Hamilton, Donald - Matt Helm 14 (21 page)

           
We got the boat into the water at a
small marina next door to the picturesque and rambling old waterfront lodge at
which we'd spent the night. The launching ramp was coated with a mat of the
slickest green weeds I've ever encountered. The weather was clear and
beautiful. The marina was located on a wide waterway-actually part of the
Intracoastal
Waterway that follows this western coast of
Florida-but there seemed to be estuaries heading off in just about every
direction. To the west, through a gap between
Robalo
Island and the next island north, I could see the open ocean-or, to be strictly
accurate-the Gulf of Mexico. Frankly, I'm enough of a landlubber that any piece
of water I can't see across is an ocean to me.

           
The big motor started at the turn of
the key. I left it idling, warming up, while I ran the car and trailer back up
into the parking lot. When I returned to the dock on foot, Martha had removed
her modest pantsuit, revealing herself in an immodest bikini, striped blue and
white wherever there was material enough to hold a stripe. Well, she was
gaining on it, I reflected sourly. She'd started by seducing me fully clothed,
progressed to a semitransparent
nightie
, and from
there to a couple of inadequate strips of striped cloth. Total nudity was just
around the corner. I could hardly wait.

           
"Which way do we go?" I
asked. "You did say his place was on the water, didn't you?"

           
"Yes, of course. It's back down
the Waterway a mile or two. You remember, I showed you the gate when we passed
it on the road last night." She hesitated. "But maybe it would look
less obvious if we took a trip around the island and came at it from the other
direction. Besides, it's pretty early. Uncle Hank probably isn't awake yet. If
we wait a little, he'll probably be down at his dock working on his boat;
that's how he spends most of his time when he isn't making like a
politician."

           
"Uncle Hank," I said.
"You didn't tell me he was your uncle."

           
"He isn't. And Aunt Frances
isn't my aunt, either. I just call them that. They're old friends of Daddy's;
and we've visited them a lot, particularly since Mommy died."

           
"Fishing, you said."

           
"Yes," she said,
"Uncle Hank put a special radiotelephone gadget on his boat so Daddy could
keep in touch with his office even when he was out on the water."

           
I'd never thought of Mac as a
sportsman, or even, really, as a man with friends outside the office. I
discovered that I was jealous in an odd sort of way. It was a disconcerting
idea that the cold gray man whose orders I'd been taking for the best part of
my adult life had been in the habit of slipping away from Washington to go
fishing with an old friend. Come to that, I'd never thought of Mac as a parent,
either, even though I'd known he'd managed to produce, or assist in the
production of, a female child. He'd always been a voice on the phone or a face
in front of a bright window. I wasn't sure I wouldn't rather he'd stayed that
way.

           
"Give me the guided tour around
the island," I said. "
Robalo
. What kind of
a name is that?"

           
"It means
snook
,
a kind of game fish. There are lots of them around, but Daddy prefers tarpon
because they're bigger."

           
I said, "Well, I might as well
make sure this little
putput
is running right, after
dragging it all this way

           
It was a pleasant boat ride, but it
was a hell of a shallow coast. Bucking a strong flood tide, we ran out through
the gap between the islands-she called it a pass, apparently a local term for
inlet or channel-and headed straight out for a while. After the Gulf of
California, where you can be in a hundred feet of water within spitting
distance of the shore, it seemed unnatural to have the land a couple of miles
astern and only six or eight feet down, easily visible through the clear,
blue-green water. A bunch of playful porpoises escorted us on our way.

           
Turning south at the buoy Martha
indicated, I kept the little boat skipping along at conservative
planing
speed; there was no need to advertise its hidden
virtues. The opening from which we'd come soon merged into the low. green,
featureless shoreline; and it occurred to me that finding my way around these
waters might present problems, particularly at night. I'm not the world's best
pilot and navigator, and here there were no spectacular shoreline cliffs or
peaks to head for; no distinctive landmarks such as I'd used in Mexico. Well,
Martha had said that when the time came, I'd have a guide. I hoped he knew his
business.

           
"Where is it you figure your
dad's hiding out?" I asked the girl presently, raising my voice above the
roar of the motor.

