In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (53 page)

After a while she heard nothing. Only the faint rumbling of an engine.

Cautiously she pushed up on the lid. The weight of the other crate had redriven the nails into the wood. Luckily she still had the crowbar. It took some tight maneuvering, but she managed to work the tip under the lid and yanked on the bar.

The lid popped open.

She raised her head and inhaled a whiff of diesel-scented air. She was in a storage bay. Beside her were stacked the other crates from the warehouse annex. No one was around.

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It took her a few moments to crawl out. By the time she dropped onto the floor, her calves were beginning to prickle with renewed circulation. She hobbled over to the steel door and opened it a crack.

Outside was a narrow corridor. Beyond the corner, two men were laughing, joking in that foul language sailors employ when they’re away from the polite company of women. Something about the whores in Naples.

The floor lurched beneath Clea’s feet and she swayed sideways. The engine sounds were grinding louder now.

Only then did she focus on the emergency fire kit mounted on the corridor wall. It was stamped with the name
Villafjord.

I’m on his ship,
she thought.
I’m trapped on Van
Weldon’s ship.

The floor swayed again, a rolling motion that made her reach out to the walls for support. She heard the engine’s accelerating whine, sensed the gentle rocking of the hull through the swells, and she understood.

The
Villafjord
was heading out to sea.

Fourteen

Hugh Tavistock’s limousine was waiting at the side of the road just outside Guildford. The instant Jordan and his two Scotland Yard escorts pulled up in a Mercedes, the limousine door swung open. Jordan stepped out of the Mercedes and slid into the limousine’s rear seat.

He found himself confronting his uncle Hugh’s critical gaze. “It seems,” said Hugh, “that I retired from intelligence simply to devote my life to rescuing
you.
”

“And a fond hello to you, too,” answered Jordan.

“Where’s Richard?”

“Present and accounted for,” answered a voice from the driver’s seat. Dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, Richard turned and grinned at him. “I picked up this trick from a certain relative-to-be. Where’s Clea Rice?”

“I don’t know,” said Jordan. “But I have a very good idea. Did you confirm the shipping schedule for Portsmouth?”

“There is a vessel named
Villafjord
due to sail at midnight tonight. That gives us plenty of time to stop the departure.”
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“Why all this interest in the
Villafjord?
” asked Hugh.

“What’s she carrying?”

“Wild guess? A fortune in art.” Jordan added, under his breath, “And a certain little cat burglar.” Richard pulled onto the highway for Portsmouth.

“She’ll jeopardize the whole operation. You should have stopped her.”

“Ha! As if I could!” said Jordan. “As you may have surmised, she doesn’t take to instruction well.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about Miss Rice,” said Hugh. “Uncooperative, is she?”

“She doesn’t trust anyone. Not Richard, not the authorities.”

“Surely she trusts
you
by now?” Jordan gazed ahead at the dark road. Softly he said,

“I thought she did….”

But she didn’t. When it came down to the wire, she
chose to work alone. Without me.

He didn’t understand her. She was like some forest creature, always poised for flight, never trusting of a human hand. She wouldn’t
let
herself believe in him.

That lifting of his pocket watch—oh, he understood the meaning of that gesture. It was part defiance and part desperation. She was trying to push him away, to test him. She was crazy enough to put him to this test. And vulnerable enough to be hurt if he failed her.

I should have known. I should have seen this coming.

Now he was angry at himself, at her, at all the circumstances that kept wrenching them apart. Her past. Her mistrust of him.

His mistrust of
her.

Perhaps Clea had it right from the start. Perhaps there 496

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was nothing he could do, nothing she could do, that would get them beyond all this.

With renewed anxiety he glanced outside at a passing road sign. They were still thirty miles from Portsmouth.

MacLeod and the police were already waiting at the dock.

“We’re too late,” said MacLeod as Hugh and Jordan stepped out of the limousine.

“What do you mean, too late?” demanded Jordan.

“This, I take it, is young Tavistock?” asked MacLeod.

“My nephew Jordan,” said Hugh. “What’s happening here?”

