Morning, Noon and Night

Chapter Three

The Ligurian coast is the Italian Riviera, sweeping in a semicircle from the French-Italian border around to Genoa, and then continuing down to the Gulf of La Spezia. The beautiful long ribbon of coast and its sparkling waters contain the storied ports of Portofino, Vernazza, and beyond them Elba, Sardinia, and Corsica.

Blue Skies was approaching Portofino, which even from a distance was an impressive sight, its hillsides covered with olive trees, pines, cypresses and palms. Harry Stanford, Sophia, and Dmitri were on deck, studying the approaching coastline.

‘Have you been to Portofino often?’ Sophia asked.

‘A few times.’

‘Where is your main home?’

Too personal. ‘You’ll enjoy Portofino, Sophia. It’s really quite beautiful.’

Captain Vacarro approached them. ‘Will you be having lunch aboard, Signor Stanford?’

‘No, we’ll have lunch at the Splendido.’

‘Very good. And shall I be prepared to weigh anchor right after lunch?’

‘I think not. Let’s enjoy the beauty of the place.’

Captain Vacarro studied him, puzzled. One moment Harry Stanford was in a terrible hurry, and the next moment he seemed to have all the time in the world. And the radio shut down? Unheard of! Pazzo.

When Blue Skies dropped anchor in the outer harbor; Stanford, Sophia and Dmitri took the yacht’s launch ashore. The small seaport was charming, with a variety of amusing shops and outdoor trattorie lining the single road that led up to the hills. A dozen or so small fishing boats were pulled up onto the pebbled beach.

Stanford turned to Sophia. ‘We’ll be lunching at the hotel on top of the hill. There’s a lovely view from there.’ He nodded toward a taxi stopped beyond the docks. ‘Take a taxi up there, and I’ll meet you in a few minutes.’ He handed her some lire.

‘Very well, caro.’

His eyes followed her as she walked away; then he turned to Dmitri. ‘I have to make a call.’

But not from the ship, Dmitri thought.

The men went to the two phone booths at the side of the dock. Dmitri watched as Stanford stepped inside one of them, picked up the receiver, and inserted a token.

‘Operator, I would like to place a call to someone at the Union Bank of Switzerland in Geneva.’

A woman was approaching the second phone booth. Dmitri stepped in front of it, blocking her way.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I …’

‘I’m waiting for a call.’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Oh.’ She glanced hopefully at the phone booth Stanford was in.

‘I wouldn’t wait,’ Dmitri grunted. ‘He’s going to be on the telephone for a long time.’

The woman shrugged and walked away.

‘Hello?’

Dmitri was watching Stanford speaking into the mouthpiece.

‘Peter? We have a little problem.’ Stanford closed the door to the booth. He was speaking very fast, and Dmitri could not hear what he was saying. At the end of the conversation, Stanford replaced the receiver and opened the door.

‘Is everything all right, Mr Stanford?’ Dmitri asked.

‘Let’s get some lunch.’

The Splendido is the crown jewel of Portofino, a hotel with a magnificent panoramic view of the emerald bay below. The hotel caters to the very rich, and jealously guards its reputation. Harry Stanford and Sophia had lunch out on the terrace.

‘Shall I order for you?’ Stanford asked. ‘They have some specialties here that I think you might enjoy.’

‘Please,’ Sophia said.

Stanford ordered the trenette al pesto, the local pasta, veal, and focaccia, the salted bread of the region.

‘And bring us a bottle of Schram Eighty-eight.’ He turned to Sophia. ‘It received a gold medal in the International Wine Challenge in London. I own the vineyard.’

She smiled. ‘You’re lucky.’

Luck had nothing to do with it. ‘I believe that man was meant to enjoy the gustatory delights that have been put on the earth.’ He took her hand in his. ‘And other delights, too.’

‘You’re an amazing man.’

‘Thank you.’

It excited Stanford to have beautiful women admiring him. This one was young enough to be his daughter and that excited him even more.

When they had finished lunch, Stanford looked at Sophia and grinned. ‘Let’s get back to the yacht.’

‘Oh, yes!’

