Sabotage (31 page)

“Fine role models,” Austin said.

Ichiro continued paraphrasing the article. “Besieged vessels usually ended in wreckage, their crew murdered. Apparently these guys didn't want their faces remembered. Throughout their career, they were responsible for the ruthless slaughter of over four hundred innocent sailors.” He skipped ahead. “The principal of the organization was a man named Ragnar Stahl. Survivors of Marauder raids have described him as a bony-faced giant. Fortunately for the civilized, he's no longer a threat. He grew careless in his later days, crossed the wrong people. He was turned in by a Russian crime syndicate after an arms transport deal went sour. Flotilla the Hun has been hacking lumber in a Siberian internment colony ever since.”

“Wouldn't that be great,” Austin said, his irony lost on Ichiro.

“Norway is such a peaceful country,” said Victoria. “I wonder how these criminals got their start.”

“Evidently from a gang of inmates,” Ichiro explained. “They'd formed inside a maximum security prison in Oslo. This was in the seventies. After their release, they were responsible for dozens of armed robberies during a slow movement north through the country. Their brotherhood was constantly growing and shrinking as members were recruited, or arrested, or killed. They were first known as the
Åtseletere,
or ‘Scavengers.' In 1975 they raided a manor in Narvik, killing the occupants. That's where … interesting,” Ichiro said.

“What?”

“According to testimonies of captured members, that's where they found eighteen-year-old Ragnar Stahl, otherwise homeless, living in the manor's detached wine cellar. The boy was surviving on petty crime and stolen food. And he wasn't Norwegian. He was Swedish, and claimed to have run away from home. They took Ragnar with them on their way to Tromsø. By virtue of his youth and dependability, Ragnar became their cohesive linchpin. In subsequent years, he brought organization, hierarchy, leadership, and a sense of loyalty to their group. They built ships and established hideouts on several islands in Norway's three northernmost counties of Nordland, Troms, and Finnmark. To concretize loyalty to their brotherhood, Ragnar established the tradition of the Marauders' emblem: an ax and helmet, worn on a bicep. Sounds like a shout-out to their pillaging ancestors.”

“We need more on Ragnar,” Austin said. “Any survivor account transcripts?”

“There's one, with mostly physical descriptions, stuff we already know … plus it says there's a second tattoo on Ragnar's arm. A cursive spelling of the word
Firecat.
”

Victoria looked confused and startled.

“Firecat?”
she said.

“Does that mean something to you, Victoria?” Austin said.

“Yes, but it's probably coincidence. Five years after my dad was honored by the Royal Aeronautical Society, he was invited to an airshow in Stockholm to showcase his newest aerobatic biplane. It was a thing of beauty. I was thirteen, and still remember how those burgundy wings made red streaks in the sky. Dad's opening speech was supposed to end with a breathtaking finale. A Swedish Air Force pilot was to dive from the clouds and dazzle the audience with an aerobatic display.”

“Supposed to?” Ichiro said.

“The day ended in tragedy. When Dad finished his speech, the pilot emerged from the clouds in a downward spiral. But he never pulled out of his nosedive. I remember the explosion like it was yesterday. That biplane … it was called the
Firecat
.” She could hear Ichiro's fingers typing on the other end, running a new search. “The Swedish military's investigation proved the plane airworthy. There had been no faults in my dad's design.”

“Pilot error?” Ichiro asked.

“The pilot had been one of their best, no drugs or alcohol found in his system. The cause of the accident remains unknown. Most thought suicide.”

“Let me ask you something,” Ichiro said after a brief pause. “Victoria, do you remember the pilot's name?”

“No. This was ten years ago.”

“Then you better prepare yourself.”

“Why?”

“He was a lieutenant colonel. An illustrious gent by the name of Benedikt,” Ichiro said. “Benedikt Stahl.”

*   *   *

Austin flipped the phone shut and handed it back to Victoria.

“We've got work to do,” he said. “Tomorrow, you'll have to send this information to Jake. Can you go back to that Internet café?”