“We arrived a few minutes ago. The
Villafjord
was scheduled to sail at midnight from this dock.”

“Where is she, then?”

“That’s the problem. It seems she sailed twenty minutes ago.”

“But it’s only nine-thirty.”

MacLeod shook his head. “Obviously they changed plans.”

Jordan stared out over the dark harbor. A chill wind blew in from the water, whipping his shirt and stinging his face with the tang of salt.
She’s out there. I feel it. And she’s
alone.

He turned to MacLeod. “You have to intercept them.”

“At sea? You’re talking a major operation! We have no firm evidence yet. Nothing solid to authorize that sort of thing.”

“You’ll find your evidence on the
Villafjord.
”

“I can’t take that chance. If I move on Van Weldon without cause, his lawyers will shut down my investiga-Thief of Hearts

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tion for good. We have to wait until she docks in Naples.

Convince the Italian police to board her.”

“By then it may be too late! MacLeod, this could be your best chance. Your only chance. If you want Van Weldon, move
now.
”

MacLeod looked at Hugh. “What do you think, Lord Lovat?”

“We’d need help from the Royal Navy. A chopper or two. Oh, we could do it, all right. But if the evidence isn’t aboard, if it turns out we’re chasing nothing but a cargo of biscuits, there’s going to be enough red faces all around to fill a bloody circus ring.”

“I’m telling you, the evidence
is
on board,” said Jordan.

“So is Clea.”

“Is that what you’re really chasing?” asked Hugh.

“The woman?”

“What if it is?”

“We don’t launch an operation this big just because some—some stray female has gotten herself into trouble,” said MacLeod. “We move prematurely and we’ll lose our chance at Van Weldon.”

“He’s right,” said Hugh. “There are too many factors to weigh here. The woman can’t be our first concern.”

“Don’t give me any bloody lecture about who’s dispensable and who isn’t!” retorted Jordan. “She’s not one of your agents. She never took any oath to protect queen and country. She’s a civilian, and you can’t leave her out there.
I
won’t leave her out there!” Hugh stared at his nephew in surprise. “She means that much to you?”

Jordan met his uncle’s gaze. The answer had never been clearer than at this very moment, with the wind 498

Tess Gerritsen

whipping their faces and the night growing ever deeper, ever colder.

“Yes,” said Jordan firmly. “She means that much to me.”

His uncle glanced up at the sky. “Looks like some nasty weather coming up—it will complicate things.”

“But…they’ll be miles at sea by the time we reach them,” said MacLeod. “Beyond English waters. There’s no legal way to demand a search.”

“No
legal
way,” said Jordan.

“What, you think they’ll just invite us aboard to comb the ship?”

“They’re not going to know there
is
a search.” Jordan turned to his uncle. “I’ll need a navy helicopter. And a crew of volunteers for the boarding party.” Troubled, Hugh regarded his nephew for a moment.

“You’ll have no authority to back you up on this. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

“If anything goes wrong—”

“The navy will deny my existence. I know that, too.” Hugh shook his head, agonizing over the decision.

“Jordan, you’re my only nephew….”

“And with a bloodline like ours, we can’t possibly fail.

Can we?” Smiling, Jordan gave his uncle’s shoulder a squeeze of confidence.

Hugh sighed. “This woman must be quite extraordinary.”

“I’ll introduce you,” said Jordan, and his gaze shifted back to the water. “As soon as I get her off that bloody ship.” The men’s voices moved on and faded down the corridor.

Clea remained frozen by the door, debating whether to
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risk leaving the storage area. Before they docked again, she’d have to find a new hiding place. Eventually someone would check the cargo, and when that happened, the last place Clea wanted to be was trapped in a crate.

The coast looked clear.

She slipped out of the storeroom and headed in the opposite direction the men had taken. The below-decks area was a confusing maze of corridors and hatches.

Which way next?

The question was settled by the sound of footsteps. In panic, she ducked through the nearest door.

To her dismay she discovered she was in the crew’s quarters—and the footsteps were moving closer. She scrambled across to the row of lockers, opened a door and squeezed inside.

