The Heist (24 page)

Kate deplaned with the other first-class passengers, visited the visa counter, and bought her 238,500 rupiah tourist visa, which was $25 American. She got her forged passport stamped at the immigration desk and made her way to baggage claim. She knew she was actually in Bali, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Balinese architectural elements in the airport were fake. The terminal reminded her of an old International House of Pancakes in Northridge that someone had tried to transform into a Chinese restaurant by carving a five-clawed dragon into the front door and adding curvy points to every corner of the roof. That still didn’t stop people from coming in and asking for a stack of buttermilk pancakes.

Willie clomped over just as the bags began to tumble down the chute and onto the carousel. They found their bags and dragged them to customs, handed the stone-faced Indonesian officers their declaration forms, and walked out into the arrivals lobby. The room was crowded with Javanese taxi drivers clamoring for fares, and bewildered tourists looking for transportation. In all this congested mix of sweaty humanity, Kate had no problem finding Nick. Nick Fox stood out in his fitted white polo shirt with a corporate logo on the chest. The logo was a blue planet with a streak of
lighting across it that carried the words
HUFFNAGLE GLOBAL
in a bold, italic action font that suggested urgency and determination. He had a broad hospitality smile on his face, the kind the best hotel clerks, concierges, and flight attendants work years to achieve, one that convincingly proclaims:
My life was meaningless until I had this wondrous opportunity to lay my eyes upon you and cater to your every need
.

He rushed to take Kate’s bags. “
Selamat siang
. Welcome to Bali, Ms. Huffnagle. I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

Kate and Willie followed Nick outside into the hot, humid afternoon, where a sparkling but not very recent Mercedes, provided by the Benoa Bali Regal Resort Hotel, was waiting for them at the curb, a uniformed driver at the wheel. Kate slipped into the backseat, Willie got in beside her, and Nick took the front passenger seat. The streets were narrow, crowded with taxis, motorcycles, bikes, and mopeds, and lined with palm trees and whitewashed buildings covered with signs vying for the attention of rich tourists. The Mercedes turned a corner onto a street packed with outdoor restaurants where diners sat cross-legged at tables eating rice with their hands. The air was thick with the smell of spices carried in the steam from hundreds of sizzling pots.

Up and down the sidewalks, and crouched between parked motorcycles at the curbs, were roving vendors carrying their kitchens either on rolling carts or balanced on sticks across their shoulders. Each stick had a sling with a wok on one side and a bundle of ingredients on the other, and dishes were prepared on the spot wherever vendors found a hungry paying customer. The vendors were so close to the car that Kate was tempted to reach out the window and snatch a bowl from one of them.

The Benoa Bali Regal was a five-star resort built on the pristine golden sands of the Tanjung Benoa peninsula. Once home to ramshackle fishing villages, the peninsula was now a prime tourist destination with high-end hotels taking advantage of the swaying palms, sugary beaches, bright blue seas, and breathtaking vistas.

Nick saw the luxurious resorts of Southern Bali as a successfully executed multibillion-dollar con. The travel industry had convinced people to fly tens of thousands of miles to stay at Bali-themed resorts rather than experience the authentic villages, rice paddies, temples, and tropical forests of Bali itself. The real Bali, even more beautiful than the re-creation, was a few miles farther north. Fortunately the con worked for everyone’s good, ensuring that the real Bali didn’t get overrun with hordes of tourists demanding flush toilets, while the resort Bali brought money into the economy and provided the tourists with a porcelain paradise
featuring overhead rain showers and the latest in Japanese toilet technology.

Kate followed Nick through the resort lobby to their private three-bedroom beachfront villa, with its coconut wood paneling, open-air living room, and personal lap pool in a tropical garden. She stood at the edge of the pool and had to admit to herself that a life of crime had some advantages. This beat the heck out of her one-bedroom apartment over Al’s Pizza Pit on Ventura.

Nick tipped the bellman and joined her. “What do you think?”

“Nice.”

