Sabotage (33 page)

“We'll find you,” he shouted to Rove. “Then you'll know pain.”

Ragnar emerged from the haze, his jasper hair an unsightly clash with the greenish cloud surrounding him. He grabbed a rifle from the deceased and ran, showering Rove's table with one final bombardment, coughing uncontrollably. He flew through the newly opened window and fell into the crew's private area below, landing on a lounge pad and breaking his descent with a tumble.

Rove leaned over the edge and searched for his target, but the man had fled too far. He checked his watch and figured he had thirty seconds before a horde of Marauders poured in. He took another hit from his tank and rummaged for the celestial maps. There was a nautical almanac on the shelf, which he rolled into a tube. Then he readied himself for a leap out the window.

“Wait!” someone said.

Rove turned around to face the heap of bodies he'd toppled, but the voice came from another place. There was someone else sprawled on the floor, someone he hadn't noticed.

“Major…”

He spotted the man on the other side of the room.

“Kent!” he said, running to the man's side. “Did I—?”

The first officer lay with his hands wrapped around a bleeding torso. He looked seconds from death. The sweat on his skin had almost frozen, and yet he was no longer shivering.

“They shot me. You didn't.”

“Who are they? What did they do to you?” Rove asked, bracing the officer. “Do you know what they want?”

“I've been here so long. They didn't finish me. Wish I'd died after the first shot.”

“I know it hurts. Hang with me. What have you heard?”

Rove noticed a new wound in Trevor Kent's chest. A bullet from the recent fire had lodged itself in his rib cage. He didn't have long, and he'd begun to choke on the fumes. Rove tore off a piece of a Marauder's shirt and fashioned a bandage.

“There's … there's nothing we can do,” Kent stammered. “They're going to leave soon. They're going to … destroy the ship. The radar malfunctioned, possible tampering. Broken radar.… I can't stay awake…”

“Stay with me, Kent!”

“Nothing we can do … the ship, too many charges … Don't let them find you.… They're—they're soon going cabin to cabin, looking for you.…”

“What did you say? What about the radar and tampering?”

The officer's head lolled.

“It hurts. I just want to go away…”

“Focus!”

“Selvaggio…” Kent said. “Selvaggio…”

His life came to an end. Voices filled the halls beyond; the Marauders were near. Rove took a running leap and vaulted out through the window, landing one deck down.

*   *   *

He sprinted down the corridor, opened his door, and found Fawkes finishing the letter.

“Here you go,” Fawkes said. “Want to read it first?”

Rove scanned the message, then folded it into an envelope beside the nightstand and wrote Ragnar's name across it.

“Looks good. Stay here. The gas worked. This part of the ship's lousy with guards.”

“Where are you going this time?”

“Stargazing with Malcolm Clare.”

“With
whom
?” Shock leapt into Fawkes's face, now a pastel shade of pink.

“You heard right.”

“
The
Malcolm Clare?”

“One and only.”

“I'm flummoxed. Is he on the ship?”

“He's on a ship, not the
Pearl Enchantress.
One of the corsairs took him in.”

“Quiet an expensive captive.”

“That's not all I've learned,” Rove said. “Some of the hijackers are breaking rank. I overheard them talking to Mr. Stahl on the bridge. Apparently the Viking's not paying them as much as they want. Sounds like Stahl plans some opposition.”

“So there's mutiny on the
Bounty,
” Fawkes said.

“It's a good sign. Proves the Viking has less control than he thinks.”

“I don't know who to root for.”

“Root for both. Let them duke it out.”

He moved for the door.

“Jake, what are they going to do if they discover this is your cabin?”

“Won't happen.” Clapping a hand over Fawkes's shoulder, he felt no bounce and took this as a sign of fear. “I'm headed to the corsair after a pit stop at the galley. Doc Clare's hungry.”

 

THIRTY-ONE

While the receptionist was distracted by a phone call, Victoria unplugged the router from the hotel's lobby. If Vasya was conducting a negotiation, he would need email access. She figured he would soon have to find an Internet café.

She waited in an electronics store across the street, where she purchased a key-logger, a thumb-sized device that plugged inconspicuously into a computer port and tracked every keystroke—even asterisk-protected passwords. She also had the option of purchasing virtually undetectable computer monitoring software that could track all Internet activity, record periodic screenshots, or play back real-time video captures. The downside was, it took a few minutes to install. She needed a tool that was easy to insert and easy to remove.

Three hours passed before Vasya left the Boterhuis. She followed him from a distance, watching as he stopped for waffles at a market stall and continued to the café. He logged onto a computer and began typing. Victoria scanned the street for idle vendors or peddlers. There was a shoe shiner, a gangly fellow in a baggy shirt, leaning over a suited man's feet and rubbing polish into leather. When he finished his job, she approached him.

“Looking for customers?”

“Would you like a shoe shine?” he asked, already stooping.

“No, thank you, but I could use another service. There's a man inside that Internet café.” She pointed. “He's my uncle, and I'm visiting him. He hasn't seen me in years, and I'd like it to be a surprise, so don't tell him you saw me. I'm hoping you could trick him into coming out and meeting me in the square.”

“Trick him?”

“Just a harmless prank. But you
can't
say it was me. Tell him a large Arab man sent you and asked that he go immediately to the Tavern Brugeoise.”

“Why would I tell him it was a large Arab man?”

“It's a little joke we used to have,” Victoria said. “He probably won't remember, but I want to know if he can guess it's me. Just tell him it's urgent, that he should come now.”

She handed him coins. He took them, walked into the café, and tapped Vasya's shoulder. Vasya looked annoyed by the interruption, and tried to shoo him off, but the shoe shiner insisted. She watched as Vasya eventually bought the man's story. He was trying to ask questions, but the shiner shrugged and walked out the door. Curiosity must have got the best of him. He set the computer on lock and left the café, briefcase in hand, for the tavern.

