She cut power to the fire-prevention systems, and to their backups.
Cut power to the bridge.
The yacht lighting took on an eerie glow as she worked her way, shorting out wires in the breaker boxes and feeding the shorts accelerant until the electrical fires started and were sent raging behind the walls. In the smaller galley off the owner’s suite, she cut propane lines, and on the sundeck, where the gas grills stood, and in the main galley. Aloft to belowdecks, fore to aft, she set the fires and remained on the yacht long past the time it was safe to stay, ensuring the damage had been thorough. Flames licked from above, and she felt the heat behind the walls, and finally, when even she began to feel the fear, she threw a wet cloth over her head and mouth and ran the passageways to the engine room. She tossed a flare into the vapors that had heated with the rising temperatures and sprinted for the garage.
Hand over hand she raced up the ladder to the cockpit, where fire in the saloon rushed up curtains, wrapped around foam cushions, and lit up the night. She grabbed the fins she’d left behind and dove for the water while the flames licked out after her, and she swam for the fisherman’s boat, a single light floating in the distance.
She dumped the deck bag over the low gunwale, pulled herself up with the lines she’d left behind, and sat on the edge of a toolbox, adrenaline dumping, shivering wet skin against the night, watching the Omicron II burn.
Had the crew remained, they would have likely saved the yacht.
Had the fire systems been in place, it’s possible the fire would have been put out long before the damage could be so thoroughly done. But now the paint, and the glue, the cloth and curtains and foam, the carpets and fine silk flowers and oil paintings in their wooden frames, all became fuel, feeding the burning hunger.
She stayed through the hours, floating in the dark, unseen and unheard as the roar fed upon every item that would ignite, and eventually commotion came from shore, and among the boats were the returning crew members, trying helplessly to save their vessel.
Nearing dawn the yacht still smoldered, lit up by the halogen lights of a Hellenic Coast Guard patrol boat, and Munroe turned the fisherman’s craft to shore before the sun could mark her presence.
She docked at the pier on the far edge of town, where she had made the rental, tied up to wooden posts, and hauled out what little she’d brought with her. No one was there to watch her step from boat to dock, and she walked the long stretch to her hotel. There, for the first time in nearly five months, she slept the sleep of the just and woke fourteen hours later.
THE CHARRED AND gutted hull of the Omicron II was still offshore when Munroe finally left the hotel. She stood on the low rise of the hill, looking out over the placid water. The coast guard rescue vessel had left, and the boats surrounding the floating carcass appeared to belong to the morbidly curious more than anything else.
Where the waves and swells had washed away the soot and debris, the dark blue hull of the Omicron II reflected the light of the late morning sun. Slices of fiberglass jutted high at odd angles, and daylight shone through the framework of the decks, testament to what the yacht had once been.
Munroe heaved the backpack up onto her shoulders and rolled the suitcase toward the port. She’d sell the IMSI catcher and recoup most of that investment. The rest, she would abandon, as she had everything else. She passed a kiosk with its magazines and newspapers and flowers on display beneath an array of drinks and packaged food.
Front and center was the local paper with a picture of the yacht filling the top half of the page. Munroe paused, then purchased the paper and carried it until she reached a restaurant where she could sit and read and eat her first proper meal in—how long had it been?
She unfolded the paper beside her coffee and studied the black-and-white image in all its grainy quality. The strange wiring in her head—the poisonous gift that gave meaning to sounds and allowed her to find patterns in what she heard in the same way others found patterns with their eyes—didn’t work with the printed word, but the picture said all that needed to be said.
She tore the Omicron II from the page, folded the picture, and placed it in a pocket. Someone else deserved to know. He’d understand in a way that no one else could.
She scanned the water, and then the waterfront, for the crew of the yacht. She didn’t see them and didn’t expect to. If they were smart, they would have already left town to avoid the questioning that would occur as part of whatever investigation followed.
Depending on the quality of the men and women who combed through the wreckage—and if insurers wanting to avoid payout were involved, the quality would likely be high—the bullet casings and weapons and punctured skulls would be discovered, and eventually what was left of the cutting room, and the questions to the crew would turn in an entirely new direction.
She could never know if the captain or the crew had been aware of what went on beneath their feet, and it was hard to imagine that in some way they hadn’t, but they weren’t her fight. Fate would sort them out.
She’d seen. She’d come. She’d conquered.
Now she was free.
Munroe found a post office. Bought an envelope and stamps, scribbled down Bradford’s address, and stuffed the image from the newspaper into its shroud. She didn’t provide a return address—what was the point when he was the only home she had? Munroe dropped the envelope into the postbox and turned to stare one last time in the direction of the ocean.
There was always a trail to follow; always a place to start.
