The Intriguers

XXIII

He was a big, weathered man with stiff gray hair that, cut quite short, made a kind of wiry brush on top of his head. His face was square and seamy, with a big mouth and a blunt nose. He had bright blue eyes, rather like Carl's, but somewhat paler and lacking the crazy intensity. He was wearing only a pair of faded khaki shorts. His deeply tanned body was in good shape for his age, which I placed somewhere in the early sixties. He leaned against a mop handle as he looked down at us from the cockpit of the big sportfisherman-at least it looked big from where I was sitting, at the wheel of my open, fifteen-foot job.

"Marty, girl," he said, "aren't you ever going to stop growing? Damned if those aren't just about the longest legs I've seen all week. And you're Helm? Well, you can make fast to the dock back there, astern of the Whaler, while I finish swabbing down this cockpit. Better give her a bit of slack. The way the kids from that new development go racing past she'll yank those tin cleats right out of that plastic gunwale if you snub her too tight."

"Yes, sir," I said.

I guessed at least four stripes of gold braid and a silver bird on the collar, at one time or another. It's a principle of the profession that it never hurts to be respectful to the brass, ex- or otherwise. It makes the relationship a lot smoother in the beginning, and it doesn't make them a bit more bulletproof in the end, if it should come to that.

I backed us past a small, shovel-nosed, open boat with a large outboard motor on the stern, and did a reasonably good job, if I do say so myself, of maneuvering into the indicated opening. Martha jumped ashore with the bow line while I secured the stern. On foot, we approached the big boat once more.

She was a real fishing machine, with the tall, thin outriggers pointing skywards on either side of the tapering, spidery framework of the lookout tower surmounting the cabin and the flying bridge. I could see how a Tinkertoy skyscraper like that might come in handy on occasion, but it wasn't really a structure I longed to be on top of, particularly if the boat was rolling in a heavy sea. There were two husky fishing chairs bolted to the deck aft. The name on the stern was Frances ii.

It was an impressive hunk of seagoing machinery. They come much larger, of course, but at a grand or more a foot, she was a lot of boat and a lot of money. Well, Sheriff Rullington had sold some land and put a Cadillac into his back yard. We all have our dreams.

Uncle Hank Priest emptied a bucket over the side as we came up, and put the mop to dry in one of the fishing-rod holders set into the cockpit gunwale.

"Marty, why don't you run up to the house and say hello to Frances?" he said.

The girl laughed. "Somehow, I get the strange feeling I'm not wanted," she said, and ran off towards the big house on shore.

The gray-haired man watched her thoughtfully. "I've known that young lady a long time," he said without looking at me. "I'd have bet my life she'd never…"

"You'd have lost," I said, when he stopped.

"You're sure?"

"Sure enough. Does it matter? I figure we're supposed to go through the same motions in any case. Am I wrong?"

He shook his head, and turned to look at me. "So you're the man he calls Eric. He has a lot of faith in you. I hope it's justified, but I'm beginning to wonder, when you come charging up to my dock in broad daylight."

I said, "Why play games, sir? You're known, and your association with him is known. Anybody who sees Martha and me here will know we're here to make contact with you."

"Yes," Priest said, "yes, of course. But I must say, this complicated kind of intrigue isn't really in my line."

"No, sir," I said. "If it were, you'd be in the Pentagon with the rest of the conniving brass, wouldn't you?"

He looked a little startled; then he grinned. "Come aboard and have a beer," he said. "Keep your damn feet off the brightwork-varnish to you." As I stepped down into the cockpit, avoiding the varnished rail, he glanced astern automatically; the admiral checking the disposition of the fleet before leaving the bridge. "Do you know why they call them Boston Whalers, son?"

He wasn't that old, and I wasn't that young, but I saw no reason to take offense. "No, sir."

"Because they aren't made in Boston and were never used for whaling." He laughed at his own joke, if it was his, and as senior officer preceded me into the deckhouse without apologies. "Get a couple of beers out of the refrigerator, will you, son, while I find my shirt and dig out the chart."

He disappeared into the dark cabin forward that seemed to consist mainly of two berths meeting in a V towards the boat's bow. I looked around for something that might hold beer and keep it cold. The deckhouse had plenty of glass and daylight. It seemed to be half dinette and half kitchenette-excuse me, galley. One corner was reserved for the seagoing john-excuse me, head. I found the refrigerator under the counter to starboard and extracted two bottles as Priest emerged from the cabin buttoning a khaki shirt, with a folded chart clamped under his arm. He spoke as if there had been no pause in the conversation.

"You found the little flares on board your boat?"

"Yes, sir. In the battery compartment under the helmsman's seat."

"Never mind the red ones. They're standard emergency equipment and came with the kit. The white ones are what you want. They're in a separate tube."

"I saw them," I said. I hesitated. "It's a neat little gadget, but I shouldn't think it would have much range."

"We figured concealment might be more important to you than range, son," Priest said. "Keep it with you at all times, loaded, with as many extra flares as you can hide out. Arthur said you people were pretty good at hiding things. When the time comes, I'll be standing by, as far in among the islands down there as I can get the Frances without putting her on the mud. I'll have the Whaler in tow, ready to go. There'll be a man up in the tuna tower. From up there, he'll be able to see quite a ways over the mangroves. A white flare will bring the Whaler in looking for you with plenty of firepower. That's not saying they'll find you, of course. Those are tricky waters. But it's the best support we can offer you."

"Yes, sir."

"Of course, it's expected that you'll have your job done before you signal for help."

"Of course."

"And you know what the job is."

"Yes, sir," I said.

His eyes narrowed sharply, as if he'd set a trap and caught me. "How do you know? It was, er, left out of the instructions we passed you through Marty."

