“Let’s drive out to the airport,” Stone said. “Allison, the coast is clear to the marina; you go back to the yacht and wait for me there.” Allison nodded and put her feet over the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes.
In Thomas’s Toyota they drove quickly along the airport road and turned through the gates. In the distance they could see two DC-3s sitting on the apron; one of them already had her engines running. The group of reporters stood in a hangar listening to a young man in a business suit. There was much shouting and shaking of fists going on.
“We’d better not get too close to this,” Thomas said, stopping the car. A truck loaded with luggage moved past them toward one of the DC-3s.
The reporters were now being herded onto the two airplanes by uniformed policemen; Stone noted that nobody was being beaten with the truncheons the policemen carried, but their body language told him that the cops were brooking no argument. The truck with the luggage pulled up and suitcases were thrown hurriedly into the luggage compartment of the airplanes.
“Where’d the other airplane come from?” Stone asked.
“It’s a government plane, used only by high officials.”
“Where do you think they’re sending them?”
“I can only hope that they won’t be flown out to sea, then chucked overboard,” Thomas murmured. “Look, one camera crew and a couple of others are still in the hangar.”
The two airplanes were taxiing now, and in a few minutes they were both taking off and heading to the northwest.
“Antigua, do you think?” Stone asked.
Thomas shook his head. “Antigua’s due north; they’re flying northwest. St. Thomas is my guess; that’s the nearest U.S. airport; or maybe even to San Juan.”
“That is the most high-handed thing I ever saw,” Stone said, grinning. “Those people are going to go absolutely nuts when they get back to their respective news organizations.”
“And that pleases you, I suppose.”
“You bet your ass it does. If they were aroused by Allison’s plight, then they’re going to be mad as hell about their own treatment. The press never gets as angry as when their own freedom gets tampered with, and I’ll bet half a dozen cameras got the whole thing on tape.”
“You think this is going to soften up Sir Winston, then?” Thomas asked.
“When he finds out what they’re saying about him in Miami and New York, it just might.”
“Don’t count on it. Sir Winston and our prime minister are accustomed to dealing with a more compliant press; I doubt if they give a damn about what foreigners think.”
“Thomas,” Stone said. “I hate to point this out, but this business is not going to be good for your business.”
“I already thought of that,” Thomas said glumly.
Back at the Shipwright’s Arms, Federal Express had delivered two packages for Stone. One was from Bob Cantor and contained a copy of the Publishers Weekly profile of Paul Manning. The other package was from Alma, his secretary, and it contained two items: a brand-new black judge’s robe and a b
rochure on the Parker Sportster inflatable dinghy. Stone sat down at a table and read the article on Paul Manning, which featured a photograph of the writer and Allison, arm in arm, in front of a large, handsome house. It was pretty standard stuff about a writer, his lifestyle, and his work, and there was nothing in particular that interested him in the piece. The boat brochure was more interesting.
He spread it out on the table and admired the many color photographs of the craft being rowed, being propelled by an outboard, and, most interesting, under sail. The Parker Sportster, it seemed, came with an aluminum mast, a mainsail, a jib, a rudder, and a centerboard. The brochure claimed it was the only inflatable dinghy so equipped. Stone thought the thing must be good for four or five knots, more if surfing with the wind aft.
Stone left the Shipwright’s Arms and walked down to the marina. He stepped lightly aboard Expansive, tiptoed down the companionway ladder, and looked into the aft cabin. Allison was asleep on the large bed, her breathing deep and regular.
Stone climbed back into the cockpit and began quietly opening the cockpit lockers. There was the usual tangle of gear found aboard any yacht: fenders, warps, plastic buckets and deck brushes, life jackets, and in a special aft locker, an eight-man life raft. He opened another of the lockers and was greeted with the sight of an inflatable dinghy in its canvas bag; the manufacturer’s name was printed boldly on the bag: AVON. Stone’s heart began to beat a little faster, as much out of apprehension as discovery. There was one more locker, and he opened it expecting no new information. But there, lying packed and ready for use, was another, larger canvas bag emblazoned with another brand name: PARKER SPORTSTER. It seemed new and unused.
He closed the locker softly and sat down on a cockpit seat, feeling relieved.
Chapter
22
On Saturday morning Stone fixed breakfast, then woke up Allison, who had been sleeping unusually well. “I’ve had a message from Leslie Hewitt,” he said. “He wants us to come out and see him this morning.”
“Okay,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I think a swim will wake me up.” She started up the ladder.
“Hang on!” he commanded. “It’s broad daylight, and there may be some press still on the island.”