There was a smattering of ironic applause at this recitation and Stoke held his hand up for it to stop. They were all punchy as hell.
“Well done,” Fitz said. He then turned to Chief Charlie Rainwater, who was rolling condoms over fuse igniters and tying off both ends so as to make them waterproof, another old trick he’d learned in the Delta.
“How about you, Chief Rainwater? You got enough rubbers there for a division. You going fucking or fighting tonight?”
Rainwater’s teeth showed white in his dark face.
“Rule One,” Rainwater said. “Fight first, fuck later.”
McCoy smiled. “You know what to do?”
“‘Arrow,’ my squad, disembarks and gains entrance to the fort. We do it the easy way or the hard way. We dock at 0215 hours and offload the equipment. After rigging charges at the base of the two towers, we enter the fort. At 0230, we rendezvous with ‘Bow’ squad, Stoke and Hawke, in the powder magazine. Designated Point Q. We ascend the stairs leading to this level where Ahmed believes the hostages to be held. At that point, all hell breaks loose and Bow and Arrow kill all the tangos and save all the women and children.”
Fitz tried not to laugh and saw that it was impossible to continue. They all had to get some sleep. Even Rainwater, who habitually chewed some kind of plant root to stay awake, looked done in. The flight from Martinique to Oman in their old C-130 had not been relaxing. Their brains were weary from planning the operation. Sleep was imperative. They’d reconvene at noon for a final run-through. They were useless now. He had twelve hours left to get them ready.
Rainwater told Froggy to get some sleep. The Frogman sat there staring silently at him with eyes wide open. He was already asleep. That’s how exhausted they were.
Until it all went to hell, it was going pretty good. The cranky diesels worked, at least well enough to get
Obaidallah
out to her designated location, an anchorage one mile northwest of the target island. They doused the lights and the ship was plunged into darkness. Ali put his first mate, Abu, on the radio, informing the French supply officer on Masara that he was very sorry, sir, that they were late, but they were having engine trouble. They’d lost power and had heaved an anchor until they could determine the problem.
Abu informed the sleepy Frenchman that repairs were well under way and he expected
Obaidallah
to arrive at the dock sometime just after midnight. The Frenchman accepted this at face value. And why not? The supply ship broke down all the time. He promised to have two dockhands waiting for their arrival.
Point Arras loomed up Sphinx-like against the dark sky. Standing on the foredeck of the darkened vessel with Hawke and Stokely Jones, Captain Ali raised his glasses and watched the lights of the patrol boat disappear around Point Arras. The first mate had clocked two or three circumnavigations now, and reported that a round-trip was averaging one hour and twenty minutes. When the patrol boat was gone, Ali gave Hawke the thumbs-up.
“All right, Stoke, let’s go hunting,” Hawke said. He checked his watch. They were already three minutes behind the atomic clock in his head. The three men walked swiftly aft to where the SDV hung in its sling off the stern. As they passed the wheelhouse, Hawke could hear the murmurs of the men inside, suiting up, checking weapons in the dark. Many of them were donning loose-fitting white garments over their tigerstripes and camo war paint. And substituting turbans for the white kepis the Legionnaires traditionally wore.
At the Masara dock, only a skeleton crew would be on duty at this hour. Maybe, if they were lucky, only a few sleepy Omanis who helped with the lines, pumped gas, and helped unload supplies. It was hoped the guards posted at the front gate wouldn’t look too closely at the men unloading supplies. And that the machine gunners looking down from the twin towers wouldn’t notice anything unusual when
Obaidallah
arrived at the dock.
Fitz believed that with Abu or Ahmed doing all the talking as they stepped ashore, and some good body language on the part of his disguised troops as they off-loaded equipment, he could get all of his men and materiel inside the front door without firing a shot. That was the plan anyway.
Hawke paused by one of the opened portholes. Fitz was in there now, moving among his men, encouraging them, issuing last-minute instructions, making sure his team was mentally and physically ready to peak. Something was bothering Fitz, Hawke had seen it in his eyes. There just hadn’t been enough time for adequate preparation. But was there ever?
