“But there’ll be somebody here who can,” Benny said.
The sailor said stubbornly, “Then I better wait. When’s this guy due?”
Benny looked at his watch. “He was supposed to be here at eight.”
“I’ll wait,” the sailor said. He shouted at the two other sailors. “Come on, drop a couple fenders over the side. Get the lead out!”
“Sure, Boats, you bet, Boats,” one of the sailors said, and they both hopped back aboard to hang bumpers on the dockside gunwale.
Boats frowned out at the little harbor and the sea beyond. “Wouldn’t be so goddam bad on a calm day, but that’s a mean chop kicking up out there. I had to keep her throttled down all the way from Yokooska. Look, Mr. Lopez, what’s going on? I never heard of the Navy’s all of a sudden lending out the Admiral’s barge.”
“It’s a secret test,” Benny said promptly. “They’re thinking of using these boats on the rivers in Nam. The man who’s coming here is a marine engineer.”
“One of them experts.” The sailor curled his lip to show what he thought of experts. “That him?”
Benny turned. He said gratefully, “That’s him.”
Benny was alarmed at Brook’s appearance. Brook was filthy, red-eyed, unshaven, a mess of facial bruises and cuts; his suit was a shambles; and he gave out an unpleasant odor.
“Hello, Pete,” Benny said. “Long time no smell. You all right?”
“I’m all right,” Brook said. He was looking the launch over through painfully squinting eyes.
“What kept you?”
“I’ve been detained, you might say. This our boat?”
Benny nodded toward the boss sailor. “It’s his boat. And he’s worried about it.”
“Yeah,” the sailor said. “If you’re going to handle this thing, mister, I got to be sure you know how.” His glare said that if Brook had been Navy he would personally have handed him over to Shore Patrol. A plastered civilian taking out the Admiral’s boat after a night on the town!
“All right,” Brook said, “I’ll run her once around the harbor.” He climbed aboard slowly, the sailor at his heels. He ran his puffed eyes over the controls and put his hand on the wheel. “Okay. Cast off.”
He took her away from the dock cleanly and started a wide circle around the harbor. “Anchor? Plenty of line? Life jackets? Flashlight? Paddle? Emergency flares? Compass corrected?”
“Don’t worry,” the sailor said. “I check this baby personally before it goes out.”
“Then you might tell your crew to haul in those fenders hanging on the port side. Very lubberly.”
The sailor looked surprised. Then he said, “Yes, sir,” and sprang to obey.
The sea was choppy, as advertised. The waves were now wearing whitecaps. The clouds that had been puffy earlier in the morning were flattening out. Brook kept the launch at half throttle as she pounded along.
“Tell me about it, amigo,” Benny said compassionately. He was carefully to windward.
“Things got tacky there for a while,” Brook said. He ran through the taxi-driver-Toby-Stark-Jasmine-“Han” story; how he had been drugged and tortured; how he had escaped by garroting the noodle man. He had made his way through the countryside on foot during the night and managed to strike the main road leading north to Umazaru. “I wasn’t even sure what day it was till I came to the railroad station and saw an English-language paper on the stand.”
“You should have seen the one after you left Kimiko’s pad. They still think you did it, by the way. They’re still looking for you.”
“Too bad I missed my publicity.”
“No such luck,” Benny said, and brought out of his pocket a clipping.
Brook read:
NIGHT CLUB HOSTESS
STRANGLED IN LOVE NEST
Tokyo: Police found the body of Kimiko Ohara, 27, nightclub hostess, dead on the floor of her apartment in Nerima-ku this morning. Miss Ohara was nude except for a houserobe. According to the police medical authorities, she had been strangled some time during the early morning or last night. Police coming on the scene saw an occidental man fleeing, but they were unable to apprehend him. It is believed that the foreigner may be Peter Brook, American marine architect, visiting Japan on business. Brook has been seen in Miss Ohara’s company on several occasions recently. He was further identified as the target of a street attack by robbers one night last week. A dragnet is out for the suspect. Detective Inspector Koichi Nakajima, in charge of the case, said, “Japan is a small country, and foreigners are conspicuous. We have every confidence that Mr. Brook will be apprehended.”
Brook handed the clipping back. His try at a smile was pitiful. “I did better than that in Cairo. That time the Egyptian cops said I was a ‘handsome’ foreigner.”
“In Cairo any man under three hundred pounds looks handsome,” Benny said.
“Joy killer.” Brook glanced at the compass. “And speaking of appearances, I’d better do something drastic about mine.”
“You also stink, amigo.”
“Try lying in your vomit for two days and nights. That looks like a galley and sink below. Take the wheel, Benny.”
By the time he returned from his ablutions the shoreline at Katori Spa was in sight. White sails were scudding about the sea like feathers. The surrounding waters were full of launches trailing white water. Brook nodded. Theirs would be just another launch.
He used the binoculars from the rack near the companionway and picked out Krylov’s boat. The Russian, big shoulders hunched over the tiller, was unmistakable. His dark thin companion looked like the Dutchman, Quackernack. Yes, it was; he had a cast on one arm. A one-armed sailing crew! There was nothing about a sense of humor in Krylov’s file.
“Everything okay?” Benny asked.
“Looks all right. They’re maneuvering for the start now.” He swung the binoculars toward shore. The lenses picked out the squat figure of Volodya in his chauffeur’s uniform on the end of the jetty; Volodya was doing a study job on Krylov’s boat through a pair of binoculars, too. “We could use some fog,” Brook said. “Any suggestions?”
“Nada se consigue solamente á pedir de boca,” Benny said.
“Damn you, you know I can’t understand you when you talk so fast. What did you say?”
“You’re just ignorant.”
Brook ignored this as beneath his dignity. By some miracle he was feeling better. He took the wheel back and put the boat on a course that took it slightly seaward of the race area, closest to the reaching leg, across wind, of the triangular course around the buoys. He kept an eye out for the pleasure boats dashing about. With the Admiral’s launch he ought to be able to beat any of them to Krylov when the Russian capsized himself.
A new flag ran up the halyard of the committee launch. The sailboats behind the starting line tacked or jibbed, most taking an initial course away from the starting line. Brook picked out Krylov’s Number 13 high on his mainsail. He was using his favorite tactic, sailing abreast of the starting line.
“Why do they chase around like that?” Benny asked.
“Jockeying for the start. A sailboat’s hard to control with exactness. And the idea is to get across the line when the gun goes off, or close to it.”
“Ah, the timing! That’s very good. Like the bullfight.”
“It’s not the least like the bullfight,” Brook said shortly.
“What have you got against bullfights?”
“Not a thing. Only don’t compare it to a sport. The essence of a sport is that you don’t know who’s going to lose. The bull always loses. Bullfighting’s a ritual.”
Benny was calm. “Like human sacrifice, hey? Like in the spy business.”