Run Before the Wind

by Stuart Woods

  The guard leaned out of his box. “The blonde lady? I believe so. I know the other lady was Mrs. Fortescue, Major Fortescue’s wife. He commands the marine detachment here.”

  Maeve beamed at him. “Oh, thank you so much. I must give her a call.” She waved to him and drove away, looking for a call box. She dialed the number and there was an electronic beep at the other end. “This is Sister Concepta,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I have a question about my Inland Revenue forms. It’s now two P.M. Please ring me on line three in half an hour, or on line one an hour after that. Thank you.” She hung up and drove back to the shopping center, parking near a call box in the car park. If it didn’t ring at 2:30, she’d drive to Plymouth Station and wait at another call box at 3:30

  At 2:28 she went to the box. A couple of minutes later the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “May I speak to Sister Concepta, please?

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “This is the curate.”

  “Is your phone secure?”

  “Of course,” he snorted. “Now what’s up, girl?”

  “I want permission to perform an excommunication.”

  “Who?”

  “Ex-Royal Marine captain. Mark Pemberton-Robinson. Ex-Belfast. The monsignor will know of him.”

  “What about the Poole matter? How’s that coming?” “It’s coming. We want to do this first.”

  “I’ll check. Be on line one at six o’clock. Maybe I can get through this afternoon.”

  “If the monsignor’s cool on this, tell him to check with the bishop. I won’t take no on this unless the bishop says not.”

  “Don’t push your luck, girl.”

  “Line one at six.” She hung up.

  There was no call at six. She rang and set up another call for the following morning at ten. Denny was excited when she told him. “I say we do him no matter what the Bishop says,” he enthused.

  “Let’s wait and see,” she answered. “We still need them; best to keep them happy, if possible.”

  At 10:00 the next morning the phone rang.

  “The excommunication is approved, but only after Poole is completed.”

  She swore under her breath. She could be patient, though, and there was still research to do. She’d do them back to back. Poole on Friday morning, she thought, and Robinson as soon as possible thereafter. “Understood,” she said into the phone.

  She got into the car, drove back to the naval base, and parked along the chainlink fence, where she could see the vehicles entering and leaving. It was nearly noon before the Vauxhall wagon drove out and headed toward the shopping center again. She started the car and pulled into the traffic, following several cars back, as she had been trained. The two women again. More shopping? Jesus, they ate a lot, these British.

  48

  AS I SAILED the big yacht out of Cork Harbour, an appalling thought struck me. I had to think back over a few years on boats to confirm it, but soon I was sure. This was the first time in my life I had ever sailed singlehanded. The thought was very nearly paralyzing. I stood at the helm and steered the boat for nearly an hour thinking about this. I hadn’t even set a course, I just sailed, going roughly southeast. It gave me something to do, didn’t require any decisions.

  Finally, the need to navigate moved me. I set the self-steering, waited a couple of minutes to make sure it still worked, then went below and occupied myself with chart and logbook, setting down my departure time and log reading and plotting a course for Wolf Rock, which lies between Land’s End, the southwestern tip of England, and the Scilly Isles, which lie about thirty miles off Land’s End. This gave me a nice gap to aim at. That done, I started to restow gear that had begun to fall about with the heeling of the boat, making frequent trips to the hatch for a look about. The last thing I needed was a collision at sea.

  When everything seemed in order below, I went and played with the sails a bit to get the maximum out of her, then settled down in the cockpit. The boat tore along close reaching at about ten knots, dead on course, steering herself. I felt like a passenger. All sorts of things can go wrong at sea, but once in a while, everything goes right, and this seemed to be one of those times. Gradually, my nervousness gave way to a kind of confidence, although I didn’t know how long that would last if something went wrong. What I was enjoying here was the fruit of years of thinking and planning by Mark, a fine boatbuilding job by Finbar and his yard, unlimited supplies of money from Derek Thrasher, and finally, and very satisfying it was, weeks of rather good work by none other than myself. For the first time in my life, I was able to look at something important and think, if not for me, this wouldn’t be happening. I was, at last, important to something besides myself.

