In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (54 page)

“I see you came well prepared,” he commented dryly. “How did you get on board?”

“Trade secret.”

“Are you alone?”

“You think I’d tell you?”

With two swift steps he crossed to her and slapped her across the face, so hard her head snapped back. For a moment she was too stunned by the force of the blow to speak.

“Surely, Miss Rice,” wheezed Victor Van Weldon, “you don’t wish to anger Mr. Trott more than you already have.

He can be most unpleasant when annoyed.”

“So I’ve noticed,” groaned Clea. She squinted, focusing her blurred gaze on Van Weldon. He was frailer than she’d expected. And old, so old. Oxygen tubing snaked from his nostrils to a green tank hooked behind his wheelchair. His hands were bruised, the skin thin as paper. This was a man barely clinging to life. What could he possibly lose by killing her?

“I’ll ask you again,” said Trott. “Are you alone?”

“I brought a team of navy SEALs with me.” Trott hit her again. A thousand shards of light seemed to explode in her head.

“Where is Jordan Tavistock?” asked Trott.

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“I don’t know.”

“Is he with you?”

“No.”

Trott picked up Jordan’s gold pocket watch and flipped open the lid. He read aloud the inscription. “Bernard Tavistock.” He looked at her. “You have no idea where he is?”

“I told you I don’t.”

He held up the watch. “Then what are you doing with this?”

“I stole it.”

Though she steeled herself for the coming blow, the impact of his fist still took her breath away. Blood trickled down her chin. In dazed wonder she watched the red droplets soak into the lush carpet at her feet.
How ironic,
she thought.
I finally tell the truth and he doesn’t believe
me.

“He is still working with you, isn’t he?” said Trott.

“He wants nothing more to do with me. I left him.” Trott turned to Van Weldon. “I think Tavistock is still a threat. Keep the contract on him alive.” Clea’s head shot up. “No. No, he’s got nothing to do with this!”

“He’s been with you this past week.”

“His misfortune.”

“Why were you together?”

She gave a shrug. “Lust?”

“You think I’d believe that?”

“Why not?” Rebelliously she cocked up her head. “I’ve been known to tweak the hormones of more than a few men.”

“This gets us nowhere!” said Van Weldon. “Throw her overboard.”

“I want to know what she’s learned. What Tavistock’s 504

Tess Gerritsen

learned. Otherwise we’ll be operating blind. If Interpol—” He suddenly turned.

The intercom was buzzing.

Trott crossed the room and pressed the speaker button.

“Yes, Captain?”

“We’ve a situation up here, Mr. Trott. There’s a Royal Navy ship hard on our stern. They’ve requested permission to come aboard.”

“Why?”

“They say they’re checking all outbound vessels from Portsmouth for some IRA terrorist. They think he may have passed himself off as crew.”

“Request denied,” said Van Weldon calmly.

“They have helicopter backup,” said the captain. “And another ship on the way.”

“We are beyond the twelve-mile limit,” said Van Weldon. “They have no right to board us.”

“Sir, might I advise cooperation?” said the captain. “It sounds like a routine matter. You know how it is—the Brits are always hunting down IRA. They’ll probably just want to eyeball our crew. If we refuse, it will only rouse their suspicions.”

Trott and Van Weldon exchanged glances. At last Van Weldon nodded.

“Assemble all men on deck,” said Trott into the intercom. “Let the Brits have a good look at them. But it stops there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Trott turned to Van Weldon. “We’d both better be on deck to meet them. As for Miss Rice…” He looked at Clea.

“She will have to wait,” said Van Weldon, and wheeled
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his chair across the room to a private elevator. “See that she’s well secured. I will meet you on the bridge.” He maneuvered into the elevator and slid the gate shut. With a hydraulic whine, the lift carried him away.

Trott turned his attention to Clea’s bonds. He yanked the ropes around her wrists so tightly she gave a cry of pain. Then quickly, efficiently he taped her mouth.

“That should keep you,” he said with a grunt of satisfaction, and he left the room.

