My Gal Sunday (16 page)

“He treated the boat as nothing more than an exotic gazebo,” Sunday said. “I can understand why Weatherby’s family was ready to donate her to the charity auction when he died.”

“I can too. But of course that’s what gave rise to the idea of the ship’s being haunted. Apparently the psychic was a pretty good mimic.”

There was a tap on the door. Marvin Klein came in hesitantly. “Mr. President, I tried not to interrupt, but the secretary of state is calling.”

“Tony?” Henry said. “Something must be up.” He took the phone from Klein’s hand, then hissed, “Sims, don’t go away. Give me some of those cheese puffs.”

He swallowed one quickly, then spoke heartily into the phone. “ Hello, Tony. Ranger keeping you busy, I hope?”

Ranger was the Secret Service code name for the chief executive.

Secretary of State Anthony Pryor had been tapped for the top cabinet position by Henry’s successor, President Desmond Ogilvey. A friend of Henry’s since their Harvard days, Pryor delighted in dropping his formal demeanor when talking to him. “Henry, I’m busier than a fox in a chicken coop,” he said, “but you know that. Look, you bought the
Columbia
back, and now we’re hoping that you’ll help us out with something. You’re going to get a call from Miguel Alesso’s people. He wants to see you. Ranger wants you to see him.”

Alesso? He’s running against the prime minister of Costa Barria.”

“You bet he is. And he’s in Miami incognito. He swears that Angelica del Rio engineered her husband’s murder thirty-two years ago, and that her agents were trying to buy the
Columbia
at the auction, only you beat them to it.”

“How does he know that?” Henry asked quietly.

“Because the widow of one of the guys who screwed up the purchase last week called him. The point is, Ranger figures that you of all people would be able to spot holes in Alesso’s story. If you think it holds water, it says a lot about what our position should be on that coming election. Even though thirty-two years have passed Garcia del Rio is considered practically a saint in his country. Don’t forget Angelica del Rio is scheduled to come here on a state visit in exchange for guaranteeing human rights and releasing dissidents. Ranger doesn’t want to end up with egg on his face if someone proves she masterminded her husband’s murder.”

“You mean Des thinks this may be a tactic to prevent Prime Minister del Rio from getting our approval just before the election?”

“You got it. God, Henry, these damned small countries can drive you nuts, can’t they?”

“No more than the big ones,” Henry reminded him. “Of course I’ll see Alesso. Tomorrow morning, here on the
Columbia.
”

“Great. We’ll make all the arrangements.”

Henry handed the phone back to Marvin Klein and looked at Sunday. “ My dear,” he said, “it may be that as usual you were right.”

“About what?”

“About Garcia del Rio’s death.”

Congor Reuthers had learned long ago that even a man under the gun needs nourishment. This was Monday. Lenny had gotten word to him that the Britlands were scheduled to fly to Washington Wednesday morning, when Congresswoman Sandra O’Brien Britland needed to be on Capitol Hill for the final debate on aid to Costa Barria. Once the Britlands were off the boat, all extra crew members, including Lenny, would be discharged. Which meant that they were running out of time. Lenny had to get into Stateroom A tomorrow.

For the moment, however, there was nothing more that Reuthers could do. Except eat. Having become particularly fond of the ambiance of the tower restaurant of the Boca Raton Hotel, he decided to head there. Surely a few martinis and a lobster would refresh his spirits. Reaching for the phone, he dialed the tower and imperiously ordered a window table, one facing the inland waterway.

When he arrived at the maître d’s desk, he was outraged to find that he could not have his table of choice. Forced to decide whether to stomp out or to accept fate, he allowed his stomach to make the decision.

“I am sure you will understand why we had to rearrange our seatings, sir,” the maitre d’ said with a nervous smirk as he led Reuthers to a table where the only nearby sign of water was in a pitcher. “You see why we had to keep some tables clear,” he whispered, gesturing to the wall of windows.