They’d all been cooped up at sea aboard an old rust bucket for two days, with no place to run or stretch or hide. Because of the lack of quarters aboard, they’d been forced to “hot rack” or use the same bed in shifts. These men were jungle and desert warriors, not sea pirates like Stoke and Hawke. Fitz had asked Hawke for another day. Hawke had said no. And, to McCoy’s great chagrin, he didn’t say why.
He couldn’t. Kelly had ordered him not to reveal the truth, believing, correctly, in Hawke’s view, that it would be bad for morale to ask men to put their lives at risk for a hostage who might well be dead already.
“Hoo-ah,” Stoke said, staring at Hawke as he approached, looking like an interplanetary traveler in his undersea warfare gear. Stoke, who’d be driving the boat for a good portion of this mission, had a red-lensed pencil flash, studying their route one last time. On the stern, a crewman was lowering the torpedo-bodied SDV slowly to the surface.
“Let’s go get this bloody thing over with,” Hawke said, putting on his half-helmet and adjusting his lipmike.
Stoke’s gut was talking now, saying it was going to be bad.
It just didn’t say how bad.
“FINE DAY FOR IT, CHIEF INSPECTOR,” THE HEAD DOORMAN,
Michael O’Connell, said, tipping his cap as Ambrose pushed through the hotel doors onto Seventy-sixth Street. He was a cheery rosy-cheeked fellow who’d been on the door at the Carlyle for years. He had Ambrose’s rather tired-looking leather grip in one hand and held a silver whistle to his lips with the other, scanning the solid phalanx of traffic headed north on Madison for a taxi. The sun was out with a vengeance now and steam was rising from the glistening streets.
Something in the air: You could sense the green acres of Central Park baking dry after a good soaking.
“British Airways, sir?”
“No, no taxi to JFK this morning, Michael,” Ambrose said. “Someone’s picking me up.”
“Enjoy your stay, sir?”
“Most enjoyable, Michael. Always feel at home here.”
“Where to now, sir?”
“Out to Long Island for a country weekend. Friends of friends out at Southampton. Some kind of house party, I believe. Chap named Jock Barker. Ever hear of him?”
“Oh, yes. Quite famous, sir. Jack ‘Call me Jock’ Barker. You’re sure to have a good time at Stonefield.”
“Stonefield?”
“The old Barker place. One of the loveliest homes out on the island, sir. Mr. Barker throws this party every summer. Legendary. I believe that’s his car coming around now.”
The car, a Rolls, was one of the new Phantoms. As it swung mightily around the turn into Seventy-sixth Street, it looked as if it had been carved singly from a massive block of black steel. It had a haughty, imperious aspect that Rollers had lacked for the last decade or two. The car seemed to say, “I’m back. Move over.”
The chauffeur, dressed in robin’s-egg-blue livery and wearing matching gloves, leaped out and opened the boot. He was a strapping, freckle-faced boy of about twenty and had the earnest look of a chap who loved his work. Ambrose slipped Michael a twenty and thanked him. The opaque rear window nearest the curb began to slide down. Ambrose’s eyes went to a beautifully rendered monogram, in the same light blue, on the door. Below a prancing horse, the words
Spe Labor Levis.
Hope lightens work. A worthy sentiment.
A face appeared, pale and lovely, china-blue eyes framed by soft auburn curls, the small red bow of a mouth done up in a smile. Ambrose staggered a step, but recovered quickly by pretending to lean over and place a hand semicasually on the roof above the rear window. The prettiest girl in the world said, “Oh, hullo, stranger. Need a lift?”
Ambrose climbed inside the sumptuous coach and sank into the soft leather beside Lady Diana Mars. She gave him a chaste peck on the cheek and took his hand. Her hand felt small and cool and fragile inside his own. She regarded Ambrose for a moment, her eyes softening, then leaned forward on the seat and said to the driver, “Gin Lane, Buster, and step on it.”
Ambrose was astonished, but the chauffeur was apparently accustomed to this sort of behavior. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Yes, ma’am. We should be out there in less than two hours if we get lucky leaving the city. A bit more if Route 27 is backed up.”
“Let her rip,” Diana said and then whispered into Ambrose’s ear, “I’m not being cheeky. He’s Jock’s bodyguard. His name really is ‘Buster.’”
