Numa Files: Ghost Ship Part 9

Immersed in the warm gulf water, Kurt soon heard nothing but his own breathing as the air traveled through the lines, into his lungs, and back out to the rebreather. The advantage of this system was that it left no trail of bubbles. He doubted the crew of the yacht would be looking for anything so simple-more likely, they'd be paying attention to their depth sounder and the radarscope-but he wasn't taking any chances.

As Kurt waited on the bottom of the channel, a low-frequency thrum told him the Ma.s.sif was approaching.

He gazed down the channel, looking for any sign of her. The first thing he spotted was the foamy V-shaped area at the yacht's bow. The leading edge of the s.h.i.+p's keel soon came into focus. It seemed to be grinding toward him, pulverizing the water rather than slicing through it.

Just as he'd suspected, the yacht was moving faster than the allowed three knots.

Kurt changed position, setting himself up like a motorcycle cop on the highway getting ready to chase a speeder. He goosed the throttle and the prop spun, stirring up the sediment and easing him forward. He began to move, trying to time his intercept.

It would be a tricky approach. He needed to come up beside the yacht, close enough to be hidden by the hull's overhang but not so close he would get himself run over. The best spot would be the sheltered area just behind the V of the bow wave. Any farther forward and he'd be pushed away from the s.h.i.+p with the displaced water; any farther back and he risked getting caught in the strongest part of the slipstream and flung backward toward the propellers.

The harmonic rumble of the yacht grew closer and Kurt increased his speed. A glance over the shoulder told him it was barreling down on him too quickly. He twisted the throttle farther, accelerated, and swung out to the side.

As he pa.s.sed seven knots, Kurt realized an error in his plan. The force of the water threatening to pull him off the DPV was ten times what he'd feel riding a motorcycle. Already it was like hanging on in a seventy-mile-per-hour wind.

He pulled himself closer to the unit. The water raced past. He turned his head awkwardly. The Ma.s.sif was still gaining, the keel moving relentlessly toward him like a great blade threatening to cut him in half. Suddenly his great idea seemed less than brilliant.

He gave the DPV full power and began keeping pace with the charging yacht. Almost immediately the propulsion unit began to flash a warning light.

That's what I get for using a repo left at the airport.

He glanced at the warning light, then back at the approaching hull. He drifted closer, feeling the pressure of the bow surge on his shoulders. The closer he got, the more violent the ride became. The sound alone was tremendous, like the noise of a waterfall and rus.h.i.+ng freight train combined. It pounded his ears as the pressure wave hammered against his shoulders. The blinking light on the propulsion pack went from yellow to orange.

Kurt dropped back, pa.s.sing under the bow wave, and was almost swung out of control. Finally behind the wave, he angled toward the hull and began inching upward. As he broke the surface, the drag on the DPV lessened and he picked up a little speed.

He accidentally banged the hull once, thrown sideways by an eddy. The impact almost sent him spinning out of control, but he reestablished his line and tried once again to move closer. The orange light was blinking now, about to turn red. The power began to fade.

In a desperate effort, Kurt swung toward the hull, stretched forward, and pushed off the DPV with his legs. He let the unit go, clicked his thumb switches, and slammed into the metal skin of the yacht's hull.

The pads on his forearms. .h.i.t and locked first. The kneepads followed, snapping into place an instant later.

He was on. Just above the waterline. A stowaway of the strangest order.

He looked up. As far as he could tell, no one had seen him. Nor were they likely to. The V-shaped hull curved out over him, widening on the way up. To spot him, someone would have to lean out over the edge at least two or three feet and look straight down.

For a full minute he didn't move, gathering his strength as the powerful magnetic fields held him in place. When he felt ready, he clicked the left thumb switch and pulled his left arm away. He stretched it forward and clicked onto the boat once again. Another click and he brought his right leg up.

Left arm, right leg, right arm, left leg. He moved in this fas.h.i.+on, slow and steady.

By the shape and fury of the bow wave beneath him, Kurt could tell the yacht was picking up speed. He guessed they were pa.s.sing fifteen knots, heading for twenty. He continued to climb. The hard part was over, he told himself.

At least the first hard part.

The main deck of the Ma.s.sif held a sprawling oval parlor, about twice as long as it was wide. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the sides. Intricate repeating patterns of warm-hued inlaid wood covered the walls. Art deco furnis.h.i.+ngs wrapped in b.u.t.tery-smooth Italian leather were tastefully arranged. And the entire s.p.a.ce was lit by soft recessed lighting.

