A Dangerous Arrangement (2 page)

Finally, it was the actress's turn. She teetered towards him in five-inch heels, strands of hair stuck in her lip gloss, adorned with enough bling to sink the vessel. The guests already seated in the tender laughed as it rose in the water and banged against the stern.

Ignoring the invitation in the woman's bloodshot eyes, Dean clasped her hand and kissed both cheeks, aware she'd hung back until last.

‘Thank you for coming, Cherie.'

He urged the woman closer to the edge and gave a firm signal to his first mate balanced in the tender. Another wave rolled in, bringing the tender level with the yacht. In one synchronised movement, Dean propelled the woman forward while Alain grasped her under the arms and half lifted her in.

Doing his best not to speculate on what Rask had learned in the past hour, Dean tossed the bow rope to Alain and raised his hand in an informal salute. Only when the tender was swallowed up by the sea mist did he turn and join Rask upstairs.

‘What have you got?' Too wired to sit, Dean leaned over the desk and rested on his palms.

‘Emerald IT have also been hacked. They can't restore the files.' Rask's Old Norse accent sounded more guttural than usual. ‘And there's more bad news. IT suspect the backup tapes have been wiped.'

Dean felt his heart palpitate and the blood drain all the way to his soles.
‘It's in-house?'

The faces of his Sydney staff flicked across his mind like photos on a smart phone. Most had been with him from the beginning, working alongside him as he sketched designs in the back room of his father's house. Many were friends, like-minded people from his sailing days on Pittwater, bound together by a love of the ocean.

He turned to Rask. ‘Who hasn't turned up for work?'

‘Victor Yu's the only one.'

A chill rolled down Dean's spine. ‘The Taiwanese IT guy?'

Rask nodded. ‘Cleared out save for a Lego figure standing in the centre of his desk. Identical to the Cryptocage one.'

‘The bastard!'
Dean banged his palm against the panelled wall, felt the sting in the heel of his hand.

‘The cops have swung into action, thanks to my contacts and a favour called in by your in-house lawyer. Yu's cleared out of his apartment too. Not so his flatmate …' Rask consulted his scribbled notes. ‘Marina Wentworth. Violin teacher. According to an itinerary found on a desktop computer, she left Sydney on an Emirates flight at ten on Friday night.'

‘Three days ago?'

Rask nodded. ‘Yu was the last person to leave the office late on Friday.'

‘
If
Yu's his real name.' Anger boiled in Dean's chest. He'd given Yu a chance, handed him a golden opportunity, and the guy had kicked him in the teeth. ‘It's likely his whole résumé was fake.'

Both men turned to look at the computer again, as if the machine might cough up more answers. But the ominous message on the menacing red background remained unchanged.

Rask huffed out a noisy breath and pointed to the digital countdown. ‘Often the files stay locked, even after the ransom's been paid. Depends a lot on the hacker.'

‘Christ.'
Dean ran a hand around the back of his neck as the sky lit up and rain splattered on the window beside him. ‘This is more than me handing over a measly thousand bucks to unlock encrypted files. That's a game for anonymous online hackers. Yu worked in our midst, had the balls to show us his face. He has to be after a bigger prize.'

‘It's looking that way. He knows what those designs are worth to a competitor.'

An image of the yacht flashed in Dean's mind. The graceful lines and flared bow of the Mach V was his most innovative work to date. The improved stabilisers, greater fuel efficiency and decreased emissions would help him maintain the edge on his competitors. An edge he had no intention of relinquishing.

‘The thing is,' Rask went on, ‘we have no way of knowing if he's a lone wolf or a hacker for hire.'

Dean's heart pumped cold fury through his veins as he watched Rask open the desk drawer and take out the keys to the chopper. Victor Yu had made one huge cock-up the day he decided to mess with a Logan. Yu didn't know Dean was at his best when down and dirty and fighting in the trenches, or that he'd dug himself out of deeper shitholes than this in the past.

‘So, tell me something we
do
know.'

The detective tossed him the keys and Dean caught them deftly in his right hand.

‘Marina Wentworth booked two tickets in her name. We're assuming the second seat was for Yu. There's a lot of confusion. I have the airline checking its flight manifest.'