Harry Stanford was a protean lover, passionate and skilled. His enormous ego made him more concerned about satisfying a woman than about satisfying himself. He knew how to excite a woman’s erotic zones, and he orchestrated his lovemaking in a sensuous symphony that brought his lovers to heights they had never achieved before.

They spent the afternoon in Stanford’s suite, and when they were finished making love, Sophia was exhausted. Harry Stanford dressed and went to the bridge to see Captain Vacarro.

‘Would you like to go on to Sardinia, Signor Stanford?’ the captain asked.

‘Let’s stop off at Elba first.’

‘Very good, sir. Is everything satisfactory?’

‘Yes,’ Stanford said. ‘Everything is satisfactory.’ He was feeling aroused again. He went back to Sophia’s stateroom.

They reached Elba the following afternoon and anchored at Portoferraio.

As the Boeing 727 entered North American airspace, the pilot checked in with ground control.

‘New York Center, Boeing eight nine five Papa is with you, passing flight level two six zero for flight level two four zero.’

The voice of New York Center came on. ‘Roger, you are cleared to one two thousand, direct JFK. Call approach on one two seven point four.’

From the back of the plane came a low growl.

‘Easy, Prince. That’s a good boy. Let’s get this seat belt around you.’

There were four men waiting when the 727 landed. They stood at different vantage points so they could watch the passengers descend from the plane. They waited for half an hour. The only passenger to come out was a white German shepherd.

Portoferraio is the main shopping center of Elba. The streets are lined with elegant, sophisticated shops, and behind the harbor, the eighteenth-century buildings are tucked under the craggy sixteenth-century citadel built by the Duke of Florence.

Harry Stanford had visited the island many times, and in a strange way, he felt at home here. This was where Napoleon Bonaparte had been sent into exile.

‘We’re going to look at Napoleon’s house,’ he told Sophia. ‘I’ll meet you there.’ He turned to Dmitri. ‘Take her to the Villa dei Mulini.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Stanford watched Dmitri and Sophia leave. He looked at his watch. Time was running out. His plane would already have landed at Kennedy. When they learned that he was not aboard, the manhunt would begin again. It will take them a while to pick up the trail, Stanford thought. By then, everything will have been settled.

He stepped into a phone booth at the end of the dock. ‘I want to place a call to London,’ Stanford told the operator. ‘Barclays Bank. One seven one …’

Half an hour later, he picked up Sophia and brought her back to the harbor.

‘You go aboard,’ Stanford told her. ‘I have another call to make.’

She watched him stride over to the telephone booth beside the dock. Why doesn’t he use the telephones on the yacht? Sophia wondered.

Inside the telephone booth, Harry Stanford was saying, ‘The Sumitomo Bank in Tokyo …’

Fifteen minutes later, when he returned to the yacht, he was in a fury.

‘Are we going to be anchoring here for the night?’ Captain Vacarro asked.

‘Yes,’ Stanford snapped. ‘No! Let’s head for Sardinia. Now!’

The Costa Smeralda in Sardinia is one of the most exquisite places along the Mediterranean coast. The little town of Porto Cervo is a haven for the wealthy, with a large part of the area dotted with villas built by Aly Khan.

The first thing Harry Stanford did when they docked was to head for a telephone booth.

Dmitri followed him, standing guard outside the booth.

‘I want to place a call to Banca d’Italia in Rome …’ The phone booth door closed.

The conversation lasted for almost half an hour. When Stanford came out of the phone booth, he was grim. Dmitri wondered what was going on.

Stanford and Sophia had lunch at the beach of Liscia di Vacca. Stanford ordered for them. ‘We’ll start with malloreddus.’ Flakes of dough made of hard-grain wheat. ‘Then the porceddu.’ Little suckling pig, cooked with myrtle and bay leaves. ‘For a wine, we’ll have the Vernaccia, and for dessert, we’ll have sebadas.’ Fried fritters filled with fresh cheese and grated lemon rind, dusted with bitter honey and sugar.

‘Bene, signor.’ The waiter walked away, impressed.

As Stanford turned to talk to Sophia, his heart suddenly skipped a beat. Near the entrance to the restaurant two men were seated at a table, studying him. Dressed in dark suits in the summer sun, they were not even bothering to pretend they were tourists. Are they after me or are they innocent strangers? I mustn’t let my imagination run away with me, Stanford thought.

