Four days later
Stu nosed his cabin cruiser toward the white light at the tip of the mansion’s private dock. Just two windows in the house beyond were lit. The inlet near Napeague, out on Long Island’s tony East End, was black as an abyss, the water smooth as glass. He cut the engine to Idle and coasted at a slow rumble towards the dock. He killed the running lights.
While his cargo was clandestine, the cloak-and-dagger delivery wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t like Federal agents had been tracking him since he arrived in the States. This deserted stretch of the bay harbored no threats. But Stu thought a touch of the theatrical wouldn’t hurt. Old Man Chadwell ought to get his money’s worth. It might pump up the story he told his friends, and that was the kind of advertising money couldn’t buy.
Stu would have relished his role if he felt better. The rolling chop to the water outside the inlet had sent his stomach into an unusual bout of mild seasickness. He blamed it on the night’s erased horizon.
Closer in, the old man appeared under the umbrella of light at the end of the dock. Even at one in the morning, he wore pressed tan khakis, black-leather loafers and a button-down shirt.
Stu groaned. The silver-haired geezer wore a red cravat. Seriously? Apparently that was his secret-rendezvous outfit, the dashing world-spy look he imagined fit this special moment. Well, Chadwell paid the bill, so whatever made him happy. The wrinkled old man beamed a smile of perfectly capped, white teeth.
Stu dropped the engine into neutral and coasted into the dock. A quick surge of reverse brought the ship to a halt. He killed the engine. Mr. Chadwell tossed him a line to secure the boat.
“Ahoy, Mr. Balter. Right on time.”
“With a delivery ten thousand years late,” Stu said.
He bent and clean-jerked a crate up from the cockpit to the deck alongside the pier. Chadwell rolled a cart over to the gunwale of the boat. Stu hopped off, and he and Chadwell transferred the crate to the cart.
The giddy look of a child at Christmas filled Chadwell’s eyes. “So heavy!”
“A lot of that’s crate. Your quantity is just what you ordered.”
“And what does it taste like?”
Stu smiled at his ability to anticipate a customer’s response.
“It’s sublime,” he said. “Gamey, with a similarity to venison.”
That was a lie. It was passable, but it was certainly no Kobe beef. A bit freezer burned, actually. He’d tried it four days ago, the night before he and his cargo jetted out of Russia. He’d probably undercooked it.
“The other half of your payment will be wired to your account within the hour,” Chadwell said.
They shook hands, and Stu returned to his boat. He cast off and started the engines. Stu spun the boat in a tight reverse circle and slammed the throttles forward. The boat’s tail dug in, and Stu rocked back in his seat. The bow cut a fierce, glowing white wake across the water.
For the third time that day, the outside world went a bit wavy, and Stu’s stomach did a disquieting backflip. He wondered what kind of medicine he had below in the head.
He snapped on the autopilot, and set it to backtrack the course he’d taken on the way in. He’d sail out between the long fins of Long Island’s eastern fishtail, and then skirt the Atlantic’s edge on the way to Martha’s Vineyard and a well-earned rest.
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. He wiped it off and his cheek felt like it was on fire. He touched his forehead. He was burning up! He wasn’t seasick. He’d probably just caught the goddamn flu somewhere.
The cabin’s darkness masked the creeping transformation on his arms, the steady alteration of blue veins to slate gray.