The Perfect Assassin (6 page)

Christine had just reached the companionway steps when she saw it, slightly off the port bow.
A ship!
A big freighter of some kind, probably ten miles off, and on a crossing path that wouldn’t bring it any closer. But definitely within radio range.

She ducked down into the cabin, turned on the VHF and grabbed the microphone. The radio was already set to the emergency frequency, 121.5 MHz. Christine stretched the spiral cord tight and poked her head back through the hatch, somehow not wanting to lose sight of the ship as she spoke.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is
Windsom
calling any ship this frequency.”

Nothing.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is
Windsom,
over.”

More silence, and then finally a deep voice with a thick German accent. “
Calling mayday, this is the
Breisen.
Say again your call sign and what is nature of your problem.”

“Yes!” Christine shrieked.
“
Breisen,
this is the sailboat Windsom. I am a civilian vessel of United States registry. I have to report the sinking of another vessel in this area and my
sat-com
is out. Can you relay information for me?”

The silence returned.
“
Breisen,
this is
Windsom,
over.”

Something wasn’t right. Christine hadn’t heard the clicks from the radio sidetone on her last transmission. She looked down into the cabin and was stunned to see her patient standing next to the radio. He had his finger on the power switch — and it was off.

“What are you doing?” she asked incredulously.

The man simply stared at her, a direct, riveting look in his eyes. Christine lowered the microphone from her lips.

“Your shipmates might still be out there. Shipmates,” she insisted, wishing to God she knew the Swedish word. “We must start a search. Search!”

The man shook his head, his gaze level and strong. “There’s no one else out there,” he said. “They’re all dead.” He reached out, gently pulled the microphone from her hand and unplugged its cord from the back of the radio. The man then tossed the handset out the hatch, its arcing path ending with a plop in the cold blue Atlantic.

Christine took a step back, stunned. Stunned that he was not letting her start a rescue. Stunned that he had just spoken perfectly clear, concise English. As she backed away, he moved toward her.

“What do you want?” Christine asked.

He began climbing the stairs out of the cabin, no longer looking tired and weak. Christine kept backing slowly. She spotted a big brass winch handle lying on the seat next to her. She grabbed it, putting on her most determined face.

Reaching the deck, he stopped his advance. The man seemed bigger now, taller. She realized she’d never seen him when he wasn’t hunched over. His expression was noncommittal as she brandished the heavy brass bar.

“Put that down,” he said calmly.

Christine stood her ground.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You’ll have to do what I ask for a few days, that’s all. We’re not going to Portugal. We’re going to England.”

“We’ll go wherever I say! This is
my
boat.”

He sighed, looking at her with the regard one might hold for a petulant child. The man moved again, slowly and deliberately toward her.

Christine raised the brass handle over her head. “Stay back! I warn you!”

She swung with all her might. Her arm came to a painful stop midway through its arc, and his hand clamped around her wrist like a vice. She kicked out, but he parried every blow, still holding her arm tight. Christine lost her balance and fell onto the railing, one leg dangling over the side before he pulled her back up. She wrenched away and fell to the deck, her heart pounding.

“I’ve done nothing but help you!” she spat. “I saved your life!”

The blistered, unshaven face remained a blank.

“You have no right to do this!”

He pried the winch handle from her grip and dropped it casually into the ocean.

“I’ve got more of those!”

“And the next time you try to use one on me I’ll keep the handle and toss
you
overboard.”

Christine glared at him. She knew she was in good shape and could put up a fight, but they both understood. He could have easily put her overboard moments ago. He hadn’t.

“Please don’t think I’m not grateful. I know I’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for you. I’ve got to get to England, though.”

“
Why not just ask? Why play the pirate? If you’d explain everything and—”

“And what?” he cut in. “Ask you to sail three days out of your way? Would you have done it?”

They stared at one another — she with suspicion and anger, he with nothing more than blunt awareness of the new chain of command. In a matter of moments they had become adversaries. Now that the line was drawn, however, his bearing seemed to ease.

