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“No. And it’s not Mr. Irvine, is it? Something bothering me all this trip. A VIP visit at Langley, way back, by the big honcho from the British Intelligence Service.”
“Quite a memory, Mr. Monk.”
“The name Sir Nigel seems to ring a bell. Okay, Sir Nigel Irvine, can we please stop fooling around? What is all this about?”
“Sorry for the deception. Just wanted to have a look. And a talk. In privacy. Few places more private than the open sea.”
“So ... we’re talking. What about?”
“Russia, I’m afraid.”
“Uh-huh. Big country. Not my favorite. Who sent you here?”
“Oh, nobody sent me. Carey Jordan told me about you. We lunched in Georgetown a couple of days ago. He sends his best wishes.”
“Nice of him. Thank him if you see him again. But you must have noticed that he is out of it these days. Know what I mean by ‘it’? Out of the game. Well, so am I. Whatever you came for, sir, it was a wasted journey.”
“Ah, yes, that’s what Carey said. Don’t bother, he said. But I did anyway. It’s a long journey. Mind if I make my pitch? Isn’t that what you chaps say? Make my pitch, put my proposal?”
“That’s the expression. Well, it’s a hot and sunny day in paradise. You have two hours left of a four-hour charter. Talk if you wish, but the answer’s still no.”
“Have you ever heard of a man called Igor Komarov?”
“We get the papers here, a couple of days late, but we get ‘em. And we listen to the radio. Personally I don’t have a satellite dish, so I don’t get TV. Yes, I’ve heard of him. The coming man, isn’t he?”
“So they say. What have you heard of him?”
“He heads the right wing. Nationalist, appeals to patriotism a lot. That sort of thing. Makes a mass appeal.”
“How far right-wing would you think he is?”
Monk shrugged.
“I don’t know. Pretty much, I guess. About as far as some of those Deep South ultraconservative senators back home.”
“A bit more than that, I’m afraid. He’s so far right he’s off the map.”
“Well, Sir Nigel, that’s terribly tragic. But right now my major concern is whether I have a charter for tomorrow and whether the wahoo are running fifteen miles off Northwest Point. The politics of the unlovely Mr. Komarov do not concern me.”
“Well, they will, I fear. One day. I … we … some friends and colleagues, feel he really should be stopped. We need a man to go into Russia. Carey said you were good ... once. Said you were the best … once.”
“Yes, well, that was once.” Monk stared at Sir Nigel for several seconds in silence. “You’re saying this isn’t even official. This is not government policy, yours or mine.”
“Well done. Our two governments take the view there is nothing they can do. Officially.”
“And you think I am going to pull anchor, cross the world, and go into Russia to tangle with this yo-yo at the behest of some group of Don Quixotes who don’t even have government backing?”
He stood up, crushed the empty beer can ‘in one fist and tossed it in the trash bucket.
“I’m sorry, Sir Nigel. You really did waste your airfare. Let’s get back to the harbor. The trip’s on the house.”
He went back to the flying bridge, took the helm, and headed for the Cut. Ten minutes after they entered the lagoon the Foxy Lady was back at her slot on the quayside.
“You’re wrong about the trip,” said the Englishman. “I engaged you in bad faith, but you took the charter in good faith. How much is a half-day charter?”
“Three-fifty.”
“With a gratuity for your young friend.” Irvine peeled four hundred-dollar bills from a wad. “By the by, do you have an afternoon charter?”