I said, "Admiral, when you've worked for a man as long as I have, you don't need much in the way of instructions. Don't worry, sir. I know what he wants-I guess ~ should say I know who he wants. And I know, roughly, how he expects the job to be done; all I need is the final details from you. If the target is there, I'll make the touch for him." There was a little silence. I broke it by saying, "I've been with him for… Well, never mind exactly how many years, but I never knew he was a fisherman."

"He isn't, son. He's a tarpon fighter."

"I don't talk the language, sir. You'll have to translate."

Priest grinned. "The habits of fish are pretty much a mystery to Arthur. He trusts me to take him to the right places at the right times. He can barely rig a bait properly, he's just average at casting, and he doesn't really want to learn more about it. What he comes down here for is simply to get one of those big, mean, silvery, high-leaping battlers on the line somehow and slug it out until the fish says uncle. Oh, he'll oblige me by fishing for other species occasionally, but he loves tarpon because, he says, they've got the right spirit and they're the right size."

"The right size for what?" I asked.

"For fighting, son," said the gray-haired man. "Smaller fish, you've got to give them a break with light tackle to get a real battle; you've got to be gentle and careful; you can't just sock it to them with everything you've got. Bigger fish, well, it becomes a grim endurance contest with a lot of heavy equipment between you and the fish. You've got to use a fighting chair, a harness, and a great big derrick of a rod and reel; and you don't really fight alone, you're a team with the man handling the boat. But a tarpon is just right. You can battle him from a motionless boat if you like; and you can use tackle heavy enough to lean on hard, but still light enough to let you fight standing up in the cockpit like a man, just you against the fish-at least that's the way Arthur feels about it. I don't suppose you're fisherman enough to understand."

"No, sir," I said.

"He also likes tarpon because they're not much good to eat, so he's free to turn them loose when he's beat them. He'll reach down and pat the big fish on the head and clip the leader, saying 'Goodbye, Eric, see you next time around.' He calls it occupational therapy. He says it keeps him from committing murder back in Washington when some goddamn prima donna agent gives him a lot of lip… How about opening those beers before they get warm, son? The opener's right there at the corner of the sink."

I pried the caps off and held out a bottle to him. His face was expressionless. I decided I was going to like him.

"Yes, sir," I said. "I suppose I should be flattered. I mean, he might have gone in for carp or suckers."

Priest grinned his old-salt grin, the one that crinkled the weathered skin about his eyes. "Incidentally, it isn't admiral, just captain," he said. "They wanted to pin some stars on me before I retired but I wouldn't let them. Four stripes are hard enough to live down these days. Politically speaking, I mean."

"You seem to have managed it, sir."

"Temporarily, but there's another tough election coming up, and us old warmongers are in a bad spot." He shook his head quickly. "Do you ever feel you're not living in the same world as other people, son? I mean, God Almighty, who doesn't want peace? But how the hell can anybody think the way to get it is to drop your trousers and bend over, inviting everybody to kick your bare ass? But that's what everybody seems to want these days. We're supposed to take off our national shirt, pants, and skivvies, and stand there buck-naked in the cold, cold international breeze; and all those nice people across the water are supposed to feel so sorry for us they'll leave us alone."

"Yes, sir," I said.

It was a safe thing to say, I hoped. I wondered how many more deep-thinking characters would unload their political and social philosophies on me before this job was finished. There seemed to be one behind every bush.

Priest said, "Well, that's why I went into politics. This jackass war has given soldiering and sailoring a bad name, but the fact is we're going to need our shirt and pants for some time to come. International nudism isn't in style quite yet. Somebody's got to see to it that we keep a few rags of protection for another few years, until the light of universal peace glows brightly all over the world… Ah, hell. You don't vote here. Why the hell am I wasting all this rhetoric on you?"

I said, "With all due respect, I was wondering the same thing myself, sir."

He blinked. I'd got back at him, a little, for the tarpon and the prima donna agents, and he wasn't used to being got back at. Then he grinned and saluted me with the bottle in his hand.

"To fair winds and gentle seas."

"Salud."

"Talking about votes, there's a little political meeting scheduled here for this evening. You might be interested in listening. Eight o'clock sharp."

I looked at him for a moment. He wasn't going to order me to come, I saw, or tell me what I'd learn if I did come. I was supposed to be bright enough to come of my own accord.

"If you say so, sir," I said. "Eight o'clock. Front door or back?"

"Use the boat if you like. It's just a short run down from the lodge. Go in the kitchen door, over there, and turn right. You'll find a good place to listen right off the pantry. Don't cough or sneeze and nobody'll bother you. I'll have your guide waiting in the kitchen afterwards. I'll have some equipment for you, too."

"I'll be there." Looking through the wide deckhouse windows, I saw the slim, brown, bikinied shape of Martha Borden emerge from the kitchen door just mentioned. The girl paused to say goodbye to a thin, white-haired woman in slacks. "Is there anything else 1 ought to know, sir?" I asked.

"A shoal-draft houseboat, around thirty feet long, powered by twin outdrives, came by the day before yesterday and disappeared among the islands. Judging by the whiskers, she had some pretty good communications gear on board. We can't positively connect her with anything or anybody, but she's still in there somewhere. I'd say it was a hopeful sign, wouldn't you?" He was watching the girl come running down towards the dock, and took my nod for granted, not looking aside. He went on, "Well, I'd better get you oriented. Let's have a look at the chart." He spread it on the dinette table; and raised his voice slightly. "The place you want is Cutlass Key. Here. Don't forget the name. The south end of Cutlass Key. That's where the cabin is. You'll see the old dock on the point."

"Yes, sir," I said, as Martha dropped into the cockpit, causing the Frances II to rock slightly. "I won't forget, sir. Cutlass Key…