So she had. The killing was done, and she could go now to where she ceased to feel at all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to each and every one at Crown Publishers who, without much notice, squeezed this spur-of-the-moment side project onto already overbooked calendars, navigated unforeseen obstacles, and found a way to make it happen. Special gratitude to my agent, Anne Hawkins, who I adore, and my editor, Christine Kopprasch, who I also adore, for the brilliant ideas, know-how, and thinking outside the box that they are both so very good at; to Sarah Pekdemir, for fantastic creativity and wisdom beyond her years (I actually have no idea how old Sarah is, but I wish I could tap into whatever’s feeding her ideas and energy); and to the Muse, who insisted this story be told and refused to accept my very legitimate explanations as to why I couldn’t. Sometimes being wrong sucks so good.
A CONVERSATION WITH TAYLOR STEVENS
Q: What other authors write in a similar vein to yours? In other words, if I love to read [fill in the blank], then I would probably also love the Vanessa Michael Munroe series?
A: Vanessa Michael Munroe is a non-testosterone version of larger-than-life action heroes such as Jason Bourne, Jack Reacher, and James Bond, so readers who enjoy those types of characters and stories would likely also enjoy this series as well.
Q: Vanessa Michael Munroe is a polyglot. What does that mean and is it a real thing, or did you make it up for this character?
A: Polyglot is a real term used to describe a person who can master multiple languages—technically Munroe is a hyperpolyglot, which is someone who can fluently speak twelve or more languages. Perhaps history’s most extreme example of a hyperpolyglot is Emil Krebs, a German sinologist who mastered 68 languages in his lifetime but was said to be able to read and translate from more than 120.
Q: Your books take place in such exotic locations. Can you list them and explain why you chose them or how you came to know so much about them?
A: Let’s see … so far we’ve got Equatorial Guinea, Cameroon, Germany, Argentina, Uruguay, Croatia, Italy, Monaco, France, the United States, Greece, Djibouti, Somalia, and Kenya—with Japan coming up next. When I first started writing, I really had no idea what I was doing—had no plots or characters or story ideas—just this tiny country off the west coast of Africa where I’d lived for more than two years and I wanted to find a way to show others what it was like. It was from there that The Informationist was born and the rest of the series
has sort of followed in that international vein. I haven’t lived in every country I’ve since written about, but if at all possible, I do visit the locations as part of the research process.
Q: You say that Vanessa Michael Munroe is not based on you, so what inspired you to create her? And how deliberate was that creation process?
A: She came to life through the writing process and, as the stories progress, I continue to discover more of who she is—though honestly, reader response has taught me the most. Possibly the biggest part of her character that was deliberate was the gender ambiguity. I’ve experienced many of the cultures through which Munroe navigates and most of them aren’t very progressive in their views on women. There would be no possible way for her to do what she does if she looked and acted like a woman, so her chameleon nature was a direct response to the unfortunate realities of the world.
Q: OK, you’ve convinced me! I want to read a Vanessa Michael Munroe book; which one should I start with?
A: Why, the most recent one, of course! While The Informationist is the first in the series, The Catch is the latest, and it picks up right where this novella ends.
Q: Along the same lines, can I start anywhere in the series I want, or do the books have to be read in order?
A: Although this is a series with a character arc that continues from book to book, I try very hard to craft each installment with a self-contained plot and just enough history and backstory that a new reader can jump right in and not feel lost, but not so much that it spoils prior plots. Personally, I recommend starting with the most recent title to get a feel for the writing and characters, and if you like the experience, then go back and read the rest in order.
Q: So where does The Vessel fit into the series and why did you write it?
A: As a genre writer I’m required to keep each story within a certain length, more or less, and this can sometimes mean having to leave out lots of detail. I ran into that situation with The Doll (Munroe #3), which was already the longest book in the series, and so we ended up with a five-month gap in the final pages in which we knew Munroe tied up a loose end but weren’t there to experience how it happened. A lot of readers wished they could have known the details—and so did I!—which is how this novella came to be. Chronologically, this story fits right between The Doll (#3) and The Catch (#4).
Q: How can I learn more about you and your books?
A: To learn about the books, www.taylorstevensbooks.com is a good starting place, but to learn about and to interact with me personally, e-mail (www.taylorstevensbooks.com/connect.php) is the way to go. Readers and fans are what have made it possible for this series to exist, and I try to give back by sharing what I’ve learned on this crazy journey that has taken me from growing up as child labor in cult communes, having to beg on the streets, and being deprived of anything more than a grade-school education to a career as a published novelist.
Q: Wait, I’m not ready for it to be over! What happens to Vanessa Michael Munroe next?
A: Read The Catch to find out! Turn the page for a sneak peek.
Read on for an excerpt from New York Times bestselling author Taylor Stevens’s latest book,
The Catch
CROWN
Available wherever books are sold
CHAPTER 1
DJIBOUTI, DJIBOUTI
On the rooftop edge, she waited, eyes tracking down the length of the street while she sat with one knee dropped over the side, the other tucked under her chin, ears attuned to the small sounds that marked the climber’s progress toward her.