Sophia was speaking. ‘I’ve never asked you before. What business are you in?’

Stanford studied her. It was refreshing to be with someone who knew nothing about him. ‘I’m retired,’ he told her. ‘I just travel around, enjoying the world.’

‘And you’re all by yourself?’ Her voice was filled with sympathy. ‘You must be very lonely.’

It was all he could do not to laugh aloud. ‘Yes, I am. I’m glad you’re here with me.’

She put her hand over his. ‘I, too, caro.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Stanford saw the two men leave.

When luncheon was over, Stanford and Sophia and Dmitri returned to town.

Stanford headed for a telephone booth. ‘I want the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris …’

Watching him, Sophia spoke to Dmitri. ‘He’s a wonderful man, isn’t he?’

‘There’s no one like him.’

‘Have you been with him long?’

‘Two years,’ Dmitri said.

‘You’re lucky.’

‘I know.’ Dmitri walked over and stood guard right outside the telephone booth. He heard Stanford saying, ‘René? You know why I’m calling … Yes … Yes … You will? … That’s wonderful!’ His voice was filled with relief. ‘No … not there. Let’s meet in Corsica. That’s perfect. After our meeting, I can return directly home. Thank you, René.’

Stanford put down the receiver. He stood there a moment, smiling, then dialed a number in Boston.

A secretary answered. ‘Mr Fitzgerald’s office.’

‘This is Harry Stanford. Let me talk to him.’

‘Oh, Mr Stanford! I’m sorry, Mr Fitzgerald is on vacation. Can someone else …?’

‘No. I’m on my way back to the States. You tell him I want him in Boston at Rose Hill at nine o’clock Monday morning. Tell him to bring a copy of my will and a notary.’

‘I’ll try to –’

‘Don’t try. Do it, my dear.’ He put down the receiver and stood there, his mind racing. When he stepped out of the telephone booth, his voice was calm. ‘I have a little business to take care of, Sophia. Go to the Hotel Pitrizza and wait for me.’

‘All right,’ she said flirtatiously. ‘Don’t be too long.’

‘I won’t.’

The two men watched her walk away.

‘Let’s get back to the yacht,’ Stanford told Dmitri. ‘We’re leaving.’

Dmitri looked at him in surprise. ‘What about …?’

‘She can screw her way back home.’

When they returned to the Blue Skies, Harry Stanford went to see Captain Vacarro. ‘We’re heading for Corsica,’ he said. ‘Let’s shove off.’

‘I just received an updated weather report, Signor Stanford. I’m afraid there’s a bad storm. It would be better if we waited it out and – ‘

‘I want to leave now, captain.’

Captain Vacarro hesitated. ‘It will be a rough voyage, sir. It’s a libeccio – the southwest wind. We’ll have heavy seas and squalls.’

‘I don’t care about that.’ The meeting in Corsica was going to solve all his problems. He turned to Dmitri. ‘I want you to arrange for a helicopter to pick us up in Corsica and take us to Naples. Use the public telephone on the dock.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Dmitri Kaminsky walked back to the dock and entered the telephone booth.

Twenty minutes later, Blue Skies was under weigh.

Chapter Four

His idol was Dan Quayle, and he often used the name as his touchstone.

‘I don’t care what you say about Quayle, he’s the only politician with real values. Family – that’s what it’s all about. Without family values, this country would be up the creek even worse than it is. All these young kids are living together without being married, and having babies. It’s shocking. No wonder there’s so much crime. If Dan Quayle ever runs for president, he’s sure got my vote.’ It was a shame, he thought, that he couldn’t vote because of a stupid law, but, regardless, he was behind Quayle all the way.

He had four children: Billy, eight, and the girls – Amy, Clarissa, and Susan, ten, twelve, and fourteen. They were wonderful children, and his greatest joy was spending what he liked to call quality time with them. His weekends were totally devoted to the children. He barbecued for them, played with them, took them to movies and ball games, and helped them with their homework. All the youngsters in the neighborhood adored him. He repaired their bikes and toys, and invited them on picnics with his family. They gave him the nickname of Papa.