           
She pointed straight ahead.
"Farther south a ways. It looks like a solid coastline from out here, but
it's actually all broken up into mangrove islands and swamps and channels
running every which way. You could hide a battleship in there, if you had a
battleship that drew only a couple of feet of water. . . . You can swing back
inshore now. That point over there's the one you want. Cut it close; the deep
water's right next to shore."

           
The tidal currents grabbed us,
sweeping us inland with a rush as we neared the entrance. We crossed a wide
estuary and headed into a twisting channel that was well marked with tall posts
that had small wooden arrows, red or green, indicating the safe place for
passing. The tangled vegetation grew right down to the water that in here
looked like strong and murky tea. Martha indicated that wasn't such a
farfetched simile: the coloration was largely due to tannic acid from the
mangrove roots. She said the dead fish floating in the channel were due to a
visitation of the lethal organism known as Red Tide that had recently afflicted
this part of the coast.

           
"Of course, many of the locals
don't really believe in the Red Tide," she said. "They think it's all
the government's fault for dumping a lot of poison gas out in the Gulf some years
ago.

           
No, you'd better cut inside that
little island up ahead. There's a good channel this side of it; you'll see the
markers in a minute. Is this as fast as this thing will go?"

           
"Not really," I said,
"but it's as fast as I'll go in water this shallow. I do have a spare
propeller somewhere on board, but I don't feel like changing props today."

           
"I won't put us aground,"
she said confidently.

           
I shrugged, and ran the revs up
until the nautical speedometer read thirty miles per hour-although why a boat
speedometer should read in miles per hour instead of knots still baffled me.
The little vessel was by no means fully extended, but the increase of speed
seemed to satisfy the girl up forward; and in those narrow, shallow waters
thirty was plenty fast enough for me. I was throwing us around the channel
markers slalom-fashion as it was, glancing back occasionally to see our big
white wake breaking on invisible shoals that we'd missed by only a few yards.

           
We slowed down a few times for other
boats and once for a small village. At last, having come clear around the
island, we passed under a high, new bridge I recognized as the one we'd driven
over the night before, leaving the mainland. We were back in civilization. You
could tell by the private docks and by the neat seawalls protecting the pretty
little houses on the pretty little lawns, and by the earth-moving machinery
tearing up the mangroves and the marl underneath, to prepare the way for more
pretty little houses on more neat little lawns. Beyond this raw, new
construction were some larger and older waterfront residences.

           
"Uncle Hank sold off part of
his land to the developers. I'm not sure he doesn't regret it now," Martha
said, looking that way. "There he is! The thirty-footer with the
outriggers and the tuna tower. The gray-haired man in the cockpit. .. . Can we
just stop, or do you have to make like a secret agent and sneak through the
bushes or something?"

           
I grinned. "Sometimes the bold
move is the best. Uncle Hank, here we come."

           
He was a big, weathered man with
stiff gray hair that, cut quite short, made a kind of wiry brush on top of his
head. His face was square and seamy, with a big mouth and a blunt nose. He had
bright blue eyes, rather like Carl's, but somewhat paler and lacking the crazy
intensity. He was wearing only a pair of faded khaki shorts. His deeply tanned
body was in good shape for his age, which I placed somewhere in the early
sixties. He leaned against a mop handle as he looked down at us from the cockpit
of the big
sportfisherman
-at least it looked big from
where I was sitting, at the wheel of my open, fifteen-foot job.

           
"Marty, girl," he said,
"aren't you ever going to stop growing? Damned if those aren't just about
the longest legs I've seen all week. And you're Helm? Well, you can make fast
to the dock back there, astern of the Whaler, while I finish swabbing down this
cockpit. Better give her a bit of slack. The way the kids from that new
development go racing past she'll yank those tin cleats right out of that
plastic gunwale if you snub her too tight."

           
"Yes, sir," I said.

           
I guessed at least four stripes of
gold braid and a silver bird on the collar, at one time or another. It's a
principle of the profession that it never hurts to be respectful to the brass,
ex- or otherwise. It makes the relationship a lot smoother in the beginning,
and it doesn't make them a bit more bulletproof in the end, if it should come
to that.

           
I backed us past a small,
shovel-nosed, open boat with a large outboard motor on the stern, and did a
reasonably good job, if I do say so myself, of maneuvering into the indicated
opening.

           
Martha jumped ashore with the bow
line while I secured the stern. On foot, we approached the big boat once more.