Here, four stories up, the smell of rotting garbage was a little less putrid, the air a little cooler, and if she chose to stand and stretch, she could see beyond the expanse of treetops and dusty low-slung houses, through to the port, a barely visible patch of primary colors against the ocean. This was Djibouti. Dirty. Quiet. Corrupt. A world far removed from the rain forests and humidity and familiarity of equatorial Africa where she’d been born, yet so much the same. Pinprick on the map between Somalia and Ethiopia, a desert nation of less than a million that bottlenecked the mouth of the Red Sea, this, the capital, was where half the population lived.
Chatter rose from below as women, heads wrapped in colorful scarves and dressed in ankle-length sheaths, passed by with their bundles. Scratching from behind told her that the climber had pulled himself over the ledge, that he’d stood and dusted his hands off on his pants, that he strode slowly, deliberately in her direction.
Vanessa Michael Munroe didn’t turn to look. Didn’t acknowledge him when he stopped beside her to peer down at the street. Ignored him when he sat a few feet away and with a satisfied sigh dropped his legs over the side, leaned back, and surveyed the area.
Most of what surrounded them was single- and double-storied buildings, mainly residential and strung along in both directions, some nestled within dirt-strewn walled compounds and some not.
“It’s a good view,” Leo said. “Better breeze up top. Not so much smell.”
She didn’t answer; continued to ignore his presence. He could have spared himself the effort of the climb—spared her the effort of small talk—if he’d simply waited until she’d returned. Instead, he’d come for her, which was his way of marking territory: a reminder that he was familiar with her routines and could invade them if he cared to. She allowed him to believe it, just as she allowed him to believe that he knew who she was, where she’d come from, and why she was here.
They sat in silence, and in spite of the lowering sun and the evening breeze that had begun to cool the air, sweat still trickled down her back and neck, soaking her shirt. The heat didn’t bother her the way it would him, so she let him have the discomfort and the lengthening quiet until finally he broke and said, “We board at two this morning.”
His English was thickly accented, and that he chose to use her language instead of the French with which they typically conversed was more of his pointless point-making.
She said, “I’m still not interested.”
He nodded, as if contemplating her defiance, then stood and, with his toes poking over the edge, studied the ground. Wiped his hands on his pants again and took a step back. “It’s for you to decide,” he said. “But if you don’t board, I want you out by tonight.”
Chin still to her knee, focus out over the dirt alleys, rooftops, and laundry flapping on many lines, she said, “Why? If I come, I’ll just get in your way.”
“That may be,” he said. “But still you come. Or you leave.”
She glanced up, the first she’d deigned to look at him. “And then who’ll be your fixer?”
He took another step away from the ledge. “I managed before you got here,” he said, and began to walk away. “I’ll manage after you’re gone.”
She straightened and her gaze followed him. “It’s not you who has to manage without me,” she said. “You shouldn’t be the one to make the decision.”
Leo paused but kept his back toward her.
She studied his posture, counted seconds, readied to slide out of the way if in response to her provocation he moved to shove her off the building.
“You’d have been better off making arrangements to board in the afternoon,” she said, “when the khat trucks come into town.”
His hands, which had tightened into fists, loosened a little. He turned toward her, and she watched him just long enough for him to catch her eye, then she shied away in that guilty manner people caught staring often did.
This was part of her persona here, hesitant and nonconfrontational. Made it easier for the men to dismiss and underestimate her, kept her beneath the radar, though for how much longer was up for debate. Like the rest of the guys, Leo had lived more life than his forty-something years indicated; he wasn’t stupid. But he was often gone and when he was around she went out of her way to avoid him to keep from giving him enough access to her that he grew curious.
With her back still to him, and his eyes boring into her, Munroe said, “Who’re you
trying to avoid by boarding so early? Ship’s agent?”
“Yes.”
“Even if he’s not there, he’ll hear about it. If you go when the khat trucks arrive, every man in the port is going to be focused on getting his fix—no one will pay attention to you.”
“To us.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll come, Michael.”
Not a request or a question, an order.
“Maybe,” she said.
Leo turned again and strode toward the portion of roof they’d both climbed over, the part where there was less of an overhang and it was possible to get from ledge to balcony and down to the dividing wall without as much risk of slipping and breaking a neck. Louder, Munroe said, “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even get into the port tonight.”
Leo didn’t answer, waved her off and kept walking. He lowered himself over the edge and, at some point on the way down, let out a grunt. Munroe stood. A thud marked his drop from the wall to the ground of the compound next door, so she turned and followed the rooftop edge to the opposite corner, where she caught the colors of the port’s shipping containers stacked four and five high.
Somewhere near there the freighter Favorita would soon dock, if she hadn’t already, and Leo expected Munroe to be on it. He forced her to pick between poisons: board the ship as part of his team of armed transit guards, risking her life on the water to defend his client’s ship if attacked by pirates, or leave the team—and it wasn’t difficult to guess why. No matter what she chose, he got her out from under his roof and away from his wife.
Munroe crossed the roof to the spot where Leo had gone over. Lowered and dropped from the ledge into the narrow balcony. Through the glass on the door a five-year-old girl peered out and waved, and Munroe waved back. The girl laughed and hid her face and Munroe grinned.
The Vessel Page 9
