“Oh my gosh, you’re an American, aren’t you?” I sighed, that silly American-girl sigh. “What are you doing in Norway?”
He turned from the other men without a word, his eyes on me, and said, “Work.”
“Fishing?” Yep, stating the obvious.
“For now,” he said. Whatever that meant. His eyes said, It’s time to play.
“Is this your boat?” I moved toward it. If I could get him talking, I’d have an excuse to hang around, see what I could see. “She’s a beauty. I’ve always wondered how the fish are caught with those nets and such. How does that work anyway?” I shoved my hand at him. “I’m Poppy, by the way. Here on, well, vacation I guess, if you call being on a boat a vacation. And you are?”
His smile widened. I tingled some more. “Michael.”
I glanced at the other two men, but neither even looked my way or acknowledged me. They turned their shoulders toward each other, blocking me out. Grumps.
I took another step toward the vessel. Maybe Michael would invite me on board. “I bet you’re real familiar with the surrounding area, all the inlets and coves. I was wondering about good spots to anchor, you know. Maybe you could point out a few? If you don’t mind.”
An older man strode down the dock and stepped between me and Michael. With a crumpled, unlit cigarette clamped between his fingers, he gestured for me to move along. “My men have work to do.”
I blinked twice. It was him. Ray Goldman. In the flesh. He didn’t look too menacing, clad in Carhartt overalls tucked into floppy rubber boots. In fact, with his hulking shoulders and heavy brow, he looked more like a caveman than an internationally-wanted criminal. He’d certainly passed his prime, with worn, yellowed teeth, ruddy cheeks, a nose wrought with broken blood vessels, and greasy hair, what he had left of it anyway. His skin was rough, a weathered texture from too much time in the sun or too many cigarettes or both.
He flicked open a Zippo lighter and lit the cigarette, a purposeful message—I’m done talking to you—then turned his back on me. I wanted to scold him; he was standing on the gas dock, for god’s sake. Arrogant ass. Men like him made me want to scream. No, not scream. Made me glad we’d invented handcuffs. I kept my feet firmly planted for fear I’d give him a swift kick in the ass, sending him into the drink.
“Right,” I said. “Sorry.” I smiled at Michael. “Maybe tomorrow then?”
Michael shook his head. “We’ll be setting out again before dawn.”
“Oh my.” I winked. “All work and no play.”
His eyes widened, ever so slightly, then traveled down to my waist and back up. I had his attention.
“Well, I wish you calm seas,” I said with a little wave.
As I walked away, two men passed me by, tall, thin and blond, most definitely Norwegian, heading down the dock in the direction of the Forseti. I glanced back to see them slow as they approached Ray. Perhaps locals Ray was hiring? But for what exactly? I couldn’t stroll back that direction to eavesdrop now. Oh well.
My trip down the dock wasn’t a total waste of time. I’d learned that the Forseti was headed back out to sea in the morning. That meant I had little time to get that Michael talking. If I had any sense of human nature whatsoever, I knew exactly where he and the crew would be tonight.
I hustled back to the Sea Mist to let Dalton know I was headed to the pub to see what I could find out.
“Not a good idea,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Why not?”
“They’re going to be suspicious of anyone. Especially anyone asking questions.”
I tipped my head down, batted my eyelashes, and flashed my doe eyes. “Anyone?”
He rolled his eyes and turned his back on me.
“C’mon, Dalton. We need to gather as much information as we can before they set out in the morning. This is our only chance. Besides—” I winked at him “—you don’t think I know how to flirt with a guy without being obvious?”
He paced, his arms crossed, thinking. Then he stopped, looked me in the eyes and said, “What is it with you? It’s like you’ve got something to prove.” His hands went to his hips. “I don’t disagree with you just because it’s fun to argue, you know.”
