kiDNApped (A Tara Shores Thriller)

by Chesler, Rick

  “I’m sure that was no accident,” Lance said.

  “And searching ‘Nahoa’ with that twenty-one character string doesn’t turn up anything.”

  Tara focused on Lance. “Is there anything you know about these kidnappers that might tell us anything about where he’s being held? You’ve met with them. You set this up. What did they tell you about where your Dad would be held?”

  At this, Kristen looked up from her computer, awaiting her brother’s response.

  Lance appeared uncomfortable at the reminder that it was he who had instigated this ordeal. He began by shaking his head. “I tried to find that out from the beginning, but they said they wouldn’t agree to the deal unless I didn’t know exactly where the boat would be. Said I could say things that would tip off authorities without even realizing it. I stupidly went along with it.”

  Tara kept Lance on track, not allowing him to lament his actions. “But you do know they’d be keeping him on a boat, right? I mean, how do you know they didn’t take him somewhere on land?”

  The server approached and set down their beers. Lance waited for her to retreat before answering. “The whole idea is that he was supposed to be lost at sea, so they wouldn’t want to bring him ashore anywhere. That’s also why they went through such trouble to hide the Tropic Sequence. I didn’t know they would be killing anyone though—I swear I definitely didn’t know anything about that. They only said they’d get him off the Tropic Sequence and then onto their boat, where they’d keep him until I got my share of the inheritance. I didn’t think to ask about the crew.”

  “But they could have brought him ashore on some desert island or something like that—where there are no people,” Tara suggested.

  Lance thought about this while he sipped his Primo. “I guess it’s possible, but everything else they’ve done is consistent with keeping him on a boat at sea. They just didn’t tell me the name of the boat or exactly where it would be.”

  “But it should be somewhere around the Hawaiian Islands, right?” This from Kristen, who had been busily working away on her laptop. “They’re not going to take him down to the South Pacific and anchor in some isolated atoll or something like that?”

  “They told me the plan was to keep the boat around Hawaii so that the transfer would be easy once he was declared dead and I got the inheritance.”

  Kristen drank from her beer and set it down. “So I doubt the Nahoa with our Dad on it is going to be sitting in a Hawaiian harbor somewhere.”

  Lance and Dave voiced their agreement.

  “Then there’s really only one thing we can do,” Tara said.

  Both men and Kristen looked at her expectantly. “We need to perform an aerial search for the Nahoa.”

  Lance was about to drink from his beer, but he set it back down. “Like, just pay someone to fly us randomly around Hawaii looking for a boat named Nahoa? How would we do that—fly in low every time we saw a lone boat out by itself?”

  Tara shook her head. “We shouldn’t have to pay anyone, because I can probably get FBI air support. And we won’t fly randomly, but will do a search grid pattern or take some other kind of logical approach. Then, as you say, we reduce altitude when there’s something of interest on the water.”

  Dave put his empty Primo down on the table. He pointed to the table itself, which was decorated with a painted map of the Hawaiian islands underneath a glass tabletop. “I’d focus on the major channels first. For example, the part of the ocean that separates the islands of Oahu and Kauai is called the Kauai Channel,” he said, fingering the table map. “There’s not that many non-commercial boats out there at any given time, so if you flew over it and saw anything that wasn’t a cargo ship, for example, you could check it out.”

  Tara turned to Lance. “Do you know if they’d be holding your Dad on a sailboat or powerboat?”

  “I sure don’t,” Lance said. “But this was well planned out, and they knew they’d have to live with him on a boat for three months, so it must be a pretty big boat—some kind of yacht.”

  “So Dave,” Kristen said, looking up from the laptop. “Seeing as you’re still unemployed, would you be interested in coming with us on the helicopter runs? We could use someone like you who knows the islands, and I could pay you a decent daily rate, plus all expenses.”

  Tara had to keep from laughing at this. It was all too obvious that Kristen had a crush on the young man. Sure, he knew more about the islands than Kristen or Lance, but Tara was FBI and could get all the local resources she needed. Still, she had to admit, Dave had proved his usefulness. She wouldn’t object to his coming along. And there was something more. Something darker, Tara realized. Was Dave really just an innocent marine biology graduate who stumbled onto a dangerous job, or something else? She didn’t yet know, but having him around would give her the opportunity to learn more.

  “Count me in,” Dave said. “It’s going to be tough going back to a normal job after this, though, I tell ya.”

  “I don’t want to pay you so high that you’ll take foolish risks,” Kristen said, “but it’ll be higher than a typical first year biologist’s pay, how’s that?”

  “Deal,” Dave said, holding up a Primo as a toast. The three of them clinked glasses. Tara did not take part in the toast. To her, this was only business, and that’s how it must remain. She hoped that the alcohol would get Lance talking.

  “To finding our father,” Kristen said.

  For the next few minutes the three of them enjoyed the food, and for all outward appearances it was as if they were just another table of tourists enjoying a relaxing vacation in the Aloha state. When the food had been cleared away, another round of beers appeared, and before long, the group was in relatively good spirits.

  While they drank, Tara grilled Lance on what he knew about the kidnappers while Kristen surfed the Internet for information about the last cryptic message.

