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 brochure 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, tip toed 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."
"Oh," she said, blinking.
"I enjoy you naked, but I don't want anyone else to," he said.
She smiled. "You're sweet. I think I'll just have a shower; join me?"
"Already had one," he replied, "and breakfast is nearly ready, so hurry."
They walked up to the Shipwright's Arms together, to borrow Thomas's car, and the first person they saw was Hilary Kramer from the Times.
"What are you still doing here?" Stone asked. "Didn't you get the bum's rush with everybody else?"
"Nope. I was in the capital, buying some necessities, and when I came back, everybody was gone."
"You missed the press conference, then?"
"I didn't care anything about that. I'd already filed."
"Did anybody else survive the press purge?"
"There's a crew from CNN here who got to stay to provide pool coverage for the TV people."
"How about Chris Wheaton, from 60 Minutes?"
"Gone with the wind, along with everybody else."
"What sort of attention did your story get at the Times?"
"I don't know; I modemed it in, and I'll trust their judgment, but it's a good story. Where are you off to?"
"A visit with my co-counsel."
"Can I come?"
"Sorry, this is strictly business."
Kramer shrugged. "Well, I've got nothing to do but file my story on the ouster of the international press, then it's vacation until the trial on Monday, since Sir Winston won't see me."
"Lucky you; see you later."
They got the car keys and drove out along the coast road to Sir Leslie Hewitt's cottage. They found him weeding his back garden, and Stone was relieved to see that he recognized them. "Morning, Leslie," he said.
"Good morning to you, Stone, and to you, Mrs.Manning."
"Please call me Allison," she replied with a winning smile.
"I thought we might talk about how to proceed at the trial," Stone said.
"Of course we will," Hewitt said, "but I wonder if I could ask a small favor of you before we begin?"
"Of course."
"I'd like to give you some tea, but I'm out of milk. Would you be kind enough to run down to the grocer, about two miles along the coast road, and fetch me a bottle?"
"All right, Leslie," Stone said, and Hewitt insisted on giving him money.
As he turned to leave, Hewitt offered Allison his arm. "May I show you the garden, my dear?" he asked, smiling sweetly.
"I'd be very pleased to see it," she replied, taking his arm. "See you later, Stone."
Stone drove to the grocery with ill grace, annoyed at being dispatched on such an errand when they should have been discussing how to save Allison's life. He was struck by how completely lucid Hewitt was, as compared to their last meeting; the man apparently went in and out of his haze unpredictably. Stone bought the milk and drove back to the cottage, entering through the front door. He went to the kitchen to put the milk in the refrigerator and was surprised to find a full bottle there. Well, he thought, when I'm his age I'll forget the milk, too. He walked out the back door into the garden and saw Hewitt and Allison deep in conversation on a bench at the bottom of the garden. When they saw him coming, Hewitt had a few more words to say, patted her on the knee, then rose to receive Stone.
"Come into my study, and we'll begin," Hewitt said. Stone fell in alongside Allison. "What were you two discussing so seriously?" he asked.