Authors: Sandra Brown
Katherine glared defiantly into Dutta’s eyes. “What’s this supposed to accomplish? Do you actually think this will get you your children?”
Dutta shrugged. “
Insh’allah
. If not, I will make more children,” he looked at Beverly with contempt, “with a proper wife and mother.” His expression hardened. “But you will not see it. You will see nothing once the tide rises.” He pointed at the slots in the wall where murky water was already starting to slosh in.
Katherine looked to her right then up at Dutta. “Where are we?”
Dutta savored the moment, his mouth curving to a crooked grin.
“This place is called Execution Dock.”
* * *
Cann was glaring at the computer as Foster walked in accompanied by two men and a woman. On the screen were two West-Asian men dressed in white coveralls, the Coronet Hotel logo visible on the back. Katherine staggered along between them, either stunned or drugged. As they reached a large canvas laundry basket, Katherine leaned back, resisting. One of the men punched her hard in the face with a closed right fist. Twice. She went limp and they threw her into the basket. Cann’s knuckles were white.
Foster turned to one of his men. “Get one of the housekeeping staff,” he ordered. In moments, he returned with a young black woman whose eyes darted from face to face as she twisted and untwisted a cleaning cloth in her hands.
“Do you know these men?” Foster asked. Cann had cropped the image so only the men’s faces were shown. The woman put a finger on the one who hadn’t punched Katherine.
“That’s Kanu Mukherjee. Housekeeping. I don’t know the other man.”
“Is he here now?”
“I saw him a little while ago.”
Foster nodded at his two men and they left. He ordered his female employee to “Run him down.” She, too, nodded and left.
“May I go?” the housekeeper asked.
“In a moment.” Foster was taking no chance she might, however innocently, reveal their hand.
Moments later, Foster’s people reappeared with Mukherjee. The maid was allowed to leave. Mukherjee looked merely cautious at first but when Cann returned the images of him and the other man and Katherine to the screen, he paled and cast his eyes downward refusing to meet the others’ eyes.
“Where did you take her?” Cann asked.
“I didn’t take her nowhere,” the man said sullenly.
Cann grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him up against the wall. “Answer now,” he growled.
Mukherjee scrunched his chin into his throat in an effort to pull back. “You can’t do this. I got rights.”
Foster slammed a hand into the side of the Mukherjee’s head then put his face up against the man’s ear. “No, lad, you don’t have rights. Not with us. Answer. Now.”
“I can’t. I don’t know.”
“Then tell us who’s this other man and where can we find him?”
Mukherjee chewed his lip.
Foster’s female employee came back into the room and handed Foster a sheaf of papers. He looked at them briefly before he started to read from them. “‘Kanu Mukherjee. Emigrated to the U.K. July 2006. Married, two children.’” Foster continued to read off the details of Mukherjee’s life. “Just one problem, though, Kanu, isn’t there?”
Mukherjee now looked concerned. “You two never married. And she’s not Bengali. She’s Bhutanese.” He looked hard into Mukherjee’s eyes. “As a citizen of Bangladesh, you have Commonwealth citizenship. Your wife does not and is therefore here illegally. As are your children.” He grabbed Mukherjee by the chin. “Look at me, here, in my eyes. Do you see anything that says I won’t call the authorities in the next five minutes if you don’t tell us what we want to know? Immediately.” Even as he spoke he was taking his cell phone out of his pocket.
Mukherjee hesitated only briefly. “The other man is my cousin.”
“Name.”
Mukherjee licked his lips. “Girish Dutta.” Cann and Foster exchanged a look.
“Is Sarnath Dutta your cousin, as well?” Cann asked.
The man nodded.
“Where are they?”
“Please…” Kanu hesitated, then said, “Girish lives in Tower Hamlets but…”
Foster grabbed Mukherjee by the shirt and pushed him ahead of them. “Take us.”