Dean jangled the keys impatiently in his hand. ‘So—where are they headed?'

‘I'll fill you in as we go up top. Weather's getting worse—and you need to fly to Venice.'

Chapter Two

Venice

Marina Wentworth's violin bow hit the strings in the centre of the vibrating zone as the concerto ended in a flurry of blistering staccato notes. She stilled, bow poised as she waited for Vlad's signal to lower their instruments.

At the cellist's faint nod, the string quartet released a collective breath. Marina lowered her violin.

Vlad half-turned, catching her eye as he placed his cello on its stand. ‘How was that?'

She nodded. ‘Tighter than yesterday.'

‘I thought so too.'

Marina took a deep breath and looked around at the impressive interior of the Conservatorio di Musica Benedetto Marcello. A former palace, towering columns supported an ornate ceiling adorned with six enormous crystal chandeliers. On her left, two carved statues stood at the bottom of a curving staircase, while to her right a grand pipe organ was set into the wall.

‘I think Marina's G string needs tightening,' Harmon said with a grin.

Marina smiled at the viola player, the joker of the group. Yesterday he'd swapped instruments with his identical twin brother, Eli, the second violinist. To their amusement, she'd spent all day calling the young Americans by the wrong name. She didn't mind. Their fooling around made her feel welcome, eased her anxiety a touch.

She was packing up when she sensed Vlad's bulky frame beside her.

‘How is it?' His voice was low, his back to the twins so they didn't overhear the exchange.

Marina rotated her wrist. Two rehearsals down, and she couldn't feel a twinge. She released a slow breath and looked up into Vlad's concerned face.

‘It's okay. It might get sore later on though. Hard to tell.'

‘RSI's a snobby bitch. Only strikes the prodigious.'

Marina closed the snaps on her case. ‘If I were prodigious, it wouldn't have happened.'

Vlad gave a shake of his head. ‘When are you going to believe it, Marina? You're twice as talented as anyone I know.'

Heat rose in Marina's face until her cheeks burned. ‘According to the critics there are more deserving violinists.'

‘The critics are a bunch of pricks.'

Marina shook her head, unconvinced, then smiled a little as Vlad gave a dramatic sigh and hung his head.

This is what she did to people. Exasperated them. At least with Vlad it didn't matter. He knew her well from their student days and would suspect the RSI had been caused by overpractising.

He looked up. ‘What are your plans for tonight?'

Marina hitched her tote bag onto her shoulder and picked up her case. ‘I think I'll just have dinner, and stay in.'

‘Have you even been on a gondola yet?'

Marina frowned. ‘You know I hate the water.'

He gave a loud laugh and rolled his eyes. ‘Come on Rina, you can't come to Venice and
not
go on a gondola. They're right across the canal from your hotel. It will lift your spirits, I promise.'

Marina's shoulders slumped. Vlad had been his usual upbeat self from the moment she'd arrived, convinced the five-day gig on the cruise ship would ease her into playing again. How could she say that her body felt as cold as the gel pack she applied to her wrist three times a day? How could she tell him every pleasurable emotion had been erased the moment the specialist diagnosed repetitive strain injury? Vlad had gone to so much trouble to organise this gig for her, she couldn't admit the last thing she felt like doing was playing tourist.

With a deep breath, she nodded. ‘You're right. I'll go, I promise.' She shot him a glance as they walked together towards the main doors, pleased at the satisfied expression on his face. ‘And I'll do my best to get my happy on for the cruise.'

He frowned at that. ‘You don't have to pretend with me, Rina.'

‘I know.'

They lingered for a while longer, discussing sections of the score that needed work, and then Vlad opened the heavy door for her. ‘Go back to the hotel and do your rehab. We're as prepared as we can be.'

Marina stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek. ‘I may not sound it, but you know how grateful I am.'

A pale pink blush stained the big Russian's cheeks. ‘Hey, it's not every day the first violinist from the Sydney Symphony joins my string quartet. You'll lend us some class, even if we're playing to a bunch of inebriated tourists.'

