He looked out the broad windows that showed the sundeck and the sea. Gleeful clouds skimmed the oyster waters; the waves were trimmed in gray lace. Like a thumbed nose, the red small-craft warning flag was sticking straight out from its halyard on the club mast.
Only half the usual number of buffs had gathered in the bar this morning. Brook overheard a conversation about the weather. One man said, “This is the kind of sailing weather, my friend, that separates the men from the lubbers.” The other said, “The damn fools, you mean. Only a Shark would go out in a sea like that.” There were defenders of both viewponts. The race committee was in a huddle trying to make up its collective mind whether to race or not to race.
Brook glanced over at the blackboard listing the skippers and their crews. There were plenty of blank spaces; it would not have been hard to become Krylov’s sailing partner again. But he had already decided against it. He was certain now that his cover was high in the sky; he was undoubtedly under surveillance at this moment. And besides, Krylov had forbidden it at their last meeting.
He did not bother to look over the individuals in the bar; anyone on his tail would be a hard professional, competent not to give himself away. There was even the possibility that his opponents, whoever they were, figured Brook to be aware of his blown cover, and so would disdain to mount a continuing surveillance. They would say to themselves that, his activities already having been circumvented, their purpose in hamstringing him had been achieved. It worked that way more often than not, back and forth, in and out, like a ’coon hunt.
He put the rum and tea to his lips and in the act saw Toby Stark enter the bar with his gander gait. Stark wore a chaotic sports shirt and loose slacks the color of persimmons; the beltline had slipped below the perimeter of his stomach. His face was all balloon geniality as he swapped profanities with the customers.
Behind Stark, a respectful step, trailed the woman Brook had seen in the house on the hill. She was nautical to the topmast: slacks, middy blouse, rakish captain’s hat, in the style you might find in a fashion magazine, clothes for posing rather than sailing. She walked in a fashion model’s walk and she wore a fashion model’s mechanical expression. Some of the men hailed her as she passed and tried to engage her in conversation. But she merely followed Stark.
The fat man barged into a group at the other end of the bar. Jasmine’s eye chanced on Brook. He was making an ocular pass at her to keep up with the Joneses and the Schultzes and the Takahashis, a pleasant enough pastime. He could not be sure, but he thought that she began a smile. It never burgeoned; Stark turned to say something to her and she immediately gave all her attention to the fat manager.
Brook sipped his rum and tea. Had it been a stillborn invitation? He had the curious feeling that Stark’s personal property had been trying to communicate something. That she knew she followed Toby Stark about like a trained bitch but there was an explanation for it and wouldn’t he like to hear it? It would have been more than all right with him. He would love to get to know Jasmine in any sense of the word, especially the Biblical; it was a misfortune that it would interfere with the run. I hope there’s another time, he said to her silently over the cup. Some day he’d take a leave and go on a woman-hunt for the sake of the chase alone, and to hell with the Stars and Stripes. Maybe if he succeeded in bringing Krylov over Holloway would crack a smile and let him loose for a month or two.
He noted the time, set down the rum and tea, and wandered out to the sundeck. He walked over to the end that overlooked the pool and parking lot. There were half a dozen swimmers in the sea in spite of the threatening skies; beyond, near the breakwater, attendants were working at lines and dinghies. Near the edge of the lot a chauffeur waited behind the wheel of a Toyopet sedan. This man turned his head toward Brook, nodded, and raised his hand in a signal.
Brook stepped over to the fat telescope on its pedestal by the rail that was used to watch the racing boats. He swung it toward the Toyopet. Benny Lopez’s face grinned at him. Benny looked remarkably like a Japanese chauffeur. Brook turned the telescope away and for a few minutes scanned the sea. Then he went back into the bar.
He ordered another rum and tea.
A small round sunburned man in a yachting blazer stood beside him. Brook had seen him in the club before. He did not know the man’s name. Chubby was about fifty, his hair was blond and gray, and his watery eyes were floating on watery-looking bags.
“New here, old chap?” the man said, very British. He examined Brook in an almost hostile way. His eyes kept bobbing.
“Yes.” Brook felt like apologizing.
“American?” It seemed to rhyme with “scum.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Thought so. I’m Conrad Ponce-Wilby. Getting to be an American club, y’know. There are so many of you. Wherever one goes.”
“We’re not loved,” Brook said sadly.
“No offense, old boy,” Ponce-Wilby said. He had a rum and tea before him and he sipped at it hastily. “Good enough chaps among you now and then. Just that it all grows so overwhelming. Hot dogs — revolting term! Coca-Cola. Wherever you go. Deepest Africa. Everywhere.”
“You don’t like our best exports?”
“Love them. Just tire of seeing them everywhere.” Ponce-Wilby hiccuped as he pushed back from the bar. “I’m drunk, y’know. Usually am. Ask anyone. Only defense left. What’s your name?”
“Peter Brook.”
“Good English name. You’ve stolen our names and you’ve stolen our language. And what have you done with ’em? Care for a drink, Brook?”
“Working on this one, thanks.”
“I’ve offended you. No tact at all. And Mother wanted me to go to Whitehall. Barman!” Ponce-Wilby snapped his fingers at the bartender and ordered another rum and tea, “Twenty foul years now I’ve been tootling over the damned world for my company. Import-export, y’know. Damascus, New Delhi, Bangkok, Nairobi — all more and more American. D’ye know, Brook, you’ve got the ruddy burden we used to have? Now it’s you hot-dog chaps who must take care of the wogs.”
“Wogs?” Brook said, as if he had never heard the word.
“Anyone who doesn’t resemble an Englishman in important respects, cum color, is a wog,” Ponce-Wilby explained. “Not official policy, of course. Entirely my own. Americans don’t like me. Fact, neither do most of my countrymen. I enjoy it. Rather! Sure you won’t have a drink? Top-hole day for it.”
The Englishman continued his tipsy monologue, and Brook remained patiently by his side.
Ten minutes later Krylov came in. His watchdog, Volodya, trotted at his heels. The Russian agent was in sailing clothes. Once more Volodya found a chair near the door and settled down with a yachting magazine. Krylov ordered a coffee and became involved in the grave discussion at the scheduling board. Suddenly Brook noticed that Stark and his Jasmine were gone. He supposed that they had left while he was on the sundeck.
The Englishman was still prattling. “It’s the damned work ethic, I tell you. Spoils everything. What this world needs is a play ethic. Only reason for working is to wangle the time and money to play. Even the wogs know that. It’s one lesson they’ve learned. Too bloody well, if you ask me...”
A Japanese in workman’s clothes came through the door on a run, calling excitedly to the bartender. Their confused colloquy was translated, and Brook heard someone cry: “It’s a fire in that embassy car!” There was a general rush for the exit, the chauffeur Volodya leading the pack.
Brook caught Krylov’s eye. Krylov nodded.
In thirty seconds the room was clear. Even the bartender was gone.