Sabotage (36 page)

“I don't yet know how many of my men you've killed.” Ragnar was approaching a slow boil. “But you'll suffer for each of them.”

His fist struck Rove's left cheekbone. After a second blow, Rove's nose started to bleed.

“I know what you're feeling,” Rove said. “Now that you've started it, you can't go back. You're too ego-involved to finish this quickly. All your men are watching, listening. You can't look weak in front of them. A bullet to the head, a toss overboard … This far into the game, those wouldn't do. Why don't you give them fair sport? These men would love to see a knife fight. Unstrap me.”

“No one will unbind you from that chair,” Ragnar said. “You're not going to stand again.”

“Just trying to help you save face. Not that there's much worth saving.”

Ragnar smirked, then turned his back on Rove and began climbing back to the
Pearl Enchantress
by rope ladder. He spoke to the Marauders encircling the captive. “Don't hurry. Slow and deliberate. Remember our brothers he murdered. Tomorrow we set sail. The Viking will detonate the explosives, and this man will die knowing he succeeded at nothing to prevent the deaths of three thousand passengers.”

 

THIRTY-SIX

“Keep walking. No sudden movements. I'll shoot.”

The dark-skinned man led her to the outskirts of Bruges. Though she had multiple opportunities near policemen, she did nothing to draw attention to herself. She didn't scream, run, or cry for help.

They entered an empty alley, walked to the end, and crossed a bridge. They'd left the main town far behind. At the far side of the bridge a black limousine awaited their arrival. The driver came out and opened the door for them. Before letting her in, the man with the handgun patted her down, his fingers lingering on her waist and legs longer than necessary. She didn't protest. After a thorough search, they climbed into the car.

“Take a walk,” she told the driver. “Come back in half an hour.”

“No,” said Deeb's bodyguard. He seemed confused by her order.

“You have the gun,” she reminded him. “What do you care if it makes me more comfortable to be alone with one strange man instead of two?”

He nodded to the driver, still apparently circumspect.

As Victoria stared down the pistol's barrel, she couldn't help but appreciate an irony. She was confined in this stranger's automobile, held at gunpoint—yet thinking, everything's going swimmingly.

*   *   *

Deeb searched the Russian cannily, weighing honesty against treachery. As he studied the Russian's shifting face, his scale tipped toward the latter.

“You, Vasily Kaslov, the Viking?”

“I masterminded the ploy to pit the Americans against their enemies. I stole Baldr from Malcolm Clare and Glitnir Defense. I created the auction. I didn't merely facilitate the bidding war; I devised it, initiated it, carried it through on both ends. From the beginning, it was me.”

Deeb looked dubious. “Why should I believe you?”

“You seem to be aware I was a KGB spy. My alias was Christian Lefevre—a Canadian international security consultant who moved to the U.S., where I was hired by Glitnir Defense in 1994. How else do you think I could have commandeered a top-secret satellite from a U.S. defense agency? It was only after years building internal connections that I managed to steal the most formidable piece of weaponry created by the world's leading military technologist.”

Not a reason, Deeb observed. “You may well have planned the heist. But your intentions are unclear. When you commandeered the satellite, did you mean to sell it … or use it?”

“I no longer work for the Russian government,” he said. “I only want to sell it. Why else would I go through the effort of organizing an auction?”

“To take my money and run,” Deeb ventured. “Back to Russia, to your little wing in the SVR where I
do
think you're working. To restore Soviet clout with your new nuclear satellite in orbit. And to live off my oil revenues, like a prince.”

“All speculation,” Vasya said, “and no evidence. Put down your weapons. I'm losing blood.”

“Tell me, Vasya. What was to keep you from disappearing after our transaction was over?”

“These accusations are ludicrous. I have no reason to cross you.”

“My source has informed otherwise.”

“The Clare girl!”

“She has a compelling reason to help me. You kidnapped her father.”

Vasya shuddered, still slouched against the stone wall. “She's manipulating you.”