At the center of this room, like the funnel of a whirlpool, lay a circular staircase. It swirled its way into the lower levels of the yacht beneath a skylight twelve feet in diameter. The skylight allowed natural light to enter during the day, but at night it acted as a dark mirror, reflecting all that went on below.

Spread about the parlor were fifteen people, not counting the s.h.i.+p's staff. Some were admiring the artwork, others drank and spoke among themselves.

Calista Brevard entered this quietly swirling landscape in a s.h.i.+mmering black c.o.c.ktail dress. Her makeup was more restrained than usual, her dark hair hidden beneath a wig of platinum blonde that fell to her shoulders in the back and gave her graceful bangs that halted just above her eyes in the front.

She moved slowly toward a grand piano where Rene Acosta was holding court.

"The bottom line is simple," Acosta was telling a Chinese man. "You will be locked out and they will still have access to your deepest secrets."

"Can this system really be that advanced?" the man asked. "We've heard tales like this before. All systems have weaknesses. It is only a matter of time until we penetrate the Phalanx."

Acosta shook his head. "Would the United States put all its eggs in one basket if it didn't know that basket was absolutely untouchable?"

"Perhaps they're wrong."

Acosta shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "Can you really afford to take that chance?"

The Chinese man turned and began to discuss this with two of his countrymen, and Acosta excused himself and took Calista by the arm.

"You have them right where you want them," she said. "I must admit you're far smoother than I expected."

"I've learned to be tactful," he said.

"And my brother has learned to be a brute."

"You could have stopped him," Acosta said. "Poor Kovack. He has to learn how to shoot and stab people with his other hand now. Perhaps it would be best if you avoid him for the time being."

"I doubt he'll recognize me."

"And if he does?"

"Then he'll find that he got off lucky."

Acosta chuckled, and they moved to the bar. The bartender immediately poured him a gla.s.s of fifty-year-old port.

"And for the lady?"

"Ice water," she said.

"It runs in her veins," Acosta added.

The bartender immediately filled a lead crystal gla.s.s with ice water. He wiped the side with a napkin before handing it to her.

"You could have at least tried to limit the damage," Acosta said.

"And show my true colors? I don't think so. If I protected Kovack, my brother would have become suspicious. He may be anyhow. If you don't return the woman to us, it will be all-out war between you two."

"I only need her a little longer," Acosta said.

"Not just her, the others as well. All three of them."

"You don't understand," Acosta said. "You have no idea what these foreigners are willing to pay. Ten million for a month of work. Twenty million for six weeks. Can you imagine? She can't possibly be worth more to your brother. Hold him back. Tell him I will cut him in on the spoils."

"He has other plans," Calista said.

"What kind of plans?"

"How would I know," Calista said. "He tells me only what he wants to. But I promise, they are important to him. He sent me here to take her from you. The only way I can stop that is if you deliver her to me as planned and blame the Iranians for the delay."

Acosta hesitated and Calista narrowed her gaze. She saw something in his eyes. It said he'd already crossed the Rubicon. "What have you done, Rene?"

He didn't respond, but the tension was obvious in a tightening of the muscles in his thick neck.

"Rene?"

"She's not here," he said finally. "I delivered her to Than Rang last week. He wants the others as well."

Than Rang was a Korean industrialist. Calista's mind raced trying to figure out why he would need or want the American or the other hackers. "If that's so, you'd best retrieve her."

"I can't," he said. "Than Rang is not a man to be trifled with. I'd rather deal with your brother's wrath than his."

Calista wondered if he was lying or not. "Sebastian will not wait," she said. "The woman must be delivered into my brother's hands before the Americans finish their trial run with Phalanx or three years of effort will be ruined, that much I know. And if that occurs, Sebastian will not rest until he murders you."

As she spoke, Calista stared at her former lover with unblinking eyes. The more nervous he appeared, the more joy it brought her. Anything to increase his agony.

"What's done is done," he said. "The only question is where your loyalties rest."

"My 'loyalties'?"

"Yes," he said. "If it comes to war, whose side will you be on?"

She tilted her head as if the question was silly. A wicked smile grew on her face. "Why, my dear Rene," she began, "I'll be on my own side of course. I thought you would have learned that by now."

She put the gla.s.s down and turned away.

He watched her walk off, headed for the spiral staircase. Despite a plan to remain calm, he found his emotions had become unbalanced, a volatile mixture of anger and l.u.s.t as always where Calista was concerned.