  “So tell me more about this biotech company,” Tara said. “The Asian guys you met at breakfast this morning—they work for this company, right? Where is it headquartered? How did you hook up with them?”

  “They’re one of Alacra’s biggest rivals: TYR Corporation, based in China. They’re a legitimate company on the surface, but they have underworld tentacles with a long reach that they use to exert pressure on competitors when normal business channels are not in their favor,” Lance said, starting in on another Primo. “And they have many partnerships with other companies, loosely organized into the Asian Biotechnology Consortium, or ABC. But TYR is the head of the ABC body.”

  “What’s TYR stand for?”

  “Tai Yan Rang—the last names of the scientists and businessman who founded it. They have several legitimate enterprises, and no doubt created many layers of protection between them and what’s going on with my Dad. I highly doubt the people doing the actual kidnapping are even on TYR’s payroll. Like Johnson, the guy who hired Dave—he was hired by one of the kidnappers who defected. Tried to make side-money from Dad’s disc that he tossed overboard, in addition to what TYR was paying him, and TYR had him killed.”

  Tara flashed on the dragonfish pin and the logo painted on the side of the black inflatable boat.

  Dave shook his head. “I should have known Johnson was up to something shady when he didn’t want me to use a dive flag. I feel pretty stupid that he tricked me into thinking he was going through all that trouble for a ring.”

  “No way you could have known,” Lance said.

  Tara put forth a possibility aloud, to get Lance's reaction. “I wonder what would happen if you met with your contacts again, but this time I hid nearby with a camera and got some shots of them. Then I could look for a facial recognition match in the FBI databases, and if that doesn't work, be able to go public, ask ‘who are these guys?’”

  Lance’s eyes widened. “Seems like a last resort kind of thing. I could tell them I have some new information in order to set up a meeting, but it’s definitely risky. They’ve already tried to kill
me. And you. They might not even want to meet with me anymore.”

  Tara nodded, sipping from her tea. Then she got up from the table, saying, “Wait here.”

  Tara headed outside the restaurant for a payphone. Marveling to herself at how long it had been since she last used one, she called the F.O. collect. Once on the line with a case agent, she gave an update of events and requested immediate air support.

  “I’ll get right on the air support,” the agent said, about to hang up.

  “There’s something else,” Tara said. “Did you find anything about dragonfish—symbolism, meaning?”

  “Yes. Freshwater bony fish, called an arowana.”

  “That’s what Dave Turner said.”

  “That’s them. They’re a Chinese symbol for good luck and prosperity, especially red ones. That’s about it.” Tara flashed on the Chinese woman in the high-rise. Perhaps this dragon’s luck was meant for someone else.

  “Thanks. One more thing. Search the electronic version of the case file for the name, ‘Marissa’ and tell me what comes up.” The agent told her to hold but was back on the line in less than a minute.

  “Marissa Archer. The missing scientist’s wife. She’s listed in his bio, but she died of cancer back in 1981.”

  Tara thanked her coworker and braced herself against the booth. The kidnappers had referred to “Marissa.” Could it be a coincidence, just another person with the same first name? But the kidnappers had suggested that Lance’s emotional condition might be because of this Marissa. No, Tara realized. It’s no coincidence.

  Marissa Archer is alive!

  …GAAG52TTTC …

  12:45 P.M.

  Dr. William Archer listened intently from inside his floating prison. Hearing nothing, he continued to swing open the porthole. It was still daylight outside—painfully so, he decided. Archer swung the porthole shut and went to retrieve a pair of dark tinted lab safety glasses used for working with open flames and high temperature ovens. He returned to the porthole and reopened it.

  Dr. Archer’s improvised sunglasses diminished the intensity of the outdoor light, but did nothing to reduce the overall impact of what he saw.

  Land!

  Not only land, but land populated with humans. Lots of them. And it was close!

  The boat was maybe a mile offshore, Archer surmised. He could see other boats in the water—pleasure craft, and beyond that—a sandy beach full of sun worshippers!

  Archer couldn’t believe it. He closed the porthole and hung his head, breathing deeply. Was he imagining things, like a lost soul in the desert hallucinating an oasis where none existed?

  He opened the window again and took another look: same view. Boats, people; still there. This time he even noticed a road full of cars running along the water.

  Unbelievable. All this time he’d been so sure that they were miles out at sea in open blue water...But that was exactly what his captors wanted him to believe, Archer realized.

  Then he heard the sound of voices out on deck—close by.

  Archer closed the porthole and screwed it shut. He had seen enough. After double-checking that there was no evidence the porthole had been opened, he went back over to his microscope and took a seat. He had no desire to do any work, but wanted to appear busy should the kidnappers barge into the lab without notice, as was customary.

  He needed to think. Fortunately for Dr. Archer, thinking was something at which he excelled.

  Here he was, trapped in a yacht, swimming distance from freedom. They were obviously still somewhere in Hawaii, but he didn’t think it was Oahu. He certainly didn’t recognize the area from the brief look he’d had.

  Dr. Archer listened to the talking outside the lab door. He couldn’t make out the words. When it was silent once more, he went back to the porthole. He needed another look.

