quotation and said, 'It's Shakespeare. The Tempest.'
Kate raised her bottle, 'Here's to one not finding us.'
'Is that at all likely?'
'Not really. Not at this time of year. But sailing in the tropics, you never can tell.'
They fell silent for a minute or two as if immediately comfortable with each other, enough just to sit there and watch the Grand Duke's crew make ready to leave the mooring. Occasionally, Kate would glance to the stern of the ship where Rocky Envigado's boat, the Britannia, was now loaded and lashed. She was feeling a little more relaxed. The Britannia had been the very last boat to float into the Duke and, for an hour or so, it had seemed that she and her two colleagues might have found themselves setting sail without the target of their surveillance.
A tugboat tooted to port, lines were thrown off the quayside, a klaxon sounded, and Kate and Dave felt a low rumble on the starboard side as bow and stern thrusters began to turn over. There were now only two lines connecting them to land and seeing these slacken, men on the wharf lifted the eye of each rope clear of the bit and then dropped it into the rainbow streaked water.
'All gone and all clear,' someone shouted.
Having checked the whereabouts of Rocky's boat, Kate watched David out of the corner of her eye as he watched the thrusters push the ship gently away. Maximum points for quoting Shakespeare. And he was right, there was something rich and strange about a voyage like this one. Maximum points too, for not being interested in football. What did a game matter when there was the leaving of America by ship to contemplate? She had begun to believe that men like David Dulanotov simply didn't exist. Romantic men, who were content to sit in silence instead of trying to talk their way into your pants. Looking at his big brown eyes fixed on the distant horizon, she wondered what other surprises the voyage might have in store for her and how many of them might include this handsome man.
Chapter FOURTEEN
Some of the crew and yacht-owners stayed aboard their own vessels for dinner. But mostly they went to the accommodations block in the forehouse, curious to see more of the ship and to meet the captain, his officers and their crew. Officers and crewmen on the Duke ate separately and in different messrooms. In the British Merchant Navy, it had always been done this way. Now Jellicoe gave orders that owners and their captains would be permitted to dine in the officers' saloon. Crewmen, however, would have to eat with the crew of the Duke in the crewmen's mess. So it was that Dave found himself sitting down to dinner with Jellicoe, those of his officers who were not on watch, and a couple of dozen assorted owners and captains, including Al Carnaro, Kate Parmenter and the captain of the Jade, the handsome Rachel Dana.
Rachel said, 'Captain Jellicoe, I was wondering, what's the purpose of those two brass cannon on your fo'c'sle?'
'What the hell's a fo'c'sle?' grumbled Kent Bowen.
'It's the deck above the forecastle in the bows of the ship,' explained Jellicoe, and marked Bowen down as a complete idiot in all matters relating to the sea and seafaring. Turning toward Rachel, he smiled bleakly.
'As a matter of fact,' he said, 'there's a bit of a story attached to those cannon. You see, on our way back from the Balearics...' He nodded toward Bowen. 'That's the small group of islands including Mallorca, that is, of course, our destination. Well, we had to stop for repairs, pretty close to Lanzarote...' Another nod to Bowen. 'Which is of course in the Canary Islands. Anyway, we were lying at anchor close to some cliffs for the best part of a day while the chief engineer sorted out the engines and the boys started to get rather bored. Now at the top of these cliffs were two ceremonial cannon. And I thought that it would be a pretty good way of keeping them out of mischief, if we climbed to the top of the cliffs, along the lines of a film I once saw and, instead of blowing up these particular guns, stole them instead.' Jellicoe was chuckling as he relived this exploit. 'So that's exactly what we did. It took most of the day, since, as you can no doubt imagine, they were rather heavy. Anyway, they're in full working order. We fire them once a year, to commemorate Admiral Lord Nelson's victory over the French at the Battle of Trafalgar...' He nodded toward Bowen again. 'Famous sea battle during the Napoleonic wars -- 21 October 1805, in case you should be wondering. Fought not so very far north of the Canaries, as a matter of fact. You see, the cannon were originally British. Came off a ship in Nelson's squadron that was wrecked in Madeira. For a while the cannon stayed there, until the governor lost them in a card game with the governor of Lanzarote. Something like that, anyway. So you see we were merely reclaiming naval property. England expects, eh Chief?'
Bert Ross smiled a wintry smile and helped himself to some more of the execrable white wine that was served aboard the Duke.
'How heroic,' said Rachel. 'Perhaps you should be in a film yourself, Captain.'
Kate wondered what kind of film Rachel Dana could have in mind. She said, 'Captain Jellicoe, if that's how you keep your men out of mischief, I'd love to see what might happen when you were planning on causing trouble.'
'Come, come, Captain Parmenter. It was just high spirits, that's all.' Jellicoe looked at Dave and said. 'Wouldn't you say so, sir?'
'It sounds a blast.' Dave grinned back at him, wondering how Jellicoe would react when he and Al enacted their own high-spirited caper. Badly, he thought. Jellicoe was the kind of guy who'd have called what Dave was planning 'Piracy'. Well, that was OK by him. He'd always kind of liked Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power. When he was holed up somewhere, several million dollars better off, he might even grow himself a small mustache. Maybe even wear an earring again. When you were worth several million dollars you could wear more or less what you wanted and no one ever complained.
'A blast?' Jellicoe said. 'Yes, I suppose it was.'
Kate smiled at Dave. 'A few too many beers is as wild as it gets on the Carrera.'
Dave smiled back. 'Same here,' he said, although he was thinking that what had happened to Lou Malta and his boy Pepe would count as pretty wild.
Al, who had wisely stayed silent throughout dinner, leaned toward Dave's shoulder and murmured, 'That her? That the babe you were talking to earlier?'
'Yes it is.'
'Cute. Very cute. The question is, does she have a good-looking friend?'
Dave looked at Al and shook his head. 'No, Al, the question is, do I?'
After dinner, Dave asked the chief officer, Bert Ross, which of his officers was the radio officer.
'Radio officer?' Ross sounded surprised.
'Yeah, only I've got a fist-mike that's cutting out on me.' Although this was true, Dave knew pretty much how to fix it. His real purpose was to find out where the ship's radio was. The first part of his plan, when eventually it kicked in, would involve immobilizing the Duke's VHF.
'We've got an electrical officer,' said Ross. 'Radio officers went out with flared trousers. We're all satellite and microchip these days. Fax, telex, digital selective calling, you name it. Most of the lads on this ship think Morse Code is the capital of Russia.' He laughed and glanced at his watch. 'As it happens, Jock -- our electrical officer -- he'll be on the blower now. Gettin' the soccer results from England. Come on, I'll take you there myself.'
'Thanks. That'd be great.'
'No problem. What you want to do anyway? Have a chat with your personal trainer or something?' Ross led the way out of the officers' saloon. 'After that dinner you'll probably need a couple of hours in the gym.'
'It was kind of heavy,' admitted Dave, thinking how much the food had reminded him of the chow back in Homestead.
'What we don't eat, we use as ballast.'
They went along to a cabin close to the bridge where a thin, undernourishedlooking man with the reddest hair Dave had ever seen that wasn't on a dog, was seated in front of a series of teak-mounted transceivers and loudspeakers. In his hand was a digital telephone handset and on the table next to him was a sheet of paper covered with team names and scores.
'This is Jock.'
The red-haired man looked up and nodded.
'He's Scottish, so don't expect to understand a bleedin' word he says.'
Jock replaced the handset on the cradle and sat back on his plastic office chair.
'How'd the Arsenal do, Jock?'