“It has a spa pool that has three different kinds of jets and soft lighting at night. Perfect for getting into the mood.”

“What mood would that be?” she asked him.

He was so close she could feel his body heat, and his breath whispered against her neck. “A romantic mood.”

Her heart skipped a couple beats.

“So let me know if you want me to turn the jets on,” Nick said.

“Yep. Sure will,” Kate said. “Thanks for the offer.”

Jeez Louise, the man was diabolical, Kate thought. Wasn’t it enough he was tempting her with a lap pool and a designer handbag? Now he was torturing her with the spa and possibly his body next to hers, pressed against the three different kinds of jets.

“I’m going to unpack now,” she said, anxious to put distance between them. “Maybe I’ll investigate the beach and go swimming.”

“Need help unpacking?” he asked.

“Nope. I’m good.”

“Maybe you need help getting into your bathing suit.”

“No!” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re baiting me.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

Kate stalked off to the master bedroom suite and unpacked her bikinis. Up to this point she hadn’t given them much thought, but she now saw the error in foisting the bikini buying off on Nick. The tissue paper the bikinis were wrapped in was more substantial than the bikinis.

Kate did a trial run on a little white number that had a halterneck and ties at the hip. She stood in front of the mirror, looked at herself from the back, and grimaced at the amount of cheek hanging out. She checked herself from the front and didn’t see anything specifically private in full view, although there were hints of lady parts here and there. She bent at the waist and nothing fell out of the top. She blew out a sigh and grabbed a towel. She was willing to go the extra mile for her job, but criminy, this was about the scariest thing she’d done so far.

Nick missed Kate’s grand exit because he was explaining to Willie why she needed to wear khaki shorts and the white shirt with the Huffnagle Global logo.

“I paid good money for my breasts,” Willie said, “and you want me to stuff them into one of these boring shirts?”

“This isn’t any ol’ shirt,” Nick said. “The shirts in your closet are one hundred percent Egyptian cotton and are made by Chiang Yick Ching, Singapore’s oldest custom shirt maker, who’s been making meticulously cut, finely stitched clothes for me for years.”

“Sweetie pie, you can paint a cow red, but it ain’t never gonna be a tomato. This is not a shirt that says
Come look at me ’cause I’ve got nipples
.”

“You’re supposed to be the captain of a multimillion-dollar yacht. You’re not selling nipples.”

“I never said I was selling them. I just like when people notice. It’s like you and all those white teeth. Caps, right?”

“Nope,” he said. “They’re mine. I brush twice a day.”

“How about if I wear the stupid khaki shorts but I trade the shirt in for a white tank top?”

“Done,” Nick said.

Willie grabbed him and kissed him. “Perfect! This is going to be great. I can’t wait to see my yacht. This is like one of the happiest days of my life. I’m renaming The Big Adventure. I’m calling it The
Really
Big Adventure.”

“Good to know you’re happy,” Nick said.

Willie looked him up and down. “You want to make me even happier?”

“Maybe not that happy,” Nick said, “but I appreciate the thought.”

Kate was out in the ocean in her bikini and Willie was off exploring in her shorts and tank top when their personal chef arrived to begin preparing their dinner. Nick went over the menu with the chef, then walked out to the thatch-roof cabana on their private deck. He was standing there, enjoying the tropical air and the view, when Kate emerged from the azure water, her oiled skin glistening in the sun.

Nick thought she looked straight out of a James Bond movie. The only thing missing from the picture was a knife in a sheath clipped to a dive belt. And this annoying, amusing, amazing, beautiful, mostly naked woman was off-limits to him. How crappy was that? He was fairly certain if he put his mind to it he could get into her bed tonight. He was 100 percent certain she’d hunt him
down in the morning and he’d be roadkill. And if he actually survived to continue with the partnership, she’d make his life a living hell.

Kate approached him, and he offered her a towel. “The chef is in the kitchen,
Ms. Huffnagle
.”