It was even a tighter fit than the crate had been. She was crammed against a bundle of foul-smelling shirts and an even fouler pair of tennis shoes. Through the ventilation slits she saw two men step into the room. One of them crossed toward the lockers. Clea almost let out a squeak of relief when he swung open the door right beside hers.

“Hear there’s rough weather comin’ up,” the man said, pulling on a slicker.

“Hell, she’s blowin’ twenty-five knots already.” The men, now garbed in foul-weather gear, left the quarters.

Clea emerged from the locker. She couldn’t keep ducking in and out of rooms; she’d have to find a more permanent hiding place. Some spot she’d be left undisturbed…

The lifeboats. She’d seen it used as a hiding place in the movies. Unless there was a ship’s emergency, she’d be safe waiting it out there until they docked.

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Tess Gerritsen

She scavenged among the lockers and pulled out a sailor’s pea coat and a black cap. Then, her head covered, her petite frame almost swallowed up in the coat, she crept out of the crew’s quarters and started up a stairway to the deck.

It was blowing outside, the night swirling with wind and spray. Through the darkness she could make out several men moving about on deck. Two were securing a cargo hatch, a third was peering through binoculars over the port rail. None of them glanced in her direction.

She spotted two lifeboats secured near the starboard gunwale. Both were covered with tarps. Not only would she be concealed in there, she’d be dry. Once the
Villafjord
reached Naples, she could sneak ashore.

She pulled the pea coat tighter around her shoulders.

Calmly, deliberately, she began to stroll toward the lifeboats.

Simon Trott stood on the bridge and eyed the increas-ingly foul weather from behind the viewing windows.

Though the captain had assured him the passage would present no difficulties for the Villafjord, Trott still couldn’t shake off his growing sense of uneasiness.

Obviously, Victor Van Weldon didn’t share Trott’s sense of foreboding. The old man sat calmly beside him on the bridge, oxygen hissing softly through his nasal tube. Van Weldon would not be anxious about something so trivial as a storm at sea. At his age, with his failing health, what was there left for him to fear?

Trott asked the captain, “Will it get much rougher?”

“Not by much, I expect,” said the captain. “She’ll handle it fine. But if you’re that concerned, we can turn back to Portsmouth.”

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“No,” spoke up Van Weldon. “We cannot return.” Suddenly he began to cough. Everyone on the bridge looked away in distaste as the old man spat into a handkerchief.

Trott, too, averted his gaze and focused on the main deck below, where three men were working hunched against the wind. That’s when Trott noticed the fourth figure moving along the starboard gunwale. It passed, briefly, under the glow of a decklight, then slipped into the shadows.

At the first lifeboat the figure paused, glanced around and began to untie the covering tarp.

“Who is that?” Trott asked sharply. “That man by the lifeboat?”

The captain frowned. “I don’t recognize that one.” At once Trott turned for the exit.

“Mr. Trott?” called the captain.

“I’ll take care of this.”

By the time Trott reached the deck, he had his automatic drawn and ready. The figure had vanished. Draped free over the lifeboat was an unfastened corner of tarp. Trott prowled closer. With a jerk he yanked off the tarp and pointed his gun at the shadow cowering inside.

“Out!” snapped Trott. “Come on,
out.
” Slowly the figure unfolded itself and raised its head. By the glow of a decklight Trott saw the terror in that startlingly familiar face.

“If it isn’t the elusive Miss Clea Rice,” said Trott.

And he smiled.

The cabin was large, plushly furnished and equipped with all the luxuries one would expect in a well-appointed 502

Tess Gerritsen

living room. Only the swaying of the crystal chandelier overhead betrayed the fact it was a shipboard residence.

The chair Clea was tied to was upholstered in green velvet and the armrests were carved mahogany.
Surely they
won’t kill me here,
she thought.
They wouldn’t want me to
bleed all over this pricey antique.

Trott emptied the contents of her pockets and her knapsack onto a table and eyed the collection of lock picks.