But the facts were simple. He could not retrieve the American woman from Than Rang's clutches even if he wanted to. Nor could he forego the revenue from transactions involving the other three experts he held. To keep up his extravagant lifestyle he needed more cash and he needed it now.

He snapped his fingers and two of his men appeared. "Keep an eye on her," he said. "I don't want her causing any trouble or upsetting the other guests."

They nodded and turned to follow.

For her part, Calista expected to be followed. She walked slowly to the center of the room and took the spiral staircase down to the accommodations deck. She traveled toward the stern, where a small but warmly appointed cabin with a single berth had been reserved for her.

She opened the door and held it, pausing long enough to make sure Rene's men spotted her. They slowed their pace but kept on coming. She winked at them and then ducked inside and shut the door.

They would likely guard her until the auction. But Rene would want her there. She was a mysterious presence and a distraction. The bids would be higher because of her. That would make it easier.

She turned the radio on and started the shower. She figured that was enough. She'd already swept the room for bugs and other listening devices.

Unzipping the c.o.c.ktail dress and removing the wig, she quickly changed into another outfit consisting of dark slacks and a gray silk s.h.i.+rt. It was fancy enough that she could pa.s.s for one of the guests but utilitarian enough to let her move freely.

Next she removed a false panel from her suitcase, pulled out a satellite phone, and slid it into her pocket. A compact Bersa .380 pistol came out next. It was a thin, nickel-plated automatic, with black polymer grips. It carried seven hollow-point rounds in a short magazine and one more in the chamber. It was a trusty weapon, accurate, with a smooth trigger pull. Calista had taken out several adversaries with it. As a final precaution she slid a four-inch knife into a thin scabbard above her ankle.

Ready for action, she made her way to the cabin's large window. It slid open with ease. She glanced down the narrow gangway that ran around the edge of the yacht. Seeing no one, she climbed through the window and onto the deck. With smooth precision, she slid the gla.s.s shut and began walking toward the bow.

Clinging to the side of the Ma.s.sif like a stubborn barnacle, Kurt studied his options. The heavy yacht was now cruising at twenty knots. Light spilling from the superstructure cast a subtle glow on the waters flowing past, but other than that he was bathed in darkness.

Since he couldn't go up and over the rail without being seen, Kurt moved quickly toward the stern. He knew there were several hatches there, one of which had been wide open shortly before departure as the crew took on supplies.

He moved toward it, traveling like a crab, until he found it. Considering how close it lay to the waterline, Kurt wasn't surprised to find it battened down tight. He looked around, noticed a crack of light up higher on the hull and farther aft.

He reached it quickly, peeked around the edge, and, seeing no one inside, swung around and dropped in.

He was in a small works.p.a.ce connected to the engine room. It was cramped, hot, and loud. He'd covered a few feet when a figure in white coveralls appeared. The man wore a bulky headset to protect his hearing from the whining engines and didn't notice Kurt or hear him coming.

Shock and confusion registered on the crewman's face as Kurt got his attention with the Beretta and waved a finger to dissuade him from trying anything. That done, Kurt pulled off the headset.

"You speak English?"

The man nodded.

"Are there any prisoners on board this yacht?"

The man seemed confused by the question. "Prisoners?"

"Anyone being held against their will," Kurt explained. "I'm looking for a blond American woman."

"No," the man said, shaking his head. "I just run the turbines."

It made sense. The poor guy was just a sailor. But he had to know his s.h.i.+p.

Kurt walked him to an electrical schematic of the s.h.i.+p's wiring on which the demarcations for hallways, berths, and common areas were laid out.

"Rene Acosta," Kurt said. "Which cabin is his?"

The man hesitated.

Kurt pulled back the hammer on the Beretta.

"First cabin," the man said. "Accommodations deck, forward."

Kurt studied the diagram. By the look of it, that cabin was the largest on the s.h.i.+p, it made sense it was Acosta's.

Kurt dragged the man to a storage room, shoved him inside, and took out a small syringe. He jabbed it into the man's thigh and watched as his eyes rolled quickly. In a second he was out cold.

"Sleep tight," Kurt said, tossing the syringe away.

In a minute, Kurt had the crewman's coveralls on. They covered his wet suit and electromechanical gear but not his hair. He spotted a red skullcap on a peg and added that to his ensemble. With the cap pulled down snugly over his silver hair, Kurt headed down the hall toward the bow, where Acosta's cabin sat at the end of the central gangway.

Kurt found the door locked and was able to pry it open using a knife. He slipped inside and began his search. He'd been there all of five minutes when he heard a hand on the doork.n.o.b.