Allison stepped forward to the microphones and, with a shy smile, began to speak. "Good morning," she said, and after those words there was complete silence among the reporters."My name is Allison Manning; I am the widow of Paul Manning, the writer, with whom some of you may be familiar." She recounted their voyage across the Atlantic and their time in England,Spain,the Mediterranean, and the Canaries, then she began her account of their trip back across the Atlantic.

"Ten days out of the Canaries Paul hoisted me to the top of the mast to make a repair." She smiled. "He was too large for me to hoist him." This got a laugh from the crowd. "While I was at the top of the mast I saw Paul dutch his chest and collapse in the cockpit. It took me more than two hours to get myself back down the mast." She pointed at her yacht. "You can see how tall it is. When I was able to reach him, he was dead. Some hours later I managed to bury him at sea and then began trying to sail the yacht the rest of the way across the Atlantic. Somewhat to my own surprise, I was able to manage it. Then, to my astonishment, after I had saved my own life and reached St.Marks, I found myself charged with my husband's murder. Now I must place my faith in Stone Barrington and Sir Leslie Hewitt, who could not be here today, because he is working on my defense. I thank you all for coming here and hearing my story. I hope we will meet again in happier times." She stepped back from the microphones to a hail of shouted questions.

Stone quieted the group. "As I said earlier, Mrs.Manning will answer no questions. Now you may have thirty minutes to photograph her yacht, down at the marina." He pointed to the boat, and most of the crowd sprinted across the lawn. Another clutch of reporters tried to approach Allison and were pushed back by police officers."

Stone hustled Allison upstairs to his rented room. "We'll wait them out here, then go back to the yacht," he said. He walked to the window and looked out. The reporters were swarming over the dock, prevented from boarding the yacht by the police. Then his eye was caught by another sight in the parking lot. Sir Winston Sutherland was standing next to his chauffeured car, watching the reporters, an outraged expression on his face.

Thomas was standing next to Stone. "I predict an explosion," he said, grinning broadly.

Stone sat at the little table near the window and watched Sir Winston, who was speaking into a cellular phone. A few minutes later, a bright yellow school bus pulled into the parking lot, and the driver received some instructions from Sir Winston. Abruptly, the bus left the tarmac and started across the lawn toward the marina. When it stopped, a dozen police officers got down from the bus, one with a bullhorn.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the officer was saying,"a press conference by the Ministry of Justice will be held in ten minutes, and I have come to transport you there. Please board the bus immediately, as we are short of time."

Stone watched as the journalists crowded the entrance to the bus, ready to fight to get on,if necessary. Shortly the bus pulled away and, to Stone's surprise, took the road not toward the capital, but toward the airport. "What the hell?" he muttered.

There was a rap on the door and Thomas entered. Allison, who had been dozing on the bed, sat up on one elbow and looked at him.

"What's going on?" Stone asked.

"Half a dozen cops are going through my rented rooms, taking suitcases and clothes belonging to those reporters."

"Sir Winston wouldn't have the balls to arrest that many journalists, would he?"

"I can't see it happening," Thomas replied, "but he's taking them somewhere."

"Let's drive out to the airport," Stone said. "Allison, the coast is clear to the marina; you go back to the yacht and wait for me there." Allison nodded and put her feet over the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes.

In Thomas's Toyota they drove quickly along the airport road and turned through the gates. In the distance they could see two DC-3s sitting on the apron; one of them already had her engines running. The group of reporters stood in a hangar listening to a young man in a business suit. There was much shouting and shaking of fists going on.

"We'd better not get too close to this," Thomas said, stopping the car. A truck loaded with luggage moved past them toward one of the DC-3s.

The reporters were now being herded onto the two airplanes by uniformed policemen; Stone noted that nobody was being beaten with the truncheons the policemen carried, but their body language told him that the cops were brooking no argument. The truck with the luggage pulled up and suitcases were thrown hurriedly into the luggage compartment of the airplanes.

"Where'd the other airplane come from?" Stone asked.

"It's a government plane, used only by high officials."

"Where do you think they're sending them?"

"I can only hope that they won't be flown out to sea, then chucked overboard," Thomas murmured. "Look, one camera crew and a couple of Others are still in the hangar."

The two airplanes were taxiing now, and in a few minutes they were both taking off and heading to the northwest.

"Antigua, do you think?" Stone asked.

Thomas shook his head. "Antigua's due north; they're flying northwest. St.Thomas is my guess; that's the nearest U.S. airport; or maybe even to San Juan."

"That is the most high-handed thing I ever saw," Stone said, grinning. "Those people are going to go absolutely nuts when they get back to their respective news organizations."

"And that pleases you, I suppose."

"You bet your ass it does. If they were aroused by Allison's plight, then they're going to be mad as hell about their own treatment. The press never gets as angry as when their own freedom gets tampered with, and I'll bet half a dozen cameras got the whole thing on tape."

"You think this is going to soften up Sir Winston, then?" Thomas asked.

"When he finds out what they're saying about him in Miami and New York, it just might." "Don't count on it. Sir Winston and our prime minister are accustomed to dealing with a more compliant press; I doubt if they give a damn about what foreigners think."

"Thomas," Stone said, "I hate to point this out, but this business is not going to be good for your business."

"I already thought of that," Thomas said glumly.

Back at the Shipwright's Arms, Federal Express had delivered two packages for Stone. One was from Bob Cantor and contained a copy of the Publishers Weekly profile of Paul Manning. The other package was from Alma, his secretary, and it contained two items: a brand-new black judge's robe and a brochure on the Parker Sportster inflatable dinghy. Stone sat down at a table and read the article on Paul Manning, which featured a photograph of the writer and Allison, arm in arm, in front of a large, handsome house. It was pretty standard stuff about a writer, his lifestyle, and his work, and there was nothing in particular that interested him in the piece. The boat brochure was more interesting.

He spread it out on the table and admired the many color photographs of the craft being rowed, being propelled by an outboard, and, most interesting, under sail. The Parker Sportster, it seemed, came with an aluminum mast, a mainsail, a jib, a rudder, and a centerboard. The brochure claimed it was the only inflatable dinghy so equipped. Stone thought the thing must be good for four or five knots, more if surfing with the wind aft.

Stone left the Shipwright's Arms and walked down to the marina. He stepped lightly aboard Expansive, tip toed down the companionway ladder, and looked into the aft cabin. Allison was asleep on the large bed, her breathing deep and regular.