"How much did you give him?"
"Ten thousand, but it didn't come from the company account, I swear! No matter how much he threatened me or hurt me, I couldn't do that to you, John. I used the money from the trust fund my parents set up for me."
This time John didn't hide his shock and rage. "Why didn't you call the cops or just leave, for God's sake?"
"I couldn't. He never left me alone. He unplugged the phone. When room service delivered our meals, he locked me in the bathroom until they left. I had no chance to call for help."
John's eyes darkened dangerously. "You said he asked for more than money. What else did he want?"
Skye flinched as she spat out the words. "He said that if I didn't write a piece of software for him, he'd invite some of the guys off the ship to…to use me like the whore he said I was."
"He said what?"
"Please, don't make me say that again." Skye cradled her head in trembling hands. "I…I can still see him leaning over me, telling me how much the guys from the ship would—"
"I get the picture, for God's sake! So you agreed to help him?"
Skye nodded woodenly.
"And this software you wrote for him—what did it do?"
"It automatically e-mailed copies of military documents that he—"
John leapt from his seat as if propelled by an explosive force. "What in God’s name were you thinking? How could you take such a risk? Never mind what it would have done for our reputation, didn't you realize you could be locked away for years for what you'd done?"
"Don't you see I had no choice? But, it's not as bad as it sounds."
"Really? This ought to be good. Surprise me."
"John, I may have been desperate, but my brains hadn't totally deserted me. I had plenty of time to think while I was working on the software. It struck me that Michael was selling military documents for one reason only—money."
"The bastard was a bit short of cash, so what?"
Skye took a deep breath and moistened her dry lips. "If money was his objective he wasn't going to be too interested in the finer details of how the software worked. He was virtually computer illiterate, strictly an end user. I wrote the software and showed him how to use it, but omitted to tell him one thing."
John raised an eyebrow. "And this one thing was?"
Skye smiled through her tears, but didn't answer.
"What did you do, write in a string of code that deleted the e-mail rather than sending it?"
"Not quite. I added a string of code that ensured that every e-mail sent from Michael's computer was copied to the Judge Advocate General's Office."
"And who or what is the Judge Advocate General?"
"He's only the most senior attorney in the US Navy."
Despite the emotional tension in the room, John laughed heartily. "You played the little shit at his own game. Nice one! But if Michael kept you locked up, how did you get away?"
"He became careless. He came back to the hotel one night very drunk or high or both. He kept saying something about a big pay off. He passed out. I managed to get the keys off him and sneak out of the room. I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to a hotel, any hotel in Seattle. He dropped me off at the most run down, seedy motel imaginable. I remember bolting the door and collapsing on the bed and then the rest is a blank. I woke up two days later and booked myself on the first plane back to London. The rest you know."
John was at a loss for words. He was disappointed that Skye had been so unsure of his reaction, that she carried this burden alone for over a year.
"I'm glad you've told me, but you didn't have to bear this alone."
Skye smiled. "I know, but you helped me once before. I thought if I told you about this, you'd hate me, be so disappointed in me after the last time, that you'd never forgive me."
"Dry your eyes.” He offered her another tissue from the box. "No matter what happened to you, no matter what you did, I’m always here for you. I could never hate you, don't you know that?"
Tears still trembled on Skye's eyelids. She couldn't trust herself to speak and merely nodded her head.
"So what happened to Michael, do you know?"
"When I returned to London, I contacted the Judge Advocate General and his commanding officer and made a complaint. I made it abundantly clear that not only had I been coerced into writing the software against my will, but I also made sure they knew I was responsible for ensuring that any information he passed on via e-mail was copied to them."
"And?"
"I went to the American Embassy and made a formal statement which was used at his trial. Michael was charged with blackmail and assault. I understand he's since been dishonorably discharged from the Navy, has lost all rights to his pension and is currently languishing in a military prison."
"Thank God for small mercies. But what about you?"
"Am I going to be charged for stealing restricted information? No."
John offered up a silent prayer of thanks. "I understand about Michael, but what has this to do with Walker?"
"Don't you see? It's as though everything has come full circle. Michael…Walker, they're the same. They've both used me in their own way. Walker kept me locked in the cabin against my will—"
"But you agreed to help him when you could have said 'no,' walked away, and left him to fight his own battle. Why? And why the rush to fly home?"
"Because…I don't know—because I love him!" Skye blurted out.
"Ah!"
"Is that all you're going to say?"
"What else can I say?" There was a lot he wanted to say, like how much he was in love with her. "I assume from the look on your face that being in love with Walker doesn't exactly make you happy?"
