Though Hook had driven by the yacht harbor many times already, for some reason he still thought of it as he had seen it on television during the oil blowout three years before—the ranks of stark white boats floating in a black sea. But what he saw now was a handsome calendar of color, a sea that was blue instead of black and a long yellow stone breaker curving out around hundreds of boats of tan and green and white, many of which were veritable ships, oceangoing yachts he could not have bought with all his land and cattle combined. Fronting the harbor was a large yellow building holding a U.S. Naval Reserve facility. Then came a number of small shops catering to the needs of tourists and yachtsmen, and which did not appear to be open as he walked past them now and stopped finally where the breakwater began, the place where Parnelli had said he would meet him. But it was deserted. Carefully Hook scanned the neat rows of boats, looking for a human shape somewhere among them, some sign of Douglas or Parnelli, though he did not really expect to find any. They would be here, he figured, only if Ferguson had convinced Douglas that he, Hook, had not taken Parnelli’s invitation seriously. Or maybe they would be here now at six-thirty but not at seven, not at the time he was expected to show.

As he stood there studying the harbor, a scruffy old man loaded down with fishing gear came limping past, heading down the gangway toward the piers. Hook asked him if he knew where the Skipjack, a fishing boat, was tied up.

The old man laughed. “Fishing boat! You mean fun and games boat, don’tcha?”

“Whatever.”

“Sure. A big sport rig, that’s what she is. Flybridge and all.”

“You know where it’s docked?”

“Straight ahead. Middle of the third dock, right side.”

“Much obliged.”

The old man nodded, and Hook followed him down the gangway onto the pier, which had a series of four docks leading out from it on both sides. The old man turned at the second one and dumped his gear into the stern of an ungainly little boat that looked homemade but much used. Hook went on to the third dock and turned right. And then he saw it, the Skipjack, smaller than some of its neighbors but still one very impressive-looking craft, new and white and expensive, with a flybridge as high as some of the sailing masts around it. Walking alongside the boat, Hook suddenly found himself face to face with Bo Parnelli, who had just straightened up from doing some chore in the stern.

Hook tried for a casual smile. “Good morning.”

Parnelli said nothing, just stood there glaring at him for a few moments and then stepped down into the cabin, where Hook could see Douglas getting up from a small booth table. Like his colleague, he was wearing a blue windbreaker and white slacks and white sneakers, and this surprised Hook, for though he had figured Parnelli for an arriviste type that would religiously wear the proper costume for the proper activity, he had not thought of Douglas as that unsure of himself.