“Right now she's sitting in my limousine with a gun to her face.”

“Farzad, stop this pointless discourse. Tell your men to put away your guns and help me tend to the wounds you so needlessly inflicted.”

Deeb's men held fast, their pistols unwavering. The tolling bells finished their routine and stilled. Deeb had the feeling Vasya was beginning to comprehend the extent of his debacle.

“You dug your own grave.”

“How's that?”

“By confirming your Soviet history. No one has a better use for Baldr than yourself.”

“Enough with theories. They're useless.”

“Perhaps you are the Viking, and perhaps you did procure the satellite. Perhaps your intentions are good, my conjectures are false, and you are a reliable broker after an honest contract. It could be true.” Deeb watched the grim understanding in Vasya as it blossomed into panic. Vasya had no appeal. “But like I said, it doesn't matter anymore.”

A gunshot resonated through the carillon.

“Let's go,” Deeb told his bodyguards. “Take the briefcase. The girl's waiting.”

*   *   *

Victoria sat on the limousine's leather seats, her smile of respect concealing disgust for her captor's deficient hygiene, which had become apparent in the confined space. To make matters worse the guard's stare had come to rest on the usual places. Aware that a display of contempt might only feed him, she let him gawp at her form, and after a few minutes she decided a little conversation might help divert his attention.

“Not to sound impatient,” she said, going for demure, “but how much longer till your boss arrives?”

The guard said nothing, and instead turned away and looked out the window.

Victoria prodded him.

“I look forward to meeting your boss.”

With this she wheedled out a grunt. A little more cajoling, she thought, and she might actually extract real words.

“I'm grateful Mr. Deeb accepted my offer to meet,” she said. “Forgive me, but I'm not familiar with your customs. Is there anything I should know before seeing him face-to-face?” If her goal was to elicit a response, she had failed again. The man felt his beard self-consciously, his vacant look mostly unchanged. “You know, it was I who suggested this meeting. You know I'm unarmed and unlikely to run, so you can put your gun away.”

“Shut up,” he said, revealing a set of golden-brown teeth upon which years of neglect had wreaked decay. “No talking.”

Charming. She wondered why she couldn't have taken a seat by the driver.

The guard's phone rang. He took the call and murmured something in Arabic. What little she gleaned of the conversation, judging from the guard's general tenor, pleased her. Then he snapped the phone closed and gaped at her, his expression every bit as lascivious as before. He never lowered his handgun.

“He's coming,” the bodyguard said.

 

THIRTY-SEVEN

Rove had managed to shake his stupor. The spells of vertigo subsided until the dizziness became indistinguishable from the ship's rocking. Feet scuffled on deck. Six Marauders in two lines moved in and flanked him, closing their formation around his chair like pincers.

“I'm flattered,” Rove said, recharging. “Six armed men against one bound to a chair? Ragnar must have me pegged as a real troublemaker.”

“You got the announcement like everyone else,” one of the hijackers said. “The Viking said all agitators will be shot.”

“Doesn't look like that's on your agenda.”

“Not our immediate one. You heard Captain Stahl. He said,
slow and deliberate.
” His next words came off like an ostentatious display of rank. “My name is Gunnar Brun. I'm one of the five captains. My ship is the
Baduhenna
.”

Rove recognized the flat mouth, the blue eyes cut by a swath of aggression. He sensed a sadistic streak so warped it probably made his fellow outlaws uneasy. Certainly they feared him, but did they respect this man? If not, maybe Rove could reduce him in their view.

“Nice to finally know your name, Gunnar. Tell me, if you're not going to shoot me right off the bat, can I have another one of those delicious canapés?”

Using the back of his wrist, Brun cuffed Rove over the head, then adjusted the diamond ring on his finger.

“I must not have tipped you,” Rove said. “How was it, posing as a waiter till the big boys arrived?”

Brun cracked a gummy smile and continued to play with the ring. “There was no dearth of good food.”