* * *
Sarnath Dutta pulled the ladder up after him, slammed the trapdoor shut and rammed the bolt through the hasp. Without standing, he crept a few feet to the side and pulled back a small carpet that covered a small grid in the floor. He peered down into the chamber and was gratified to see the water level had already risen almost to Katherine’s and Beverly’s knees. Both struggled with their bonds but were limited in how much they could move. If the chair tipped over, they would be on their sides, lashed to the seat and would drown that much sooner.
Katherine knew that. She also knew that at the rate the water was rising it would not be long before they drowned no matter what. She called across to Beverly, “The rope seems to stretch a bit when it gets wet. Work on freeing your legs. Be careful.” Beverly nodded.
Above them, Sarnath Dutta smiled. He was going to enjoy this.
* * *
Mukherjee took them to the Wapping District in the borough of Tower Hamlets, so named because of its proximity to the Tower of London. They were in two cars, one driven by one of Foster’s men with Cann and Foster in the back, Mukherjee squeezed between them. The other man and the woman from Foster’s security firm followed in a separate car.
As they drove down Garnet Street, Mukherjee leaned forward and pointed at a man sauntering self-importantly down the street. “That’s him. That’s Girish.”
They drove by slowly, careful to
not
look at the man as Foster communicated with the car behind. At the next intersection, they turned and stopped right on the corner blocking the crosswalk. The man identified as Girish Dutta slowed and started to look around just as the second car pulled up to his left and behind him. The male operative who’d been in the passenger seat of the second car jumped out to block his retreat. Cann leaped from the backseat of the first car and he and the other man threw Dutta into the backseat of the trailing vehicle. Cann jumped in beside him and grabbed the man’s throat.
“Where did you take her?”
Dutta said nothing. Cann’s grip tightened around his windpipe.
“Not here, John,” Foster said leaning down into the open door. “We’ve a better place.” Cann clipped him across the chin, stunning him.
* * *
Minutes later, they were in a small room at the back of a windowless Tower Hamlets warehouse set amid a large enclosed area filled with construction equipment and materials. Girish Dutta was bound to a chair in the middle of the floor, still wearing a defiant look.
“Where is she?” Cann repeated.
Dutta smirked. “What’re ya gonna do wif me, mate, waterboard me?”
Cann turned to Foster. “I don’t have time for this.” There was a tall cylindrical canister in a corner of the room topped with a shallow ashtray. Cann asked one of the security men to take it and fill its entire three-foot height with soil or sand from one of the piles outside. The man did so and returned struggling with the weight of it. Cann thanked him and turned to Foster. “Maybe you and your people should leave.”
Foster flipped his chin at the door directing his team to wait outside. When they were gone, he said simply, “I’ll stay.”
He and Cann then lashed Dutta’s right hand so that it lay facedown, fingers splayed on top of the dirt-filled canister. Cann turned again to Foster. “I need a gun.” Foster nodded and reached inside his jacket and took out a black Glock 20. “This one’s untraceable,” he said. From another pocket, he took out a suppressor and handed that to Cann who screwed it onto the muzzle then pulled back the slide to make sure there was a round in the chamber. Girish Dutta watched in silence, a bemused look on his face.
Cann stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of the pistol straight down on the first knuckle of the man’s bound hand. “Where did you take her?”
“Who d’you think you’re kiddin’, mate. You ain’t…”
The weapon jolted in Cann’s hand as he fired, the bullet severing the finger and penetrating into the soil beneath. With his left hand, Cann picked up the severed finger and held it in front of Dutta’s eyes.
“We ain’t kiddin’, mate,” he said, mocking the accent. He tossed the finger into a corner of the room and asked yet again, “Where is she?”
A choking sound came from Dutta’s throat and his eyes went from Cann’s face to Foster’s and found nothing. Cann moved the muzzle to the man’s middle finger and fired again. Again he displayed the result to the horrified prisoner and tossed it away. Dutta’s eyes were wide and his lips were moving but nothing was coming out.