  There was another thing still picking at me inside, though; it was Connie, or rather, her absence. I had so anticipated her being with me on this trip that I was having difficulty adjusting. She had been with me every day for weeks, and I constantly caught myself about to speak to her, only to remember that she wasn’t there. Look at the moon, I wanted to say, or there’s Orion coming up now. She left a big hole.

  I stayed awake in the cockpit all night, going below only to make coffee and a snack. At dawn we were still tearing along on course, and there were no ships in sight, so I went below and got some sleep. In the early afternoon I tried out the radio direction finding equipment and got a pretty good position fix. I was coming up fast on Land’s End, now, and there is a marine radio station there. Time to try still more equipment. I got on the VHF radio and through Land’s End Radio, placed a call to Mark in Plymouth.

  “Where are you?”

  “About twenty-five miles off Land’s End.”

  “Good news. Somebody named Nicky called. Derek’s legal problem with the boat is solved. She’s no longer a fugitive.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “How’s she sailing?”

  “Going like a train. My average is nearly ten knots from Roche’s Point.”

  “Fantastic. Let’s see, that should put you in Plymouth, if the wind holds, about … daybreak, I should say.”

  “I guess so, if the wind holds. What do I do when I get there?”

  “Look on your chart of the harbor … inside the breakwater, go on up the river, past the Mayflower Marina on your right; you’ll see Spedding’s boatyard on your left a bit further up. Giant letters on one of the sheds; can’t miss it.”

  “Listen, Mark, I’m kind of nervous about docking this great huge thing.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be on hand to take your lines. Once you’re inside the breakwater, just stop and take everything down and get your lines ready. That’s the whole thing about sailing singlehanded—do everything in advance. Then just motor on up. I’ll be the guy on the quay waving a crutch.”

  “How’s that going, anyway?”

  “Nothing to worry about. I’m managing.”

  “How’s Annie?”

  “Fantastic. She and Roz Fortescue are doing the provisioning. Roz and her husband Andrew are old friends. He’s commander of the Royal Marines in Plymouth, and she and Annie were at school together. They’ve been great about lending their car and helping out in general. We’ve got a ton of food here already. Annie and Roz are buying not only for the trip out, but all the staples for the trip back, too. Lots of cheap, fresh food in the Azores, but the other stuff is a lot cheaper here. What’s the boat going to need when you get here? I want to be ready.”

  “Well, I think she ought to be hauled. She’s taking water somewhere I haven’t been able to locate, and we ought to look at that if for no other reason than to make sure it’s something that won’t get any worse. Her bottom’s bound to be foul, too, and you’ll want that clean for the race. If there’s somebody from Brookes & Gatehouse in Plymouth maybe he ought to have a look at the way I’ve connected things. The instruments all seem to be working, but I’d feel better if a pro had a look. Are you going to have the compass swung?”


  “I’ll do that myself, with your help. Have you noticed any inaccuracy?”

  “I’ll let you know after I’ve made my landfall. Listen, we’d better sign off. Anything else?”

  “Nope. Call the boatyard on Channel Sixteen from the breakwater. I’ll get customs arranged for you.”

  “Great. Over and out.” I hung the microphone back in its bracket. Customs. Jesus, I hadn’t thought about that. And I had three extremely illegal weapons aboard. I’d have to think of something.

  Land’s End turned up when and where it was supposed to, so there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with either the compass or the RDF equipment. At dusk, I was looking back at Wolf Rock light when it came on. We were off the wind now and going slower. I resisted a not-very-great urge to set a spinnaker. I’d wait for Mark on that one. The wind dropped as the night wore on and by dawn we were still twenty miles short of Plymouth and sailing slowly.

