FORTY-NINE
CELIA HAD JUST reached the foot of the Albert Memorial when Sir James appeared. Kensington Gardens was lovely throughout the year, but less so as winter approached. She raised the collar of her heavy wool coat and walked to meet him.
“I hope you’re not playing up the whole cloak-and-dagger bit for me, James. We could speak just as privately in front of a fire at my home, you know.”
“If you must know, I’m on my way to the Royal Albert Hall to listen to a Prokofiev string quartet.”
“And I’m on my way to becoming an exhibit at the Natural History Museum if we don’t get out of this damp cold. What the devil have you found out?”
Celia took the arm of her dear friend and the two of them walked west through the bare trees.
“You really are fond of this American, aren’t you?”
“He was courteous, charming, and civilized, but beneath his gentlemanly demeanor there was an intensity, an intellect that was absorbing and processing everything around him. You could see it in his eyes, and in his speech and movement. He reminded me of you, actually.”
“My goodness, he must be quite dashing.”
“A half-century-younger version of you . . . Oh James, I just can’t rid myself of this feeling that something’s not quite right.”
“Well, I’m afraid your intuition may be correct. After you and I spoke I phoned up an old chum, a rather senior fellow over at Six, and asked if they had any interest in your boy. He said, ‘Possibly,’ which is the intelligence community equivalent of jumping up and down and screaming ‘yes’ at the top of one’s lungs.”
“So what did he say?”
“I told him about your time together on the plane, the photographs, and then the incident at Changi with the ‘other’ Mr. Miller. He listened carefully, but I didn’t hear from him for over a week. When he did call, he said only that he was still looking into it. He finally phoned me back this morning and asked to meet. Apparently, he ran it by the Americans and they dismissed it out of hand.”
“Well, that’s no good. Do you think he’s telling you the truth?”
“What he did told me more than what he said. Why wait two weeks, then insist on meeting in person, to tell me that my concerns were of no concern? That’s a polite way of saying that there’s something there, but he can’t discuss it. This fellow owes me his career, and even his life on one occasion, so he’s tipping his hand to me without appearing to do so. I suspect that whatever your friend is involved in is either very hush-hush or royally cocked-up. One way or another, the Americans know who he is, and they don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well . . . We shall see about that.”
FIFTY
ZAC’S EYES DARTED over the wet roads as Genevieve drove through the city. Louis XIV–era buildings with white brick facades and gray-tiled roofs lined the historic streets of Dieppe, but he wasn’t looking at the architecture. He was searching for anything that might help him, or hinder him, in his journey across the English Channel tonight.
Genevieve drove along the Quai Henri IV to the city’s only marina. The docks were inland, surrounded on three sides by land, with a man-made channel leading to the sea. Less than half of the two hundred slips were occupied on the cold December afternoon. They drove past the marina, wanting to reconnoiter the surrounding area as well.
Genevieve pulled into a nearly deserted parking lot at the beach and shut off the engine. They stepped out of the car and Zac was in his element once again. Just as in Marseille, the smell of the salt air and the rotting detritus of the sea invigorated him like a reunion with a long-lost friend. As they walked along the beach, Zac looked out over the English Channel. The breeze blew steadily around twenty knots while leaden clouds scudded across the horizon. Pockets of rain fell in the distance.
They set out on foot toward the marina. Genevieve wrapped her arm inside Zac’s while they strolled along the sidewalk. Through the fence they could see several commercial fishing boats and dozens of smaller powerboats tied up at the western end of the docks. The larger powerboats and sailboats were clustered at the eastern side, closer to the sea. Most were laid up for the winter. He’d have to steal something big enough to cross the notoriously rough Channel, but small enough for him to handle alone.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“About how I could get used to having you on my arm.”
She looked up at him and grinned. “Seriously, what are you thinking about?”
“If I take a powerboat, I could be there in a couple of hours.”
“Do you know how to steal one?”
“A lot of boat owners hide a key on board, but the wires are usually exposed underneath the dashboard if I have to hot-wire it. It’s easy. The bigger issue is fuel. I’d burn a lot of it in this weather and I won’t know how much is in the tanks until I get the covers off and the motors started. I’d probably have to try a few different boats.”
“That will attract a lot of attention.”
“Exactly. With a sailboat I could sail it off the dock if I had to.” He looked up at the treetops bending in the strong wind. “It’ll be a fast reach across the Channel with the breeze from the southwest.”
Despite the cold and occasional rain shower, a few groups of tourists were wandering around downtown, taking photographs, looking in shop windows, and checking out the restaurants. They provided good cover for Zac and Genevieve as they loitered outside the marina, surveying the sailboats. There were easily a dozen vessels in the thirty- to forty-foot range that he could skipper single-handed, so he narrowed his pool to the boats with radar. The Channel was always packed with ferries, tankers, and cargo ships, and he had no interest in a run-in with any of them. His near-collision with the supertanker in the Strait of Hormuz had been a well-learned lesson in the importance of situational awareness.