I stared back at him. Was that true? Did I come off like that? I admit, I did feel that I had something to prove. I wanted a permanent position in Special Ops. I had to show I was up to it, that I was a top-notch agent, the best of the best. I wasn’t a former SEAL. I wasn’t former law enforcement. My resumé…well, I didn’t look like much on paper. Sure, I’d done all the extras I could in school, but experience is what they wanted to see. All I had was my own gumption. So, yeah, I guess I did have something to prove.
I opened my mouth to respond and he said, “You know what? You’re right. Go on, do your thing.”
I hesitated. “Really?”
“Yep. No one would suspect us of being agents. Not with the crap you pull. Yep, darlin’, go ahead—” He winked as he crossed his arms. Was he mocking me now? “You’re right. Nobody’s going to see you coming.”
I had some time before the crew of the Forseti would be headed to the pub and I couldn’t shake whatever it was that was going on between me and Dalton. I found a bench with a view of the water and called my friend Chris. He’s been my BFF since high school. We were Navy brats and our parents had the same duty stations. Now he’s a flight attendant for Delta Airlines and I see him every few months or so. He’s got a good heart but he almost got me fired when he showed up uninvited at my first undercover gig. I’ve forgiven him, especially since he helped me nail the kingpin, but I’m not sure Dalton ever will.
“Hey, Poppy-girl,” he said when he picked up. “Whatsup?”
“Hey.”
“What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Funny,” I said.
“Seriously, that was some risky action in Costa Rica. You back in the States now, safe and sound?”
“No. Came straight here.” I paused. Wouldn’t hurt to tell him. “I’m in Norway.”
“What the hell are you doing in Norway?”
“And don’t come here.”
“Girl, I learned my lesson on that one.” He snorted. “Besides, you’re in one of the safest countries in the world. Nothing for me to worry about. What are you doing there?”
“Dalton and I are here undercover and—”
“Dalton, huh? I thought that was a one time deal.”
“It was supposed to be but—”
“Buuuut?”
“Nash wanted us here. Together. I can’t tell you the details.”
“Okay.”
The breeze had picked up, pushing ripples across the surface of the water.
“So why’d you call?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” I shifted the phone to my other ear. “Just haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“You never call just to talk. You’re not that kind of girl. What’s going on?”
“Well, I just wondered, I mean, you’re a man and—”
“Oh, here it comes.”
“Chris, I’m serious. I really need your advice right now.”
“Poppy-girl, there’s only one thing you need to know: he’s got it bad for you.”
“What? No, he’s been assigned—”
“Sweetheart, I could tell. He’s got it bad.”
“You met him once, for like, five seconds.”
“Uh, huh. And that’s all it took.” He made that clicking noise with his lips. “I’m telling you.”
“Whatever.”
“Oh and you aren’t hot for him? This is Chris you’re talking to.”
“Yeah, well. Your radar is way off. He’s my partner. That would be unprofessional.”
“Uh, huh.”
Silence.
“You talk to your mom lately?”
“Chris, don’t start with me.” My mom and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms. Well, she was. I wasn’t.
“She call
ed me, asking about you, said she hasn’t heard from you in months.”
“New subject.”
“She’s worried about you. Especially this week, you know. Because of the anniversary of your dad’s—“
“New subject!”
“Okay, okay.” He paused a beat. “How’s the love life?”
“Chris!”
“Touchy buttons today. He’s gotten you that riled?”
“I gotta go.”
“That was like thirty seconds. Must be a record.”
I huffed. “Fine. How are things with you?”
He paused. “Yeah, I’ve gotta go too. Say hi to Dalton for me.”
Errrrgh! I shoved the phone back into my pocket.
The village was so small, it couldn’t be that hard to find the pub. I strolled toward the main street and, sure enough, there it was on the corner.
The lights were low, the decor typical of a seaside pub—paintings of old ships on the walls, brass fixtures, wood plank flooring—the kinds of items that would be made of plastic and arranged in an attempt to create an authentic atmosphere in some themed restaurant in the U.S. Here, they were the real deal. So was the odor of sea salt, weathered wood, and mildew mixed with the bitter smell of stale beer.