           
She was a real fishing machine, with
the tall, thin outriggers pointing skywards on either side of the tapering,
spidery framework of the lookout tower surmounting the cabin and the flying
bridge. I could see how a
Tinkertoy
skyscraper like
that might come in handy on occasion, but it wasn't really a structure I longed
to be on top of, particularly if the boat was rolling in a heavy sea. There
were two husky fishing chairs bolted to the deck aft. The name on the stern was
Frances ii.

           
It was an impressive hunk of
seagoing machinery. They come much larger, of course, but at a grand or more a
foot, she was a lot of boat and a lot of money. Well, Sheriff
Rullington
had sold some land and put a Cadillac into his
back yard. We all have our dreams.

           
Uncle Hank Priest emptied a bucket
over the side as we came up, and put the mop to dry in one of the fishing-rod
holders set into the cockpit gunwale.

           
"Marty, why don't you run up to
the house and say hello to Frances?" he said.

           
The girl laughed. "Somehow, I
get the strange feeling I'm not wanted," she said, and ran off towards the
big house on shore.

           
The gray-haired man watched her
thoughtfully. "I've known that young lady a long time," he said
without looking at me. "I'd have bet my life she'd never. . . ."

           
"You'd have lost," I said,
when he stopped.

           
"You're sure?"

           
"Sure enough. Does it matter? I
figure we're supposed to go through the same motions in any case. Am I
wrong?"

           
He shook his head, and turned to
look at me. "So you're the man he calls Eric. He has a lot of faith in
you. I hope it's justified, but I'm beginning to wonder, when you come charging
up to my dock in broad daylight."

           
I said, "Why play games, sir?
You're known, and your association with him is known. Anybody who sees Martha
and me here will know we're here to make contact with you."

           
"Yes," Priest said,
"yes, of course. But I must say, this complicated kind of intrigue isn't
really in my line."

           
"No, sir," I said.
"If it were, you'd be in the Pentagon with the rest of the conniving
brass, wouldn't you?"

           
He looked a little startled; then he
grinned. "Come aboard and have a beer," he said. "Keep your damn
feet off the
brightwork
-varnish to you." As I
stepped down into the cockpit, avoiding the varnished rail, he glanced astern
automatically; the admiral checking the disposition of the fleet before leaving
the bridge. "Do you know why they call them Boston Whalers, son?"

           
He wasn't that old, and I wasn't
that young, but I saw no reason to take offense. "No, sir."

           
"Because they aren't made in
Boston and were never used for whaling." He laughed at his own joke, if it
was his, and as senior officer preceded me into the deckhouse without
apologies.

           
"Get a couple of beers out of
the refrigerator, will you, son, while I find my shirt and dig out the
chart."

           
He disappeared into the dark cabin
forward that seemed to consist mainly of two berths meeting in a V towards the
boat's bow. I looked around for something that might hold beer and keep it
cold. The deckhouse had plenty of glass and daylight. It seemed to be half
dinette and half kitchenette-excuse me, galley. One corner was reserved for the
seagoing john-excuse me, head. I found the refrigerator under the counter to
starboard and extracted two bottles as Priest emerged from the cabin buttoning
a khaki shirt, with a folded chart clamped under his arm. He spoke as if there
had been no pause in the conversation.

           
"You found the little flares on
board your boat?"

           
"Yes, sir. In the battery
compartment under the helmsman's seat."

           
"Never mind the red ones.
They're standard emergency equipment and came with the kit.

           
The white ones are what you want.
They're in a separate tube."

           
"I saw them," I said. I
hesitated. "It's a neat little gadget, but I shouldn't think it would have
much range."

           
"We figured concealment might
be more important to you than range, son," Priest said.

           
"Keep it with you at all times,
loaded, with as many extra flares as you can hide out. Arthur said you people
were pretty good at hiding things. When the time comes, I'll be standing by, as
far in among the islands down there as I can get the Frances without putting
her on the mud. I'll have the Whaler in tow, ready to go. There'll be a man up
in the tuna tower. From up there, he'll be able to see quite a ways over the
mangroves. A white flare will bring the Whaler in looking for you with plenty
of firepower. That's not saying they'll find you, of course. Those are tricky
waters. But it's the best support we can offer you."

           
"Yes, sir."

           
"Of course, it's expected that
you'll have your job done before you signal for help."

           
"Of course."

           
"And you know what the job
is."