  I had to do something about the weapons. My first impulse was simply to toss them overboard, but that would make Mark mad as hell, and anyway, I was sure he’d only replace them. Besides, I had gotten used to the idea of having them around, and, in the circumstances to which we had become accustomed, they didn’t seem a bad idea. Still, I didn’t want customs to find them, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to declare them. After a lot of thought I remembered something. I dug into a locker and found a three-foot-long, heavy-duty, plastic bag with a zipper closure. Some parts for the self-steering had come in it, and it had looked too useful to throw away. The .45 automatic, the Ingram machine pistol and its clips, and the short-barreled, riot shotgun all just squeezed in. I zipped it shut, reinforced the closure with plastic tape and dropped it into the bilges. Nice fit. The lot lay on top of the automatic bilge pump, nearly four feet down in the keel sump. I switched the pump off. It was nine o’clock in the morning before we were at the breakwater. I checked the bilges; nearly full. For good measure I poured in some engine oil, too. It would be a bitch to clean out, but it left a nice, opaque film on top of the bilge water. I called the yard on the VHF, and Mark came on immediately. When I motored up the river half an hour later I could see him standing on the quay, waving, as he had promised, a crutch.

  Annie was first on the boat, giving me a big hug and a wet kiss. Then Mark stumped aboard, his leg in a steel brace, the aluminum crutch helping him with his balance. Andrew and Roz Fortescue were pleasant, humorous, salt-of-the-earth people. Mark had H. M. Customs standing by and they brought their launch alongside and tied up to the yacht. I began to sweat. Mark looked at me curiously but said nothing. They went through the whole yacht, but not very thoroughly. At one point, one of them lifted a floorboard and looked into the oily bilges.

  “Taking some water, eh?” he asked.

  I nodded. “We’re going to haul her and have that looked at. Probably the stern tube.”

  He agreed. “That’s what it usually is.” Once they were assured we weren’t permanently importing the yacht and had no declarable goods aboard, they gave us our clearance and left. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Okay,” Mark grinned. “Where did you hide them?” I told him, and he laughed aloud.

  While everybody else had a cup of coffee, Mark and I went over the boat thoroughly. Finally, we joined the others. “I told you you could do it,” he said to me, “And you did it as well as anybody could’ve and better than most. Now, let’s go over what we have to do.”

  We talked for an hour, making lists of work against time available. The boat would be hauled, her bottom cleaned, leaks sealed, electronics inspected, and everything possible, in the time available, put right. This was Tuesday. She’d have three days ashore, then, on Friday morning, she’d be put back into the water, her compasses swung, then she’d be turned over to Annie and Roz for provisioning. Andrew Fortescue had laid on a navy lorry to bring everything over from Plymouth.

  Mark pointed at a little ferry plying the river. “That’s the quickest way to town,” he said. “In order to drive over here, you have to cross the Tamar Bridge and go down a maze of country lanes. The ferry takes five minutes.”

  I looked around us. For the first time in what seemed forever, we had everything we needed at our disposal: a good yard, skilled help, and willing hands from the Fortescues and Plymouth’s Royal Marines. Our four days of preparation time, short as it was, seemed an absolute luxury. I plugged Antonio Carlos Jobim into the tape player and poured myself another cup of coffee. His song Wave washed over us.

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” Annie said, putting her feet on the saloon table and stretching. “So long since I’ve heard it.” Then her face took on a look of discovery. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s her name!”

  “Whose name?” Mark asked, looking up from his lists.

  “The boat’s name, dummy. Don’t you think it’s time she had one?”

  And so, three days later, Annie stood on a scaffolding, a bottle of champagne clutched in her hands, tied with a red ribbon and held at the ready. “I christen thee Wave!” she sang over the heads of assembled friends and yard workers. “May God bless her and all who sail in her!” She swung the bottle, froth sprayed everyone, and the big yacht slid back into the water, at last properly finished, properly launched, and properly named.

  Wave. I liked it.

