The Renault reached San Remo shortly after dawn. Harry Stanford had fond memories of the city, but it had changed drastically. He remembered a time when it had been an elegant town with first-class hotels and restaurants, and a casino where black tie was required and where fortunes could be lost or won in an evening. Now it had succumbed to tourism, with loud-mouthed patrons gambling in their shirtsleeves.
The Renault was approaching the harbor, twelve miles from the French-Italian border. There were two marinas at the harbor, Marina Porto Sole to the east, and Porto Communale to the west. In Porto Sole, a marine attendant directed the berthing. In Porto Communale, there was no attendant.
“Which one?” Dmitri asked.
“Porto Communale,” Stanford directed. The fewer people around, the better.
“Yes, sir.”
Five minutes later, the Renault pulled up next to the Blue Skies, a sleek hundred-and-eighty-foot motor yacht. Captain Vacarro and the crew of twelve were lined up on deck. The captain hurried down the gangplank to greet the new arrivals.
“Good morning, Signor Stanford,” Captain Vacarro said. “We’ll take your luggage, and…”
“No luggage. Let’s shove off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait a minute.” Stanford was studying the crew. He frowned. “The man on the end. He’s new, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. Our cabin boy got sick in Capri, and we took on this one. He’s highly—”
“Get rid of him,” Stanford ordered.
The captain looked at him, puzzled. “Get…?”
“Pay him off. Let’s get out of here.”
Captain Vacarro nodded. “Right, sir.”
Looking around, Harry Stanford was filled with a renewed sense of foreboding. He could almost reach out and touch the danger in the air. He did not want any strangers near him. Captain Vacarro and his crew had been with him for years. He could trust them. He turned to look at the girl. Since Dmitri had picked her up at random, there was no danger there. And as for Dmitri, his faithful bodyguard had saved his life more than once. Stanford turned to Dmitri. “Stay close to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stanford took Sophia’s arm. “Let’s go aboard, my dear.”
Dmitri Kaminsky stood on deck, watching the crew prepare to cast off. He scanned the harbor, but he saw nothing to be alarmed about. At this time of the morning, there was very little activity. The yacht’s huge generators burst into life, and the vessel got under weigh.
The captain approached Harry Stanford. “You didn’t say where we were heading, Signor Stanford.”
“No, I didn’t, did I, Captain?” He thought for a moment. “Portofino.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, I want you to maintain strict radio silence.”
Captain Vacarro frowned. “Radio silence? Yes, sir, but what if…?”
Harry Stanford said, “Don’t worry about it. Just do it. And I don’t want anyone using the satellite phones.”
“Right, sir. Will we be laying over in Portofino?”
“I’ll let you know, Captain.”
Harry Stanford took Sophia on a tour of the yacht. It was one of his prized possessions, and he enjoyed showing it off. It was a breathtaking vessel. It had a luxuriously appointed master suite with a sitting room and an office. The office was spacious and comfortably furnished with a couch, several easy chairs, and a desk, behind which was enough equipment to run a small town. On the wall was a large electronic map with a small moving boat showing the current position of the yacht. Sliding glass doors opened from the master suite onto an outside veranda deck furnished with a chaise longue and a table with four chairs. A teak railing ran along the outside. On balmy days, it was Stanford’s custom to have breakfast on the veranda.
There were six guest staterooms, each with handpainted silk panels, picture windows, and a bath with a Jacuzzi. The large library was done in koa wood.
The dining room could seat sixteen guests. A fully equipped fitness salon was on the lower deck. The yacht also contained a wine cellar and a theater that was ideal for running films. Harry Stanford had one of the world’s greatest libraries of pornographic movies. The furnishings throughout the vessel were exquisite, and the paintings would have made any museum proud.
“Well, now you’ve seen most of it,” Stanford told Sophia at the end of the tour. “I’ll show you the rest tomorrow.”
She was awed. “I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s…it’s like a city!”
Harry Stanford smiled at her enthusiasm. “The steward will show you to your cabin. Make yourself comfortable. I have some work to do.”