‘Say hello to that beautiful wife of yours when you call to say goodnight.' Marina smiled, thinking of Elena who'd only been too happy to sit this cruise out and stay home with their children.

‘I will.' Vlad pointed an index finger at her. ‘Tomorrow. Pier three. Don't be late.'

With a wave, Marina stepped outside and looked around the piazza. It was less crowded than when she'd arrived three hours earlier. Then, hordes of camera-toting tourists and street vendors had vied for space, while restauranteurs shouted down their opposition in an effort to coax the passing crowd inside. Now, only a handful of people gathered around the central fountain, droplets glistening in the afternoon sun as water sprayed from tridents and the mouths of fish.

Using the obelisk as a landmark she set off across the square, heading for the narrow street that would lead her back to the Rialto Bridge. Pigeons cooed from every ledge and windowsill, while the stench of diesel fume hung over the city from the thousands of watercraft using the canals.

She faltered as her phone vibrated in her pocket, then remembered no-one knew she was in Venice. With a deep breath, she continued on and let the call go through to message bank. At home she'd been careful to keep the diagnosis quiet, resting her arm during the symphony's three-month break. But with the new season due to begin in six weeks, she needed to be certain her wrist would stand up to the rigours of performance. And if she broke down, she'd rather it happen on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean than at the Sydney Opera House.

Within minutes the stone portico of the Rialto Bridge came into view. Packed with tourists the architectural icon spanned the Grand Canal, and beside it stood the dusky pink facade of the Hotel Mercurial.

Marina sighed with relief. The breeze was hair dryer hot, but that was okay, she could handle hot. Not so wading through knee-deep water should the notorious tide decide to flood the water city.

The porter swung the door open and she stepped inside, welcoming the cooler temperature in the art deco lobby. On her approach the front desk supervisor looked up and smiled.

‘Ah, the Stradivarius.' He straightened the cuff of his white jacket. ‘Would you like me to put it in the safe again tonight, signora?'

‘If you wouldn't mind.' Marina handed over the instrument, watching as he ran his hand over the smooth surface of the slim high-tech case.

She waited at the curved wooden counter while the man opened a steel door and disappeared into the walk-in safe. On his return, he took a leather-covered journal from beneath the counter and entered in the item plus the date and time.

‘Thank you.' Marina took the pen he offered and signed her name next to the entry. ‘It's insured of course, but I won't take any chances with it.'

‘Certainly, signora.' The man spoke quietly as he closed the book and stowed it beneath the desk, the epitome of professionalism and discretion.

In her room on the third floor, Marina swallowed two anti-inflammatory tablets and fetched the gel pack from the bar fridge. The Louis chair by the window afforded an uninterrupted view of the bridge, and she sat down, yawning as she rolled up her sleeve and wrapped the pack around her left wrist. The coldness burned her skin and she thought about getting up and wrapping it in a towel, but decided against it. The long-haul flight from Sydney a few days ago was still messing with her body clock.

Taking a deep breath, she began her routine of circular breathing, using the technique a trumpet player had shown her years before. Back then he'd insisted it would help her with stage fright. Now, it was a part of her daily routine.

Before long her eyelids began to droop and she snuggled deeper into the chair, surrendering to the wonderful drifting feeling that often precedes sleep.

She sat straight, violin tucked beneath her chin, bow poised, eyes riveted on the conductor. Heat, as powerful as the Australian sun, beat down on her from the suspended stage lights. In her peripheral vision Marina could see the pale faces of the silent audience seated in the first few rows. Then the conductor cast one final look over the orchestra, and raised his baton…

Marina's phone blurted an alert, startling her from her slumber. Blinking against the beam of sunlight slanting through the window, she dug the device from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

With a sigh, she called her voicemail.

Did she really believe she'd get away with keeping this trip a secret?

‘Hi, it's Michelle.'

Marina leaned forward. Her sister never phoned for a sisterly chat, only when she needed money, over and above what Marina already provided.

‘Dad needs eye surgery.' Her sister's voice was so clear she could have been in the next room, not halfway across the world in Boston. ‘He has cataracts, on both eyes. Anyway, call me. You know what it costs to have surgery in this country.'