Skye sighed. "He lied to me, and used me. He doesn't trust me. He's just like Michael. And he certainly has no feelings for me. The man's cold—cold as the fish he studies. And if you must know, the only reason I helped him was because I didn't want to see innocent people hurt."
"I see. And that's your reason for wanting to go home?"
"Yes."
John considered Skye's predicament. He wasn't convinced she was in love with Walker, although he did believe that Michael and Walker were cut from the same cloth. Both had used her and under the circumstances, he didn't have it in his heart to deny her request.
"I dare say I can manage to fold my body into an airline seat once more. I'll see if there are any seats available on this evening's flight to London. In the meantime, phone the realtor and ask if they can help you with your things. Don't forget to ask them about returning your rental car too."
Skye rose to her feet, her tear stained face eager and alive with affection. She hugged John, and kissed him on the cheek. She rushed from the room.
The door closed softly behind her and John picked up the phone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Walker opened his eyes, closed them, and opened them again. It took a few moments for him to orientate himself to his surroundings such was the pulsating in his head. It was almost pitch black. He ignored the searing pain, and tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position only to discover his hands and feet bound.
In the yellow glow cast by a single bulkhead bulb, he saw a vertical steel access ladder rising up to a watertight access hatch about twenty-five feet above his head. He was in the cargo hold of the Rosario Queen. In one corner of the hold, secured by ropes, were some crates and to the side of those, the barrels he'd seen earlier on the quay. The smell of rotten fish and heavy diesel oil filled his nostrils making want to vomit. He swallowed hard, and forced the acid back into his stomach and tried to concentrate.
The unmistakable throb of a diesel generator came from below deck. The vessel rose up and down with the gentle swell of the tide and he assumed that it was still moored to the quayside.
He took a deep breath in an attempt to clear his head, and made a quick assessment of his situation. He didn't like what he found. His boots had been removed,
but he was still wearing his socks and jacket. With a great deal of effort, he sat up, and was relieved to find he no longer felt nauseous. Thankfully, he didn’t have double vision, so he wasn't concussed. Even so, his head ached abominably.
The bulkhead door groaned as it opened. Voices approached out of the half-light, Walker closed his eyes and slumped forward feigning unconsciousness. Heavy boots crossed the deck, stopping inches away from him. A hand shook him roughly. He opened his eyes and groaned for effect. Two men stood over him. Both were heavy set, weighed a good two hundred pounds and sported broken noses. The words Dumb and Dumber sprung to mind. Dumb was the first to speak, and wasn't as stupid as he looked.
"So you're awake—want to tell us who you are and what you were doing on the dock?"
"The name's Walker. I wasn't doing anything, but tying my boot lace."
"You, pal," Dumb said, jabbing a finger at Walker, "were sticking your nose in where it had no right to be."
"I've told you the name's Walker—not 'pal'."
"Look, pal," Dumber repeated, "we saw you sniffing around our cargo like a dog after a bitch on heat. What did you find that was so interesting?"
Walker watched the two men. They began to irritate him, but winding up these goons would not be a wise move. He'd seen a few bar room brawls in his time to know that even if he'd been able to take these two on without a weapon, his chances of surviving were slim.
"Look, guys, there's been a misunderstanding. I'm not interested in this ship. I'd been to the office, to enquire about some cargo I was expecting. I came out and decided to walk along the quay, noticed my bootlace was undone, and bent down to tie it. Nothing more complicated than that. Next thing I know, I wake up in this stinking hold, my hands and feet bound and you two are standing over me. No hard feelings, guys. Untie me and let me out of here. I won't cause any trouble."
"Yeah, and I'm the fairy on the Christmas tree. No way, pal. Cindy told us about the little chat you had with her. We're not carrying anything for the islands, so why all the interest in the Rosario Queen?"
Walker's mind raced. Cindy? The woman he'd conned out of information a few hours earlier. The same Cindy who was itching to get into his pants? Nah. Impossible.
"I told you I was expecting a delivery."
"Maybe you were expecting a delivery, but not from this ship. From where I stood you were paying far too much attention to our cargo for someone just out for a walk. Seeing you're so interested in what we're carrying you’re coming with us." Dumber gave Walker a shove. He fell sideways to the deck. "We'll decide what to do with you later. In the meantime, enjoy the ride."
The door of the hold slammed shut with a resounding thud. Walker listened as the footsteps retreated, then shuffled across the deck on his backside. He was breathing hard, and beads of sweat popped on his forehead. He rested his back on one of the crates, and tried to break the ropes binding his wrists, but they refused to budge. Resigned, he leant back and closed his eyes to the throbbing pain in his temples. There was little he could do until McCabe showed up with the cops.
The deck beneath him shuddered. Deep within the freighter the engine cranked up—they were getting underway.