Harry Stanford returned to his office and checked the electronic map on the wall for the location of the yacht. Blue Skies was in the Ligurian Sea, heading northeast. They won’t know where I’ve gone, Stanford thought. They’ll be waiting for me at JFK. When we get to Portofino, I’ll straighten everything out.
Thirty-five thousand feet in the air, the pilot of the 727 was getting new instructions. “Boeing eight nine five Papa, you are cleared directly to Delta India November upper route forty as filed.”
“Roger. Boeing eight nine five Papa is cleared direct Dinard upper route forty as filed.” He turned to the copilot. “All clear.”
The pilot stretched, got up, and walked to the cockpit door. He looked into the cabin.
“How’s our passenger doing?” the copilot asked.
“He looks hungry to me.”
Chapter Three
The Ligurian coast is the Italian Riviera, sweeping in a semicircle from the French-Italian border around to Genoa, and then continuing down to the Gulf of La Spezia. The beautiful long ribbon of coast and its sparkling waters contain the storied ports of Portofino, Vernazza, and beyond them, Elba, Sardinia, and Corsica.
Blue Skies was approaching Portofino, which even from a distance was an impressive sight, its hillsides covered with olive trees, pines, cypresses, and palms. Harry Stanford, Sophia, and Dmitri were on deck, studying the approaching coastline.
“Have you been to Portofino often?” Sophia asked.
“A few times.”
“Where is your main home?”
Too personal. “You’ll enjoy Portofino, Sophia. It’s really quite beautiful.”
Captain Vacarro approached them. “Will you be having lunch aboard, Signor Stanford?”
“No, we’ll have lunch at the Splendido.”
“Very good. And shall I be prepared to weigh anchor right after lunch?”
“I think not. Let’s enjoy the beauty of the place.”
Captain Vacarro studied him, puzzled. One moment Harry Stanford was in a terrible hurry, and the next moment he seemed to have all the time in the world. And the radio shut down? Unheard of! Pazzo!
When Blue Skies dropped anchor in the outer harbor, Stanford, Sophia, and Dmitri took the yacht’s launch ashore. The small seaport was charming, with a variety of interesting shops and outdoor trattorie lining the single road that led up to the hills. A dozen or so small fishing boats were pulled up onto the pebbled beach.
Stanford turned to Sophia. “We’ll be lunching at the hotel on top of the hill. There’s a lovely view from there.” He nodded toward a taxi stopped beyond the docks. “Take a taxi up there, and I’ll meet you in a few minutes.” He handed her some lire.
“Very well, caro.”
His eyes followed her as she walked away; then he turned to Dmitri. “I have to make a call.”
But not from the ship, Dmitri thought.
The men went to the two phone booths at the side of the dock. Dmitri watched as Stanford stepped inside one of them, picked up the receiver, and inserted a token.
“Operator, I would like to place a call to the Union Bank of Switzerland in Geneva.”
A woman was approaching the second phone booth. Dmitri stepped in front of it, blocking her way.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I…”
“I’m waiting for a call.”
&nb
sp; She looked at him in surprise. “Oh.” She glanced hopefully at the phone booth Stanford was in.
“I wouldn’t wait.” Dmitri grunted. “He’s going to be on the telephone for a long time.”
The woman shrugged and walked away.
“Hello?”
Dmitri was watching Stanford speaking into the mouthpiece.
“Peter? We have a little problem.” Stanford closed the door to the booth. He was speaking very fast, and Dmitri could not hear what he was saying. At the end of the conversation, Stanford replaced the receiver and opened the door.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Stanford?” Dmitri asked.
“Let’s get some lunch.”
The Splendido is the crown jewel of Portofino, a hotel with a magnificent panoramic view of the emerald bay below. The hotel caters to the very rich, and jealously guards its reputation. Harry Stanford and Sophia had lunch out on the terrace.
“Shall I order for you?” Stanford asked. “They have some specialties here that I think you might enjoy.”
