Ed McBain
The Sentries
This is for
Rees and Jerry Mason
At a time when a single clash could escalate overnight into a holocaust of mushroom clouds, a great power does not prove its firmness by leaving the task of exploring the other’s intentions to sentries...
Book One
1
It was still raining.
There were no stars, no moon. A high keening wind sent dark clouds scuttling across the Miami sky, lashed the waters of the bay against the public dock where the man and woman stood in embrace. A twenty-seven-foot cabin cruiser was tied up at the dock behind them. At the far end of the dock a truck was waiting, its motor idling.
The woman was pregnant. She wore a loose black raincoat and white sneakers. A black kerchief was tied around her head, which she kept ducked into the man’s shoulder, away from the wind. The weather did not seem to bother the man. The rain was light, but the strong wind drove it across the dock in a piercing needlelike spray that was cold and penetrating; the man was wearing only khaki trousers and shirt.
From the truck someone called, “Jason, it’s a quarter to three.”
He did not answer. He simply nodded and then said to the woman, “Will you be all right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you worried?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Only about you, is all,” she said.
“My part is easy,” he said.
“No. It isn’t. You know it isn’t.”
He smiled. There was assurance in his smile and something more, something she could not easily define, but which had been there since that night several years ago when he had first told her of the plan. She had not liked the plan then, and she was not sure she liked it much even now — but he was her husband.
“If something goes wrong, you’ll call it off,” she said. It was not a question.
“Nothing will go wrong.”
“But if it does. If it does, you’ll call it off.”
“Yes.”
“Fatboy and the others in Key West...”
“They know they’re not to move out until I call them.”
“And you’ll radio us on the boat if we’re to go ahead. Otherwise we’ll come back to Miami.”
“Yes.”
“Jason,” she said, “there’s still time.”
“For what?”
“To change your mind.”
“Why should I?”
“Because even if this succeeds, we can all be dead tomorrow morning.”
The dock went silent. She could hear the wind rattling in the distant palm fronds, could hear the creak of the boat against the dock, and the steady pounding of the waves, and beneath that a tiny sharp rush of air as Jason pulled in his breath.
“It’ll succeed,” he said.
“Yes, but even if it does...”
“Annabelle, we’ve been over this.”
“Yes, but...”
“Annabelle, listen to me. You just listen to me. This doesn’t get called off unless something goes very wrong with my part of it, do you understand? It doesn’t get called off unless something terrible happens when I get down there to Ocho Puertos. That’s the only thing can call this off. This isn’t something where I can say now, standing here on this dock, with everything ready to go — this isn’t something where I can say, Okay, let’s not do it. This is too important.”
“I know, Jason, but...”
“To the world,” he said.
“Jason...”
“Important to the world.”
At the far end of the dock she could hear the idling motor of the truck, the wind flapping in the tarpaulin that covered the rack. She had the feeling that if only she could think of the right thing to say, Jason wouldn’t have to climb into the back of that waiting truck. She would not have to board the cruiser, the plan would not be set in motion, if only she could think of the right thing to say. Give me another moment, she thought, another thirty seconds, and I will be able to explain why we can’t go through with this scheme of yours; give me another twenty seconds.
From the deck of the cabin cruiser, Randy Gambol cleared his throat. “Jason,” he said, “I’d like a word with you.”
“Just a second.” He lifted Annabelle’s chin and looked down into her face. “Go on,” he said, “get aboard. Get some sleep. I’ll be looking for you later.”
“If anything goes wrong—” she began, and he immediately said, “Everything will go just the way we planned it.”
“I hope so.”
“Come on now, give me a kiss and go get some sleep.”
She nodded. “All right,” she said, and she nodded again. “Jason... please be careful. If anything goes wrong, if there’s even a sign that anything is going wrong, promise me you’ll call it off. Even if it means putting the boat in danger. Promise.”
“Go on, get aboard. It’s almost time.”
“Jason, I want to talk to you,” Randy said.
“Go on, Annabelle,” he said, and kissed her. She threw her arms around his neck and returned the kiss lingeringly. Then she turned away from him swiftly and went to the boat, taking Randy’s hand as he helped her aboard, mumbling “Thanks,” and going immediately below. Randy came down onto the dock.
“This is the advisory I called you about at the warehouse,” he said.
“What about it?” Jason said, not taking the sheet of paper from Randy’s extended hand.
“The Weather Bureau’s eight P.M. advisory,” Randy said.
“I know what it is.”
“This hurricane...”
“She isn’t a hurricane.”
“They’ve named her already, Jason. They don’t usually name them until they’re real hurricanes.”
“She’s a tropical storm, that’s all.”
“Then why’d they name her?”
“Randy, there’s a truck waiting for me at the end of the dock there. Now, will you please say what the hell’s on your mind?”
“This is what’s on my mind,” Randy said. He lifted the sheet of paper so that it was close to his face, but there was no light on the dock, and it was clear to Jason that he had memorized its contents, even though he pretended now to be reading. “What’s on my mind is a storm they’ve named Flora, the center of which is fixed near latitude 20.5 north, longitude 77.2 west. Her highest winds—”
“You told me all this on the—”
“Her highest winds have been estimated near hurricane force, extending out a hundred and seventy-five—”
“So?”
“They’ve got gale warnings up,” Randy said, lowering the sheet of paper. “The Golden Fleece is a small craft.”
“I know what it is. Don’t worry about Flora. She plays right into our hands.”
“I just don’t like the idea of putting out to sea when—”
“I spoke to Arthur down in Key West just a little while ago,” Jason said. “He told me the sun was shining there all day long, and the breezes are like an angel’s kiss.”
“Well, the sun wasn’t shining here in Miami,” Randy said, “and the breezes are expected to hit gale force. Now, what do you want me to do?”
“Put out to sea, same as you’re supposed to.”
“With a hurricane coming?”
“Can you think of a better time?”
“Jason...”
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes, Jason, I can think of a better time to be in a small boat than when a hurricane is coming, okay? Yes. If we capsize out there...”
“You won’t capsize.”
“I hope not.” Randy paused. “I just thought that with the seas the way they’re going to be, and considering Annabelle’s condition—”