Music played on some old speakers and there were enough patrons to create a low roar of conversation. In the back, some men played billiards.
I scanned, looking for any of the crew I’d seen.
Bingo. In the corner sat Michael, the American man I’d met on the dock. Next to him was a Norwegian who had the look of an old salt. No doubt, he’d spent his life on the deck of a fishing vessel—crusty beard, wrinkles at the edges of his blue eyes from squinting in the sun, cheeks a permanent rose color.
On the other side of the table sat a boy who couldn’t be a day over twenty, with red hair and freckles and a pair of glasses that belonged on a professor of archeology. He was so tall and gangly, he looked like he had to neatly fold his legs and arms to fit into the booth. They looked bored and restless, tired of each other’s company.
I waited at the bar until Michael looked my way, then flashed him a come-hither-smile. Without a second glance, he abandoned his beer and mates and crossed the pub to greet me.
“Hi there. Poppy, was it?” He had an easy smile and soft eyes.
I nodded.
“Hey, I’m sorry my father was so gruff with you. Let me buy you a drink?”
“Sure, a drink would sooth my sorrows,” I said with a wink. His Father. Michael was Ray’s son. Interesting. I needed to be extra careful.
“He can come off as a crotchety old man, but he’s really not that bad,” he said. “Times have been tough and he’s not thrilled about being out fishing again. Hopefully, after this trip, he can retire.”
I bet. With a cold million. “Who are your friends?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s the crew. Bjørn is the helmsman. Dylan’s cook and deckhand.”
I eyed Bjørn. Was he the informant? Damn, I should have gotten a description from Dalton.
Michael had a look on his face. I’d stared too long.
“Be-yorn?” I said to cover. “He doesn’t look like a Be-yorn. Wasn’t that the name of the songwriter in ABBA?”
Michael shrugged, uninterested.
“My father was into ABBA,” I said, feeling as though I needed an explanation.
“Oh,” he said, nodding with the fake, that’s-so-interesting smile.
The front door swung open and a man strolled in, looking around with the agitation of someone who’d been called away from an expensive hooker’s bed.
I drew in a breath and quickly turned away. It was the man from Bergen, the hustler in the pub. He still had the mark I’d put on his potato face. Crap! Five hundred miles north and here he was. He must be the informant. Head slap.
“I’ve got to talk with this guy.” Michael turned away from me. “I’ll have to catch you later.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, we were just getting started.”
He jerked from my grip. “I said I gotta go.”
Okay, geez. You don’t have to be an asshole. “I’ll be around,” I said to the back of his head.
The informant went straight to the table with Bjørn and Dylan. Michael followed him over there, but then the two of them moved to a different table to talk. The old Norwegian, Bjørn, followed them with his eyes, his expression unreadable.
I tried not to be conspicuous while I kept a close eye on them. They leaned forward, into the table and talked in low voices. Whatever they were talking about, Michael didn’t want Bjørn or Dylan to know. Then the door opened and Ray pushed through to their table. Oh, to be a fly in his beer.
Potato Head glanced around the pub, annoyed. He thrust his chair back in a huff and headed for the bar. Right next to me. Crap. I needed to take control of this.
“Can I get something to drink,” he said to the bartender.
“What’ll you have?” The man responded without looking up from the counter he was wiping with a wet rag.
He ordered some beer I’d never heard of.
“Excuse me,” I asked. “Have we met before?”
He smiled and looked right at me. His smile faded and his eyeballs rattled around in his skull, searching for an escape.
I clamped my hand down on his arm and gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry about the misunderstanding in Bergen.”
He glanced over at Ray, then made an overly exaggerated examination of the contents of his wallet.
“Put it on my tab,” I said to the bartender, then whispered, “I had no idea you were, well, you. You wouldn’t give my partner your description. How was I supposed to know?”
