Fast and Loose

44

At the end of Charley’s first week as an invalid, he was examined by his surgeon, Nihls Carlsson, and discharged as a patient. “Just be careful,” Nihls said, “no abdominal exertion, no running or exercise program. Move about gingerly for another week, then we can start rehab.”

Charley readily agreed, and he was met by Fred in the Bentley outside. “Where’s Kaley?” Charley asked.

“Waiting for you at home,” Fred replied, and drove away.

Charley closed his eyes and relaxed, and when Fred opened the door for him, he found himself in front of the St. Clair mansion, and Kaley was waiting for him on the doorstep.

Fred offered his arm, and Charley climbed the steps, one at a time, embraced Kaley, and then was whisked upstairs in the elevator.

The apartment had been transformed from St. Clair’s to Kaley and Charley’s. Several pieces of comfortable, but less flamboyant pieces of furniture replaced some of those St. Clair had chosen, and there were flowers everywhere. The beautiful pictures remained where St. Clair had hung them.

Kaley began unbuttoning his shirt. “Now you should get into bed,” she said, “doctor’s orders.”

“What else did the doctor order?” Charley asked, and Kaley showed him. When he was completely relaxed and she had helped him into a pair of new silk pajamas, she picked up a remote control and made the bed sit up.

“Wow,” Charley said. “Does your side do the same?”

“Yes, it does.” She pressed another button and a huge TV set rose from the floor before the fireplace. “Now you can watch the game while we wait for lunch to be served by the staff.”

“What game?”

“Whatever game.” She handed him the remote control. “You choose. It’s satellite, there are a zillion channels.”

Charley found a game.

After lunch, Stone called. “How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” Charley replied honestly.

“Do you think you’d be up for a few days of cruising in autumnal Maine, starting Friday?”

“You bet your ass I would.”

“Fred will collect you at nine AM. We’ll be aboard for lunch.”

“I’ll be ready.” Kaley came into the room. “We’re cruising aboard our new yacht this weekend,” he said.

“I know, I’ve already packed.”

“You’re not going to need much in the way of clothes,” he said.

“The Stones, the Mikes, and the Dinos will be aboard.”

“I’m sure they’re all broad-minded.”

“Maybe, but I’m not. My flesh is for your eyes only — well, that part of my flesh, anyway.”

Macher put down the phone and turned to Jake. “They’re going to be aboard my yacht for a long weekend in Maine,” he said.

“How do you know that?” Jake asked.

“Intelligence operative aboard.”

“Do we know where?”

“They won’t be hard to find,” Macher said. He went to a bottom drawer in his bedroom and removed a cardboard box.

“What’s in there?” Jake asked.

Macher opened the box to reveal a block of plastique.

“How much more of that stuff have you got?” Jake asked.

“Enough to do the job,” Macher replied.

“Tell me how you’re going to do it.”

“I seem to recall, Jake, that you own a wet suit and have considerable experience as a diver.”

“True on both counts.”

“That is how,” Macher said.

The morning dawned brightly with the hint of a nip in the air. They breakfasted on their terrace overlooking the garden, then Kaley put their luggage into the elevator and sent it down.

Fred awaited them, and fifteen minutes later he pulled the Bentley up to the pad at the East Side Heliport, where Stone, Marisa, Mike, and his girlfriend awaited, then he put their luggage aboard. They made themselves comfortable inside the leathered passenger cabin, and the blades began to turn.

“How long to Rockland?” Charley asked.

“We’re not going to Rockland,” Stone replied.

An hour and a quarter later, the helicopter, now at low altitude, made a turn, and Charley saw the yacht, cruising slowly into the wind. A moment later the chopper set down gently on the upper deck, and half a dozen crew members rushed it, emptying the luggage compartment and escorting everyone down the stairs to the main deck. When the copter pad was clear, the machine revved its engines and lifted free of the yacht, turning to the south.

Charley was made comfortable in a soft reclining chair on the afterdeck, and Kaley tucked a cashmere blanket around him, while a steward stood by with two drinks on a silver tray. Charley gratefully sipped his first bourbon in almost a week while the yacht got under way.

They lunched on lobster salad, of course, that being the obligatory culinary introduction to Maine, then the captain came to their table. “Mr. Barrington, as you suggested, we have waited for the latest forecast before choosing our destination, and we may look forward to sunshine and light winds. Therefore, we have set a course for Martha’s Vineyard, and we’ll be at a mooring off the yacht club for dinner.”

“Very good, Captain,” Stone replied. He rose and called the man aside. “For this weekend, as I explained on the phone, we require an upgrade in our security.”

“I have already personally inspected every corner of the yacht,” the captain replied.

“Excellent,” Stone replied. “And every night that we are aboard, I want a crew member on the top deck with binoculars, a spotlight, and a rifle. Every morning before sailing, I want a crew member in a wet suit to inspect the hull, right down to the keel, for any unwanted attachments.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain replied.

Stone returned to the table.

“What are you and the captain cooking up?” Marisa asked.

“Just a word about the menus and the wines for our cruise,” Stone replied, resuming his seat.

“You were right,” Marisa said, “this is a very beautiful yacht, and I’m sorry I called it a stinkpot.”

“You are forgiven,” Stone replied, “and I promise you that, when under way, you will be standing vertically, and not at an angle to the deck.”

“I’m sure I will enjoy that,” Marisa replied.

Stone raised his glass: “To the wonderful good taste in yacht building of Christian St. Clair,” he toasted.

“Hear! Hear!” the others replied.

A mile away, Erik Macher, at the helm of a rented forty-foot cabin cruiser, fell in behind them. “They appear to have set a course for Provincetown, or perhaps the Cape Cod Canal,” he said to Jake Herman. Jake opened another cold beer.