“I have to get to England. I won’t ask anything more.”

It sounded nearly apologetic, Christine thought, and laughable in the face of his mutiny.

“I won’t harm you,” he repeated. As if to emphasize the point, he slowly turned away. A calculated retreat. “I’ll go below and plot the new course.”

He dropped down into the cabin and bent over the navigation table. Christine took a deep breath. She tried to concentrate. Who on earth was this man? And what did he want? He was tackling charts now as though nothing had happened. But for how long? Christine looked out over the water and saw
Breisen
still on the horizon. They had heard her first distress call. The crew would be searching, but at this distance
Wind-som
was too small. They’d never spot her.

Christine looked down into the cabin. Again, he seemed different. Was he leaning over the navigation table — or
on
it? The man had overpowered her, but she suspected he was using all his strength to prove the point. He could not have fully recovered from what he’d been through.

“Come to heading zero one five until we reprogram the autopilot.” It was an order.

Her instinct was to refuse, but as
Breisen
shrank on the horizon she hesitated. Maybe there was one more chance. “All right,” she conceded with clear distaste, “zero one five.” She took the tiller in her hand and steered the new course. Then, while he was still hunched over the map, she inched her way aft. Christine began to play a line with one hand while the other opened the hatch to a small storage compartment. Keeping her eyes on the rope, she groped around inside the bin. It was empty.

“Looking for these?”

She turned to see him holding up a half-dozen emergency flares and the gun that fired them. He threw them over the rail.

“If you can learn to behave I’ll stop throwing bits and pieces of your boat into the ocean. Course zero one five.” He went back below.

Christine slumped over the tiller. She watched
Breisen
fading from sight. When had he taken the flares? He hadn’t been out of the bunk until just now — unless he’d done it while she’d managed two hours sleep in the forward compartment last night. Then there was the radio. The man had clearly sabotaged it during his first moments on board. He’d been in terrible shape, badly injured and weak. Christine honestly had doubts as to whether he’d pull through that first day. Yet, even in that condition, he had been hatching a plan and acting on it.

Who was this outlaw she’d plucked from the ocean? Certainly no ordinary sailor trying to get back to his home port. She wondered what he could be after. It had been a one-in-a-million chance she’d even found him. Did he want
Windsom?
Was he kidnapping her for money? She doubted even the most opportunistic of criminals would have had the presence of mind to start acting out a scheme like his within moments of staggering aboard. None of it made sense.

Christine watched him as he worked on the charts. His big hands smoothed out the paper and drew an even line across it. He seemed to know what he was doing. Christine fought her frustration and tried to think logically. He wasn’t going to kill her. Not now, or he would have thrown her overboard already. That meant one of two things. Either he had no intention of harming her, or he needed her, perhaps to sail the boat. In either case, she was safe for the time being.

She steeled herself and went down into the cabin where he was still hovering over a chart. She stood firmly and waited until he looked up.

“All right. I will take you to England. It is a serious inconvenience to me, but I’m sure you don’t care. What’s the nearest port? The sooner I’m rid of you, the better.”

He stared at her for a moment with something in his expression she couldn’t place.

“Good,” he said finally. “Let’s get to work. Oh, and my name’s not really Nils.” He held out his hand, “It’s David.”

“Christine Palmer,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

The Bertram 45 crashed roughly through choppy, four-foot seas. She was a steady boat, wide for her class, and the twin Cat diesels pushed her along at twelve knots. She could have done more had the conditions been better, but they were taking a beating as it was.

“Reel in those damned fishing lines,” the man at the helm ordered.

The mate frowned, but didn’t argue. The fishing gear was purely for show — two deep-sea trolling rigs jammed into rod holders. The boat was going so fast that the lures skipped from wavecrest to wavecrest, spending as much time out of the water as in. Amazingly enough, they’d actually gotten a hit a few hours ago, a big Wahoo that had somehow latched onto the port rig and ran. Unfortunately, the skipper never considered slowing down to land the brute, and the mate’s vision of a fresh fish dinner had disappeared when the line snapped on his first turn of the reel.

