Стюарт Вудс - Indecent Exposure

As their arrival was toasted, the yacht moved slowly into the main channel and, followed by the smaller vessel, left Key West under a bright moon.

“We’re going to anchor off one of the smaller islands,” Stone said, “in order to attract as little attention as possible. The other yacht is carrying Secret Service and other support personnel and some communications equipment that goes everywhere with the President.”

An hour later, they anchored and were soon called to dinner.

“I apologize for all the secrecy,” Kate said to the party, “but we didn’t want to be hounded by the press on this cruise.”

“We quite understand,” Stone replied.

The captain appeared to greet them. “I thought you’d like to know that the radio traffic in Key West Harbor was all about the British yacht. They seem to think that there’s a high British official aboard or maybe a rock star. When you wake up tomorrow morning we will already be under way, and our destination will be Fort Jefferson, a pre — Civil War fort in the island group called the Dry Tortugas, about sixty or seventy miles west of Key West.”

Later, in their cabin, Stone gave Holly her Christmas gift. “I thought you might want to wear it on our cruise.”

Holly slipped the cashmere robe over her naked body. “What do you think?” she asked, modeling it for him.

“A perfect fit. I think it looks great on you, but I prefer the earlier, more naked version.”

They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Gloria was dropped off by Benton Blake at her apartment, and the chauffeur carried her bags upstairs. The Bermuda trip had gone off without a hitch, and they had decided to go back there to be married.

As she was unpacking, her phone rang. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God you’re back,” Hazel, her editor at Just Folks , said. “I’ve got an assignment for you.”

“Oh, Hazel, I just got in.”

“What, you no longer need the money? I’ll give you five grand for the piece and pay your travel expenses to Key West.”

“Key West? In the dead of winter? You bet your ass I’ll do it. I can keep up my new tan!”

“All right, I’ll see if we can buy a seat on a charter jet. Oh, and pick a photographer and tell him to bring some long lenses. We’ve chartered a little boat that you two can live on and use to chase the big boat. Got a pencil?”

“Always.”

“Okay, the yacht you’re chasing is called Trafalgar III , and she belongs to the commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, who’s not aboard. That means there’s a big fish to catch, maybe even the prime minister, or at the very least a movie or rock star. He wouldn’t lend his yacht to just anybody.”

“Good deal.” She wasn’t going to see Benton for a week or so, anyway; he had a lot to do, and the press would be paying too much attention. “Let me know when my flight leaves.” Gloria stopped unpacking and started repacking. Fortunately, her Bermuda wardrobe would do just fine for Key West.

She called a British photographer friend, Robert Marks. “Hey, Bobby, would you like a week in a warm place?”

“Depends which warm place.”

“Key West and environs.”

“What are we shooting?”

“A fugitive celebrity — bring your longest lenses.”

“When are we leaving?”

“Today, very shortly. Pack and wait for my call. Travel is first-class all the way, and we’ll be living aboard a yacht.”

“Can I bring a girl?”

“Absolutely not — it’s just you, me, and the crew.”

“Oh, hell, all right.”

“I’ll call you when I know the time, so be ready.”

“Righto.”

She hung up and continued packing. Her phone rang. “Yeah?”

“I got you seats on a Challenger. Be at Atlantic Aviation, Teterboro, at three PM sharp, with your seat belt buckled. I’ll send a car for you at one-thirty.”

“Gotcha.”

“And bring your passports to identify yourselves to the charter company.”

“Gotcha.”

“Call me with news.”

“Gotcha.” She called her photographer and told him to bring his passport.

“It’s stitched to my arm,” he said.

“I’ll pick you up at one forty-five.”

“Done.”

She closed her bags and called Benton, glancing at her watch: 1:15.

“Yes?”

“Hey, hon, I’ve got an assignment in Key West, car’s coming in fifteen minutes.”

“How long?”

“A week, maybe.”

“Call me when you arrive, so I’ll know you’re safe. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” She hung up.

At 3:30 PM she and Marks were buckled into their seats, she clutching an envelope with the charter boat papers inside. A hedge-fund manager and his girlfriend sat opposite them, holding hands. They offered only first names by way of introduction, Gary and Sheree. Gloria looked them over. He’s married, she said to herself, and not to her.

Just after dark they landed at Key West International and took a cab to the Galleon Marina, where they found the berth number. Her name was Ciao , and she was glorious: fifty feet, very nice condition, two nice cabins, a couple to skipper and feed them.

Captain Hal and his wife, Judy, offered them a drink and sat down. “So,” he said, “where would you like to go?”

“There’s a yacht called Trafalgar III , flying a British flag,” Gloria said. “We want to go wherever she goes, but we don’t want to crowd them.”

Captain Hal’s eyebrows shot up. “Come with me,” he said.

Gloria and Bobby followed him on deck, where Captain Hal stood and pointed. “There she is.”

Trafalgar III was steaming past them fifty yards away, in the main channel.

Gloria gaped, while Bobby snapped. “Follow that yacht!” she said, clapping her hands and jumping up and down.

Stone woke early, only shortly after dawn. He pulled back the curtain over the port next to their bed, and a big red ball was rising out of the sea.

“What’s up?” Holly asked sleepily.

“Sun’s coming up.”

“Happens every day.”

“Not like this. Come see.”

She came and stood next to him. “Wow.”

“How about a morning dip?”

“I’m on.”

“Nobody’s up — be bold.”

They went aft, to the fantail. Wearing only robes.

A steward stood there holding a silver tray bearing two Bloody Marys.

“You’re up early,” Holly said. “Oh, what the hell.” She grabbed one. “I’m on vacation.”

They drank them hurriedly, then went and stood near the aft rail. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.”

They shed their robes and dove in, then came up shouting. “The water’s perfect!” Stone yelled.

A couple of hundred yards away Ciao swung at anchor, and Bobby Marks was pointing a camera at the swimmers, with a lens that looked like a cannon. Gloria peeked out of the main companionway. “What’s going on?”

“Life has showed itself,” he said, snapping away.

Gloria looked up just in time to see a man and a woman climbing up a ladder, then diving off the fantail of Trafalgar III. She squinted at them.

“Anybody we know?”

“Let me see what you shot.”

He turned the electronic camera so she could see the screen. “Zoom in,” she said. “Let’s get a look at their faces.”

He did so. “Great resolution, isn’t it?”

Gloria put her glasses on and looked at the camera. “Holy shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“The guy is named Stone Barrington, from New York. The woman is our celebrity — Holly Barker, the fucking secretary of state!”

“Holy shit!” Bobby said, taking more pictures.

As Gloria watched, two other naked people stood on the fantail and dived off with a shriek.