Dead in the Water

does she want to spend?”
    “I told her I thought fifty thousand would do the job; spend more if necessary. By this time the day after tomorrow I want this island overrun with wild-eyedreporters, photographers, and television crews. See if you can get 60 Minutes interested, but tell them they have to move fast; she goes on trial on Monday, and she could be strung up by the middle of next week. It’s this Sunday night, or nothing.”
    “They’ll want as much background on her as possible.”
    “Call Bob Cantor.” He gave Eggers the number. “He’s researching her husband; tell him to copy you on anything he finds. Paul Manning was a well-known writer, so lots of people should have heard of him. Try to be careful what you release to the PR people; don’t let anything unfavorable get into the mix.”
    “I get the picture.”
    “The firm has got a lot of Washington connections, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Find out who her congressman is in Greenwich, get ahold of him and both Connecticut senators and tell them they’re about to lose a voter. Get them to get on to the State Department and tell them an American abroad is being railroaded. There’s no consulate here, but there’s bound to be one on a neighboring island. Have them issue the strongest possible protest to the St. Marks government.”
    Eggers was laughing now. “Why don’t we get the president to send a cruiser down there to drop anchor in the harbor, with her guns pointed toward the capitol building?”
    “Send a fucking aircraft carrier, if you can.”
    “Are there any communists in the St. Marks government? That always helps, especially in the Caribbean.”
    “Let’s assume there are, for the moment; we can always apologize later.”
    “Call me tomorrow.”
    “Right.” Stone hung up and walked downstairs, where Thomas was getting the bar ready for lunch. “Thomas,” he said, “you’d better prepare for some business. Maybe we can even make up for the New York blizzard.”
    “Sounds good to me,” Thomas said, laughing.

Chapter
12
    S tone dialed the number and waited. “This is Stone Barrington,” his own voice said. “Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.” “Arrington?” he said into the phone. “Pick up, Arrington.” Nothing. He hung up.
    He felt he had done all he could for the moment, so he left the room above the restaurant and walked down to his chartered yacht; he was weary and aching, as if he had run several miles. He fell onto his bunk and slept.
    A rapping on the hull woke him; a glance through the hatch showed him dusk outside. He poked his head up.
    Allison was standing on the pontoon between their boats. “How you doing?” she asked.
    “How you doing is a better question.”
    “I had a little cry; now I feel better. Come over and have some dinner with me?”
    “Sure, I’d like that.”
    She held up a finger. “One condition: no talking about my problems; I’ve put them out of my mind until tomorrow.”
    “Agreed. Give me time for a shower? I’ve been asleep, and I’m a little groggy.”
    “I hate a groggy date,” she replied. “See you in half an hour.”
    Stone hunted down his razor, then squeezed himself into the tiny head and turned on the cold-water shower. In St. Marks, it wasn’t all that cold.
    He rapped on the deck of the big blue yacht and stepped aboard.
    “Come on down,” she called out from below.
    Stone walked down the companionway ladder, which, on a yacht this size, was more a stairway. Allison was at work in the galley, and the saloon table had been set for two, side by side. Whatever she was wearing was mostly concealed by a large apron.
    “Can you make a decent martini?” she asked.
    “I believe I can handle that.”
    “The bar’s over there.” She pointed. “Just open those cabinet doors.”
    Stone followed her instructions and found a handsome bar setup, nicely concealed. He found a cocktail shaker, two glasses, and ice cubes, then the gin and vermouth. “You sound awfully cheerful,” he said as he mixed the drinks. “I don’t know how you do it.”
    “It’s a gift,” she said. “For my whole life, when faced with something awful, I do as much as I can, then I put it out of my mind. I mean really right out of my mind. Then I find that the next day, things seem clearer.”
    “That’s a great gift,” he said.
    “You can cultivate it if you work at it.”
    He handed her a martini. “I’ll start right now.”
    She was sautéing