“That sounds as interesting as the CIA,” Irene said.
“Probably not. I had a cousin who was in the CIA, but I didn’t know that until after his death.”
“Who was that?” Irene asked.
“His name was Dick Stone.”
“Jesus, I knew Dick; everybody knew Dick. He had just been appointed deputy director for operations when he was killed. A lot of people who should know thought he was on track to be the next Director of Central Intelligence when Katharine Rule Lee retires, which she probably will do when her husband leaves office.”
“I didn’t know that,” Stone said.
“You must know Lance Cabot,” she said. “He led the investigation into Dick’s death.”
“Yes, we, ah, worked together on that. I used to be a homicide detective on the NYPD; Dino still is.”
“You were up in Maine, then?”
“Yes.”
“Then you probably met Ed Rails, who’s retired from the Agency.”
“I did.”
“How did you meet Lance?”
“He came to see me when he heard that I was Dick’s cousin, told me Dick was dead. I was also the executor of his will.”
“So you only met him recently, then.”
“Yes,” Stone lied, “last summer, for a couple of weeks.”
“Who’s Lance Cabot?” Harry asked.
“He’s just a guy at the Agency who wants Dick Stone’s job,” Irene said. “He might even get it.”
“I didn’t know that, either,” Stone lied again. He raised his glass. “Well, good luck to him.”
Irene did not raise her glass. “Fuck him,” she said.
11
The following afternoon, while the others were napping, Stone took a stroll down to the marina. The place had been expanded since his earlier visit; there were probably three dozen berths, as opposed to the previous dozen, but there was only one Hinckley Bermuda 40. He walked down the pontoon and looked her over.
Harry said he had changed the deck layout, and Stone saw that the halyard winches had been moved to the top of the coachroof, a sensible change, since it allowed sails to be hoisted from the cockpit, and two large electric winches had replaced the original equipment. A windvane self-steering system was attached to the stern, with its attendant lines, and both the headsail and main were roller reefing.
“Hello there,” a voice behind him said. Harry had appeared with a couple of shopping bags.
“Hello, Harry; I was just looking over your boat.”
“Come aboard, then,” Harry said. Yachtsmen were always anxious to show off their boats. Harry unlocked the hatch, set the shopping bags below and waved Stone down.
Stone climbed down the companionway ladder and looked around. He had never seen a more neatly kept vessel; the yacht was the very definition of “shipshape.” “I’m impressed,” he said.
“Thank you, Stone, I’ve done a lot of work on her.” He began showing Stone his stowage plan, his tool locker and his central heating system. Finally, they sat down, and Harry produced a pair of bloody marys.
“Thanks for the drink last night,” Harry said. “I’m sorry Irene got a little snockered; we had a drink before we left the house, and it was all on an empty stomach.”
“We enjoyed having you. It was interesting hearing about her work at the CIA.”