by David Manuel
When Cochrane, Dan, and Bartholomew were back in the situation room, the inspector turned to the monk. “You said the streetlight came on, and you caught a glimpse of the man with the cart. Describe him.”
Bartholomew did his best. When he’d finished, Cochrane smiled sadly and said, “You’ve just described a third of the adult male Caucasian population of Bermuda.”
The Chief, lost in thought, now looked at Bartholomew. “Was his nose thin on the bridge and sharp-looking?”
His friend nodded.
“Narrow face, high cheekbones?”
Another nod.
“Dark hair, receding here and here?” He gestured to his forehead.
Nod.
“I know who it is,” said Dan quietly but with great force. He turned to Cochrane. “And so do you. He’s just described Laurent Devereux. At least, that’s the name he goes by. He’s a guest at Sandys House. I sat next to him at dinner Saturday night.”
“Was a guest,” corrected Cochrane. “He checked out yesterday morning. I know, because I wanted another word with Monsieur Devereux about the business conference he was supposed to be attending next week. The Princess did have that event scheduled, but after September 11, too many registrants dropped out, and they canceled it. But they did have a list of presenters and seminar leaders. No Devereux; in fact, he wasn’t even registered.”
“So now what?” asked Dan.
“Yes, that’s the question, isn’t it,” said Cochrane with a dour smile. “I’m curious, Chief; if this was your investigation, what would you do now?”
Dan thought for a moment. “Well, there are three of us who know what this guy looks like. I’d get a police artist in here, ASAP, to work up a sketch of him.”
Cochrane nodded. “She’s already on her way. Should be here about the same time as the coffee.” He turned to a yawning Bartholomew. “That is, if you can stay awake that long. You’re the only one who didn’t get any sleep at all last night.”
“I’ll be all right,” said Bartholomew, hoping he would.
“I have to say what I’m thinking,” said Dan, obviously reluctant to, as if uttering the words might give them power. “Why hasn’t he killed Eric?”
Cochrane nodded. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. The man kills easily, with no compunction. In fact, it would seem he derives a certain pleasure from it. So why spare the Bennett boy?”
“Bargaining chip,” murmured Bartholomew, gazing at the wall map of the island. The other two turned to him. “He must be thinking the boy might be of more use to him alive than dead.”
“How?” asked the inspector.
“I’ve no idea,” said Bartholomew, shaking his head. Then he frowned. “You mentioned earlier there were only two ways off the island. What about a power boat?”
“Cape Hatteras is 631 miles from here. There are only thirteen boats on the island’s registry with that kind of range. And only three are still here. This time of year, the rest are all down in the islands, where the charters are. We’ve alerted the three captains to get in touch immediately if they’re approached for any long-range charter.”
Bartholomew was still frowning. “He’s thinking that Eric might prove useful to him in getting off the island.”
“How do you know that?” asked Cochrane.
Bartholomew shrugged. “A hunch.”
Dan spoke up. “We’ve worked together on the Cape in the past. I’ve, urn, found his hunches helpful.”
“Right,” said Cochrane, unimpressed. “Look, while we’re waiting for the artist, would you mind going back with Officer Ellis and showing him where the perpetrator disposed of the shopping cart? A good print or two would be a great help. With that, and the artist’s sketch, Interpol may be able to give us a hand.”
He stood up and pointed at the open manila folder on the table. “I’m tired of being on the defensive with this Devereux, or whatever his name is. Tired of keeping personnel at the airport and the terminals with nothing more to go on than to watch for someone ‘suspicious-looking.’ Now it’s our side’s turn!” he declared. “And we’re going to give him a taste of what our batsmen can do!”
“Amen!” exclaimed Bartholomew, who didn’t even like cricket.
“Soon as the sketch is ready, it’ll go on the front page of all the papers, and in all the TV news coverage. I wonder how Monsieur Devereux’s going to like being Bermuda’s Most Wanted! There won’t be a hole big enough to hide him!”