The instant the door shut behind him, Clea began straining at her bonds. It took only a few painful twists of her wrists to tell her that it was hopeless. She wasn’t going to get loose.

Shedding tears of frustration, she slumped back against the chair. Up on deck, the Royal Navy would soon be landing. They would never know, would never guess, that just below their feet was a victim in need of rescue.

So close and yet so far.

She gritted her teeth and began to strain again at the ropes.

“You’re certain you want to go in with us?” Jordan peered through the chopper windows at the deck of the
Villafjord
below. It would be a bumpy landing into enemy territory, but with all this wind and darkness as cover, there was a reasonable chance no one down there would recognize him.

“I’m going in,” Jordan said.

“You’ll have twenty minutes at the most,” said the naval officer seated across from him. “And then we’re out of there. With or without you.”

“I understand.”

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“We’re on shaky legal ground already. If Van Weldon lodges a complaint to the high command, we’ll be explaining ourselves till doomsday.”

“Twenty minutes. Just give me that much.” Jordan tugged the black watch cap lower on his brow. The borrowed Royal Navy uniform was a bit snug around his shoulders, and the automatic felt uncomfortably foreign holstered against his chest, but both were absolutely necessary if he was to participate in this masquerade. Unfortunately the other seven men in the boarding party—all naval officers—were plainly doubtful about having some amateur along for the ride. They kept watching him with expressions bordering on disdain.

Jordan ignored them and focused on the broad deck of the
Villafjord,
now directly beneath the skids. A little tricky maneuvering by the pilot brought them to a touchdown. At once the men began to pile out, Jordan among them.

The pilot, mindful of the hazards of a rolling deck, took off again, leaving the crew temporarily stranded aboard the
Villafjord.

A man with blond hair was crossing to greet them.

Jordan slipped behind the other men in his party and averted his face. It would be bloody inconvenient to be recognized right off the bat.

The ranking officer of the naval team stepped forward and met the blond man. “Lieutenant Commander Tobias, Royal Navy.”

“Simon Trott. VP operations, the Van Weldon company.

How can we help you, Commander?”

“We’d like to inspect your crew.”

“Certainly. They’ve already been assembled.” Trott pointed to the knot of men huddled near the bridge stairway.

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“Is everyone on deck?”

“All except the captain and Mr. Van Weldon. They’re up on the bridge.”

“There’s no one below decks?”

“No, sir.”

Commander Tobias nodded. “Then let’s get started.” Trott turned to lead the way. As the rest of the boarding party followed Trott, Jordan hung behind, waiting for a chance to slip away.

No one noticed him duck down the midship stairway.

With all the crew up top, he’d have the below-decks area to himself. There wasn’t much time to search. Slipping quickly down the first corridor, he poked his head into every doorway, calling Clea’s name. He passed crew’s quarters and officers’ quarters, the mess hall, the galley.

No sign of Clea.

Heading farther astern, he came across what appeared to be a storage bay. Inside the room were a dozen crates of various sizes. The lid was ajar on one of them. He lifted it off and glanced inside.

Swathed in fluffy packing was the bronze head of a statue. And a black glove—a woman’s, size five.

Jordan glanced sharply around the room. “Clea?” he called out.

Ten minutes had already passed.

With a surging sense of panic he continued down the corridor, throwing open doors, scanning each compartment. So little time left, and he still had the engine room, the cargo bays and Lord knew what else might lie astern.

Overhead he heard the sound of rumbling, growing louder now. The helicopter was about to land again.

A mahogany door with a sign Private was just ahead.

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Captain’s quarters? Jordan tried the knob and found it was locked. He pounded on it a few times and called out,

“Clea?”

There was no answer.

She heard the pounding on the door, then Jordan’s voice calling her name.

She tried to answer, tried to shout, but the tape over her mouth muffled all but the faintest whimper. Frantic to reach him, she thrashed like a madwoman against her bonds. The ropes held. Her hands and feet had gone numb, useless.

Don’t leave me!
she wanted to shriek.
Don’t leave me!

But she knew he had already turned from the door.