From his expression, I gathered he’d like to knock my head against the bar.
He turned so his back was to Ray.
“Do you have any new information to share?” I said as quietly as I could.
“Are you kidding?” he said, rubbing his temple.
“I said I was sorry?”
His face turned a lighter shade. “Don’t you know how dangerous he is?”
Dalton had been right; this guy was squirrelly. I’d be lucky if he didn’t tell Ray who I was right now.
He glanced over his shoulder, fidgeted with his sleeve, then took a cigarette from a box in his pocket and clamped his thin lips around it. “I ain’t sayin’ nothing more.”
Informants always said that, but deep down, they wanted to blab. “How long is your little powwow gonna be? I want to get a look at that boat.”
He shook his head. “No, no, no. Not a good idea. Too risky.”
“I only need a few minutes.” I didn’t want to push him, but this was my best chance. “C’mon. Keep ‘em busy?”
He eyed me up and down, making a decision, then as the bartender set his beer on the bar, he said, “And another round for my friends.” He pointed to the table with one hand, grabbed his beer with the other, and left me without another word.
I downed the rest of my beer, tossed some kroner on the bar, and headed straight for the docks, a smile on my face.
The Forseti was a typical seine fishing vessel with the addition of a crow’s nest, which was common on whaling ships. Michael had made it sound like Bjørn, Dylan, his father, and he were the entire crew. That meant no one was aboard the ship right now. I wanted to see what I could find out.
The early nightfall this time of year was a great advantage. I slinked down the dock without seeing anyone and slipped aboard. The wheelhouse might, by some chance, have information, but poking around in there was pretty risky. What I really wanted to know was how they planned to capture and transport an orca. Everything they needed must’ve been on deck.
There were several lazarettes, large stowage containers built into the hull. Six I could see right away. Problem was, they had big, heavy lids. If I opened one, I risked making a lot of noise. I needed to lift the lid a few inches and peek inside. But to do it one-handed while I held my phone up for a flash
light was going to be tricky.
The first was pad-locked. Not a good sign. The second had a clip in the latch. I pulled it out and heaved up the lid. Nothing but netting inside.
The next one was full of extra floats.
I turned to cross to the other side and someone grabbed me, his hand over my mouth. I rammed my elbow into his gut and spun around.
“It’s me,” Dalton said, wincing. “Someone’s coming down the dock.”
Crap.
He grabbed my hand. “We’ve got to hide,” he said and dragged me across the deck. He lifted a pile of nets and I crawled under. He rolled in next to me and flopped the nets down on top of us. They stunk of musty, salty sea, and fish. I tried to breathe through my mouth and stay still. There was no way I was getting caught on board and blowing this op before we even got started.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered in his ear. His body was pressed tight up against me like a spoon.
He shook his head, telling me to be quiet.
Someone stepped on board, then another someone. They walked across the deck, but didn’t go inside. I heard mumbling, but couldn’t make out the words. Then the scratchy click-click of a cigarette lighter.
“We’re going to be here for a while,” I whispered to Dalton.
He nodded.
I lay there listening for any recognizable word, wondering who it was. Probably Ray. He smoked. And maybe the informant.
Dalton was warm against me. He didn’t move a muscle. Not a twitch. I couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. What the hell was he doing on board, anyway? Always harping on me about doing things by the book.
Finally, footsteps again. The two men moved toward the wheelhouse, then the clunk-clunk of shoes on metal stairs. Dalton rolled over. “We’ve got to go,” he said. “Slip off at the stern and swim at least two docks over.”
“What? This is the North Atlantic. Do you know how cold that water is?” Jumping into water that temperature was too risky. I wasn’t sure I could do it. The shock of the cold alone could cause an automatic gasp reflex, then uncontrollable hyperventilation. Everyone in town would hear me in freak-out mode. Then, within minutes, my legs and arms would seize up. I’d sink like a stone.
Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series) Page 24
