"Think we can get her up to ten knots?" he'd asked, shielding his eyes as he studied the genoa, a gleaming triangle of white above the bow.
Vance had leaned back and tested the wind. "Give her a little touch on the helm, to starboard, and I think she might come through for you." He was proud of his recent refurbishing of the boat—the latest Northstar digital satnav gear, brand-new sails that cost a fortune, a complete renovation of the instrument station down below.
Bates tapped the wheel and the genoa bellied even more. "I like this fucking boat a lot, Mike," he declared. "So here's the deal. I want to lease her for three months, take her to Norfolk, get a crew together, and get everybody comfortable with her."
"I think we can talk." Vance had to smile. The yacht would be in good hands, and a three-month charter was a dream come true for a guy in his business.
"Matter of fact, I wanted to ask you to help me out with something else, too. Some security work."
"Hey, I'm just a simple charter-boat operator. Not my line."
"Don't bullshit me, pal." He laughed. "You know SatCom is building a new industrial facility in the Aegean."
"A private space facility."
"I think American technology is getting a bum rap, Michael," he said with sudden seriousness. "I plan to change that."
"The Journal says you want to try and give the Europeans a run for the roses."