Cann looked over at Foster. “You know what? He’s got eight more of those,” he said coldly. “That’ll take too long.” He stepped up close and rammed the muzzle straight down into Dutta’s groin. “Where is she?”
Girish Dutta couldn’t tell them fast enough.
* * *
“It’s called Execution Dock,” Foster explained to Cann as they sped down Garnet Street toward the Thames, “because that’s where executions took place for admiralty crimes—piracy, mutiny, etc. Most they hanged. Others, depending on the crime, were placed in cells below high tide level and left to drown.” He looked over at Cann, who was staring ahead, fists clenched.
They’d brought Girish Dutta to show them exactly where he had taken Katherine and, they now knew, Beverly. Despite Girish Dutta’s complaints, medical treatment for his hand consisted of a towel wrapping and nothing more. He’d been told to be thankful for that.
They turned right onto Wapping High Street, a narrow road lined with warehouses that fronted on the street and backed onto the river. The large knife pressed into Girish Dutta’s side convinced him to promptly point out the building where Katherine and Beverly were being held. They drove past and stopped down the street. Leaving Dutta guarded by one of the men, Cann and Foster approached the side of the warehouse on foot. The two other members of Foster’s team positioned themselves at front and rear corners where they could observe the other three sides of the building.
Foster made quick work of the door locks.
Inside the building, Sarnath Dutta heard the old hinges creak and jumped up and peered through a crack in the wall. Two men carrying guns didn’t bode well. He pulled a knife from a sheath at the small of his back and dashed back to the trapdoor and pulled it open. Both Katherine and Beverly had managed to get their legs free and were now on their feet but bent over by the chairs to which they remained bound. The water was up to their hips.
Katherine immediately sensed what was happening. “John,” she shouted as loudly as she could. Beverly echoed her. Dutta, hanging from one hand on the edge of the trapdoor opening, dropped into the chamber and slipped on the submerged floor. He regained his footing and leaped at Beverly, grabbing her throat and raising the knife. Behind him, Katherine charged forward and slammed hard into Dutta’s side throwing him off balance. The side of his head struck the hard stone of the wall and he slid down it, his face just below the water’s surface. Stunned, he struggled to raise himself. As he did, Katherine executed a hard side kick to his head knocking him out. He slid back under the surface and Katherine jammed the sole of her right foot into his chest to make sure he stayed there. Then she turned quickly and straddled his upper torso with the chair legs and sat down hard. Beverly saw what was happening and quickly did the same over Dutta’s hips and legs.
Cann reached the opening and immediately swung himself down into the water. For a moment he stood looking around frantically for Sarnath Dutta before he saw the blurred image under the chairs. He reached down and pulled the head up, pressing the muzzle of his weapon against its temple. There was no movement and he let go. The body sank back into the water.
John quickly untied Katherine and they both helped free Beverly of her bonds. Foster’s people lowered the ladder and they all scrambled out of the pit and headed for the relative warmth of the sun. Once outside, John wrapped his arms around Katherine and pulled her close. They held each other for a very long moment. “You okay?” he asked after a while.
“I am now.” She looked down at herself and then at John. “We need to get out of these wet clothes.”
“That’ll work,” John smiled.
Katherine’s laugh was interrupted by Beverly. “Can we get to CPS?” she asked, still stunned by what had just occurred and her role in it. “Will they still let me take the children?” She looked desperately at Katherine. “After this?” She pointed back at the building.
“The less said the better,” Sir Robert Foster interjected pointedly. He gestured to his team and they went back inside. “We’ll clean this up. You go on.” He turned to Beverly. “You must understand. This never happened.”
Beverly looked at Katherine, who nodded. After a moment, Beverly did the same.
“You’ll get your kids,” Katherine reassured her. “But we need to change. We can’t go like this.” She turned to John. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Yup.” He caressed her cheek and smiled. “But only a little. You wouldn’t be you otherwise.”
“Will you come with us?” Beverly asked sincerely.