“If you'd like my advice, you could work on your tableside manner. People don't like to be snarled at.”

Brun was leering, as if he'd realized it would take more than a few punches to break this prisoner. It seemed to excite him. “You've been a prisoner before.”

“How did you know?”

“Most would have soiled themselves by now.”

“You've hardly touched me.”

“But you know what's coming. To some, the agony is the anticipation.” Brun struck him in the jaw. Rove had prepared for the blow by seating his tongue away from his teeth to prevent more bleeding. “You've got a tattoo, like we do. Who drew this pretty little bird?”

He ran a finger over the smiling toucan on Rove's deltoid.

“The last man to torture me. So I'd have a pet in hell.”

Brun laughed. “Looks like good company.”

“I should warn you, the artist didn't fare well.”

“Judging from the burn scars on your chest and legs, neither did you.”

“I'm still here, and frankly, getting bored.”

“Let me entertain you then.”

“Thanks, but I prefer the shipboard talent.”

“Ever played a drinking game, Jake?”

“It's been a while.”

“The more you play, the more you tend to break the rules. The more you break the rules, the more you drink. The more you drink, the harder it gets to obey the rules.” He removed the ring from his hand and flipped it across the backs of his fingers as an experienced gambler would manipulate a poker chip. “This game works a similar way. I place the ring into a hand. After a flourish and possible sleight, I ask you where it is. If you're correct, we play again. If not, each of us bashes your skull. The ring becomes harder to follow. Understand?”

“Doesn't sound too hard.”

Brun went on. “Prestidigitation has become a recent hobby of mine.” He pinched the ring with the fingers of his right hand, then dropped the glittering piece into a palm as his left hand swept sideways. He closed both fists and held them out before Rove. “So … which?”

“Left,” Rove said.

Brun unfolded his fingers one by one to reveal the diamond. “Good, Jake.”

Rove paid little attention to what Brun was saying. He was straining his wrists behind his back, fingering the knots that bound him to learn how they were tied. Given hours of time, focus, and isolation, he knew he could escape, but at the moment he had none of these. He figured it was only a matter of minutes before they fully laid into him. What was more, they had him surrounded and could foil any attempt to break loose. And even if he did free his hands, he'd still have to work on his ankles.

“Try again?”

“I don't have much choice.”

Rove watched as Brun repeated the motion, beginning by pinching the ring between three fingers. His left hand brushed through the open space of his palm and enveloped the ring. There was a flash of light that disappeared as Brun's left fingers clamped down. He exaggerated the motions, selling the performance.

“Did you catch it?” he asked.

“Left hand again.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Brun tilted his head to the side. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Brun's fingers formed a cup, and he revealed the diamond. “You're either very quick or very lucky. Should I make this more difficult? Watch closely.”

He prepared the third swoop, positioning the ring as before and drawing his left hand closer. Rove stared through the spaces between the fingers of Brun's right hand and observed as he dropped the ring into his palm before the left hand could grasp it. The five digits closed around air and continued sweeping forward, mimicking a transfer. But gaps between those fleshy fingers had provided three windows, three thin slivers of backlight. It was enough for a glimpse behind the stage that was Brun's right hand, and Rove felt certain he'd penetrated the ruse.

The fists closed tightly. Rove stared at one of them with confidence.

“Right hand.”

Engrossed by his own theatrics, Brun extended his little finger and worked his way to the thumb of his right hand. He blew a puff of air and flaunted an open, empty palm.

“No bluff,” he said.

Brun made a curt gesture to his men, whose patience had worn thin. They swarmed over Rove, leaving no appendage untouched. He felt something in his nose snap. An elbow bore into his temple, and another wallop drove his chin halfway to his neck. His ears rang like sirens, and the skin around his eye sockets began to swell, pinching off the upper and lower bounds of his vision.

“That's enough,” Brun said. “His turn.”

The men backed away.

Brun unscrewed a flask of brandy and took a swig. “Now you see how the game works.”