Victoria entered the café and sat down at Vasya's computer.

“That one's taken,” said the clerk, a young female with pink highlights and a nose piercing. She was leaning back in her chair and sipping coffee. “The guy said he'd be right back.”

“Sorry,” Victoria said. She sat across from the console and improvised a new plan. She used her feet to unplug a few cords, then went to the counter. “This computer doesn't seem to be working. Would you mind taking a look?”

The clerk asked, “What's the problem?”

“I don't know,” Victoria said. She was counting the seconds until Vasya returned. “I'm not good with computers.”

“Is the monitor turned on?”

“Monitor? I'm not really sure what that is. Maybe you could look for me.”

The clerk trashed her coffee cup and made an exaggerated show of rising to her feet. She stretched and ambled over to the computer.

“Let's see what's wrong,” she said, and began sorting through a mess of cords.

Victoria stepped behind the clerk, crouching under the desk and searching for the keyboard's cable. Her fingers pushed through a tangle of wires. With some difficulty she found the plug and removed it. She then inserted the key-logger where there had been a direct connection. Leaning out the window, she saw Vasya marching back from the tavern, looking furious.

“You know, it's not all that important,” Victoria told the clerk. “I can come back later.”

“I'm almost done,” said the clerk.

“Take your time. It's not a problem. Really.”

“Whatever.”

Victoria flipped on her sunglasses and slipped out the door as a host of tourists passed. In the reflection of a car window she watched as Vasya entered the café, unlocked his computer, and began typing.

*   *   *

Austin walked into a leather shop.

“I'll be with you in a moment,” said the salesman, helping customers. “Don't go away.”

“That's fine,” Austin said.

The store window displayed handbags, satchels, jackets, suitcases. He was sure he'd find what he needed. After a few minutes, the salesman returned.

“Sorry about the wait. How may I help you?”

“I'm looking for leather briefcases.”

“You've come to the right place, my friend.” The salesman led him to a far corner of the shop, where the shelves were filled with cases of various sizes. “Anything in particular you're looking for?”

Austin scoped out the selection before gravitating to a particular design. If his memory served him correctly, it was a close match. “This one's nice,” he said, running a finger along the leather. “But the wrong color. Can you darken it?”

“It's a beautiful case. Moroccan leather. Why dye it?”

“I'm picky.”

“It's not easy to do once the briefcase has been made.”

“Just a few shades?”

The salesman surrendered a sigh. “It's going to cost extra.” He brought out a collection of fabrics that formed a color gradient. “Which one would you like to match?”

Austin pointed. “Right there. Nearly black, with a touch of russet.”

*   *   *

When Vasya finished his emails, he logged off the computer, paid the clerk, and left the café. Trained on his every action, Victoria adjusted her turtleneck and seated a red knit cap on her head as she waited for him to reach a safe distance.

Inside, her first move was to send an email to Jake summarizing the information Ichiro had uncovered. She then accessed the key-logger and began sorting through a string of characters. Using the email address, password, and decryption keys she learned, she logged onto Vasya's account and snooped through his inbox and sent messages. Deeb's name surfaced. She opened the oldest message, sent days ago, to learn the former oil minister had flown into the Brussels airport by Gulfstream and hired a limousine to drive him to Bruges. So the man had a flair for the ostentatious.

Most messages were about logistics and meeting places. She perused a few more exchanges, identifying relationships and connecting the nodes in Vasya's network. There was a document in his inbox naming several dozen terrorist operatives. Detailing illicit ties and contact information for each criminal, the spreadsheet struck her as a who's who on the United States wanted list. She printed the file and emailed it to herself for safekeeping. She thought about the fun she'd have faxing this to the CIA, and writing the cover letter—
This may help
. She continued reading. In older emails she came across Dan Chatham's name. The explanation clicked as she learned how he played into the auction. So the story she'd pieced together with Austin was true. The Viking had pitted Glitnir Defense against a moneyed al-Nar confederate and countless other terrorist leaders in a bidding war.

She reminded herself that investigation wasn't her main purpose right now. Coordination was. She'd come to write three emails from two accounts.

Still logged into Vasya's e-mail, she composed a message to Farzad Deeb, doing her best to mimic the Russian's writing style and work within the context of previous messages.

Farzad,

Chatham has made his final offer. Let us meet tomorrow at noon at the top of the bell tower. There I will make a last call to the Viking. We can then proceed to a celebratory lunch. Please bring your computer so we may wire your money. I would prefer we met alone.

VAK

She clicked
send,
then erased the message from Vasya's outbox.

She opened Yahoo and created a new account under her own name to send the following message:

Mr. Kaslov,

I tried to meet you in the town square earlier today. Thought you'd only come if you believed Deeb had called for you, hence the shoe shiner's story. But I was scared away when I thought you had a gun.

My purpose in writing is to propose an arrangement to get my father's laptop back. I am sure we can settle this peacefully. Please meet me in the middle of the main square at noon tomorrow. I will come alone.

Sincerely,

Victoria Clare

For a believable time lapse between messages, she waited till evening to send the third:

Hello, Mr. Deeb,

I'm the daughter of the man whose technology you want to purchase. Your business with Vasya Kaslov, Glitnir, and my father doesn't concern me. One matter alone concerns me, and that is my father's safety.

Ensure that Malcolm Clare lives, and I'm prepared to give you the satellite's passkey. All you must then do is get the briefcase from Kaslov.

I assume you know Kaslov intends to double-cross and kill you as soon as you wire funds to the Viking's account. No doubt you're aware of his interest in acquiring Baldr for the SVR military technology procurement network he has worked for since 1991. He's dangerous. You should never meet him alone.