Dark Moon Walking (31 page)

The knock on his door came sooner than expected and he checked his watch. He had given explicit instructions that the ship was to leave as soon as he had spoken with Nasiri at seven o'clock. It was only six-thirty. Unless it was another of Harry's pointless interruptions, this could only be bad news. One look at the man standing outside his door and he knew the answer. He gestured Gunter into the cabin.

“The crew boat will not start. Joaquim thinks it is the fuel.” The German's voice was expressionless.

“Can he fix it?”

“He is trying, but in this weather . . .”

“Sabotage?”

The German shrugged. “He thinks not. The sea is very rough. It is possible that the motion dislodged something in the fuel tank and the line has been blocked.”

Fernandez crossed to the porthole and peered out, but all he could see was the rain and the churning foam of the waves. “Tell him to keep working on it. The men can help him. They must leave here by seven at the latest.” He turned back and added, “Send Alex to me.”

He waited till Gunter had left, then slammed his fist into his palm. There could not be a delay now. It threatened everything.

Alex's knock came seconds later.

“Last night. You are sure there was nothing?”

Alex gave his usual shrug. “It was dark. Real dark. But those radars can see everything out there. They were set down to close range, and the alarm was on as well. It never went off. And I didn't see or hear nothing either.” He waited to see if there would be a response, but there was only silence, so he continued, a plaintive note creeping into his voice. “It was real rough out there last night. Would have had to be something big to be moving around in that. Wasn't nothing.”

Fernandez dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Very well. Go and help Joaquim.” He checked his watch again. Almost seven. Time for Nasiri's call.

Fernandez had not bothered to learn the captain's name, but the man was on the bridge, working at the navigation station, no doubt entering their course back down to Vancouver. Fernandez barely glanced at him as he shouldered him aside and moved to the radio.

“I require privacy,” he snapped as he picked up the handset. He ignored the man's sharp intake of breath, listening only for the click of the door as he left.

At least Nasiri was ready. His call came in as scheduled, and it was good news. He had checked the location and verified the lines of sight. He had confirmed the broker's appointment that had been arranged more than two weeks ago and that would ensure access to the office that overlooked the east side of the conference center. His weapon had been delivered as arranged and had been checked and sighted. It was all satisfactory. Today he would confirm the distance from the window of the office to the emergency exit and verify the assigned vehicles and drivers. Feeling slightly mollified, Fernandez closed the connection. He had not informed Nasiri of the crew-boat problem. It was something he did not need to know, and it would only distract him from his job.

Harry was still in his stateroom, lounging on the settee in his silk robe and watching television, when Fernandez walked in. “You could knock first, you know,” he said.

“There is a problem,” Fernandez replied.

Harry turned off the television and sat up. “A problem? What problem? Has the crew boat left?”

“The crew boat will not start.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about? Crew boats always start. They're the toughest, most reliable boats around. I'll send Richard over; he knows engines, he'll be able to—”

“We have to make a backup plan.” Fernandez was not interested in Harry's ranting. “We will call in another crew boat.” He paused as another thought struck him. “No. I think perhaps a helicopter would be better.”

“You can't get a helicopter here in this weather, for God's sake.” Harry's voice was contemptuous. “And it would have to come out of Rupert anyway. That's the only place that has the big ones that might handle this, and it's about three hundred miles away. Maybe more. Take hours. And where would it refuel? There's nowhere they could go. Even Shearwater's too far. Have to go to a marina—maybe Pruth Bay or Namu, but they're probably shut by now . . .”

Fernandez let Harry ramble on, but he had stopped listening. If a helicopter was not feasible, another crew boat was the only other option. They could not use
Snow Queen
. Not only could he not risk being seen with the men, but he needed to get down to Vancouver.
Snow Queen
should have already left. Taking her to Shoal Bay would take time that he could not afford. There had to be a better way.

“Call a new crew boat. Send it to Shoal Bay. If they get this one started, we will cancel it.”

“Shoal Bay? What good will that do?” Harry was spluttering. “How will your guys get to Shoal Bay if the boat isn't working . . .” He was talking to an empty space. Fernandez had already left.

“Bloody hell.” Harry shrugged off his robe. “It's starting to come apart.”

Silence fell in the salon as Fernandez appeared. The men who had returned to
Snow Queen
had no idea who he was and no desire to talk with a stranger. They noted his presence with wary eyes, watching him pass with taciturn hostility. Fernandez ignored them and walked straight out to the stern deck. Where the hell was Gunter? He was supposed to be directing things. He continued on along the side deck, his eyes squinting against the driving rain. Alex almost knocked him over as he ran back from the crew boat in an effort to escape the weather.