Buster steered the stately battle cruiser up the Northern State Parkway east to avoid any traffic that might dare cross his path, and then picked up the notorious Long Island Expressway. The LIE, all eight lanes of it, ran due east the length of the island, stopping just shy of Montauk Point. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper all the way to Manorville. The passengers, at least, had the luxury of ignoring it, happily bringing each other up to speed on events on either side of the Atlantic. Diana’s brush with an intruder seemed the furthest thing from her mind as she pressed Ambrose for all the lurid details of his Coney Island escapade.
“How perfectly dreadful, Ambrose. But you got your confession. Now what?”
“I’ve merely provided the CIA, FBI, and Interpol with ammunition. It’s up to them when and if they choose to use it.”
“Murdering your own father. The man
should
be shot.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve a feeling he will be.”
After the Pine Barrens and Manorville, the scenery grew much more agreeable, an expanse of rolling green hills criss-crossed with white picket fences and brown potato fields stretching into the distance. Once they reached Route 27, Buster was able to open the mammoth Roller up a bit, give the Phantom her head. They were probably doing well over a hundred but it felt like fifty. Ambrose and Diana lapsed into silence, each content to watch the sunlit summer day slide peacefully by the windows.
“Mr. Congreve?” Buster said, his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“Yes?”
“I believe we’ve picked up a tail, sir.”
“Really? When did you notice it, Buster?”
“On the Triboro Bridge, sir. It’s a white van.”
“Lots of white vans,” Ambrose said.
“This one’s got a cracked windshield, sir. Sun catches it.”
“Does he know you’ve made him?” Ambrose craned his head around and peered out the small rear window.
“I don’t think so. Four or five cars back, sir. Behind the red Porsche.”
“Is there a back way into Southampton?”
“Yes, sir. Through Hampton Bays. The turning’s coming up in about two miles.”
“What’s the top end on this machine?”
“She’ll do one-fifty if you push it.”
“Push it. After you make the turn, pull over. We’ll see what happens.”
“Someone’s following us?” Diana said. The acceleration was noticeable but not uncomfortable, pressing her firmly back into the deep leather cushions.
“Perhaps. We’ll know soon enough…hold on, we’re going to take this turn very, very quickly. Well done, Buster. Let’s just nip into this car park and see what transpires.”
Buster swung into the lot and turned the big car around so that they were out of sight but had a clear view of the highway they’d just left. After a minute or two, Buster said, “No sign of him, sir.”
“Did he speed up when you did?”
“I don’t think so. He’d have passed us by now, sir. May have turned off.”
“There you have it, then. Nothing to worry about.”
“Sorry to alarm you, sir. I just thought that—”
“No apologies necessary. Caution is always rewarded. Let’s get going, shall we?”
Soon enough, they came to a traffic light and were moving at a snail’s pace through the lively town. Southampton looked to Ambrose as if it had once been a sleepy village and quaint. Main Street was lined with trees and the sidewalks were still of brick. What had once plainly been a residential street in a small town was now lined with an assortment of shops, restaurants, and even an old-fashioned hardware store standing cheek-by-jowl with an emporium selling surfboards and sunglasses.
Town was certainly busy on this Saturday afternoon in high summer; the sidewalks were crowded with strollers, shoppers, women in tennis whites pushing baby prams, men in colorful Lacoste polo shirts with the collars turned up. Main Street proper was clogged with vintage convertibles and big black Range Rovers with blacked-out windows. The summer people crossing in front of the Rolls at each corner stop looked tan and fit and desperately happy to be here. And, for the most part, they looked quite rich.
“What sort of house party is it going to be?” Ambrose asked Diana as they rolled to a stop at a dead end. Main Street ended abruptly at a leafy, shady cross street with the charming name of Gin Lane. They turned right and he caught glimpses of the blue Atlantic sparkling in the sun on his left. He was most curious to see the great ocean palaces, but they were all well hidden behind severely manicured hedgerows twenty feet high. “I’ve never ventured out here before and I’ve no idea what to expect.”
Diana squeezed his hand. “You’ll see, dear. Jock’s parties are legendary. Look, we’re pulling into the drive now!”
The Rolls cruised through a tall pair of very ornate gates, wrought-iron vines forming the letter B when they were shut. The gravel drive that curved toward the ocean was lined with stately elms boasting great bursts of leaves that formed a solid green canopy over the road. Ambrose lowered his window and was rewarded with the sharp tang of ocean air mingled with the delicious scent of freshly mown grass.
