Sabotage (19 page)

The bellboy whisked it from his hands, unscrewed the lid, and guzzled—not out of thirst, but compliance. He choked on his first swig, spouting a bit. Soon the alcohol smothered him in warmth and dulled his shock.

“Drink it all,” said Vasya.

The boy didn't seem to mind.

Vasya lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then let it all out in slow, irregular puffs. They sat there together a few moments, without rush, the man and his captive. He smoked half the cigarette and handed the rest to the bellboy.

Then he sped away, leaving the boy in the alley.

*   *   *

“Gather your stuff,” Austin said. “We're leaving.”

He chucked his backpack over a shoulder and wiped the bleariness from his eyes. Sleep would have to wait. He flipped on the bathroom lights and splashed his face with cold water.

Victoria came to the doorway.

“I'd more happily kill you.”

He turned to face her.

“What's the matter?”

“From here I go alone.”

He was mystified. Her sincerity reminded him of the iciness of their first meeting. There was a new distance between them. They were no longer partners on a team.

“What's bothering you?”

“I can't believe you gave him the flash drive,” she said. “It was our only lead.”

Relief washed over him.

“If that's what's upsetting you, you can relax. But there's no time to talk details now.”

“Details?” Victoria snapped. “You consider this a minor mishap?”

“We have to follow that man.
He's
the new trail.”

“I told you, I'm going alone. And now I'll have no idea how crucial that radio transmission may have been in recovering Baldr.”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet? It's gone. Destroyed.”

“The flash drive is,” said Austin. “Not the contents. I left a copy of the transmission with my roommate. If I know Ichiro, he's been working to decipher its meaning since we left Stanford.”

She retained her hostility, not ready to admit she'd misjudged. He approached her cautiously, as he would a rattlesnake.

“If you'll let me past this door,” he said, “we can follow this man together.” Then he added with a quiet warmth, “You'll find me helpful. I have a merit badge in hunting and stalking.”

She looked away in what he realized was an effort to hide embarrassment.

“I'm sorry,” he continued. “Must have given you a real scare.”

“Damn you, Hardy.” She shook her head, wearing the look of someone finally grasping she wasn't alone. “Hang on while I get my backpack.”

*   *   *

The man with the Makarov dialed a new number, juggling his phone and the steering wheel.

“Hello, Vasya,” answered a bassoon-like voice.

“Viking. I've recovered and destroyed the missing passkey.”

“Good. That blunder could have been costly.”

“I'm heading to my meeting with Deeb now.”

“Remember not to show too much interest in his bid up front.”

“I'll give him time to consider the satellite's worth before exerting pressure. Are we ready to initialize Baldr?”

“Wait two hours before sending the pulse.”

“Why the delay?” Vasya asked.

“The corsairs need time to sail into closer range.”

“Not too close. We don't want to cripple Ragnar's ships.”

“Start a timer then. I'll send you the coordinates now.”

*   *   *

They had left their room and crossed through the hotel lobby. Austin was scanning the streets. The man had left no trace.

“It's useless,” Victoria said. “All we have is a voice. We don't even have a face.”

“I'm not looking for a person.”

“Then what?”

“A speeding car. A taxi weaving lanes. Anything.”

“Where would he go?”

“His hotel. The airport. Another city.”

Austin thought back on squinting through Clare's spyglass when he'd been trying to read the license plate of the sedan speeding down Palm Drive. He recalled the same sense of futility.

“Help, please!” came a meek snivel.

Victoria spun around. A young, uniformed boy staggered toward them, an empty flask in his hand. His hair was ruffled, his face pallid. Tears had hardened on his cheeks and left a crusty residue in his lashes. His golden buttons were undone, his outfit creased.

“Help, please!” he repeated, reeling forward. He retched on the sidewalk.

“What is it? What's the matter?” Victoria said.

He lurched into her arms and coughed.

“Back trunk.” His words were slurred. “He put me in trunk. He took my clothes and put me in trunk.”

“Who put you in a trunk?” Austin said.