"Come on, McCabe, time is running out! Don't sit back and let this freighter put to sea."
Back on the quayside, McCabe waited impatiently. He checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. There was still no sign of Walker. What the hell was he doing? He decided to wait another five minutes and if Walker hadn't showed up by then, he'd call the cops. He watched the Rosario Queen through his binoculars.
The small freighter bristled with activity. Seconds later the rusting hulk nudged away from the quayside and steamed out into the channel. McCabe swore heartily and picked up his cell phone, punched in nine-one-one and requested the Coastguard. He identified himself to the young rating on the line, explained the situation, and requested that the Rosario Queen be intercepted immediately and escorted back to port.
The rating was most apologetic. The Coastguard cutter was already off station dealing with another incident. It would be a couple of hours before it was free and able to comply with his request.
"Christ Almighty! Can't you send a helicopter to intercept her?"
"Sorry, sir. We're dealing with a major incident. Our resources are stretched to the limit. As soon as things quieten down, I'll send the cutter to investigate."
"Yeah, but will you know where to look for her?"
"Provided she's switched on her radar, which is a Federal requirement, then—"
"Switched on her radar? Which palm tree did you climb down from, sailor? Do you really think a freighter involved in illegal activities is going to use ships' radar for Christ's sake?"
"Well, I—"
"Put me through to your Commanding Officer—now!"
***
Walker listened to the steady throb of the engine and tried to gauge how far they'd steamed. He had no idea what time it was and could only estimate how long they'd been at sea. He knew a freighter this size newly commissioned, would make no more than ten knots. This rusting hulk had a lot of hard sea time under her keel and he estimated was making six to seven knots at best. The Coastguard cutter should have no problem catching up.
The freighter's captain wouldn’t take any chances. He would run without navigation lights and without radar too, anything to avoid his ship being identified, even if it meant risking being hit by another vessel in Puget Sound. He’d also run close inshore for as long as possible before heading out to deep water, and that meant one thing—whoever was in command of the Rosario Queen knew the waters of Puget Sound and the islands well.
Walker closed his eyes. He knew none of the local boats would willingly poison the waters where they earned their living. This left only two possibilities, either the owners of the Rosario Queen were in deep financial shit and were being paid exceedingly well, or the ship was owned and worked by one of the many migrant crews who had moved into Anacortes from mother Russia. The immigrant crews cared nothing for the environment they worked in and often exploited every regulation in order to maximize their catch. They probably weren't averse to a little illegal dumping either, provided the price was right.
Walker didn't like either idea very much. If he were a betting man, he'd lay money on it being a hard up skipper. Everyone knew that fish stocks were diminishing and there were too many boats. It was a worldwide problem. Illegal dumping in the ocean would be easy cash to a less-than-scrupulous skipper.
He wriggled his toes to bring the circulation back into his numb feet. He felt certain that when the time came, the barrels wouldn't be the only things being dumped overboard. What he needed was a miracle, preferably in the form of McCabe and the Coastguard, but would settle for getting his hands and feet free. When he'd done that, he'd worry about what to do next.
The freighter pitched to port and then to starboard as she rolled with the current. In the eerie shadows Walker thought he saw the glint of something metallic on the deck near the barrels. By alternatively pushing his feet out and pulling his backside in, he managed to shuffle across the deck. His shoulders burning with the effort, his fingers closed around a sharp object.
Whether he held metal or glass, he didn't care. Gripping the object in his fingers, rubbed it against the rope. The technique always worked in the movies, so he hoped it would work for him. More than once he felt the object slice into his skin. Despite the pain and the blood trickling down his wrists he continued to saw away at his bonds. After a while he tested the ropes. They seemed as tight as ever.
He leaned back against the bulkhead. He'd been in tricky situations before but always managed to find a way out. This time, he was in way over his head and there was little he could do about it. He'd just have to pray either the Coastguard arrived in time or an opportunity arose for him to escape. In an effort to conserve his energy, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Up in the wheelhouse the captain cut the engines and dropped anchor
in the lee of the islands. Silently, the crew went about their business. This wasn't the first time they had disposed of their cargo. Using only hand signals, they released the well-oiled bolts on the access hatch, and manoeuvered the small deck crane into position.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"The Coastguard cutter is on her way, sir, and the Navy's has scrambled a helo—a helicopter from Whidbey Naval Station. It should be with you shortly. It's a big area to cover, but a freighter that size can't have gotten far."
McCabe rubbed his chin. "Sailor, I don't need you to remind me how big the search area is! I suggest you get off this damned phone and get on with the task of locating that freighter before we have a major environmental catastrophe on our hands."
Three Weeks Last Spring Page 22