“Shit! Sorry boss. Didn't expect to find you here.” Alex's gaze slid around him to the open door to the salon. “Did the men see you?”

“It is not important now. Where is Gunter?”

Alex frowned and tilted his head toward the crew boat. “He's keeping an eye on things over there.”

“Any success?”

“Nothing yet. Joaquim thinks water has got into the fuel tanks.”

“
Mierda!
Okay, get Gunter. Send him to my cabin.” Fernandez pushed his way back through the heavy silence in the salon. He had reached the companionway when he felt a vibration ripple through the soles of his shoes:
Snow Queen
had started up her engines. Imbeciles! Would nothing go right this day? Yesterday he had told Harry they would leave at seven, right after the call from Nasiri, but surely the little prick should be smart enough to figure out that they could not go until the men had left. Had he even called for another crew boat yet? Fernandez flung open his cabin door and headed for the intercom, wheeling as Gunter entered behind him, water dripping from his chin and fingertips.

“Is it fixed?”

“No. I do not think it can be started. The tanks would have to be drained.”

“
Joderse!
” Fernandez snarled. He strode over to the window and stared out at the foam-streaked water. There had to be something he could do.

“Could the inflatables make it?”

Gunter paused for a minute, then shrugged. “Not the little ones, but the big one up on top, I think perhaps. If it went a little slowly. But it would be very rough and it would be dangerous. The men would probably be very seasick.”

“Get it launched. And get rid of that damn crew boat. Sink it. Let it go. I do not care—just get rid of it. I will have another one sent over to Shoal Bay to collect you from there.”

The German nodded and left. It was more than twenty minutes later when Fernandez finally heard the metallic clang of the locking mechanism on the big davits on the upper deck being released, followed by the thump of heavy boots as the men struggled to lower the big rigid-hull inflatable over the side. And it was another twenty before the throaty roar of a big inboard/outboard motor signaled their departure. They had lost almost two hours, but they could still make it.

TWENTY-SIX

Nasiri left his room as soon as the phone call with Fernandez was done. He headed down to the waterfront. There was a café in the lobby of the hotel that he had checked out yesterday and it would be perfect for his needs. It provided a clear view of the elevators leading to the office tower above, and he could see out through the wide glass windows to the east side of the convention center. Wearing a black gabardine raincoat over a pin-striped gray suit, black wingtips, and white button-down shirt, he was indistinguishable from the hundreds of other businessmen heading out for a day at the office. The fact that the place would be swarming with security people was almost a plus.

Sitting in the café sipping his coffee, Nasiri let his gaze wander along the outer perimeter of the conference center, where early-morning joggers and eager tourists braved the fine mist of rain that silvered the city and the waters beyond. It was an impressive building, big and solid yet somehow delicate. Angled windows on the prow front were cantilevered out over Burrard Inlet, and the curving planes of the living roof blended with the treed expanse of Stanley Park immediately to the west. Glass walls reflected the harbor and the decorative sails of the cruise-ship terminal that lay to the east. On the wide walkway surrounding it, police and security patrols were easy to pick out. He knew there would be many more the next day, as well as helicopter and marine surveillance, but that didn't bother him. They would be watching the crowds out front and checking rooftops and balconies, not office windows in one of the most prestigious addresses in the city. Besides, if all went according to plan, when the time came their energy would be focused on the chaos that was happening on the other side of the convention center, near the main entrance, where Fernandez's team would be playing out its part.

He slid his wallet out of his pocket and discreetly checked the appointment card he had been given the day before. The name of the financial firm was embossed in black and gold on heavily textured ivory card stock. Below that, a secretary had hand-printed his name and the time of his appointment in beautifully formed, rounded letters.
Roberto Mancera. 10:00
AM
. It was the same name that appeared on the driver's licence and the various credit cards that shared his Italian leather wallet as well as on the registration card at the hotel, where he had willingly provided the desk clerk with his Spanish passport. It appeared again on the sheaf of stocks and bonds that had filled his briefcase yesterday and that he had left in the care of Mr. Jason C. Bainbridge, investment counselor and owner of the elegant card that now rested in his hand. Nasiri smiled as he drained the last of his coffee and signaled the waitress for his check. Everything was in order.