“Sure. New leads are good news. But we still have to figure out the passkey and snag the briefcase from Vasya. With him guarding it so carefully, I just don't see how that will ever happen.”

“I've been thinking of a way to get the briefcase,” Austin said.

“Care to explain?”

She noted something new in his expression, and it disconcerted her at first; he looked as if he were celebrating some morbid victory.

“We create a trap.”

He stopped, pensive for a moment, wearing the look of a philosopher contemplating a Confucian proverb. Then the intensity reappeared. Victoria realized she was beginning to find the promise of his diabolic pleasure most enticing.

“What kind of trap?” she asked.

He didn't seem to hear her. Watching him gather a notepad and pencil, she realized the key to dislodging the lead in his ears was letting him capture his design on paper. He tore off three sheets from the hotel's notepad and connected them on the ground. Moving simultaneously with his thoughts, his right hand traced the shape of a town square and added a female stick figure to the center of the bird's-eye view. A dotted line linked the stick figure with the apex of a bell tower. He sketched in a roofline and a series of
X
's.

Three intersecting lines later, he held up his diagram to the light and pointed to the stick figure at the center. “This is where you'll go,” he said, “and I know you're brave enough.”

“What kind of trap?” she asked again, this time with his attention.

“More like two traps. One involves a Trojan horse. The other … sabotage.”

 

PART IV

THE ACE AND THE AMATEUR

 

THIRTY

“Hang tight, Doc,” Rove said. “I'll come back for you. Right now I'm headed to the bridge for some star charts, with a brief stop in my room.”

“If you can, bring back water and food,” said Clare, clutching the bars of his cell. “Good luck, Jake.”

Rove left the brig. He exited the hallway and passed the two bound watchmen, who had begun to regain consciousness and were now choking on their gags. On their belts, two radio transmitters buzzed with static. Voices crackled through the line, asking for a response. Rove unclipped the devices and smashed one of the receivers. He turned off the other and clipped it to his belt. First checking to see that no one aboard the
Pearl Enchantress
was watching from the upper levels, he ventured out onto the corsair's weather deck. He gathered his scuba equipment and formed a pile hidden from view. He left the tank and BC there, but brought along his mask, knife, and spare cylinder. Lifting the lid of a wooden cargo box, he loaded a Kalashnikov and swung it over his shoulder. Then, still wearing his wetsuit, he climbed a rope ladder dangling from one of the grappling hooks.

When he reached the top, he flipped over the rail and crouched behind a lounge chair, scanning the environment for hostiles through a slit in the backrest. The deck would have been pitch black had the Marauders not placed flares by the corners of the pool. Four sticks smoldered, lighting the way for Rove. Experience had taught him the problem of flickering light. Discerning real movement from the dancing shadows was an art and a virtue of survival that required he spend a few moments hiding, listening for sounds to be certain the way was clear.

He heard nothing but the flares, saw nothing but the shadows. There was no one on guard here. His mind was certain of this, but seeing movement everywhere, his eyes could never be. He clung to his logic, moving on despite the contradiction with his senses.

Still, he wasn't taking any chances. Avoiding the flares' glow, he kept the AK-47 ready and took eight steps toward a staircase that descended behind a swinging door.

The door came down, shattering under four rounds from behind. Rove whirled around and dove for cover, then fired two shots at a Marauder on patrol, puncturing the man's lungs. The man teetered and fell. Rove collected the corpse and flung it overboard. He jogged to the stairs and quietly descended to deck fifteen. Navigating the halls would be a greater test of skill. They were long and narrow, with few openings between either of the ends. Hijackers would be on watch. Should they enter the passageway and see him, they'd fire fast, and he'd have zero cover; his only line of escape would be a straight path, easily blocked. Worst case, they'd cover both ends and seal off all exits, trapping him in the center. He realized it would be like a less predictable version of Pac-Man, with no screen to show him where the flashing ghosts waited. If they sandwiched him in the middle of a corridor, it was game over. To make matters worse, his weapon would act like a magnet for guards. They'd swarm to the sound of gunfire. Any encounter had to be swift and silent. The dive knife was his main asset, the rifle a last resort.

