Distant Thunder

58

They were gathered around the dining table aboard Breeze, and as far as Stone could tell, there were present a crusty, fiftyish Coast Guard captain, a young woman who was skipper of the cutter, a couple of Key West police detectives, and two men and a woman in civilian clothes, who could be FBI or some other agency.

Ahead of them, in the channel that ran past the sub base, was a smoldering pile of floating debris that had once been a trawler. All this created a clog in the channel, and there were angry boaters lined up at both ends, waiting to get wherever they were going.

The Coast Guard captain took charge. “All right,” he said, “what the hell happened here?”

Stone raised a finger. “Perhaps I can help.”

“Are you the owner of this yacht?”

“I am one of three partners in her ownership.”

“Go on.”

“We were anchored out at the fort, and I received a call warning that there might be a vessel in the neighborhood that meant us harm, so at daylight we weighed anchor and sailed for, well, right here. Later in the morning we spotted a vessel far in our wake that seemed to be following us.”

“How far in your wake?”

Stone took him through the sequence of events, skipping the part about the bomb he had thrown.

“And you exchanged small-arms fire with the trawler as it approached you?”

“We returned small-arms fire, in fear of our lives. They seemed to have us outgunned.”

“What made the trawler explode?”

“I believe it may have been propelled by a gasoline engine, and as the trawler passed us, there seemed to be a fire belowdecks, perhaps in the engine room.”

“That would account for one explosion,” the captain said.

“Perhaps they had two engines, or just two fuel tanks,” Stone offered.

“Did you know anyone aboard the trawler?”

“I didn’t see any familiar faces,” Stone replied.

Someone came on deck behind Stone and approached the table. “Perhaps I can be of assistance,” Lance Cabot said. He handed the captain his card and sat down.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “We have the honor to be in the august presence of the director of Central Intelligence.”

“The honor is mine,” Lance replied, absent the sarcasm.

“Enlighten us, Director Cabot,” the captain said.

“Those aboard the trawler had been identified by one of our officers as members of a gang of Russian criminals, who held a grudge against one or more of those sailing aboard Breeze.”

“Which ones?” the captain demanded.

“I’m very much afraid that I must invoke national security in not replying to your question. The answer is not relevant to our discussion, in any case. Suffice it to say that they were being hunted as prey by evil men, and the actions taken aboard this yacht were entirely in response to those initiated aboard the trawler. It would seem that in their chase of the yacht they overtaxed their engines and started a fire on board.” Lance handed the captain a large brown envelope. “This was taken about half an hour before the resulting explosions. Note the smoke streaming from the engine bay.”

The captain removed a photograph from the envelope, looked at it, then passed it around the table. “You were flying over the scene, were you?”

“Not exactly,” Lance replied. “That photograph was produced by means that I cannot identify — once again, for reasons of national security. You have my assurance that it has been in no way doctored, except to be enlarged.”

“So you take it that no one aboard the yacht had any part in starting that fire?”

“I do. At the time it was taken, which is stamped in a corner, shots had not yet been fired from either vessel, so their engine fire was entirely self-generated.”

The captain seemed somewhat deflated, as if he had intended to tear into everybody. “Does anyone have any questions?” he asked, looking around the table.

His question was met by silence. Everyone looked anywhere but at him.

“Well, then,” the captain said, stuffing the satshot into his briefcase. “I find that no offense was committed by anyone aboard this yacht, and that the offenders, whoever they were, caused the damage to their own vessel and their own deaths.” He stood, and everyone stood with him. They filed to the boarding stairs and off the yacht.

Stone emitted a sigh of relief. “Just in time, Lance.”

“He did seem upset, didn’t he?”

“I think he was looking forward to personally conducting a hanging,” Stone replied.

“I enjoy disappointing authority,” Lance said, “unless the authority is mine.”

“Will you stay aboard for dinner?” Stone asked.

“I will, thank you, and if you’re headed back to Teterboro, I would be grateful for a lift.”

“I’ll order the aircraft for eight o’clock,” Stone said.