34 fathers and sons, iii
On the highest hill on St. George’s Island was a square steel building, painted white. Unimposing from the outside, its interior was another matter. For this was Harbour Radio, the eyes, ears, and nerve center of Bermuda. Equipped with the latest radar and state-of-the-art computers and monitors, it resembled the Combat Information Center of a nuclear aircraft carrier.
Every ship approaching or leaving Bermuda, no matter what size, was monitored here, and decisions were made as to which cruise ship would berth where. Their berths had been scheduled months in advance, but circumstances often changed, and it was Harbour Radio’s responsibility to park them and keep track of them. There were five cruise ship berths on the island—two in Hamilton, two at St. George’s, and one at the Dockyard. If a sixth ship came calling, as sometimes happened, Harbour Radio would assign her an anchorage in Great Sound, where she would be serviced by a special ferry, that would bring her passengers ashore.
This afternoon the first watch was quiet and uneventful, the way every watch officer preferred it. It remained that way until 1325, when it got unquiet in a hurry.
“Mr. Shackelton, you’d better see this.” The first petty officer called from the fax machine.
“What is it, Moberley?”
“Weather advisory. Bermuda Weather Service. Basically what they’re saying is, their millibars have just fallen off a cliff!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have a look, sir! There’s a severe tropical depression building.”
“How far from us?”
“That’s just it! It’s here! We’ve got convection stacking vertically, a warm core developing, and get this: It’s starting to spin!”
The watch officer stared at the fax. “We’re talking hurricane,” he murmured.
“I know!” exclaimed Moberley. “And the whole thing is building up right on top of us!”
Shackleton muttered an unprofessional oath and soon had the weather monitor showing them the same thing Bermuda Weather was seeing. It was eerie. It looked like an ancient Chinese wash of a tsunami. The afternoon had just turned into every watch officer’s worst nightmare.
He got on the phone to his counterpart over at Bermuda Weather. “Where’d this thing come from, Terry?”
“Beats the hell out of me! Looks like we’re just lucky enough to be on the trailing edge of one front, about to be overrun by another, with a third coming down fast from the northwest. I’ve been in this business a long time, Shack; I’ve never seen anything like this!”
Shackleton glanced over at the chart to see where the cruise ships were. There were only two still at the island—the Scandinavian Sovereign over at Ordnance Island, and the Royal Dane over in Hamilton. “So what are we looking at?”
“Worst case or best case?”
“Give me the worst, and we’ll hope for the best.”
“The worst is that in a couple of hours we’re going to have thirty to forty knots from the north, but that’s just for openers. By nightfall it could be double that. Or more.”
Shackleton’s eyes widened. “Or more? You’re talking hurricane, Terry!”
“Tell me about it! This thing’s going to be a hurricane by the time it gets the hell out of here! We’re telling everybody, and asking them to tell everybody else. You, too, will you?”
“Count on it. We’ll close the airport, call the radio stations. What does Miami say about it?”
“The hurricane center? Oh, they’re watching it. They’re a little embarras
sed, judging from the careful but rapid upgrading of their cautions.” He gave a wry chuckle. “But they’re only embarrassed. You know who’s going to get it in the neck, don’t you. I can already see the letter to the editor: ‘Once again our vaunted meteorologists at the Bermuda Weather Service have let us down,’ et cetera, et cetera.”
Shackleton smiled. “Head them off at the pass, Terry. Get up a press release, explaining the most extraordinary weather event Bermuda has experienced in the past thirty-three years.”
“You know, I like that. Thanks, Shack.”
“Catch you later, man. I’ve got a couple of big ones to get out of here.”
He turned to the first petty officer. “Moberley, get ahold of the Dane and see how fast she can clear Hamilton. Then call the Sovereign. The wind’s stiffening in the channel. She may not be able to get out. It’ll be her captain’s call. Tell him, if he decides to ride it out where he is, we’ll put a couple of tugs on her, to hold her.” He looked at the chart. “And then get on to the Pacific Princess and tell her she’d better stay down in Barbados and not even think about coming in here tomorrow.”