“Thank you, Sam,” she said, ignoring the towel and strolling past him to a chaise, making the most of her role as Eunice Huffnagle. “I’ll take a drink now, something cold and fruity, with plenty of alcohol. Something to take the salt off my lips.”

“Of course,” Nick said.

He looked down at her stretched out on the chaise, eyes closed against the sun, and he thought it might be worth getting kicked down the road and smacked with a tire iron for a night of killer sex with her.

“Anything else?” he asked. “A massage, perhaps?”

“Does the hotel have a masseuse available at this hour?”

“No, but I’m here, and I’d be glad to help you work out any kinks you might have. Any kinks at all.”

“I’ll let the drink do that. Hurry along, Sam. I can feel my lips chapping with each passing moment.”

“Yes ma’am,” Nick said. “Wouldn’t want your lips to chap.”

“Do I detect a hint of attitude?” she asked him.

“Not from me,” Nick said. “I’m your faithful manservant. I’m here to fulfill your every desire.”

Nick, Kate, and Willie sat barefoot and cross-legged on mats at a low table that faced a fire pit circled with lava rocks. Beyond the fire pit was the beach, and beyond the beach moonbeams surfed the gentle waves. Behind the fire pit was the three-bedroom villa and the personal chef slaving away in the outdoor kitchen creating
a multicourse meal of Indonesian dishes. One of the dishes was vegetables in peanut sauce. There was also pork boiled in vinegar and pig’s blood, and nasi campur, which was steamed rice and vegetables mixed with fried nuts, grilled tuna, coconut milk, fried tofu, curried chicken, assorted herbs and spices, and shredded coconut. All the foods were served with a generous side of sambal, a chili pepper sauce that was the Indonesian equivalent of ketchup and used liberally on everything.

“You eat with your fingers,” Nick said, pinching chunks of fish, meat, and vegetables between bits of sticky rice.

Easy for him and Willie, Kate thought. They were dressed in wash-and-wear Huffnagle Global uniforms, while she was trying not to slop food on her megabucks halter and shorts. Being a rich bitch wasn’t as simple as one might think.

When they were done with the meal and the chef left, Nick spread maps and navigational charts out on the large dining room table.

“We’re leaving at nine
A.M.
for Benoa Harbor,” Nick said. “The yacht I rented will be fueled, stocked, and ready to go. Griffin’s island, Dajmaboutu, is about four hundred miles away in the Flores Sea. It’s between a stretch of large islands known as the West Nusa Tenggara and South Sulawesi. We’re going to travel through the heavily trafficked Lombok Strait and then west into the open sea, where we’ll sail a weaving course through the islands, islets, and atolls until we reach Dajmaboutu. The yacht is equipped with state-of-the-art GPS, radar, and autopilot. And if we don’t want to dock by the seat of our pants it has a computer-controlled docking system that takes over the engines, steering, and the thrusters at the bow and stern to take all the risk out of fitting into a tight spot.”

Kate studied the charts. “To bring Griffin into international waters, we’ll have to head back the way we came, through the Lombok Strait, then southwest into the Indian Ocean, where a U.S. Navy vessel can pick him up. That’s roughly another six hundred miles.”

“No problem,” Nick said. “I chose a fifty-five-foot Phelan SevenSeas 550LR, which I got at the bargain price of ten thousand dollars a day because Eunice Huffnagle insisted on using her own crew.”

He dropped the owner’s manual onto the table and turned to a photo of the Phelan under power. It was a beautiful vessel, with a blue hull and white deck, and windows on the main cabin that looked like wraparound sunglasses. Its most distinctive feature was its flybridge, which cantilevered over the aft deck and had standing fins on either side that evoked a 1959 Cadillac.

“It’s a trawler that’s going to lumber along like an elephant,” Kate said. “We’ll be lucky to get eighteen knots out of it.”

“You’re approaching this like a military op,” Nick said. “You want a quick entry and exit. But that’s not what we’re doing.”

“We’re kidnapping a guy and taking him out of the country,” Kate said. “We don’t want to linger around working on our tans. We need to get the heck out.”