They ambled past the marina entrance. A dozen gulls stood on the ground just inside the gate, braced against the strong winds. A sign on the fence read “Port Jehan Ango,” named in honor of a local sailor and trader from the fifteenth century. The gate was locked with a digital keypad. Zac focused on it like a laser as they walked by. The 1, 3, 6, and 8 keys were worn much more than the others. The combination probably hadn’t been changed in years. They kept walking. There was a harbormaster’s office and two small businesses inside the fence: a ship’s chandlery and a hull-cleaning service. Both were closed.
They returned to the car and drove to a parking space overlooking the marina. They studied the area for nearly an hour. There was no watchman on duty and only a single group of boaters came through the gate, looking cold and miserable. The season and the weather were keeping the marina very quiet. Dusk came early in winter and by four o’clock, Zac was ready to go. Genevieve pulled around the block and they stepped onto the sidewalk to say good-bye. Zac pulled her close and hugged her tightly. Her head was pressed against his chest as he spoke.
“I’m sorry our second date wasn’t much better than the first. You must be thinking that our relationship is cursed.”
“No, Zac. I think I’ve learned more about what kind of man you really are than I would have in a dozen dates.”
“And?”
She pushed him away gently.
“And you’d better call me when you get back to London. Even if it’s only for five seconds, just to let me know you’re safe. We can talk about everything else after you clear your name with the Agency, and you will clear your name.”
“I’ll call, but if for whatever reason you don’t hear from me by next week, I want you to call Peter Clements. He’s the London chief . . .”
“I know who Peter Clements is.”
“Of course you do, Mata Hari. Just call him and tell him everything we talked about; how I came to France, my plan for getting to London, and anything else you can. I don’t exactly know what’s going on over there but I h
ave to trust someone.”
“Office politics . . .”
“There are a lot of moving parts.” Zac took a deep breath and held her again. “Genevieve, you’ve been so good to me. You had faith in me and trusted me when you could have just hung up the phone . . . I hope someday I can be there for you.”
“Do you know what convinced me to help you?”
“You said it was the timing, that we were having lunch when the murder happened.”
“It was the joy in your voice when you heard that I was alive. Only my parents sound like that when I pick up the phone.”
She looked up at Zac and kissed him gently on the mouth.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. He turned and walked back to the marina.
He stood in front of the locked gate, facing the electronic keypad. He tried several combinations of the worn numbers he’d seen earlier until 1-6-3-8 eventually opened the electromagnetic lock. He hurried past the chandlery and the harbormaster’s office to the waterfront.
A dozen large docks ran from shore into the harbor with smaller docks branching out from the larger ones. A few low-intensity lights illuminated the boats. Zac stepped onto an elegant Wauquiez forty-footer and did a quick check of the usual key-hiding places without luck. He moved on to a second boat, and then a third.
The process was taking too long. Every minute he spent walking around the docks increased the risk that he might be spotted. If he didn’t find a key soon he would have to break a cabin door and take his chances with starting the engine or simply sailing off the dock.
Serenité was a sleek Jeanneau 45. She was larger than what he wanted, but he was encouraged by the small ‘A Vendre’ sign with a name and telephone number taped to the stern. If the boat was for sale, then there was probably a key hidden somewhere for the brokers who would show the boat to prospective buyers. The companionway doors were locked, but a quick search under the cockpit seats yielded the key. Zac unlocked the doors and climbed through the companionway before descending four stairs into the cabin.
The boat was almost new, the smell of fiberglass resin still strong within her. There were a few life preservers and a small tool kit aboard but almost nothing else. He sat down inside the stone-cold boat and closed his eyes in silent prayer as he turned the key halfway in the ignition. The fuel tank was one-quarter full. It was enough. He’d only need the engine for half an hour to get out of the harbor in Dieppe and then again to dock the boat in England. The electronics came to life as well: The GPS, radar, and wind instruments were all working. It was a big boat to sail alone in heavy winds, but it was his best option.
Zac still needed some decent clothing for the trip. He shut the companionway doors and walked back to the hull-cleaning business that he’d passed on the way in. He threw his shoulder against the door and felt it budge. He hit it again, splintering the jamb and knocking the door open. The room was a mess, with lines and buoys strewn about the floor. He put on a sun-bleached foul-weather jacket that he found, but there was nothing for his legs or feet. He was about to leave when he spied a large closet built into the wall. Zac undid the catch and dragged the old plywood door across the floor. A wide grin crept across his face as his eyes danced over the shelves.
FIFTY-ONE
ZAC CLIMBED DOWN into the cabin of the sailboat, hefting a large duffel bag after him. Inside it was the gear he’d taken from the hull-cleaning shop. He set it down and looked around the cabin, taking stock of any equipment he might use on his journey. His gaze came to rest on one of the life preservers. If he went overboard tonight, the flotation device would only prolong his death, not prevent it. He left it where it lay.
Serenité’s three-cylinder diesel motor was barely audible as she pulled away from the dock. The late hour and foul conditions were keeping most everyone indoors, but Zac knew that he would be most visible when he motored out of the harbor. He switched on the red, green, and white navigation lights, deciding to hide in plain sight as he left the marina. Heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars but the lights of the city made navigating out of the harbor relatively easy. Farther out were a pair of breakwaters. Once he was outside those, he would be in the English Channel and on his way home.