“He held gun to my back and told me strip, then he put me in trunk. I said please, don't take my life!”

Austin felt hope. “Who was it?” he asked. “Try to remember.”

“Oh, God, I need hospital,” the bellboy groaned.

“Are you hurt?” Victoria asked.

“No, he did not do anything. Not yet … I need hospital. I could barely breathe in trunk.… Please, don't take my life…”

“We're not going to hurt you,” Austin said. “We want to find the man who did this to you. Can you remember what he looked like?”

Translating the mumbles on top of his Russian accent was a challenge all its own. “I did not see him. I told you, he put me in trunk. I could not see.”

“What about when he released you?”

“No, I did not see. I think he was about my size.… That is all I know. Please, it was not my fault! He just came and stole my clothes.”

“We know it wasn't your fault,” Victoria said.

“He gave me this. Made me drink. I do not think he really wanted to kill me.”

Austin took the flask and turned to Victoria. “Forcing this guy to down the alcohol was a calculated move. Our man wanted him to stumble back drunk, so people would doubt his story.”

“It is true story,” said the bellboy. “No lies.”

“Did he give you anything else?” Victoria queried.

“A cigarette. He gave me cigarette. I could hardly breathe in back trunk, but I felt around clothes he had dressed in. I reached into pockets. I found these.”

The bellboy handed them several passports and some papers. Austin shuffled through them.

“Anything useful?” Victoria asked.

“This man has more IDs than the Department of Motor Vehicles,” Austin said. “But there's one thing he can't lie about: his destination.”

“How do you know?”

“Train ticket receipts. He's leaving tonight by rail, making several transfers en route to Bruges.”

Victoria turned to the bellboy. “Get back inside the hotel. Stay warm. Tell them what happened. If you're too soused to make it home, stay in our room tonight. It's 405. Here's the key.” She turned to Austin. “Do you know which tracks he's leaving from?”

“The receipts are basically copies of his tickets. We have tracks and departure times.”

“When does the first one leave?”

“We'd better find the station. It leaves in less than an hour.”

 

SIXTEEN

Whistling “Mack the Knife” in the twilight, Rove leaned over the portside bulwark and watched the Atlantic waters roll past the hull. Like he did most nights, he had come to find peace in solitude. The sundeck was nearly empty. A few passengers lounged outside, reading on reclining chairs and soaking in Jacuzzis, but most had retired to dinner and various evening shows. Musical performances could be heard in decks below. Rove listened to his own melody and let the ship's gentle rocking soothe him. A few mojitos had given his cheeks a rosy tinge. The buzz was slight, enough to pacify him before bedtime.

The ship had lit up for the night's passage. From an aerial view, he thought, the craft must have resembled a parade of drifting candelabras.

Skies of molten amber emphasized a sharp horizon line. That morning, sunrise had projected a gradient of ruby shades into the heavens. He recalled the old mantra, “Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky at morning, sailors take warning.” There was truth to the adage, and he wondered what sort of weather the red sky forecasted.

He predicted a storm. Cumulus clouds mushroomed into anvils, cotton-topped with gray undersides. Waters had grown choppy, crowned in whitecaps. The ship canted sharply. The ship's staff had covered the pools with nets to prevent swimmers from entering as waves slammed against the tile edges. If conditions worsened, they'd have to drain the water until weather improved.

Rove found the prospect of a storm thrilling. As it had so often done in his years of service, the sea would test man, and man would win. He'd never subscribed to the theory that man was a helpless gnat in a vast macrocosm, powerless and small. To him, man was capable of heroic ends, among them defying nature's worst. He looked out at the brewing tempest, watching the waves rage against the steel hull—and he thought, here's nature's finest creation against its strongest creation: man versus the sea.

The ship rocked steeply again. At least he thought so. Maybe it was the drink. If it had been, he sobered quickly when a voice crackled through the ship's PA system.

