"You certainly did, but you aged me ten years in the process."
"Well, I'm glad it came out all right. I got a lovely fee, the prime minister got his, ah, pension fund, and you got a very fine yacht."
"If I can hang on to it," Stone said, laughing. "I'd better get the engine started." He went aft to the cockpit, switched on the ignition, and prayed that the thing would start. The starter ground on for a good ten seconds before the engine caught and ran smoothly. He looked up and saw Thomas running across the lawn again, carrying a cardboard box and followed by an employee carrying a second one.
Stone checked the fuel gauges. Full. He hoped to God the water tanks were full, too.
Thomas and his man ran down the dock and set their boxes aboard, then Thomas ran back down the dock, untied a dinghy with an outboard, pulled it to Expansive, and tied it to the stern. "Come on, I'll give you a hand getting out of the harbor," he called.
Stone embraced Leslie again, then lifted him over the lifelines and set him on the dock. "Good-bye, old fellow!" he called out. "Let go our lines, will you?"
Leslie and Thomas's employee untied the lines and tossed them on board, then gave the big yacht a shove away from the dock. Stone put the engine in reverse and began backing out.
"Look up there," Thomas said, pointing with his chin, "but pretend you don't see."
Sir Winston's elderly Jaguar had pulled into the inn's parking lot, and the minister of justice was striding toward them, a piece of paper in his hand. They could hear a faint shout over the engine.
Stone shoved the gear lever to forward and spun the wheel to port; Expansive accelerated quickly through the smooth water of the harbor. They were about to turn past a point of land when Stone looked back and saw Sir Winston on the dock waving his piece of paper and shouting. He made a show of cupping his hand to his ear and shrugging, indicating an inability to hear, then they were around the point, and the harbor entrance lay ahead. "Thomas, you take the helm, and I'll get some sail up," he called.
Thomas tossed the mooring lines into the cockpit and took the wheel. Stone unreeled the headsail first, and when it was full and drawing, he unwound the big main from the mast. He went aft and switched off the engine, and everything grew quiet, except the fresh breeze in the rigging and the burble of water slipping past the blue hull. He stowed the mooring lines and went below, wrote Thomas a check, then came back on deck.
"I guess that's it," he said, handing Thomas the check.
"You are too generous, Stone," Thomas said, looking at it.
"You've gone to an awful lot of trouble, Thomas, and I'll never forget it. When you come to New York, stay at my house, and we'll do some serious dining and wining."
"That's an offer I can't refuse."
"Are you going to have any problems with Sir Winston?"
Thomas shook his head. "Nah; he's got nothing on me. And even if he did have, I've got enough relatives on this island to turn him out of office."
"I think Leslie has something like that in mind; why don't you talk to him about it?"
"I'll do that."
They were nearly to the mouth of the harbor now. Stone gave Thomas a big hug, then watched as he jumped into the dinghy, untied the painter, and yanked the cord on the outboard. The little engine buzzed to life, and Thomas kept pace with the yacht for another hundred yards. Then, as the smooth water of the harbor the swell of the sea outside, he gave a big wave and little boat back into English Harbour.
Stone watched him go. He reflected for a moment he had not made many friends as good as that one, he bore away around the point and headed for the sea, a lump in his throat. There would be time later sort out charts and courses, but right now, he wanted sail his boat.
That night, sailing north with the autopilot on, Stone fixed himself some supper, opened a bottle of wine, sat down in the cockpit, and began thinking about the events of the past days. There were anomalies in what he had seen and heard, and he wanted to think about them.
He slept in snatches of a few minutes, scanning the horizon often for ships and other yachts and boats. He saw little traffic. The next day, at midmorning, he fired up the satellite phone and got it working. He called his secretary and informed her of his new travel plans, then he called Bob Cantor.
"Hello, Stone; I heard the news on television this morning. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"There is, Bob. I want you to take a trip up to Ithaca for a couple of days and do a little research for me."
"Sure; what do you need?"
Stone told him in some detail. Finally, he hung up the phone and sat down with his charts. He plotted a course up the leeward side of the islands, then between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico and then to the northwest, leaving the Turks and Caicos and the Bahamas to starboard, and on to Fort Lauderdale. It had not taken him long to figure out that he could not afford to own the yacht; what with dockage, repairs, and insurance, it would break him, unless he sold his house, and he wasn't about to do that.
He sailed on, thinking about what had happened to him and what to do next. He made other calls, the last of them to Sir Winston Sutherland, who was surprised to hear from him, but extremely interested in what he had to say.
By the time he had reached Fort Lauderdale, he had done all he could do. Except wait.
EPILOGUE
Stone sat in his Turtle Bay garden on a lovely early spring morning, breakfasting on eggs and bacon and orange juice. When he had finished, his Greek housekeeper, Helene, took away the plates and poured hima mug of the strong coffee he loved. He looked through the Times idly, Checking for any mention of Allison. He had heard nothing from her, and when he had called the Greenwich house, the number had been disconnected. He had thought of calling her Connecticut lawyer, but had decided just to wait for Allison's call.
Alma, his secretary, came out to the garden with the morning mail. "There's one from the broker in Fort Lauderdale," she said.
Stone opened that first and found a check for one million eight hundred thousand dollars and change. He smiled broadly.
"I take it we're not broke for a while?" Alma asked,
"We certainly are not," he said, endorsing the check and handing it to her.
Her eyes grew wide. "I had no idea it was worth so much."
"The broker reckoned it had cost close to three million to build and equip. Still, after his commission, that's a good price."
"What shall I do with it?" Alma asked.
"Write a check for, let's see"-he began scribbling numbers on his newspaper-"three hundred seventy-five thousand to that law firm in Palm Beach, for the account of Libby Manning's mother. I want that off my conscience."
"Right," sad Alma.
"Then send a check for five hundred and forty thousand to the Internal Revenue Service." He groaned. "God, how proud I am to be an American and pay my taxes!"
"Right. That leaves eight' hundred and eighty-five thousand."
"Send my broker a check for two hundred thousand, and tell him to call me about where to invest it."
"We're rich!" Alma squealed. "What about the rest?"
"I was thinking about buying an airplane," Stone said.
Alma's face fell. "Oh. We're not rich anymore. Well, it was fun while it lasted." She got up and trudged comically back into the house.
Stone had a thought: he could afford a car now. He got up, went into the house, and walked through the kitchen into a storeroom, then through another door. This had been a garage at one time, and there was still a folding door to the street, though he hadn't opened it for a long time. He waded through the stacked boxes and old lawn furniture to the door, which was made of heavy oak. He turned the lock, thinking, I'll have to install an automatic garage door opener if I'm going to use this space. He tugged at the door, which moved six inches and stopped. He tugged again, and got it open three feet. Then, with all his strength, he moved the door up all the way, until it was standing wide open. He found himself face-to-face with a tall man.