“Of course,” John answered. “Like I told Katherine,” he said, though he was looking at Foster, “I always love a happy ending.”
* * * * *
IN ATLANTIS
Alexandra Sokoloff
This is a delicious fairy tale, complete with a lady and a Prince Charming. But its ending is nowhere near the traditional happ’ly ever after. ~SB
It was true what they said, the water really was that color, that you see in the books.
Melissa stood on the white sand beach of Paradise Island—real white sand, soft as whipped cream under her feet—and looked out on that dazzling, jewel-like, multihued blue. The winds were gentle, and the sun warm and caressing… .
And it made not the slightest bit of difference.
Because it was also true what they said about a broken heart. There was absolutely such a thing. It did feel as if her heart had been shattered like glass, and now the broken pieces were moving around in her chest. Too sudden a move or a breath and the jagged edges cut her flesh, racking her with new pain.
Three weeks ago she’d been counting the days until her wedding. And then, the oldest story in the book—Facebook, to be exact.
No harm in friending that high school crush, oh, no.
She would bet every cent in the resort casino that hers wasn’t the first broken marriage, or almost-marriage, in Facebook history.
Her grief came in waves, like the sea.
“I don’t think I’m ever going to feel anything again,” she’d told her now-ex-bridesmaid, Annette.
Annette had grabbed Melissa’s purse and rummaged for a credit card, which she proceeded to use to book an air and hotel package to the Bahamas.
“There. I made it easy, it’s the Atlantis. They do everything for you. Just go. Bake in the sun. Have Coco Locos. Have fantasies.”
And somehow, here she was.
Tiny Paradise Island was just off the main island of New Providence, and the Royal Towers of Atlantis seemed to take up a good quarter of it, a
massive twenty-four-story coral-colored resort complex with “Atlantean” ornamentation: leaping swordfish and whorls of shells and tumbling waterfalls of fountains and 141 acres of water rides with names like “The Surge” and “Serpent Slide.” An unlikely cross between the mythical underwater paradise and Disneyland.
In Melissa’s present condition, the Atlantis was so overwhelming that the first day she was in danger of never leaving her room, never in fact leaving the bed. But ultimately she decided that even a ten-minute walk around the hotel was better than slow death by HBO, so she forced herself to dress—Annette had even packed for her—and foray out of the room.
The staircase spiraled down to a circular mall of marble, lined by boutiques displaying clothing that would cost her a year’s salary per item. She passed Prada, Gucci, the Columbian Emeralds store. No one looked at her; she felt invisible, rather like moving in a dream.
The mall opened onto an opulent mirrored lobby…and the centerpiece stopped her in her tracks: a massive crystalline sculpture that seemed to blend the elemental energies of sun and ice.
A
Chihuly,
she recognized right away, as her eyes followed the lines of silver-white crystals up to the skylight.
What I wouldn’t give for that,
she thought, drinking in its beauty at the same time that she was assessing its value at easily two million.
Art history was a terrible background for anyone looking to make an actual living. But she’d managed to parlay her degree and her passion into a job as director of a nicely endowed museum on a state college campus. She had enough of a budget to book shows she really cared about: Egyptian antiquities, photography collections, a fantastic impressionist show just last year.
But a Chihuly was something she could never afford. She stifled a surge of resentment that a glorified mall should end up with a piece of work this fine. No one was even looking at. The casino was even more dazzling; more Atlantis themes with sea monsters and ancient temples prominent in the decor. There were more Chihulys, too, a shining globe of blue and white shells, a fiery burst of orange and red, like lava curling up through water.
She first noticed the man because he was looking up at the art rather than down at the roulette table; he was the only one in the casino besides her who seemed to be aware of the gigantic sculptures suspended above the tables. Everyone else was in that gambling haze, or zone, they probably called it, that hypnotic rhythm of the tables and machines. But the man was gazing up at the brilliant sworls of glass.
