Sharon Young sat on the flybridge, sprawled bonelessly in the pilot’s seat, a broad, floppy-brimmed hat sheltering her from the worst of the sun’s onslaught. Her skin was tanned a deep mahogany. Little rivulets of sweat ran down her body, darkening the waistband of her sky-blue monokini. On the rail, within easy reach, was a large gin and tonic—real gin, still available and not prohibitively priced in the islands. On the deck beside her was a pair of binoculars—also within easy reach if she wanted to take a closer look at any of the other boats anchored in the bay, or examine the huge spear-like mountain that the chart identified as the Gros Piton.