He had the little sloop close-hauled, on a reach out across the sparkling blue bay. There was a freshening breeze blowing out of the northeast and he had Kestrel heeled hard over, making a good eight knots through the water, bound for Hog Island. Ahead, a vicious riptide flowed out to sea between Hog and its nearest neighbor, a small island called Pine Cay. He needed to tack the boat just before he entered the rip and then it was an easy downwind run up into the Hog Island lagoon.
“We’re going to come about in a few seconds,” Alex said.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Vicky shouted from her perch on deck just aft of the mast. She was slathered in oil, her face to the sun, long tresses streaming behind her. She was wearing a bright red two-piece bathing suit with a see-through linen top over it and she had simply never looked more beautiful.
“You can get ready to duck,” Alex said, with as much nonchalance as he could muster at the moment. Kestrel’s boom was solid spruce and nearly as thick as a telephone pole. And in this strong breeze, it was going to come screaming over the deck when he tacked the boat. Alex knew how hard the wooden boom was. It had slammed him unconscious once during a violent storm in the Azores, putting him out for three hours.
Vicky scrambled to get back down into the cockpit, but she slipped on the steep pitch of the wet deck and screamed, grabbing a stanchion at the last second.
“Hang on, darling,” Alex said over the wind. “Hold on to something. Always.”
“One hand for yourself and one for the boat,” Vicky said. “Temporary lapse of nautical memory.”
Kestrel was not big, only about twenty-six feet overall, but she was beautiful, with white topsides, teak decks, and a lovely old mahogany cabin top. A Sitka spruce mast soared overhead flying a snowy white mainsail and a big Genoa jib, now filled with wind.
There was nothing much below save a V-berth forward, a small head, and an alcohol stove. When Alex had the boat in England, he sometimes took short cruises around the Channel Islands, the places where he’d grown up. Then he’d sleep aboard the little boat and do all the cooking on the small stove. Now he kept Kestrel stowed in a sling inside Blackhawke’s massive hangar deck.
“How fast are we going?” Vicky cried, arching her back and letting her long hair trail over the gunwale.
Alex didn’t reply, he was looking aloft at the slight flutter of luff in the mainsail. He hauled in on the mainsheet. Vicky could not tell if he was still angry with her after last night’s conversation. He’d been very charming all morning, and she thought he was probably embarrassed at his outburst.
He’d knocked on her cabin door at eleven, carrying a tray with tomato juice, lemon wedges, aspirin, and Alka-Seltzer. There was a silver vase with three yellow roses. Her favorites.
“Look alive, matey! We shove off at noon sharp,” he’d said after delivering the goods and just before pulling her cabin door closed behind him.
She’d downed all three hangover potions and staggered to the shower, letting the steaming hot water work its wonders. By noon, she was in reasonably good shape. The prospect of a quiet picnic on a desert island lifted her somewhat soggy spirits.
“All right,” Alex now said, “we’re going to come about now and tack for Hog Island. Get ready to duck when I tell you.”
“Ready, Skipper,” Vicky said, nervously eyeing the big wooden boom that would soon come swooping across the decks.
“Ready about?” Alex cried.
“Ready about,” Vicky replied. She uncleated the mainsail sheet, as Alex had taught her on the sail across the bay. After the tack, she would haul in on the sheet and take a few wraps around a winch on the opposite side. She’d done a little sailing with her father on the Potomac, and it was coming back to her. Alex seemed surprised she knew a sheet from a halyard.
“Hard alee!” Alex said, and put the tiller hard over, swinging Kestrel’s bow up into the wind and then over onto a dead run straight for the small island. Alex eased the main and jib sheets and the little sloop surged forward.
Vicky had ducked just as the thick boom came slashing over her head. Pine Cay was now on their starboard side and looked quite beautiful. The entire island seemed to be covered with tall Australian pines. She could almost hear the wind whistling through the swaying trees. It looked enchanting and she found herself wishing it were their destination. “Hog” wasn’t nearly as romantic-sounding as “Pine.”
Hog Island, in fact, was distinctly unlovely. She could make out some scrub palms along the shore and the backbone of an old wooden boat half-sunk in the sand.
“What a pretty little island that is,” she said, pointing at the one called Pine Cay. “Maybe next time we could have our picnic there?”