And very quickly after she noticed him looking at the Chihuly, she couldn’t help noticing how noticeable
he
was. The kind of man that you always hoped would be slanted just that way against a roulette table. Dark curly hair and coolly assessing eyes, tall and elegant in a suit cut so well she was instantly aware of every muscle of the equally cut body inside it.
She watched him, invisibly…until she realized what she was doing and was horrified at herself.
After everything you’ve just been through—this man? The roulette equivalent of a pool hustler?
A cocktail waitress stopped in front of her with a tray full of drinks, and Melissa reached and drank too fast. The rum made it easier to breathe, and she didn’t flee after all. By the end of her second she was indulging in a fantasy of
stepping up to a table like an old pro, exuding a sly knowingness as she coolly played her rounds… .
And of course, of course, the man at the roulette table would be admiring her play… .
Her reckless thoughts turned racing.
And what? What?
This was exactly the problem with Danny, the problem for maybe your whole life, this infallible radar for bad boys.
She watched the spinning roulette wheel and was suddenly so dizzy she knew she was going to be sick.
She barely made it out of the casino, barely managed the elevator. In her room she pulled open the French doors and stood swaying on the terrace, hands gripping the railing as she stared down at the black waves below… .
She backed suddenly away, through the doors…where she crawled into bed and slept for sixteen hours.
* * *
When she woke up, everything was different. A breeze played gently through the room and she felt a surprising lightness.
She rose up out of the bed, walked to the open doors and stepped onto the terrace.
Bougainvilleas in red and purple and orange grew lushly in stone planters. Turquoise sea stretched to infinity beyond the lagoon. She breathed in the salt and flower scent of the air, and felt a profound calm come over her.
It occurred to her that she could simply stay, never go home, run her credit cards out while she wandered the resort until some new plan evolved or she was arrested, one of those. The thought of just giving up all semblance of responsibility was intoxicating.
What’s the percentage in being good, anyway?
And it was clear, as clear as the water of the harbor, that she really didn’t care what happened to her anymore. Somehow that made her feel the most alive she’d felt…maybe in years.
Inside she put on one of the more daring dresses Annette had packed for her, a shimmering backless coral sheath. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt expensive and reckless.
When she got off the elevator
she made a wrong turn and discovered something wonderful. Down that quiet corridor off the mall was a gallery. And the exhibit was “Lost Treasures of Atlantis.”
There was no one else in the gallery; fine art apparently not being quite the draw of the casino or the waterslides. Of course the artifacts inside had nothing really to do with Atlantis, which didn’t, after all, actually exist. But whoever had curated the exhibit had created a lovely fantasy of what artifacts might have existed in that oceanic world: rough-cut gems, vaguely Minoan creatures; gold carvings of mermaids and tritons; jeweled sea monsters; chalices.
And one that caught her and held her as if she had always known it: a gold shell, encrusted with diamonds and emeralds and what she thought was topaz but the description card identified as yellow diamonds. The shell opened, like a box, and was lined with velvet, and something opened in her heart, seeing it; it seemed to her the most beautiful thing she had ever encountered.
* * *
She daydreamed about the piece while she took her first real walk on the beach that day, and was aware of men noticing her. The shell had given her some of its fire; somehow she was no longer invisible.
That night she dreamed about it, dreamed of a dim, cool underwater palace, where she sat, dressed in silk, on a throne of fire and ice and held the jeweled shell in her hands. The dream was so vivid she felt a physical pain, waking up to the real world.
She dressed and hurried down to the gallery, anxious to see the shell again.
But when she stepped through the door, there was someone else there, standing in front of the glass case.
The man from the casino. This time in a white shirt as elegant as his suit had been, and casual trousers that were equally expensive, equally fine. He was even more attractive in profile, dark, encompassing eyes, aristocratically chiseled features softened by a sensual mouth—
Bad men, remember? Steer away.
She almost turned around right there and headed—anywhere—to the beach, back to her room, even the ferry to Nassau, just
away
.
