«I believe in protecting my flanks. The best protection is to make you pay.»
«You’re an obnoxious man.»
«I’m also very talented.»
2
Andrew Trevayne ran the twin hulls of the catamaran before the wind, catching the fast current into the shore. He stretched his long legs against a connecting spar and reached over the tiller to make an additional wake in the stern flow. No reason, just a movement, a meaningless gesture. The water was warm; his hand felt as though it was being propelled through a tepid, viscous film.
Just as he was being propelled—inexorably propelled—into an enigma that was not of his choosing. Yet the final decision would be his, and he knew what his choice would be.
That was the most irritating aspect; he understood the furies that propelled him, and he disliked himself for even contemplating submission to them. He had put them behind him.
Long ago.
The cat was within a hundred yards of the Connecticut shoreline when the wind abruptly shifted—as winds do when buffeted against solid ground from open water. Trevayne swung his legs over the starboard hull and pulled the mainsheet taut as the small craft swerved and lurched to the right toward the dock.
Trevayne was a large man. Not immense, just larger than most men, with the kind of supple coordination that bespoke of a far more active youth than he ever bothered to reminisce about. He remembered reading an article in Newsweek, surprised at the descriptions of his former playing-field prowess. They’d been greatly exaggerated, as all such descriptions were in such articles. He’d been good, but not that good. He always had the feeling that he looked better than he was, or his efforts camouflaged his shortcomings.
But he knew he was a good sailor. Maybe more than good.
The rest was meaningless to him. It always had been, except for the instant of competition.
There would be intolerable competition facing him now. If he made the decision. The kind of competition that allowed no quarter, that involved strategies not listed in any rulebook. He was good at those strategies, too. But not from participation; that was important, immeasurably important to him.
Understand them, be capable of maneuver, even skirt the edges, but never participate. Instead, use the knowledge to gain the advantage. Use it without mercy, without quarter.
Andrew kept a small pad fastened to a steel plate on the deck next to the tiller. Attached to the plate was a thin rust-proof chain that housed a waterproof casing with a ball-point pen. He said these were for recording times, markers, wind velocities—whatever. Actually, the pad and pen were for jotting down stray thoughts, ideas, memoranda for himself.
Sometimes things … just «things» that seemed clearer to him while on the water.
Which was why he was upset when he looked down at the pad now. He had written one word. Written it unconsciously, without realizing it.
Boston.
He ripped off the page, crumpled it with far more intensity than the action called for, and threw it into the sound.
Goddamn! Goddamn it! he thought. No!
The catamaran pulled into the slip, and Trevayne reached over the side and held the edge of the dock with his right hand. With his left he pulled the release sheet, and the sail fluttered as it buckled. He secured the boat and stood up, pulling down the rest of the canvas, rolling it around the horizontal mast as he did so. In less than four minutes he had dismantled the tiller, stowed the jacket, lashed the sail, and tied off the boat at four corners.
He looked up beyond the stone wall of the terrace to the wood and glass structure that jutted from the edge of the hill. It never ceased to excite him. Not the material possession; that wasn’t important any longer. But that it had all come out the way he and Phyl planned it.
They had done it together; that fact was very important.
It might never make up for other things, perhaps. Sadder things. But it helped.
He walked to the stone path by the boathouse and started up the steep incline to the terrace. He could always tell what kind of shape he was in by the time he reached midpoint of the climb. If he was out of breath, or his legs ached, he would silently vow to eat less or exercise more. He was pleased to find that there was little discomfort now. Or perhaps his mind was too preoccupied to relate the stress.
No, he was feeling pretty good, he thought. The week away from the office, the continuous salt air, the pleasantly energetic end of the summer months; he was feeling fine.
And then he remembered the pad and the unconsciously—subconsciously—written word.
Boston.
He didn’t really feel fine at all.
He rounded the last steps to the flagstone terrace and saw that his wife was lying back in a deck chair, her eyes open, staring out at the water, seeing nothing he would see. He always felt a slight ache when he watched her like that. The ache of sad, painful memories.
Because of Boston, goddamn it.
He realized that his sneakers had covered the sound of his steps; he didn’t want to startle her.
«Hi,» he said softly.
«Oh?» Phyllis blinked. «Have a good sail, darling?»
«Fine. Good sleep?» Trevayne crossed over to her and kissed her lightly on her forehead.
«Great while it lasted. It was interrupted.»
«Oh? I thought the kids drove Lillian into town.»
«It wasn’t the kids. Or Lillian.»
«You sound ominous.» Trevayne reached into a large rectangular cooler on the patio table and withdrew a can of beer.
«Not ominous. But I am curious.»
«What are you talking about?» He ripped off the flip-top on the can and drank.
«Franklyn Baldwin telephoned… Why haven’t you returned his calls?»
Trevayne held the beer next to his lips and looked at his wife. «Haven’t I seen that bathing suit on someone else?»
«Yes, and I thank you for the compliment—intended or not—and I’d still like to know why you haven’t called him.»
«I’m trying to avoid him.»
«I thought you liked him.»
«I do. Immensely. All the more reason to avoid him. He’s going to ask me for something, and I’m going to refuse him. At least, I think he’ll ask me, and I want to refuse him.»
«What?»
Trevayne walked absently to the stone wall bordering the terrace and rested the beer can on the edge. «Baldwin wants to recruit me. That’s the rumor; I think it’s called a ‘trial balloon.’ He heads up that commission on defense spending. They’re forming a subcommittee to make what they politely phrase an ‘in-depth study’ of Pentagon relationships.»
«What does that mean?»
«Four or five companies—conglomerates, really—are responsible for seventy-odd percent of the defense budget. In one way or another. There’s no effective control any longer. This subcommittee’s supposed to be an investigative arm of the Defense Commission. They’re looking for a chairman.»
«And you’re it?»
«I don’t want to be it. I’m happy where I am. What I’m doing now is positive; chairing that committee would be the most negative thing I can think of. Whoever takes the job will be a national pariah … if he only half works at it.»
«Why?»
«Because the Pentagon’s a mess. It’s no secret; read the papers. Any day. It’s not even subtle.»
«Then why would anyone be a pariah for trying to fix it? I understand making enemies, not a national pariah.»
Trevayne laughed gently as he carried the beer over to a chair next to his wife and sat down. «I love you for your New England simplicity. Along with the bathing suit.»