“Yes, darling,” Alex said. “Next time. Hog Island may not be the prettiest, but it’s the only one inhabited by a blind pig”
Alex freed both halyards and dropped the mainsail and jib to the deck. Kestrel ghosted up into the little crescent of a lagoon. Nearing shore, the boat slowed and Alex scrambled forward to the bow. He picked up the small Danforth anchor and flung it overboard.
“Sorry, but we’ll have to anchor out here. It’s as close in as I can get with our deep keel. Go ahead and swim ashore. I’ll follow with the picnic basket.”
“That’s a big roger, sailor boy,” Vicky said. She climbed up onto the top of the cabin house, removed the linen top she’d been wearing over her bikini, and gracefully dove over the side into the crystalline blue water. Alex noticed she swam with long powerful strokes. She reached the shore in seconds and ran from the surf, sprinting across the hot sand.
She stretched out on the white sand in the shadow of the half-buried fishing boat and watched Alex wade ashore. He was struggling through the surf, trying to balance the wicker basket he held on his head.
“Come on, MacArthur, you can make it!” she shouted.
Alex emerged grinning from the surf and ran to her. He placed the picnic basket beside her and ran his fingers through his damp black hair.
“Would you mind unpacking everything?” he asked. “I want to go check on something.”
“Looking for Betty?”
“No, Betty will arrive as soon as she smells food. I’ll be right back.”
She opened the basket and pulled out a blue and white beach towel. There was a large H with a small crown above it embroidered on the towel. Spreading it on the sand, she began to unpack the basket. She pulled out a bottle of still-cold Montrachet, a baguette of French bread, and several kinds of cheese. She wasn’t very hungry following her night on the town, but the wine certainly looked good. Where was the corkscrew?
Alex walked along the shoreline until he spotted it. A lone blackened palm standing amidst the charred and scrubby vegetation. He walked inland and soon found the crater the surface-to-air missile had made when it crashed. It was about six feet across and three feet deep. He sifted through the sooty palm fronds and twisted shards of metal until he found what he was looking for.
A jagged piece of the missile with identifying marks. The piece was badly burned, but he could see something stamped into the metal. It wasn’t a Stinger after all. It was a Russian bloc SAM-7. The section in his hands looked as if it might have been one of the fins. With any luck, it might be enough for the “bomb baby-sitter,” as Tate had called the deputy secretary of defense, to help put the pieces of this puzzle together.
“Well, that was certainly mysterious,” Vicky said when he returned. “Marching off down the beach, clearly a man on a mission. What’s that?” she asked, looking at the piece of black metal in his hand.
“Piece of evidence,” he said.
“Really? Of what?”
“Attempted murder,” Alex said, and knelt down on the blanket. “I think he would have got me, too, if Betty hadn’t rattled him.”
“Betty rattled a murderer?”
“This piece of metal is all that’s left of a SAM missile a chap fired at me the other day. Betty knocked him down once, but he still managed to get a shot off.”
“Hold on. Someone actually tried to blow you out of the sky? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Vicky, I sometimes get involved in negotiations for a third party. As frequently happens, one party feels my demands are unreasonable. They’d like me out of the loop.”
“So, they tried to kill you? Alex, does this have anything to do with that briefcase?”
“That possibility is under investigation. Meanwhile, I thought it best we make Blackhawke our address for a week or two.”
“Keep us out of the loop,” Vicky said, looking at him evenly. “You said us.”
“It’s me they’re after. Would they try to get to me through you? I’d be less than honest if I said no.”
After considering this for a few moments, she smiled and kissed him on the cheek. Then she spread some Brie on a piece of the baguette and handed it to him. “Eat up. Wine?”
“Yes, please,” he said, eating the bread and holding out a wineglass.
She filled his glass with the cold white wine. It was wonderful with the bread and cheese. She’d already had two glasses herself. After feeling absolutely horrible all morning, she was now starting to feel pleasantly indolent and relaxed. The sun and salt were beginning to work their way into her. The idea of two weeks like this was beginning to seem perfect.
It was the first time she’d seen Alex in a bathing suit. He looked good, she decided. Especially the legs. His body was hard and maybe too lean but for the bundled force gathered at his upper arms and shoulders. He caught her staring at him and brushed some sand off her cheek with his hand.
“You were a very naughty girl last night, Victoria.”
“I was not.”
“Yes, you were. And I’ve half a mind to give you a good sound spanking.”
“Only half?”
“Shh, here comes my savior! Betty! Over here! Get out the oranges. Those are her favorites.”
Vicky could hear the big pig meandering through the scrubby palms. The pig made loud snorting sounds as she emerged onto the beach and headed in their direction.