“Please,” Sophia said.
Stanford ordered the trenette al pesto, the local pasta, veal, and focaccia, the salted bread of the region.
“And bring us a bottle of Schram Eighty-eight.” He turned to Sophia. “It received a gold medal in the International WINE Challenge in London. I own the vineyard.”
She smiled. “You’re lucky.”
Luck had nothing to do with it. “I believe that man was meant to enjoy the gustatory delights that have been put on the earth.” He took her hand in his. “And other delights, too.”
“You’re an amazing man.”
“Thank you.”
It excited Stanford to have beautiful women admiring him. This one was young enough to be his daughter and that excited him even more.
When they had finished lunch, Stanford looked at Sophia and grinned. “Let’s get back to the yacht.”
“Oh, yes!”
Harry Stanford was a protean lover, passionate and skilled. His enormous ego made him more concerned about satisfying a woman than about satisfying himself. He knew how to excite a woman’s erotic zones, and he orchestrated his lovemaking in a sensuous symphony that brought his lovers to heights they had never achieved before.
They spent the afternoon in Stanford’s suite, and when they were finished making love, Sophia was exhausted. Harry Stanford dressed and went to the bridge to see Captain Vacarro.
“Would you like to go on to Sardinia, Signor Stanford?” the captain asked.
“Let’s stop off at Elba first.”
“Very good, sir. Is everything satisfactory?”
“Yes,” Stanford said. “Everything is satisfactory.” He was feeling aroused again. He went back to Sophia’s stateroom.
They reached Elba the following afternoon, and anchored at Portoferraio.
As the Boeing 727 entered North American airspace, the pilot checked in with ground control.
“New York Center, Boeing eight nine five Papa is with you, passing flight level two six zero for flight level two four zero.”
The voice of New York Center came on. “Roger, you are cleared to one two thousand, direct JFK. Call approach on one two seven point four.”
From the back of the plane came a low growl.
“Easy, Prince. That’s a good boy. Let’s get this seat belt around you.”
There were four men waiting when the 727 landed. They stood at different vantage points so they could watch the passengers descend from the plane. They waited for half an hour. The only passenger to come out was a white German shepherd.
Portoferraio is the main shopping center of Elba. The streets are lined with elegant, sophisticated shops, and behind the harbor, the eighteenth-century buildings are tucked under the craggy sixteenth-century citadel built by the Duke of Florence.
Harry Stanford had visited the island many times, and in a strange way, he felt at home here. This was where Napoleon Bonaparte had been sent into exile.
“We’re going to look at Napoleon’s house,” he told Sophia. “I’ll meet you there.” He turned to Dmitri. “Take her to the Villa dei Mulini.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stanford watched Dmitri and Sophia leave. He looked at his watch. Time was running out. His plane would already have landed at Kennedy. When they learned that he was not aboard, the manhunt would begin again. It will take them a while to pick up the trail, Stanford thought. By then, everything will have been settled.
He stepped into a phone booth at the end of the dock. “I want to place a call to London,” Stanford told the operator. “Barclay’s Bank. One seven one…”
Half an hour later, he picked up Sophia and brought her back to the harbor.
“You go aboard,” Stanford told her. “I have another call to make.”
She watched him stride over to the telephone booth beside the dock. Why doesn’t he use the telephones on the yacht? Sophia wondered.
Inside the telephone booth, Harry Stanford was saying, “The Sumitomo Bank in Tokyo…”
Fifteen minutes later, when he returned to the yacht, he was in a fury.
“Are we going to be anchoring here for the night?” Captain Vacarro asked.
“Yes,” Stanford snapped. “No! Let’s head for Sardinia. Now!”
The Costa Smeralda in Sardinia is one of the most exquisite places along the Mediterranean coast. The little town of Porto Cervo is a haven for the wealthy, with a large part of the area dotted with villas built by Aly Khan.
The first thing Harry Stanford did when they docked was to head for a telephone booth.
Dmitri followed him, standing guard outside the booth.