Reuthers’s heart leaped. Seated by themselves, chatting over cocktails, tanned and smiling, were America’s favorite couple, the former president of the United States and his congresswoman bride.

Reuthers reached into his pocket for the cigarette case that concealed his eavesdropping device. Casually he placed it open on the table and pointed it in the direction of the Britlands. As though scratching his head, he inserted the tiny receiver in his ear and was rewarded by hearing Henry Parker Britland IV say, “I’ll be interested in meeting with Alesso tomorrow.”

Alesso!
Reuthers thought.
Alesso!
Why would Britland be meeting with him?

He cupped his ear to block out the hum from surrounding tables, then realized he was being addressed.

“I’m sorry, sir, this is a smoke-free environment.” Reuthers looked up to see the disapproving frown on the face of the dining-room captain and realized he had missed something Sunday Britland had said about “Alesso bringing proof . . .”

“I am
not
smoking,” Reuthers contradicted. Pointedly the captain looked at the open cigarette case.

“I keep it out only to test my willpower,” Reuthers snapped.

“Then, sir, with your permission.” The captain moved the case so that it was almost concealed between the bud vase and the basket of bread a busboy had just placed on the table. “Now you can peek at it, but other diners won’t see it and have the impression that this is a smoking area. Remember, you may not be the only one here resisting temptation. Oh my, wouldn’t that be a can of worms? Sir, have you ever thought to reduce your craving for nicotine by chewing gum? It does help.”

“Get out of there, you fool. Britland is looking at you.”

Reuthers jumped as a familiar voice seared his eardrum with acidic anger.

“He might recognize you, you imbecile.”

Reuthers looked around, his eyes wildly searching the room. What disguise was Angelica assuming today? She had to be frantic with worry if she had come here instead of going directly to Costa Barria from New York. He spotted a gray-haired solitary diner, one elbow on the table, staring at her wineglass. There she was, Lonesome Wilma, another of Angelica’s personas. His searching glance next went over to a window table where it locked with the intense gaze of the former president of the United States. It had been thirty-two years since they had met. Reuthers had been on the fateful trip, ostensibly as one of Garcia del Rio’s personal bodyguards and, theoretically, had been executed with the rest of his staff for dereliction of duty in failing to protect the prime minister.

Could Britland recognize him after all these years?

Afraid to risk the possibility of discovery, Reuthers jumped up and turned his back on the former president. “I do not choose to dine here,” he barked, and hurried from the dining room.

He was at the elevator when the captain caught up with him. “You forgot your cigarette case, sir,” he said. “Keep up the good work in resisting temptation. Courage!”

Senior Secret Service agent Jack Collins stirred restlessly. He was seated a table away from former President Britland, and that inner voice which warned him of danger was shrieking at him now.

Something
was up. His eyes moved restlessly around the room, scanning the occupants with MRI intensity. The diners were obviously affluent — a lot of older couples, some family groups with young children. They were all tanned, relaxed, and smiling. A group of suits were swapping stories.

Probably here on a golf outing that would be charged to their company as a business meeting, Collins thought sourly.

He watched as a ramrod-postured male, every inch of his body showing annoyance, exited the restaurant, almost colliding with four well-dressed women in their sixties. Collins observed the ladies follow the maître d’ into the room, then register obvious displeasure when he escorted them to a back table situated between the family groups. If they had a man with them that wouldn’t happen, he thought.

He noticed a woman at the smallest window table, looking pensively out over the water. Gray hair, a lined face, plain sunglasses, a woebegone expression — she looked like someone recently bereaved.

Collins’s eyes moved past her, on down the row of tables. He just didn’t like the vibes he was getting. Something seemed wrong here. It was a distinct relief when, an hour later, the Britlands got up to go.

As they passed the reservations desk, the former president beckoned to Collins. “Jack,” he said, “a guy in the dining room left abruptly without eating. Did you notice him? There was something familiar about him. See what you can find out.”

Collins nodded. Signaling the four accompanying agents to close around the Britlands, he sent them ahead, while he stopped at the desk.

