“I told her I thought fifty thousand would do the job; spend more if necessary. By this time the day after tomorrow I want this island overrun with wild-eyed reporters, photographers, and television crews. See if you can get 60 Minutes interested, but tell them they have to move fast; she goes on trial on Monday, and she could be strung up by the middle of next week. It’s this Sunday night, or nothing.”

“They’ll want as much background on her as possible.”

“Call Bob Cantor.” He gave Eggers the number. “He’s researching her husband; tell him to copy you on anything he finds. Paul Manning was a well-known writer, so lots of people should have heard of him. Try to be careful what you release to the PR people; don’t let anything unfavorable get into the mix.”

“I get the picture.”

“The firm has got a lot of Washington connections, right?”

“Right.”

“Find out who her congressman is in Greenwich, get ahold of him and both Connecticut senators and tell them they’re about to lose a voter. Get them to get on to the State Department and tell them an American abroad is being railroaded. There’s no consulate here, but there’s bound to be one on a neighboring island. Have them issue the strongest possible protest to the St. Marks government.”

Eggers was laughing now. “Why don’t we get the president to send a cruiser down there to drop anchor in the harbor, with her guns pointed toward the capitol building?”

“Send a fucking aircraft carrier, if you can.”

“Are there any communists in the St. Marks government? That always helps, especially in the Caribbean.”

“Let’s assume there are, for the moment; we can always apologize later.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“Right.” Stone hung up and walked downstairs, where Thomas was getting the bar ready for lunch. “Thomas,” he said, “you’d better prepare for some business. Maybe we can even make up for the New York blizzard.”

“Sounds good to me,” Thomas said, laughing.

Chapter
12

Stone dialed the number and waited. “This is Stone Barrington,” his own voice said. “Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.” “Arrington?” he said into the phone. “Pick up, Arrington.” Nothing. He hung up.

He felt he had done all he could for the moment, so he left the room above the restaurant and walked down to his chartered yacht; he was weary and aching, as if he had run several miles. He fell onto his bunk and slept.

A rapping on the hull woke him; a glance through the hatch showed him dusk outside. He poked his head up.

Allison was standing on the pontoon between their boats. “How you doing?” she asked.

“How you doing is a better question.”

“I had a little cry; now I feel better. Come over and have some dinner with me?”

“Sure, I’d like that.”