She celebrated her independence by checking into a Tower Suite in The Helmsley Palace Hotel. From her forty-seventh-floor living room, she could look down at St. Patrick's Cathedral and see the George Washington Bridge in the distance. Only a few miles in another direction was the dreary place she had recently lived in. Never again, Tracy swore.
She opened the bottle of champagne that the management had sent up and sat sipping it, watching the sun set over the skyscrapers of Manhattan. By the time the moon had risen, Tracy had made up her mind. She was going to London. She was ready for all the wonderful things life had to offer. I've paid my dues, Tracy thought. I deserve some happiness.
She lay in bed and turned on the late television news. Two men were being interviewed. Boris Melnikov was a short, stocky Russian, dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit, and Pietr Negulesco was his opposite, tall and thin and elegant-looking. Tracy wondered what the two men could possibly have in common.
"Where is the chess match going to be held?" the news anchorman asked.
"At Sochi, on the beautiful Black Sea," Melnikov replied.
"You are both international grand masters, and this match has created quite a stir, gentlemen. In your previous matches you have taken the title from each other, and your last one was a draw. Mr. Negulesco, Mr. Melnikov currently holds the title. Do you think you will be able to take it away from him again?"
"Absolutely," the Romanian replied.
"He has no chance," the Russian retorted.
Tracy knew nothing about chess, but there was an arrogance about both men that she found distasteful. She pressed the remote-control button that turned off the television set and went to sleep.
Early the following morning Tracy stopped at a travel agency and reserved a suite on the Signal Deck of the Queen Elizabeth 2. She was as excited as a child about her first trip abroad, and spent the next three days buying clothes and luggage.
On the morning of the sailing Tracy hired a limousine to drive her to the pier. When she arrived at Pier 90, Berth 3, at West Fifty-fifth and Twelfth Avenue, where the QE II was docked, it was crowded with photographers and television reporters, and for a moment, Tracy was panic-stricken. Then she realized they were interviewing the two men posturing at the foot of the gangplank - Melnikov and Negulesco, the international grand masters. Tracy brushed past them, showed her passport to a ship's officer at the gangplank, and walked up onto the ship. On deck, a steward looked at Tracy's ticket and directed her to her stateroom. It was a lovely suite, with a private terrace. It had been ridiculously expensive, but Tracy decided it was going to be worth it.
She unpacked and then wandered along the corridor. In almost every cabin there were farewell parties going on, with laughter and champagne and conversation. She felt a sudden ache of loneliness. There was no one to see her off, no one for her to care about, no one who cared about her. That's not true, Tracy told herself. Big Bertha wants me. And she laughed aloud.
She made her way up to the Boat Deck and had no idea of the admiring glances of the men and the envious stares of the women cast her way.
Tracy heard the sound of a deep-throated boat whistle and calls of "All ashore who's going ashore," and she was filled with a sudden excitement. She was sailing into a completely unknown future. She felt the huge ship shudder as the tugs started to pull it out of the harbor, and she stood among the passengers on the Boat Deck, watching the Statue of Liberty slide out of sight, and then she went exploring.
The QE II was a city, more than nine hundred feet long and thirteen stories high. It had four restaurants, six bars, two ballrooms, two nightclubs, and a "Golden Door Spa at Sea." There were scores of shops, four swimming pools, a gymnasium, a golf driving range, a jogging track. I may never want to leave the ship, Tracy marveled.
She had reserved a table upstairs in the Princess Grill, which was smaller and more elegant than the main dining room. She barely had been seated when a familiar voice said, "Well, hello there!"
She looked up, and there stood Tom Bowers, the bogus FBI man. Oh, no. I don't deserve this, Tracy thought.
"What a pleasant surprise. Do you mind if I join you?"
"Very much."
He slid into the chair across from her and gave her an engaging smile. "We might as well be friends. After all, we're both here for the same reason, aren't we?"
Tracy had no idea what he was talking about. "Look, Mr. Bowers - "
"Stevens," he said easily. "Jeff Stevens."
"Whatever." Tracy started to rise.
"Wait. I'd like to explain about the last time we met."
"There's nothing to explain," Tracy assured him. "An idiot child could have figured it out - and did."
"I owed Conrad Morgan a favor." He grinned ruefully. "I'm afraid he wasn't too happy with me."
There was that same easy, boyish charm that had completely taken her in before. For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away....
She said hostilely, "I'm not too happy with you; either. What are you doing aboard this ship? Shouldn't you be on a riverboat?"
He laughed. "With Maximilian Pierpont on board, this is a riverboat."
"Who?"
He looked at her in surprise. "Come on. You mean you really don't know?"
"Know what?"
"Max Pierpont is one of the richest men in the world. His hobby is forcing competitive companies out of business. He loves slow horses and fast women, and he owns a lot of both. He's the last of the big-time spenders."
"And you intend to relieve him of some of his excess wealth."