  49

  MAEVE FOLLOWED the women twice more, and their pattern was the same. Each afternoon they ran small, domestic errands, then went to the supermarket. The quantities of food puzzled Maeve, until she picked up a Times and read a report of the race to the Azores, starting at noon on Saturday. Late in each day Annie Robinson and her friend drove down to the banks of the Tamar and took the little foot ferry across to Cremyl, the tiny settlement on the other bank. At dusk, they would return on the ferry with Mark Robinson in tow, him wearing a leg brace and using a crutch. On Thursday afternoon she followed the two women aboard the ferry.

  Although she and Annie Robinson had never met face to face, being only a few feet away from her made Maeve a bit nervous. She shook off this irrationality, though, and forced herself to relax. After the five-minute crossing the two women walked briskly toward the boatyard, Spedding’s. Maeve bought some crisps and a soft drink at a nearby shop, then followed.

  So they had got their bloody boat built, after all. She looked at it, perched on its cradle in the yard, a workman lettering something on the hull near the bows. She couldn’t make out the name. She walked closer, then sat on a rock, drank her Coke, and looked about. She could see Mark Robinson, his wife and the Fortescue woman, sitting high in the cockpit of the boat, talking. She grew angry at the sight of him. She would have dearly loved to blow the boat with them all on it, but there were problems. She had checked out this place, Cremyl, on a road map, and getting in here in a car, not to mention out, would be bloody awful. To get back to Plymouth, only a few hundred yards away, one would have to drive miles of country roads on a route that would be all too easy to block. That left only the ferry as a means of escape if something went wrong. She and Denny would be bottled up here; it would have to be somewhere else, and finally, after weighing all the alternatives, she knew where it would be. Denny would love it; it would be just his sort of thing. But they had to do Poole first to keep the bishop and the monsignor happy.

  Maeve rose and tossed her Coke can into a waste basket, dusted off her jeans, turned, and ran head on, forcefully, into Will Lee. She was shocked speechless; she had had no idea he was in Plymouth.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said, laughing, putting his hand on her elbow. “I didn’t know you were going to turn this way. Are you all right?”

  “Yes … yes, I’m quite all right, thank you. My fault, really.” She fought the urge to bolt, to kick him in the kneecap and run. At least she had the presence of mind to keep her accent English. She told herself that he had never set eyes on her out of a habit, that he couldn’t possibly recognize her.

  He smiled engagingly at her. He seemed taller, leaner than she remembered. I
t was easy to see why Connie had been so attracted to him. “I’ve seen you around here, haven’t I?” he asked, frightening her. “Do you live here?”

  “Ah, no … that is, my parents live in Plymouth; I’m just down for a visit.” My God, she thought, he’s coming on to me. I’ve got to get out of here.

  “I’m working on a boat for the race down here. Would you like to come and have a look at her?”

  “Well, I…” She looked over his shoulder; the ferry was about to depart. “Oh, thank you, but I really must catch the ferry. Perhaps another time. Do excuse me.” She stepped past him and ran down the path.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” he called after her.

  She kept running, making the ferry in the nick of time. Once aboard and under way she looked back. He was waving to her. She forced a smile and waved back. God, that had been close, but he hadn’t known her, she was sure of it. She wiped sweat from her brow. She was wet under the arms and in the crotch, too.

  That night she told Denny the idea, and he laughed aloud. While she checked street maps of Poole and Plymouth for escape routes, he made the two bombs. The Poole one was bigger; it would need to be. The one for Plymouth had only to do the car.

  Early Friday morning they drove to Poole in the Cortina and parked in a shopping center car park on the outskirts of the city. They took a bus into town, and after walking about for only a few minutes, quickly stole a newish Rover, Denny hotwiring the ignition, while Maeve kept a lookout. Denny quickly picked the boot lock, tossed in the large, canvas sailing duffle and found a hole to run his wires through, forward into the passenger compartment. As Maeve drove away, Denny sat in the back and attached the wires to a battery and a kitchen timer, tucking them out of sight under the passenger seat. A block from the Royal Marine base she stopped the car, and he got out.