The chartplotter showed that the nearest city on the English coast was Eastbourne, almost sixty nautical miles to the northeast. He energized the radar and started scanning his instruments and his surroundings.
The wind blew from the southwest, funneled up the Channel by the coastlines of France and England. The same waves that were crashing into the western breakwater were, just a little farther out, rolling unimpeded up the Channel. The waves were high and steep. He’d once crossed from Dover to Calais on a twenty-thousand-ton ferry and seen three-quarters of the passengers succumb to seasickness.
Zac steered away from the wind before turning gently toward it, allowing him to ease the sailboat into the open sea with her bow pointed toward the swells.
The impact of the first wave was stunning in its violence. The sailboat pitched up so quickly that it buckled his knees. Zac opened the throttle and Serenité scaled the massive wave. The wind howled through the rigging and strong gusts blew the tops off of the waves. Salt spray and sea foam blew across the surface. A moment later, the fast-moving swell disappeared underneath the sailboat and she pitched down, accelerating into the trough between the waves. Serenité plowed into the face of the next wave. Frigid seawater cascaded over the front and raced aft along the deck, crashing into him and soaking his legs.
He punched the throttle to climb the next wave. He modulated his speed better and Serenité found her rhythm among the heavy swells. He was relieved to have his sea legs under him, but a sailboat was in its element under sail. Zac set the autopilot and raised only two-thirds of the mainsail, to make the boat more controllable in the high winds.
He turned northwest toward Eastbourne, fifty-eight nautical miles away. Serenité was making over eight knots with just the reefed mainsail, but that still put him over seven hours from England. Seven hours, sailing by himself in such conditions, would be exhausting and dangerous. He needed more speed and decided to use the jib as well. A second sail flying at the front of the boat would generate more power. He unrolled the jib and it instantly filled with wind. The boat accelerated to eleven knots before Zac shut off the motor.
On her new heading, the waves came from the side and rolled under Serenité, making standing and steering tricky. He tried engaging the autopilot but it overreacted dangerously to the boat’s gyrations, and the radar was nearly useless. False contacts littered the display as radar waves bounced indiscriminately off the enormous seas.
With his hands on the wheel and his eyes darting between the instruments and the sea, Zac eventually brought the boat to a fragile equilibrium. Serenité was finally stable, but her captain was falling apart.
FIFTY-TWO
ZAC HAD BEEN shivering on deck since the first wave crashed over the bow and soaked him below his foul-weather jacket. His teeth started chattering soon after. Now he’d lost all feeling in his feet and moving his legs had become nearly impossible. More than once he caught himself staring numbly at the GPS or off into space. Despite his mounting impairment, he realized that if he didn’t warm up soon, he would probably die from hypothermia before he made land.
Indifferent to the risk of collision or capsize, Zac engaged the autopilot and staggered to the cabin. He made it three steps before a gust of wind and an errant wave knocked Serenité hard onto her side, slapping her sails against the sea. Only luck kept him from falling overboard. After a few seconds, the weight of the keel caused the boat to right herself and Zac scampered back to the wheel. He turned northeast, away from Eastbourne. With the wind at his back, he was able to engage the autopilot and furl the jib, rolling it back around itself like a cheap window shade. With only the mainsail up, the boat slowed and became more manageable.
The autopilot was able t
o maintain control as the boat surfed along with the waves. He monitored the situation for a few more seconds then stumbled below into the cabin, collapsing onto one of the settees. It took several minutes to strip off his wet pants. He poked his thigh with his index finger. It was cold, dense, and completely without feeling.
He’d taken a dry suit for scuba diving from the shop in Dieppe but had been so eager to put to sea that he hadn’t put it on. Unlike a wetsuit, in which a thin layer of water was sandwiched between the skin and the suit, a dry suit was designed to keep all of the water on the outside. The men who scraped barnacles off of the boats in Dieppe spent hours in the cold water each day and the dry suits kept them comfortable while they worked. Zac stripped off his wet clothes and stepped awkwardly into the fleece-lined suit. With a waterproof zipper, and seals around the neck and wrists, the suit would insulate his body and prevent even a drop of water from reaching his skin. He donned his jacket, and a neoprene hood and gloves from the duffel bag, before making his way back to the wheel.
He turned back on course for Eastbourne and switched on Serenité’s VHF radio, turning the volume to its highest setting so he could hear it over the roar of the wind and the sea. Despite a proliferation of newer technologies, when the weather turned foul and the seas grew rough, ship captains still liked to speak to the man piloting the 250,000 tons of steel headed toward them. A few seconds after he switched it on, Zac heard a chemical tanker hail a container ship, and knew that he was on the right channel. Even if he didn’t get any information out of it, the chatter alone might keep him awake.
The weather continued to worsen. A rain squall drove the wind to almost forty knots and Zac struggled to control the boat. Each gust heeled her over as it overpowered the sails, forcing them down toward the water until the wind spilled out.
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