“Passengers. This is your captain speaking, Giacomo Selvaggio. We are about to experience a ship-wide power outage. Do not be alarmed. We seem to be having trouble with one of our generators in the engine room. Our technicians are addressing the problem. Rather than have you ambling in darkness, I ask that you all return to your staterooms immediately. I apologize for the inconvenience this will cause. There is no need for distress. Please report to your cabins. Crew, please assist passengers, then return to your own quarters. Remain there until further notice.”

The message jarred him from his thoughts. There was a foreboding tone to the captain's voice that made his chest grow heavy. The voice had indeed belonged to Selvaggio, but not the blithe, easygoing Selvaggio he'd met on the bridge.

Several things happened at once.

Glass shattered near the bow. A panel of the bridge side-wing window blasted outward and fell into the frothing waters below. A human form rammed through the glass, limbs flailing, teetering on the precipice before plummeting toward the sea.

Rove's clasp tightened on the rail, nerves firing throughout his body. He glanced skyward. A storm cloud loomed over the ship, blotting out the remaining yellow hues. He could have sworn he saw a brilliant flash of light, something like an aurora, but it passed in microseconds, hardly leaving an impression.

Deck lights flicked out. Vibrations emanating from the engine room, hardly noticeable before, suddenly seemed conspicuously absent. Water lapped against the hull. Beyond that there was silence. The regular hum of the generators faded, and at once Rove felt as though he were riding a dead whale.

 

SEVENTEEN

The orange raft rose and sank in choppy waters, the crests ever higher and troughs ever deeper. Clinging inside, Malcolm Clare felt like a bobbing buoy.

Days had passed in this empty panorama. A few craft had sailed by, too distant to hear his cries or observe his flags. He had prayed for a barge or a cargo ship. None came. His only companion was the open sea.

Huddled on one side of the inflatable raft, he shook in the cold. The last few days had entailed the severest physical pain of his life. Though he'd stopped the bleeding early, his bandaged arm still throbbed. Hypothermia plagued him day and night, depriving him of sleep. He'd lost all bearings, had no idea how far he'd drifted. Salt-water sores stung him. The sun exposure wreaked havoc on his skin, scorching his neck and forearms, leaving him practically reptilian for all the peeling and flaking.

He knew dehydration posed both lethal threat and irony. To a man dying of thirst, the infinite supply of water was there to tempt him. Several times he'd cupped his hands and held small pools between them, longing to smother his lips and gulp handfuls. But the salinity would desiccate him all the more; he'd shrivel like a raisin.

Along with sleeplessness, the dehydration had begun to affect him in ways he hadn't expected so soon. Random visions, often in the shape of people, came and went. He'd pinched himself whenever they appeared, forcing away the hysteria. It disturbed him that his mind was beginning to run amuck before even a week had passed.

He'd been using a knife from his first-aid kit to spear fish. Trapping them proved tricky at first, but he'd adapted to the learning curve his survival demanded. He'd devoured even the skin and eyes, knowing they had valuable nutrients and fluids.

Right now, he was simply waiting and thinking. His throat clawed at him, parched, a dry cave that led to an empty stomach. When the sun fell, he rested against the raft's fabric coating. He'd grown accustomed to the water sloshing in his ear.

He had resigned himself to the certainty of death, but not to the curiosity over his killers. He often meditated on his circumstances and looked more deeply into possible motives. He pictured the headlines: “Stanford Inventor Crashes Private Plane.” Conspiracy theories would run thick as oil; his death would provide all kinds of fodder for a scandal-starved media. He worried for Victoria, whom they could easily entangle in their investigations. She, too, would always wonder.

The worst thing they'd stolen from him was the chance to say good-bye, and explain. He'd spent his days of isolation wondering whether it had been wise all these years, keeping her so in the dark.

As he rested, an image of the pilot's corpse played through his mind. He entertained the idea that his murder had been made to look like suicide. It would be the perfect scenario, he thought as he grasped his bandage. Someone had left a gash on his arm to give the impression he'd tried to commandeer the plane, but had been held at bay by the pilot, whom he'd eventually killed before sinking them both.