Almost.
But then she had a thought, a dangerous thought.
What difference does it make?
My life is over. Why not look for trouble? Who cares anyway?
The idea was exhilarating, strangely liberating.
As she watched him, he stopped in front of the case that held the shell.
Her
shell. And he stood looking in on it for the longest moment—not just a moment, but long minutes, circling the case, seeming as mesmerized as she had been. He was so absorbed he didn’t see her in the arch of the doorway.
She was fascinated—and angry. She felt violated, that a stranger was taking that kind of interest in something that was so deeply personal to her. She felt he was looking at
her,
into her. It was too intimate.
All right, now, that’s just crazy.
Besides, what would a man, a gambler no less, find so fascinating about a jewel box? All this intense attention to the piece…and the way he was standing…
Like someone thinking about stealing it.
She felt a jolt.
He’s not looking at the box. He’s looking at the jewels.
Immediately she dismissed the thought.
The other night he was a roulette hustler and today he’s a jewel thief.
But as she looked harder, it became completely obvious. His rapt attention to the art pieces inside was just a cover for his scrutiny of the case itself—the locks, the infrared light that indicated an alarm, the cameras mounted at the corners of the gallery.
He’s casing the exhibit. He is thinking of stealing it.
It was brilliant, really—if the security in the gallery was anywhere near as laid-back as the rest of the Bahamas, it was an ideal place to pull off a heist. She’d noticed the lack of security yesterday, in an offhand way, an occupational hazard of the business.
But I never thought I’d see it—almost in progress.
She ducked out of sight, then, back into the dim and endless corridor. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely walk, but she forced herself to move into the gift shop next door, browsing the racks just inside so he wouldn’t notice her when he came out.
This is crazy.
What are the chances that you would just happen to catch him casing the place?
On the other hand she was probably the one person in the whole resort most likely to be able to recognize if someone were casing the gallery. Was it really so outlandish?
It would be so easy to do,
she thought, her heart racing as she feigned interest in mermaid glitter-globes. She’d had her hours, days, weeks, of worrying about the angles of possible theft every time she had a new exhibit in her own museum. The gallery was so accessible, off a main corridor of the hotel, elevators within a few steps of the gallery doors. If there were some kind of event that made the corridors more crowded than usual, a noisy distraction, a thief could simply slip into the crowd and be…anywhere.
A bribe to the security guard to take care of the alarms, a good glass cutter—it wouldn’t be hard at all.
She saw movement in the corner of her eye and her pulse spiked as she saw him step out of the gallery.
She hesitated…then followed.
He moved at a leisurely pace until he was out of the corridor, then sped up with a purposeful stride, pushing out through the glass-and-metal-scrollwork doors onto the terrace.
Melissa ran quickly, silently behind, and slipped through the door.
The sun was blinding and the tropical warmth startling after the air-conditioned chill of the hotel; it took her eyes a moment to focus.
The terrace overlooked a lagoon of that exquisite water, with a crescent-shaped beach. Melissa stared out, trying to spot the man. A flotilla of deck chairs was arranged in perfect lines on the pristine sand; families played in the water on inner tubes and giant bicycle-like water toys. Beyond the walls of the resort the ocean stretched, more turquoise glory.
It seemed she’d lost him…then she spotted the dark curly head moving down a sloping path of painted concrete, toward a giant domed pavilion next to the lagoon.
She followed, forcing herself to move casually.
The pavilion housed a massive round bar, with a mosaic seascape on the arched ceiling two stories above. The sound of rushing water echoed off the dome, drifting up from somewhere below the floor.
The man was already seated at the bar, long legs slanted against the bar stool legs, sea breeze playing with that curly hair. He was writing in a little notebook…no, sketching…and totally engrossed in his drawing.
She was suddenly rabid to see.
She made her way up to the bar, stopping not too close to him, and the bartender stepped toward her. She gestured to the drink board advertising piña coladas; the bartender smiled and poured.