“I want to place a call to Banca d’Italia in Rome.…” The phone booth door closed.
The conversation lasted for almost half an hour. When Stanford came out of the phone booth, he was grim. Dmitri wondered what was going on.
Stanford and Sophia had lunch at the beach of Liscia di Vacca. Stanford ordered for them. “We’ll start with mallo-reddus.” Flakes of dough made of hard-grain wheat. “Then the porceddu.” Little suckling pig, cooked with myrtle and bay leaves. “For a wine, we’ll have the Vernaccia, and for dessert, we’ll have sebadas.” Fried fritters filled with fresh cheese and grated lemon rind, dusted with bitter honey and sugar.
“Bene, signor.” The waiter walked away, impressed.
As Stanford turned to talk to Sophia, his heart suddenly skipped a beat. Near the entrance to the restaurant two men were seated at a table, studying him. Dressed in dark suits in the summer sun, they were not even bothering to pretend they were tourists. Are they after me or are they innocent strangers? I mustn’t let my imagination run away with me, Stanford thought.
Sophia was speaking. “I’ve never asked you before. What business are you in?”
Stanford studied her. It was refreshing to be with someone who knew nothing about him. “I’m retired,” he told her. “I just travel around, enjoying the world.”
“And you’re all by yourself?” Her voice was filled with sympathy. “You must be very lonely.”
It was all he could do not to laugh aloud. “Yes, I am. I’m glad you’re here with me.”
She put her hand over his. “I, too, caro.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Stanford saw the two men leave.
When luncheon was over, Stanford and Sophia and Dmitri returned to town.
Stanford headed for a telephone booth. “I want the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris.…”
Watching him, Sophia spoke to Dmitri. “He’s a wonderful man, isn’t he?”
“There’s no one like him.”
“Have you been with him long?”
“Two years,” Dmitri said.
“You’re lucky.”
“I know.” Dmitri walked over and stood guard right outside the telephone booth. He heard Stanford saying, “René? You know why I’m calling.…Yes…Yes…You will?…That’s wonderful!” His voice was filled with relief. “No…not there. Let’s meet
in Corsica.…That’s perfect.…After our meeting, I can return directly home.…Thank you, René.”
Stanford put down the receiver. He stood there a moment, smiling, then dialed a number in Boston.
A secretary answered. “Mr. Fitzgerald’s office.”
“This is Harry Stanford. Let me talk to him.”
“Oh, Mr. Stanford! I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald is on vacation. Can someone else…?”
“No. I’m on my way back to the States. You tell him I want him in Boston at Rose Hill at nine o’clock Monday morning. Tell him to bring a copy of my will and a notary.”
“I’ll try to—”
“Don’t try. Do it, my dear.” He put down the receiver and stood there, his mind racing. When he stepped out of the telephone booth, his voice was calm. “I have a little business to take care of, Sophia. Go to the Hotel Pitrizza and wait for me.”
“All right,” she said flirtatiously. “Don’t be too long.”
“I won’t.”
The two men watched her walk away.
“Let’s get back to the yacht,” Stanford told Dmitri. “We’re leaving.”
Dmitri looked at him in surprise. “What about…?”
“She can screw her way back home.”
When they returned to the Blue Skies, Harry Stanford went to see Captain Vacarro. “We’re heading for Corsica,” he said. “Let’s shove off.”
“I just received an updated weather report, Signor Stanford. I’m afraid there’s a bad storm. It would be better if we waited it out and—”
“I want to leave now, Captain.”
Captain Vacarro hesitated. “It will be a rough voyage, sir. It’s a libeccio—the southwest wind. We’ll have heavy seas and squalls.”
“I don’t care about that.” The meeting in Corsica was going to solve all his problems. He turned to Dmitri. “I want you to arrange for a helicopter to pick us up in Corsica and take us to Naples. Use the public telephone on the dock.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dmitri Kaminsky walked back to the dock and entered the telephone booth.
Twenty minutes later, Blue Skies was under weigh.
Morning, Noon & Night Page 2