When he returned to Belle Maris an hour later, he had already arranged for round-the-clock surveillance of the hotel guest registered under the name of “Norman Ballinger.” The dining-room captain’s tale of the open cigarette case, followed by the room clerk’s amused description of Ballinger’s plans to have “innings of golf” — no wonder his instincts were on red alert, he thought.

His beeper sounded seconds after he entered the mansion. “You’re onto something, Jack,” headquarters informed him. “ Ballinger is really Congor Reuthers, the one person close to Angelica del Rio. He’s always in the background of the political scene, but the word is that he has stayed in favor by being her troubleshooter.”

“What’s he doing in Boca Raton?” Collins demanded.

“We think he knows Alesso is there and wants to keep track of his movements. We’ll have him tailed, but be on guard. Reuthers doesn’t get his own hands dirty. He may have others with him.”

Collins got off the phone and wished he could shake the ominous feeling that Henry Parker Britland IV should not have purchased the
Columbia.

On Tuesday morning, Lenny Wallace was painfully aware of the heightened security on the
Columbia.

At 7
A.M.
he had checked in with Reuthers and had been informed that Miguel Alesso, the dissident leader running against the prime minister in next week’s election, was to have lunch with former President Britland on the yacht.

“You must retrieve those papers,”
Reuthers had snapped at him. “The prime minister is
personally
involved in this. Failure is not an option.”

He then instructed Lenny to find some way to get into the dining room so that he could try to overhear what was being said at the luncheon.

Lenny made a supreme effort to keep from telling Reuthers that only an imbecile would believe that a deckhand, unless he were invisible, could wander into any room where a highly confidential top-level meeting was taking place. Instead, he thought of Mama and his aunties and promised to do his very best.

He
did
point out that when the former president was aboard the
Columbia,
his senior Secret Service agent, Jack Collins, was also there, and seemed to have the ability to know any time anyone on the boat so much as sneezed.

Reuthers had one last word: “You should know that your mother and her sisters are under house arrest — only temporarily, I’m sure. Do whatever you think best.”

At precisely twelve o’clock, Lenny was on the crew deck, binoculars pressed to his eyes, observing as a limo pulled up to the dock. He watched as two men and a woman stepped from it and boarded the launch: the Britlands, and with them, the opposition leader of Costa Baria, Miguel Alesso.

An unexplored possibility crossed Lenny’s mind: Alesso was gaining in popularity. Everywhere he made an appearance, the people went wild.
Suppose I
can’t
find the papers? I could just disappear. If by some crazy chance he wins the election, I could get in touch with him, tell him what I was assigned to do. Then I could tell him where the bodies are buried. Maybe he’d reward me.

But no, that could not be. He knew that. By the time the election was over it would be too late for his Mama and his aunties, those wonderful women who were known as the “Alphabet Sisters.” Mama, the oldest, was Antonella, the next oldest was Bianca, the third, Concetta, and so on until the youngest, Iona.

Lorenzo Esperanza, aka Lenny Wallace, felt a renewed sense of duty as he brushed the tears from his eyes.

The ring of truth,
Sunday thought. It emanates from him. She and Henry were seated with Miguel Alesso in the salon. Henry had suggested that Alesso take Sir Winston’s favorite armchair.

“I’m out of my league,” Alesso said with a slight smile, “although in a small way I may be able to compare my country’s precarious state with that of England during World War II.”

Sunday knew that Alesso was scarcely thirty years old, but his air of grave maturity, his dark hair, heavily streaked with gray, and the wise yet sad expression in his hazel eyes combined to make him seem at least a decade older.

Now he leaned forward, his demeanor intense. “Angelica del Rio planned and carried out the assassination of a truly great man,” he said passionately. “Her father, as you know, sir, was the commander of Costa Barria’s army. She married the prime minister on her father’s orders, always — I am convinced — with the intention of eliminating him. She was then and remains now a great beauty and also quite charismatic. And after all, as the saying goes, a man is a man . . .”