Swim?
I’d just been charged by a half-ton hammerhead. It was unlikely the shark would cruise the beach, seeking human prey, but I had to at least let them know it was in the area. Didn’t I?
Yes, I decided.
I should probably also offer to stand watch. Wait until they were all safely out of the water and even dressed, Milita and Liz included. That was the responsible thing to do, wasn’t it?
Yes, I decided.
Sand, like glass, is siliceous based, and the beach was vibrating like a window with the circle’s sacred mantra:
“Louie Louie… oh no… Me gotta go…” Boom-boom-boom. .. boom-boom. “Louie Louie… oh no…”
Near the drop-off, where I’d hooked the barracuda, the president was landing a small snook. He was also moving in flow with the music, enjoying his first unpresidential morning, doing juke steps that mimicked the conga line’s wave, his rhythm perfect but subtle, keeping it to himself.
The man could dance, too?
I tried a few juke steps myself as I followed the drum circle to the Gulf-an effort, at least, to shallow up.
Soon, though, I turned my attention to the sky. If the Secret Service discovered Wilson was missing, helicopter traffic would be the first indicator.
10
When I left Tomlinson, I slept for two hours, then strapped on shoes and ran the beach, pushing myself, alternating between hard sand at the water’s edge and sugar sand on the upper beach. To make it tougher, I varied the pace, sprinting ten seconds out of every minute. Brutal. But I’ve come to realize that travel is the natural enemy of fitness. You have to improvise on the road or you’re condemed to a roller-coaster ride of fitness decline.
I was in good shape. No, I was in great shape. For the last six months, I’d been living a Spartan life that, for me, has become a periodic necessity since slipping into my forties. It means swimming at least three times a week. Pull-ups and abs, every morning and evening, on the crossbeam beneath my house. Daily kick-ass runs, lots and lots of water, lean protein, few starches, and absolutely no beer or margaritas.
Tomlinson says I have a monastic side. That’s why I do it. He may be right, but it’s not the only reason.
For American males, our forties should be advertised as “The Most Dangerous Decade” because so few of us realize it’s true. It’s during our forties that most men die of heart attacks, smoke themselves across a cancerous border, or drink themselves into unambiguous alcoholism. It’s during our forties that most of us experience panic attacks, nervous breakdowns, depression, and a gradual, invidious weight gain that we will take to the grave. Men in their forties are also more likely to have affairs, divorce, and make asses of themselves by dating women twenty years younger, who, twenty years earlier, they wouldn’t have given a second look. It is during our forties that we lie awake at night, wrestling with decisions, and our own frail heartbeats, investing much thought and worry before deciding to go ahead and fuck up our lives, anyway.
I punish myself not only because fitness requires it but because I’m in my forties. I deserve it.
When I finished my run, I had a saltwater bath and returned to the cabin to find Wilson browning corned beef hash over a propane stove. He was pacing as he cooked.
“What time does the tide start falling?”
He’d seen the tide chart but often asked questions when he knew the answer. I said, “It’s late, around sunset. The wind’s out of the southwest so it could be after nine before it gets running.”
“Damn it, we need to get moving. Aren’t there usually two tides?”
“The Gulf of Mexico’s unusual. It happens.”
“I don’t understand why we have to wait.”
He was talking about Tomlinson’s sailboat, I realized. No Mas was solid but not nimble.
I said, “Maybe we don’t. Depends on where you want to go. And how much time Tomlinson needs to sober up.”
“Does he often drink too much?”
“Tomlinson’s drinking habits are like the tides. He misses a day occasionally.”
“Then he’s used to functioning with a hangover. I want to get into open water as soon as possible.”
“It’s your trip. Where we headed?”
Wilson flipped the hash with a spatula, then stirred in a glop of pepper sauce. “When we’re a couple miles out in the Gulf, I’ll brief you.”
I said, “I can’t offer advice without information,” then explained that incoming current moved through Captiva Pass at six or seven knots. No Mas had only a small Yanmar engine. We couldn’t exit the pass until the tide changed. Under power, though, we could avoid the pass by traveling north or south on the Intracoastal Waterway.
He thought about that, not eager to tip his hand. “I don’t want to wait around here until sunset. We both need sleep, but we can do that once we’re under way.”
Like me, he’d been watching the sky, anticipating helicopters.
“Then we’ll have to use the motor. Head north and use another pass when the tide turns. Or head south to Sanibel and cut to the Gulf at Lighthouse Point.”
“Those are our choices?”
“Unless Tomlinson has another idea.”
“It’s settled, then. That’s what we’ll do.”
I hesitated. “But… what about that other matter we discussed? There’s equipment at my lab I need.”
“How do you propose to get it? We’re leaving in a few hours.”
“If we’re going south, Dinkin’s Bay Marina is on the way. If we’re not, I could hitch a ride in a powerboat, then arrange a rendezvous by radio.”
Wilson shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Mr. President,” I said, seeing his eyes over the lenses of his glasses, “you told me you pick good people and let them do their jobs. If you are serious about… about resolving the matter you alluded to, trust my judgment, sir. I know what’s needed to… to dispose of unresolved issues.”
Wilson had green farmer’s eyes, commonplace but for their intensity. “When I say I don’t doubt your expertise, Dr. Ford, I’m not confirming your insinuation. But I’ve made my decision. Have your gear ready by… let’s say three p.m. That’ll give us another few hours to rest”-he moved his shoulders, working out kinks-“and I want to get some more fishing in.”
“Have you spoken to Tomlinson? It’s his boat. His decision.”
“No. But it’s time I said hello. I’ve been putting it off. I’m curious about how his friends will react.”
Meaning would he be recognized. He didn’t sound as confident now as he did in my lab. He stepped back as if I were a fulllength mirror. “What do you think?”
With the shaved head, the owlish glasses, I wouldn’t have recognized the man if I’d seen him on the street. But if someone took a close look?
“Risky,” I said.
“Suggestions?”
On the bookcase, someone had left sunglasses with a white plastic nose shield attached. “Hand me your glasses.” I clipped the shield to the bridge, used a towel to clean the tinted lenses, and handed them back. “Try these.”
He slid them on. “Any better?”
“You look like you should be playing shuffleboard. Waxing the RV for a vacation from the retirement village.”
The president’s response was profane but good-natured, then he added, “There’s something I haven’t shown you.” He put the skillet on the stove, pulled a leather case from his duffel, and opened it. “You ever see one of these before?” He began removing items.
It was a kit assembled by the CIA’s Headquarters Disguise Unit.
“No,” I lied. “Never.”
“Then I can’t tell you where it came from. But have a look.”
The agency employed Hollywood makeup artist John Chambers, who won an Academy Award for Planet of the Apes, as designer and consultant. The containers varied, and some of the contents, but the basics were there: facial hair, dental caps, uncorrected contact lenses, theatrical makeup and glue, synthetic skin, scars, moles, birthmarks. It wasn’t the crap sold in novelty shops. The kit was designed for operatives who had to escape from countries in which they were well known. Up close, the effects were more convincing than anything used on Broadway because they had to be.