He picked up the phone and called the Yacht Club. “Hilary? It’s Shack, over at Harbour Radio. I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid….”
When he finished, he just shook his head. This was going to be a long afternoon. And a longer night.
The ironic thing about a tropical depression was that if you didn’t happen to notice how fast the barometer was falling, you’d have no reason to suspect big trouble was coming. The wind might be picking up, but the sun was still out. Of course, if you looked up, you might notice the high stratus clouds moving a whole lot faster than usual, almost as if someone was projecting them in time-lapse photography.
Colin had no reason to look up that afternoon. He had, in fact, never felt less like looking up. Today was a lay-day for the Marblehead crew, while they waited to see whom they would face in the Quarterfinals tomorrow. But he was at the club anyway; he had to see Anson.
He found him eating some late scrambled eggs and chatting with Kerry. “Anson, can I talk to you?”
“Sit down, man, you want some breakfast?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
Anson, chewing, looked up at him.
“It’s, urn, private,” Colin said.
“Hey, man, no prob,” said Kerry jauntily, “I’m done anyway,” and he left the two of them alone.
Colin told him about the FedEx from Georgia.
“Bummer!” murmured Anson through a mouthful. “Your soon to be ex-father-in-law sounds like a real piece of work!”
“He’s that all right,” Colin muttered, and sighed. “I’ve got to come up with the settlement money or lose my boat.” He paused. “I was wondering if you might be able to spare some cash.”
“Sure,” said Anson, swallowing, “how much you need?” He took another bite.
“Fifty thousand.”
Eggs nearly spewed. “Man, I don’t have it! Everything I’ve got is tied up in the syndicate. House is mortgaged—the works.”
“It’s okay,” said Colin. “Just thought I’d ask. As you can imagine, I’m a little desperate.”
“Yeah, man! Your boat! That’s terrible!” He thought for a moment. “Look, I can give you two. Hey, man, you won that for me yesterday—as soon as Sørenski comes up with it. And look, I’ll add the thousand I bet him yesterday, but that taps me out. It’s a good thing we won!”
“Thanks, Anson,” Colin said, getting to his feet. “You’re a stand-up guy.”
“Hey, man, me and the Beater are going to be doing a lot of sailing together.”
That reminded Colin of the other Rolex, still in its presentation case. It should fetch around $3000. Great, only $44,000 to go!
At the bank he was informed that they did not consider a Venus 34 suitable collateral for a loan. “Sorry, Mr. Bennett, but we’re just not set up to be a used-boat brokerage.”
After that, he went to Sandy Harrison’s boatyard, to see if he was still interested in having him as a partner. Sandy definitely was. Enough to advance him say, $20,000? Sandy considered that, and then agreed—under terms that would make Colin more of an indentured servant than a partner. He told Sandy he’d have to think about it.
He had one last hope. Ian.
As he turned the old Hillman in the direction of Somerset, the car seemed to run a little easier, as if it knew it was heading home. The one-car-per-household rule for the island might have persuaded him to get something newer, but the Hillman had been his father’s. For that reason he held on to it, coaxing season after season out of it.
Entering Middle Road, he realized he hated asking his brother for money. He hated asking Ian for anything. Ian had always been the responsible one, the one his parents had been proud of. And Ian had lived up to their expectations. He had worked hard, put enough money aside for Eric to go to Harvard, Oxford, anywhere.
But Eric had insisted that all he wanted was to be a captain like his father. So Ian had planned eventually to use the tuition money as a down payment on a second boat, Mercy—bigger and faster, with a spotting tower. He would give Goodness to Eric as a graduation present, once he finished Hamilton Academy.
Colin, on the other hand—no, let’s not go into Colin, he thought, that subject was a little too painful.
He was surprised to see a police car in the driveway of the modest family domicile. He was stunned to see the expression on his brother’s face, as he came out to greet him.