“She’s huge,” Vicky said, shrinking back from the beast. “And hairy. I thought pigs were soft and pink. And small.”
“Betty is a very well-fed animal. She has many admirers. Hold out an orange in your hand. She’ll take it from you.”
Vicky did, and Betty immediately gulped it down whole.
“Terrible manners,” Vicky said.
“She’s a pig, for heaven’s sake.” Hawke patted Betty’s snout affectionately. “A blind pig at that, aren’t you, Betty?”
“A blind pig who saved your life, apparently.”
“If not for Betty, I would now be, to use a favorite Americanism, toast,” Alex said while he patted and nuzzled the pig.
“I know you two are close, but is Betty going to be joining us for the entire picnic?”
“No. She just wanted to stop and say hello. Watch this.”
Hawke grabbed the sack of oranges and apples, got to his feet, and strode down to the edge of the surf. Betty followed him. Hawke threw all the oranges out beyond where the waves were forming, and all the apples, too. Betty trotted out through the surf, swimming just as a Labrador might, her nose leading her to the nearest oranges.
Hawke looked back and smiled, then sprinted through the sand and returned to Vicky.
“That ought to keep her busy for the better part of an hour,” Hawke said, dropping to the towel.
“More wine?” Vicky asked.
“No, thanks. Wine and sunshine make me sleepy.” He lay back on the towel and closed his eyes.
“Me, too,” Vicky said, lying down beside him. “It is a lovely little bay.”
“Isn’t it?” Alex said, yawning. “I call it the Bay of Pig.”
Vicky smiled. She rolled toward him, then propped her head up on her hand and stared at this man she’d come to love. He’d closed his eyes and there was a contented half-smile on his face. His thick black hair was wet and shining. His chest, beaded with salt water, was rising and falling rhythmically. What saved him, she thought, was that he had no idea how good-looking he was.
She sat up and unhooked the top half of her red bathing suit. Then she put her hand over his heart.
“Are you asleep?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t suppose you would mind terribly if I licked your shoulder?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Just a lick, lollipop. I love salt. I think I don’t get enough of it, the way I eat. It’s essential to the body’s fluid balance, you know. Sodium. Chloride. Yummy.”
“Lick away then, darling. Dine to your delightful sufficiency.”
“Thank you.”
“How am I?” he said, after a few moments of feeling her tongue dart about his neck and shoulders.
“Yummy,” she said. “Can’t get enough.”
“You could always pour some olive oil and vinegar into my hair and make a small side salad to go with the entree.”
“I’ll stick with the main course, thank you.”
“Suit yourself, then.”
She started with his shoulder but soon moved to his chest and then to his belly. She immediately noticed a marked increase in his breathing rate.
“Sorry to bother you. I wonder if you would mind pulling down your bathing suit?” she asked, brushing the tips of her white, coral-tipped breasts across the deeply tanned skin of his belly.
“My bathing suit?”
“Here, I’ll help you.”
She took the bow of little white strings that held up his navy blue bathing suit in her teeth and pulled them apart.
“There you go,” she said. “Now, will you please pull it down?”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because you’re my lunch and you’re covering up my favorite part. The piece de rйsistance.”
He pulled both knees to his chest, lifted himself off the towel, and removed the bathing suit in one motion.
“Well done,” she said.
“Happy now?” he said.
“Oh my, that does look good,” Vicky whispered in his ear, and then her lips were everywhere, causing him to arch his back upwards involuntarily as he felt her mouth close around him.
They made love there on the beach with the blind pig swimming to and fro in the blue sea, chasing the apples and oranges. Vicky was astride him, riding, rocking, her hair matted to her forehead with the heat of both sun and passion, her eyes locked on his right up until the instant when she cried out and arched her back, raising her arms to the sky with both hands outstretched, reaching for something she’d never quite touched until this very moment.
She lay in his arms for a time, her head on his chest, listening to his heart pumping, feeling him fall slowly away from inside her and drift down into what she hoped was the bliss of a peaceful dream.
He began to snore softly. She got up and put on her bikini, looking down at him, smiling. Then she dropped to her knees once more and stroked the damp black ringlets of hair on his chest.
“Alex Hawke,” she whispered to him, “you can’t hear me, but you know what I wish more than anything? I wish I’d become a surgeon instead of what I am. I wish I could take a little scalpel inside that brain of yours and find the exact little furrow of gray matter where whatever hurts you is hiding. Snip, snip, snip, I would cut it out. And you’d never have those terrible dreams, ever again.”