           
"Yes, sir," I said.

           
His eyes narrowed sharply, as if
he'd set a trap and caught me. "How do you know? It was,
er
, left out of the instructions we passed you through
Marty."

           
I said, "Admiral, when you've
worked for a man as long as I have, you don't need much in the way of
instructions. Don't worry, sir. I know what he wants-I guess ~ should say I
know who he wants. And I know, roughly, how he expects the job to be done; all
I need is the final details from you. If the target is there, I'll make the
touch for him." There was a little silence. I broke it by saying,
"I've been with him for. . . . Well, never mind exactly how many years,
but I never knew he was a fisherman."

           
"He isn't, son. He's a tarpon
fighter."

           
"I don't talk the language,
sir. You'll have to translate."

           
Priest grinned. "The habits of
fish are pretty much a mystery to Arthur. He trusts me to take him to the right
places at the right times. He can barely rig a bait properly, he's just average
at casting, and he doesn't really want to learn more about it. What he comes
down here for is simply to get one of those big, mean, silvery, high-leaping
battlers on the line somehow and slug it out until the fish says uncle. Oh,
he'll oblige me by fishing for other species occasionally, but he loves tarpon
because, he says, they've got the right spirit and they're the right
size."

           
"The right size for what?"
I asked.

           
"For fighting, son," said
the gray-haired man. "Smaller fish, you've got to give them a break with
light tackle to get a real battle; you've got to be gentle and careful; you
can't just sock it to them with everything you've got. Bigger fish, well, it
becomes a grim endurance contest with a lot of heavy equipment between you and
the fish. You've got to use a fighting chair, a harness, and a great big
derrick of a rod and reel; and you don't really fight alone, you're a team with
the man handling the boat. But a tarpon is just right. You can battle him from
a motionless boat if you like; and you can use tackle heavy enough to lean on
hard, but still light enough to let you fight standing up in the cockpit like a
man, just you against the fish-at least that's the way Arthur feels about it. I
don't suppose you're fisherman enough to understand."

           
"No, sir," I said.

           
"He also likes tarpon because
they're not much good to eat, so he's free to turn them loose when he's beat
them. He'll reach down and pat the big fish on the head and clip the leader,
saying 'Goodbye, Eric, see you next time around.' He calls it occupational
therapy. He says it keeps him from committing murder back in
Washington
when some goddamn prima
donna
agent gives him a lot of lip. . . . How about opening those beers before they
get warm, son? The opener's right there at the corner of the sink."

           
I pried the caps off and held out a
bottle to him. His face was expressionless. I decided I was going to like him.

           
"Yes, sir," I said.
"I suppose I should be flattered. I mean, he might have gone in for carp
or suckers."

           
Priest grinned his old-salt grin,
the one that crinkled the weathered skin about his eyes.

           
"Incidentally, it isn't
admiral, just captain," he said. "They wanted to pin some stars on me
before I retired but I wouldn't let them. Four stripes are hard enough to live
down these days. Politically speaking, I mean."

           
"You seem to have managed it,
sir."

           
"Temporarily, but there's
another tough election coming up, and us old warmongers are in a bad
spot." He shook his head quickly. "Do you ever feel you're not living
in the same world as other people, son? I mean, God Almighty, who doesn't want
peace? But how the hell can anybody think the way to get it is to drop your
trousers and bend over, inviting everybody to kick your bare ass? But that's
what everybody seems to want these days. We're supposed to take off our
national shirt, pants, and skivvies, and stand there buck-naked in the cold,
cold international breeze; and all those nice people across the water are
supposed to feel so sorry for us they'll leave us alone."

           
"Yes, sir," I said.

           
It was a safe thing to say, I hoped.
I wondered how many more deep-thinking characters would unload their political
and social philosophies on me before this job was finished. There seemed to be
one behind every bush.

           
Priest said, "Well, that's why
I went into politics. This jackass war has given soldiering and
sailoring
a bad name, but the fact is we're going to need
our shirt and pants for some time to come. International nudism isn't in style quite
yet. Somebody's got to see to it that we keep a few rags of protection for
another few years, until the light of universal peace glows brightly all over
the world. . . . Ah, hell. You don't vote here. Why the hell am I wasting all
this rhetoric on you?"

           
I said, "With all due respect,
I was wondering the same thing myself, sir."