“Colin, thank God you’re here! I’ve been trying to get you! Oh, God, Colin! Eric’s been—kidnapped!”
Colin was shocked speechless.
“He was into drugs,” his brother stammered. “We didn’t know. And now some dealer has got him!” Ian broke down, and Colin, staggered, reached out and held him.
“Oh, my God! I can’t believe this!” his brother said over and over.
Colin took him inside. A woman officer was trying to comfort Nan in the living room. They went into Ian’s study. And for a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then Colin asked when it happened, and his brother told him all they knew, which wasn’t much. “And each hour we don’t hear something, like a demand for ransom, it’s less likely he’s—alive.” His brother just shook his head, unable to say more.
For a long time they sat in silence. Then Colin said, “I wish there were something I could say. I keep thinking: What if it were Jamie?”
“You don’t have to say anything,” his older brother replied. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
He lowered his head and shut his eyes. “Oh, God, I had such plans for him, such hopes.”
“Ian, don’t do that,” his brother said, trying to muster courage he didn’t feel. “You don’t know that he’s not all right.”
Colin stayed with him, until Inspector Cochrane arrived—with no new news. Then he want back to the club. He had nowhere else to go.
He’d not mentioned his own predicament; it had never occurred to him.
35 thieves’ honor
Outside, the wind began to lash the palm trees. In the blue-tiled solarium, the owner paced, hands clasped behind him. His guest merely watched.
“I want you off this island in twenty-four hours!” exclaimed the owner.
“You don’t want that any more than I do,” replied his guest with a quiet smile.
Put off by his calm demeanor, the owner wheeled on him. “You don’t seem to get it! They know who you are! A witness saw you dispose of the Jones boy’s body. An artist has done a sketch. It’s going to be on the news tonight, and on the front page of every paper tomorrow! A remarkably good rendering, by the way; you really should have it framed!”
Dupré stood up and shot him a glance. He’d had enough. “No, Monsieur le Grand!” he retorted, a hard edge to his voice. “It’s you who don’t seem to ‘get it’! If I go down because you have refused to help me, guess who’s going down with me!”
The
owner glared at him and said nothing. Then he slowly smiled. “I was wondering if it would come to this. I can promise you that before you could open your mouth to implicate me, you’d be shot ‘attempting to escape.’”
Instead of replying, the guest held up a large manila envelope, stamped and addressed. “This is a letter which I’m about to mail to my associate in New York. In it are three other sealed envelopes addressed to Bermuda’s Prime Minister, to the Leader of the Opposition, and to the Governor General. My cover letter instructs my associate that in the event of my untimely demise while in custody, they are to be mailed immediately. Each contains the identical document—a detailed description of our operation from its inception. Dates, times, names, Bermuda bank accounts, Swiss bank accounts, plus the names of our agent on each island. Your role, my role, Vincennes’ role—le tout ensemble!”
The owner blanched.
Dupré let him chew on that. Then in a more moderate tone, he added, “But if I die under circumstances that are not suspicious, they will not be sent. Or if I am caught through my own stupidity, I will keep my mouth shut. I will preserve your precious anonymity—and the possibility of eventually resurrecting our joint venture.”
His partner relaxed somewhat, but the Frenchman wasn’t finished. “Stupidity is one thing, however; the callous refusal of aid to a comrade in peril is quite another. That is tantamount to betrayal.”
Both men knew that, as it once was in the Resistance, in their high-risk field of endeavor, betrayal was the darkest of crimes.
The owner smiled. “I think we can reach an accommodation. What exactly is it that you would like from me?”
“As I said before, I want to meet the Carringtons. At the club. This afternoon. They know Anson Phelps. And he knows someone who can help me.”
“Sorry, but I told you that was impossible. Nothing’s changed, I’m afraid—”
The Frenchman simply waved the envelope.
The owner stared at it, perhaps imagining the reaction of—his friends—when they read its contents. “All right, I’ll make a call,” he said with a sigh. “But I want that envelope before you leave.”