She sat up and brushed the hair back from her eyes. She sucked deep gulps of tangy air deep into her lungs, feeling totally invigorated, bristling with sharp, kinetic energy. She got to her feet and stood there, shielding her eyes with her hand, scanning the blue horizon. A flock of white seabirds was circling the pretty little island of pines beyond the channel.
Pine Cay, Alex had called it. It couldn’t be more than a mile from where she stood. She was a strong swimmer. A competitive swimmer; She could swim across and explore the pine forest while Alex slept. She could probably be over and back before he woke up, he was sleeping so soundly. The water was such a lovely shade of light blue it seemed to be begging her to plunge in.
She swam out toward the delicious river of dark blue that ran between the two islands.
Alex had no idea how long he’d been asleep.
He sat up with a start, realizing Vicky was no longer beside him. He looked around, but didn’t see her swimming or anywhere along the deserted beach.
He called out her name. No answer.
He leapt to his feet and ran along the line of scrub palms. Maybe she went exploring. He called her name repeatedly, thinking, she’s barefoot. Why would she go back among the rough and prickly palms?
His heart started pounding. That’s when he heard something that sent an arrow of fear through his heart.
Alex … Alex … Alex!
Faint. And coming from the sea.
He ran to the water’s edge, desperately scanning the rolling waves for a sight of her. There. A faint smudge. It had to be Vicky. She was halfway across the pass between the two islands! In the very middle of the vicious riptide rushing toward the open sea!
He made a running dive and started swimming as hard as he could, cursing himself furiously for not warning her about the current. Stupid! He never dreamt that she’d go out that far, but remembered how enchanted she was with the pine-forested island. That had to be it. She’d decided to swim over and—
He stopped swimming and raised his head. He could barely make out the dim shape that had to be her.
No … no … no …
Her voice was weaker now, a faint no repeated over and over. She was telling him to stop. Telling him the current would only take him as well. He plowed ahead another fifty yards, feeling the swift pull of the running tide taking him into its grip.
He swam harder. He was strong. Stronger than this bloody current that was stealing Vicky away from him. He swam until the muscles in his legs and arms were burning and then he swam harder still.
Another look. There. She was much farther away now. He saw her go under. Then surface again. He swam toward her, heedless of the wicked pull of the water. Raised his head, gasping for air. A sick, hollow feeling began to steal its way inside him. For every ten yards of progress he gained, she was being swept away another thirty.
He plowed forward, refusing to acknowledge it was hopeless now, unwilling to give up. He swam another thirty yards, feeling himself right on the periphery of where the rip was strongest. He raised his eyes, stinging with a mixture of tears and salt, and looked again.
“I love you!” he cried out, praying she might yet be able to hear him.
He saw her just that one last time, briefly, being pulled past Pine Cay now, and then he saw her go under. Waited. Fought the tide. Waited for that dear little head to surface, please, just once more and maybe he could get to—somehow get to—God—just to see her again …
He knew then that she was gone. Simply. Irrevocably. Gone.
He lifted his face to the heavens and screamed mercilessly at God.
Alex Hawke turned and swam as hard as he could for Kestrel . The edges of the rip had him, fought him, but not hard enough to overcome his rage. In minutes, he was climbing aboard the sloop. He ducked down through the companionway to the small navigation station.
There was a satellite phone hanging above the notebook computer with the GPS system.
Ambrose was on the sat phone speed dial.
He picked up on the first ring.
“I need immediate help,” Alex said, gasping for breath. “Immediate! I need our main launch in the water headed out the cut between Hog Island and Pine Cay. At least two divers aboard. I need you to call the Bahamas Air-Sea Rescue Command at Harbor Island. Tell them we need search-and-rescue choppers out here now.”
“Alex. Calm down. What’s going on?”
“It’s Vicky, goddammit.”
“What’s wrong, Alex?”
“She’s gone. Swept out in the riptide. I don’t know! Maybe we can save her! Christ, just get some bloody help out here, all right?”
“We’re coming,” Ambrose said, and hung up.
Alex scrambled back up on deck and hoisted the main and the jib. He weighed his anchor and headed the sloop out into the cut, his eyes fixed on the area where time and speed of current might have put her since he last saw her.
His eyes were burning. He was praying for that little brown smudge he’d last seen drifting away from him.
Praying to see it again. Simply praying for it to still exist.