Light from the patrollers' flashlights came infrequently and irregularly in the halls. Rove held his position long enough to deduce the sources of the beams. He formed a mental Cartesian coordinate system, placing dots on the map that represented the hijackers, each with a calculated radius of uncertainty. He moved along his y-axis, then edged toward the starboard side, which equated to a positive change along the x-axis.

Poking his head into the corridor, he looked both ways. A Marauder paced the floor to his left. Rove waited for the beam to sweep in a favorable direction. Making no noise, he crept up behind the man, placed a hand around his jaw, and snapped his neck. He dragged the body out of the hall and into the elevator foyer, then heard two more men coming from the other side.

The moment the guards discovered their dead colleague, they'd call for reinforcements. He could either hide the body or hide himself and assault them. The approaching voices told him he had time only for the latter.

The two Marauders rounded a corner, jolted by the sight of their fallen comrade. They had no time to react. Rove leapt out from behind a small trash can and landed the side of a flattened palm squarely on the first man's larynx. While the other aimed to shoot, Rove used the first man's flashlight to strike the second's cervical vertebrae with the heavy handle. The bone fractured, pinching his spinal cord and causing instant respiratory paralysis. The first man, one hand clenching his throat, attempted to retaliate. From a person of such size, a punch could have knocked Rove cold. But his inability to breathe had caused him to panic, and the path of his punch was predictable. Rove ducked and responded with a slash of his knife, slitting open the man's throat. He hid their guns and smashed their radios.

Rove returned to the hallway. The way was clear now, at least for a brief while, but he couldn't risk a snare without one last check. He unclipped the working radio from his belt, turned it on, and tossed it into the corridor. Perhaps the static would attract the attention he wanted. Not ten seconds passed before another Marauder entered the hall from the right and noticed the fallen device. Rove braced himself around the corner, waiting. The Marauder moved closer and bent over to pick it up, and Rove descended upon him, his knife carving into the man's trachea. The attack was soundless. Startled and panicked, the injured man spun around to face Rove and fumbled for a finger hold on his trigger. It was an act of desperation in the face of certain death. Rove countered with a foot to the man's wrist, sending his assault rifle soaring in an arc. A second kick leveled the man, and Rove caught the rifle before it struck ground. The man writhed under the force of Rove's foot, hands clasping his throat, until Rove reached down and finished him. With the bodies now a pile, Rove carried each one up the flight of stairs and tossed them overboard. It was a slow, painstaking process, but a necessary precaution to hide his work. A few bloodstains smeared the floor, noticeable against burgundy carpeting only to the keen eye. Confident he'd cleared the way for at least another two minutes, he sprinted down the hall and entered his room.

He never thought he'd miss the penthouse this much. He changed out of his wetsuit into the crewman's uniform and proceeded to tap a new message against the wall of his cabin.

Lachlan, you there?

Sixty seconds passed. Rove considered banging louder, but decided not to gamble with noise. Fawkes was probably asleep. He coded the message again with the same force. A reply came.

Here, hungry, cold, hate canned food, hate dark. Where you been?

Around. Learned ship was rigged with over a dozen explosives.

How do you know?

I know.

What to do?

Help me take down hijackers so we can access lifeboats and free passengers.

Old man against these big ogres?

Yes. First I need help reaching the bridge for star charts.

The bridge is probably full of hijackers.

I know. Must get them out.

Tell me what to do.

As steward you have access to cleaning chemicals?

Plenty.

What kinds?

Everything. Kept in special closet near laundry room.

Key required?

No. Go down hall, turn right, right again.

Stay ready. Will come to your door.

Rove checked the peephole for moving beams, then slipped out of his cabin and jogged over to the laundry room. He found the closet Fawkes had described, and used a Marauder's flashlight to illuminate everything he needed—chemicals, dyes, bleaches, cleaning agents, buckets, Ziploc bags, mops. He grabbed a bucket and filled it with the necessary ingredients before returning to Fawkes's room. He knocked, and the steward let him in.