a stern anchor out, so they’re not going to swing around and give us a view from aft.”
“Gee, I guess I’ll have to take the rest of the day off,” Bobby said, accepting a drink from Judy, then handing Gloria one. “We haven’t had time to catch up,” he said. “What have y
ou been up to?”
“Just between you and me?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ve been in Bermuda for a week with Benton Blake.”
“Our ex-governor?”
“One and the same.”
“He’s not wasting any time after his divorce, is he?”
“Nor before it. We’re going to be married a little way down the road.”
“I wish you every happiness,” he said. “What’s the guv going to do for a living?”
“He’s joining the big-time law firm of Woodman & Weld as a senior partner.”
“Well, that should keep you both in fish and chips.”
“In champagne and caviar,” she replied.
“I should have expected no less,” he replied. “You’ve always had an eye for the main chance.”
“‘Main chance,’” Gloria repeated. “I like the sound of that. Benton is certainly the main chance for me, and I for him. He hasn’t been happy for a long time, and he deserves what I can give him.”
“And I well know what that is,” Bobby said.
“You certainly do,” she replied, “and if you play your cards right, you might have the opportunity on this cruise.”
He raised his glass. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“So will I,” she replied. After all, she had never been a one-man woman, and she couldn’t see herself starting now, on a cruise like this, not with an old flame aboard.
47
The following morning, Stone woke at dawn again, nudged Holly, then put on a robe and walked to the fantail and looked around; the only yacht in the lagoon was Scout. He could see the outline of Ciao, the smaller yacht from the day before, anchored off in the lee of the island.
“I’m not stripping off,” Holly said. “That other yacht is full of horny Secret Service guys, and they’re not getting a peek.”
“Then go put on something skimpy and bring me a suit, too,” Stone said. “I’ll wait impatiently.”
Holly went below and returned quickly. “Let’s do it.”
They dropped their robes, Stone put on the suit, and in a moment they were in the water. Stone stroked out a few yards from Trafalgar III, then, facedown in the water, he saw a very large, dark shape on the bottom, shark-shaped, and, he reckoned, twelve to fifteen feet. He reversed course.