Presently, the drive widened and they came upon Stonefield standing on a gentle knoll amid a profusion of blazing rhododendron. The house itself resembled a hotel in France where Ambrose had once spent a week recovering from a gunshot wound to the posterior. The Hotel de Ville in Normandy. There was a tower to one side, old brick under a thin beard of dark green ivy. Sprinklers were flashing on the lawn in front, their arching spray reaching the sundials and brick walks and flame-red gardens.
The front of the stone house was broken by a line of French doors, all of them aglow with mirrored gold, and all flung open so the great house might inhale the delicious scents of summertime. There was a man standing with his legs apart at the front door. He was wearing riding clothes and Ambrose guessed he was the host, Jock Barker. When the Rolls glided to a stop, he rushed down the steps and whipped Diana’s door open before Buster had even switched off the ignition.
“Diana, my darling, it’s so good of you to come,” the tall and well-made fellow said. He was perspiring mightily, and Ambrose assumed he’d just returned from his stables. He spoke in a husky tenor and he had a good smile full of white teeth, startling against his tan.
“You look lovely, girl,” Jock said as she climbed out.
“So good of you to have me,” Diana replied, putting her arms round his neck and kissing his cheek. “Come say hello to my good chum Ambrose Congreve.”
Ambrose climbed out of the back of the Rolls and shook the man’s hand.
“I’m Jack, call me Jock, Barker,” the big chap said with a smile. “Welcome to Stonefield.”
“Ambrose Congreve. Pleasure to be here. What a splendid car you have there, Jock.”
“Why, thanks. It’s brand-new. My wife, Susan, hates it.”
“Really? Why?”
“She says a car like this makes me look like I want people to think I’m rich.”
“What does she want you to drive?”
“According to Susan, the truly rich all drive beat-up Volvo station wagons.”
“But then you’d look truly rich.”
Barker laughed and turned to Diana. “I think Ambrose and I are going to get along just fine. Come on inside and say hello to everyone. We’re just having lunch served down by the beach. Then we’re going for a swim.”
“Swim?” Ambrose said, a tremor in his voice. “In the sea?”
“Or not,” Diana said.
“What’s that?” Jock asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Diana said. “Ambrose doesn’t care for swimming. He’s allergic to water.”
Later, from the beach, where the sand was still warm even though the sun was long gone, the house looked as if it was afire. It stood bathed in a blaze of lights, white floodlights picking out the seaward windows and many-gabled rooftops, colored lights dancing above the pool complex, and millions of tiny white lights winking gaily in all the trees that marched down to the water.
Four massive commercial searchlights, positioned straight up at the four corners of the lawn, created columns of pure white light and a space for the chorus of voices that rose up from the lawn, bits and snippets that existed and then twinkled out like stars looking down from above. This heady cocktail buzz, the familiar Hamptons’ comic opera of summer small talk and instantly forgotten introductions, was fueled by champagne. The Bob Hardwick orchestra flown in for the occasion accompanied it.
The only competition for all this grandeur was the moon, rosy-gold with a haze around.
“I see him,” the waiter said, pushing his black glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “She’s gone inside.”
The tall, white-jacketed waiter, who’d dyed his curly blond hair jet black for the party, stood in the lee of a sand dune smoking a cigarette. The thin line of a smile appeared. He’d been waiting a long time for this night. A very long time indeed.
“Anyway, I think they’re coming,” he told the woman standing beside him in the shadows.
“Why?”
“Why? Why, because I fucking said so, didn’t I? That’s
why.
I heard
him
tell
her
to get her wrap. That they were going for a little stroll on the beach. I made it my job to keep track of them, didn’t I? Without being recognized, I might add.”
“I can’t stand out here all fucking night,” the woman said. She was wearing a thin black raincoat. Her jaws were clenched to keep her teeth from chattering. Even in summer, the rolling ocean cooled the night breezes blowing onshore.
“You want some of this?” the waiter hissed, raising the back of his hand and giving her face a near miss.
“No. I’m done with all that.”
“Don’t lie to me. Look. Here they come,” the waiter said. He threw down his cigarette butt and crushed it into the sand with his heel.
“That’s them?”