In despair, she jerked her body sideways. The chair tipped, carrying her down with it. Her head slammed against an end table. The pain was like a bolt of lightning through her skull; it left her stunned on the floor. Blackness swam before her eyes. She fought the slide toward unconsciousness, fought it savagely with every ounce of will she possessed. And still she could not clear the blackness from her vision.

Faintly she heard a thumping. Again and again, like a drumbeat in the darkness.

She struggled to see. The blackness was lifting. She could make out the outlines of furniture now. And she realized that the thumping was coming from the door.

In a shower of splinters the wood suddenly split open, breached by the bright red blade of a fire ax. Another blow tore a gaping hole in the door. An arm thrust in, to fumble at the lock.

Jordan shoved into the room.

He took one look at Clea and murmured, “My God…” At once he was kneeling at her side. Her hands were
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so numb she scarcely felt it when he cut the cords binding her wrists.

But she did feel his kiss. He pulled the tape from her mouth, lifted her from the floor and pressed his lips to hers.

As she lay sobbing in his arms he kissed her hair, her face, murmuring her name again and again, as though he could not say it enough, could never say it enough.

A soft beeping made his head suddenly lift from hers.

He silenced the pager hung on his belt. “That’s our one-minute warning,” he said. “We have to get out of here.

Can you walk?”

“I—I don’t think so. My legs…”

“Then I’ll carry you.” He swept her up into his arms.

Stepping across the wood-littered carpet, he bore her out of the room and into the corridor.

“How do we get off the ship?” she asked.

“The same way I got on. Navy chopper.” He rounded a corner.

And halted.

“I am afraid, Mr. Tavistock,” said Simon Trott, standing in their path, “that you are going to miss your flight.”
Fifteen

Clea felt Jordan’s arms tighten around her. In the momentary silence she could almost hear the thudding of his heart against his chest.

Trott raised the barrel of his automatic. “Put her down.”

“She can’t walk,” said Jordan. “She hit her head.”

“Very well, then. You’ll have to carry her.”

“Where?”

Trott waved the gun toward the far end of the corridor.

“The cargo bay.”

That gun left Jordan no choice. With Clea in his arms he headed up the corridor and stepped through a doorway, into a cargo bay crammed full with packing crates.

“The landing party knows I’m on board,” said Jordan.

“They won’t leave without me.”

“Won’t they?” Trott glanced upward toward the rumble of the chopper rotors. “They’re about to do just that.” They heard the roar of the helicopter as it suddenly lifted away.

“Too late,” said Trott with a regretful shake of his head.

“You’ve now entered the gray world of deniability, Mr.

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Tavistock. We’ll claim you never came aboard. And the Royal Navy will have a sticky time admitting otherwise.” Again he waved the gun, indicating one of the crates. “It’s large enough for you both. A cozy end, I’d say.”
He’s going to shut us inside,
thought Clea. And then what?

A ditching at sea, of course. She and Jordan would drown together, their bodies locked forever in an undersea casket. Suddenly she found it hard to breathe. Sheer terror had drained her of the ability to think, to act.

When Jordan spoke, his voice was astonishingly calm.

“They’ll be waiting for you in Naples,” said Jordan.

“Interpol and the Italian police. You don’t really think it’s as simple as tossing one crate overboard?”

“We’ve bought our way into Naples for years.”

“Then your luck is about to change. Do you like dark, enclosed places? Because that’s where
you’re
going to find yourself. For the rest of your life.”

“I’ve had enough,” Trott snapped. “Put her down. Pry the lid off the crate.” He picked up a crowbar and slid it across the floor to Jordan. “Do it. And no sudden moves.” Jordan set Clea down on her feet. At once she slid to her knees, her legs still numb and useless. Dropping down beside her, Jordan looked her in the eye. Something in his gaze caught her attention. He was trying to tell her something. He bent close to her and the flap of his jacket sagged open.

That’s when she caught a glimpse of his shoulder holster.

He had a gun!

Trott’s view was blocked by Jordan’s back. Quickly she slipped her hand beneath Jordan’s jacket, grabbed the pistol from the holster and hugged it against her chest.