  Bit by bit, he swung the circular window open. Peering outside, he drank in the beautiful landscape once more, but also forced himself to notice useful details, such as how fast the boat moved through the water. They motored at a leisurely pace.

  He screwed the porthole closed again and resumed his position at the lab bench.

  That the boat was underway was both good and bad. Bad, because it was taking him farther away from this populated area, but good because if he did manage to jump off the ship undetected, he would be quickly left behind. And jumping ship was appealing right now.

  But how to do it?

  He was locked in the lab and seriously outnumbered. There was no way out through the porthole. Bashing the walls apart would surely draw attention. That left him with what he had come up with earlier: some kind of chemical attack on his captors when they opened the door. Alternatively, an explosion that would cripple the ship—maybe start a fire—and also hopefully attract attention from the beach.

  Too large an explosion, however, and he risked injuring or killing himself. Too small, and he would simply call attention to himself without enabling an escape. He supposed he could always claim a lab accident of some kind if the explosion was small enough, but a glance at the burn scar on his arm made him doubt they would go easy on him for it.

  Archer laid his eyes on the acid cabinet a few feet away. He knew that concentrated acids were highly flammable. He also knew that some combinations of acids could be hazardous. Similarly, combining powdered metals—which he was sure he could find somewhere in the lab—with acids was a perilous combination. He had fire in the form of the Bunsen burner. Archer decided then and there that the same device his captors had used to torture him would also bring him salvation.

  He turned to look at the wall next to the porthole. He focused his mind’s eye on the ship’s exterior, replaying his mental movie of when he had first been hauled aboard. On the other side of it was open ship’s deck. Once there, only a three-foot high chrome railing separated him from the sea.

  The explosion would have to be big enough to rip a hole through the wall but not so big that it would injure him or start a fire large enough to prevent his escape through the resulting hole.

  Then there was the timing of it. His first thought was to do it at night, when most of the crew would likely be asleep. He could blast a hole in the wall, jump through it, leap over the side and be gone before anyone knew what happened. He would also be harder to spot once in the water. But—and this was a big but, Archer realized—the boat was underway, so there was no guarantee that he would still be near the coast at all by late night, much less near an accessible area of coastline like where he now found himself. Much of the Hawaiian Islands coastline consisted of surf-pounded, razor sharp lava; some areas featured tall sea cliffs.

  That left a daytime attack. If he could manage to rig the explosion today, he would have the advantage of knowing he was a swimmable distance to a populated area, and that there might be witnesses to his escape. The disadvantage, of course, was that his kidnappers would instantly swarm the lab upon hearing the explosion.

  But those were huge advantages. Archer decided a daylight attack—today—offered the best risk-reward scenario. But how much time did he have? He glanced at the wall clock: 12:46. He figured it would take about a half-hour to rig his improvised chemical-acid bomb. If he wasn’t interrupted, he thought dourly. Summertime, it would be light until about 8:00…he had until about 4:00 when the crowd would start to thin as tourists headed home to get ready for a night out on the town…whatever town this may be, Archer wondered.

  He intended to find out.

  Archer mentally carried out the preparations before he ever left his stool. Once he set the flasks of chemicals against the wall, there would be no good explanation were one of his captors to make one of their once or twice daily spot checks. He mentally enacted the building of the bomb several times, running through it like a mantra in his head until it was routine.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was ready. Fight or flight, he told himself.

  He carried various acids and chemicals which he had calculated to yield the desired reaction over
to the wall, arranging them next to one another on the floor. He worked quickly, jogging back and forth from the wall to the chemical cabinets. After the chemicals were set, he wadded up some paper towels to use as a fuse.

  He was almost ready. He looked around the lab for something large and sturdy—something he could use to smash through any remaining bits of wall that the explosion didn’t take care of. Ragged, open fiberglass would not be pleasant to squeeze through. It would be nice if he blew a clean hole all the way through, but Archer was no demolitions expert and, not knowing exactly what to expect, decided to be prepared. He would not have time for anything after the blast except for escape at any cost.

  His eyes darted about the room. He could find nothing. Then he eyed a cabinet door. It would cost him precious minutes, but he decided it was worth it.

  Archer trotted over to the drawer of household items and retrieved the screwdriver he’d seen there earlier. Taking it to the cabinet, he patiently worked on the cabinet’s hinges. After the top hinge came off, he almost ripped the cabinet away from the remaining hinge, but decided against it. Might be heard if there was a guard outside the door.

  After unscrewing the second hinge, Dr. Archer picked up the cabinet door, hefting its weight. It was large, about two feet by three feet. It would make an excellent shield from the blast. Which reminded him: safety gear and escape dress.

  What did he want to be wearing when he jumped? Not that he had much choice. All he had were a few pairs of shorts and T-shirts, and a pair of old sandals. He would skip the footwear, as sandals were not conducive to fast running and would only be an impediment once in the water. In addition to shorts and a T-shirt, he grabbed a second T-shirt and wrapped it around his head, turban style, as a heat and debris shield. Then he donned his tinted lab goggles, a pair of thick yellow rubber gloves, and a cotton respirator to guard against vapors.

  That was his outfit.