On a sunny Saturday morning, he was seated in the bleachers, watching the baseball game. It was a picture-perfect day, with warm sunshine and fluffy cumulus clouds dappling the sky. His eight-year-old son, Billy, was at bat, looking very professional and grown up in his Little League uniform. Papa’s three girls and his wife were at his side. It doesn’t get any better than this, he thought happily. Why can’t all families be like ours?

It was the bottom of the eighth inning, the score was tied, with two outs and the bases loaded. Billy was at the plate, three balls and two strikes against him.

Papa called out, encouragingly, ‘Get ’em, Billy! Over the fence!’

Billy waited for the pitch. It was fast and low, and Billy swung wildly and missed.

The umpire yelled, ‘Strike three!’

The inning was over.

There were groans and cheers from the crowd of parents and family friends. Billy stood there disheartened, watching the teams change sides.

Papa called out, ‘It’s all right, son. You’ll do it next time!’

Billy tried to force a smile.

John Cotton, the team manager, was waiting for Billy. ‘You’re outta the game!’ he said.

‘But, Mr Cotton …’

‘Go on. Get off the field.’

Billy’s father watched in hurt amazement as his son left the field. He can’t do that, he thought. He has to give Billy another chance. I’ll have to speak to Mr Cotton and explain. At that instant, the cellular phone he carried rang. He let it ring four times before he answered it. Only one person had the number. He knows I hate to be disturbed on weekends, he thought angrily.

Reluctantly, he lifted the antenna, pressed a button, and spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Hello?’

The voice at the other end spoke quietly for several minutes. Papa listened, nodding from time to time. Finally he said, ‘Yes. I understand. I’ll take care of it.’ He put the phone away.

‘Is everything all right, darling?’ his wife asked.

‘No. I’m afraid it isn’t. They want me to work over the weekend. I was planning a nice barbecue for us tomorrow.’

His wife took his hand and said lovingly, ‘Don’t worry about it. Your work is more important.’

Not as important as my family, he thought stubbornly. Dan Quayle would understand.

His hand began to itch fiercely and he scratched it. Why does it do that? he wondered. I’ll have to see a dermatologist one of these days.

John Cotton was the assistant manager at the local supermarket. A burly man in his fifties, he had agreed to manage the Little League team because his son was a ballplayer. His team had lost that afternoon because of young Billy.

The supermarket had closed, and John Cotton was in the parking lot, walking toward his car, when a stranger approached him, carrying a package.

‘Excuse me, Mr Cotton.’

‘Yes?’

‘I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment?’

‘The store is closed.’

‘Oh, it’s not that. I wanted to talk to you about my son. Billy is very upset that you took him out of the game and told him he couldn’t play again.’

‘Billy is your son? I’m sorry he was even in the game. He’ll never be a ballplayer.’

Billy’s father said earnestly, ‘You’re not being fair, Mr Cotton. I know Billy. He’s really a fine ballplayer. You’ll see. When he plays next Saturday –’

‘He isn’t going to play next Saturday. He’s out.’

‘But …’

‘No buts. That’s it. Now, if there’s nothing else …’

‘Oh, there is.’ Billy’s father had unwrapped the package in his hand, revealing a baseball bat. He said pleadingly, ‘This is the bat that Billy used. You can see that it’s chipped, so it isn’t fair to punish him because –’

‘Look, mister, I don’t give a damn about the bat. Your son is out!’

Billy’s father sighed unhappily. ‘You’re sure you won’t change your mind?’

‘No chance.’

As Cotton reached for the door handle of his car, Billy’s father swung the bat against the rear window, smashing it.

Cotton stared at him in shock. ‘What … what the hell are you doing?’

‘Warming up,’ Papa explained. He raised the bat and swung it again, smashing it against Cotton’s kneecap.

John Cotton screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. ‘You’re crazy!’ he yelled. ‘Help!’

Billy’s father knelt beside him and said softly, ‘Make one more sound, and I’ll break your other kneecap.’

Cotton stared up at him in agony, terrified.

‘If my son isn’t in the game next Saturday, I’ll kill you and I’ll kill your son. Do I make myself clear?’

Cotton looked into the man’s eyes and nodded, fighting to keep from screaming with pain.

‘Good. Oh, and I wouldn’t want this to get out. I’ve got friends.’ He looked at his watch. He had just enough time to catch the next flight to Boston.