The man at the wheel pulled back on the throttles and the big boat settled to a stop. He double-checked his navigation readouts. “All right. Anywhere in here,” he growled.

The mate went into the cabin, then came back out struggling with two metal boxes, one under each arm. They were painted yellow, each about the size and weight of a car battery. He lumbered to the stern of the boat and, with a final nod of approval from the bridge, heaved the boxes unceremoniously over the transom. They disappeared instantly into the inky blue water, the mate silently wondering how long it would take them to sink two miles.

The skipper put the diesels back in gear, and with a sweeping right turn they were soon battering through the ocean again, now on a reciprocal course to that which had brought them here.

“How long back to Morocco?” the mate shouted over the roar of the engines.

“Sixteen hours.”

“Then what?”

“Then we wait.”

With
Windsom
gliding purposefully on her new, northward route, the tension eased considerably, and Christine was confident her situation had improved. She and this stranger had become two sailors — certainly not friends, but a crew with a common goal. They worked together to navigate and tune
Windsom
’s rigging for the new run. Still, Christine had the sense he was always watching her.

And she, in turn, watched him. He wasn’t a seasoned sailor, of that Christine was sure. He moved around steadily, though, and seemed to have a rough idea of what to do around a boat. To his credit, he never made any major changes without asking first. She also noticed he was tiring rapidly. Recovery from his ordeal was far from over. Presently he was up top, seated by the tiller, and engrossed in the navigation control panel.

Christine was getting tired herself, having not gotten much sleep the night before. And she felt grubby after wearing the same clothes for two days. She went into the forward cabin and closed the door that separated the boat’s only two compartments, making a point of engaging the metal hook that latched it closed.

She picked out some fresh clothes. A pair of cotton khaki pants, a T-shirt and a heavy cotton sweatshirt. It would get colder soon as they made their way north. She grabbed a washcloth and doused it with cold water from the small sink, then stripped down and rubbed the cloth over her face and arms, finally leaving it to cling soddenly at the back of her neck. It felt cool and wonderful. She was completely naked when the door burst open.

Christine gasped and her heart seemed to stop. She nearly screamed, but was stilled by fear as they stood facing one another an arm’s length apart. His eyes fell to her body — only for an instant, but it seemed like an eternity — before he turned away.

Christine ripped a towel from the rack and desperately tried to cover herself.

“Get dressed,” he said.

She held the towel with her chin as she fumbled to pull on her underwear, pants, and finally the sweatshirt.

He stood facing away and spoke over his shoulder. “Tell me when you’re decent.”

“Decent?” she said contemptibly. “You should ask that before you go smashing through doors. All right. I’m dressed now.”

He turned. His expression was contrite, but the tone authoritative, a headmaster setting the rules. “You closed the door and locked it. I can’t let you do that. I can’t trust you that much.”

Christine looked at the remains of the door as it hung limp and crooked on its hinges. The metal latch was torn away, lying on the floor among splinters of wood.

“Well, as far as locked doors go, that won’t be a problem anymore. There was only one on this boat and you’ve taken care of it nicely.”

“I’ll fix the door. But no locks. If you need to be alone, ask first.”

Christine wanted to protest, but relented. Now was not the time. “All right.”

He looked at her appraisingly for a moment and she tried to gauge what he was thinking, but the man gave nothing away. Apparently satisfied, he turned and made his way back up on deck. Like nothing had happened.

Christine slumped against the bulkhead and took a deep breath. Calm, she thought. If she was calm and reasonable, he would respond in kind. Christine needed something to get both their minds off what had just happened. Looking around the cabin, her gaze settled on the galley. Food! That was it! The way to a man’s heart. Remembering the emptiness of his stare, she wondered if this brute even had one.