His hand began to itch again.

At seven o’clock Sunday morning, dressed in a vested suit and carrying an expensive leather briefcase, he walked past Vendome, through Copley Square, and on to Stuart Street. A half block past the Park Plaza Castle, he entered the Boston Trust Building and approached the guard. With dozens of tenants in the huge building, there would be no way the guard at the reception desk could identify him.

‘Good morning,’ the man said.

‘Good morning, sir. May I help you?’

He sighed. ‘Even God can’t help me. They think I have nothing to do but spend my Sundays doing the work that someone else should have done.’

The guard said, sympathetically, ‘I know the feeling.’ He pushed a log book forward. ‘Would you sign in, please?’

He signed in and walked over to the bank of elevators. The office he was looking for was on the fifth floor. He took the elevator to the sixth floor, walked down a flight, and moved down the corridor. The legend on the door read, RENQUIST, RENQUIST & FITZGERALD, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. He looked around to make certain the corridor was deserted, then opened his briefcase and took out a small pick and a tension tool. It took him five seconds to open the locked door. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The reception room was furnished in old-fashioned, conservative taste, as befitted one of Boston’s top law firms. The man stood there a moment, orienting himself, then moved toward the back, to a filing room where records were kept. Inside the room was a bank of steel cabinets with alphabetical labels on the front. He tried the cabinet marked R-S. It was locked.

From his briefcase, he removed a blank key, a file, and a pair of pliers. He pushed the blank key inside the small cabinet lock, gently turning it from side to side. After a moment, he withdrew it and examined the black markings on it. Holding the key with the pair of pliers, he carefully filed off the black spots. He put the key into the lock again, and repeated the procedure. He was humming quietly to himself as he picked the lock, and he smiled as he suddenly realized what he was humming: ‘Far Away Places’. I’ll take my family on vacation, he thought happily. A real vacation. I’ll bet the kids would love Hawaii.

The cabinet drawer came open, and he pulled it toward him. It took only a moment to find the folder he wanted. He removed a small Pentax camera from his briefcase and went to work. Ten minutes later he was finished. He took several pieces of Kleenex from the briefcase, walked over to the water cooler, and wet them. He returned to the filing room and wiped up the steel shavings on the floor. He locked the file cabinet, made his way out to the corridor, locked the front door to the offices, and left the building.

Chapter Five

At sea, later that evening, Captain Vacarro came to Harry Stanford’s stateroom.

‘Signor Stanford …’

‘Yes?’

The captain pointed to the electronic map on the wall. ‘I’m afraid the winds are getting worse. The libeccio is centered in the Strait of Bonifacio. I would suggest that we take shelter in a harbor until –’

Stanford cut him short. ‘This is a good ship, and you’re a good captain. I’m sure you can handle it.’

Captain Vacarro hesitated. ‘As you say, signor. I will do my best.’

‘I’m sure you will, captain.’

Harry Stanford sat in the office of his suite, planning his strategy. He would meet René in Corsica and get everything straightened out. After that, the helicopter would fly him to Naples, and from there he would charter a plane to take him to Boston. Everything is going to be fine, he decided. All I need is forty-eight hours. Just forty-eight hours.

He was awakened at 2 A.M. by the wild pitching of the yacht and a howling gale outside. Stanford had been in storms before, but this was one of the worst. Captain Vacarro had been right. Harry Stanford got out of bed, holding on to the nightstand to steady himself, and made his way to the wall map. The ship was in the Strait of Bonifacio. We should be in Ajaccio in the next few hours, he thought. Once we’re there, we’ll be safe.

The events that occurred later that night were a matter of speculation. The papers strewn around the veranda suggested that the strong wind had blown some of the others away, and that Harry Stanford had tried to retrieve them, but because of the pitching yacht he had lost his balance and fallen overboard. Dmitri Kaminsky saw him fall into the water and immediately grabbed the intercom.

‘Man overboard!’

Chapter Six

Capitaine François Durer, chef de police in Corsica, was in a foul mood. The island was overcrowded with stupid summer tourists who were incapable of holding onto their passports, their wallets, or their children. Complaints had come streaming in all day long to the tiny police headquarters at 2 Cours Napoléon off Rue Sergent Casalonga.