“But someone was killed on the fishing boat,” she insisted.
The captain shook his head. “That’s not possible, Mrs. Connelly.”
Anger bloomed in Sasha’s belly; she forced herself to tamp it down. Exploding now would be counterproductive. She needed to convince the captain to radio the authorities. The only way to do that to stay calm. “I know what I saw,” she said in a firm but polite voice. “I saw two men shoot a girl, and she fell into the water.”
“A girl?”
“Yes, a girl. Or a woman. I don’t know how old she was, but she was definitely a she.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and gave her a grandfatherly look. “You must be mistaken. Women aren’t permitted on the fishing vessels for a variety of reasons. It’s simply not allowed. In all my years of sailing in this part of the world, I assure you I have never seen a woman on a fishing vessel in the Gulf of Thailand.”
She stared at him in disbelief. He really wasn’t going to do anything about it. She switched tacks. “Well, even if I am mistaken, something happened on that boat. I know what a muzzle flash looks like and I know the sound of gunfire. Why don’t you just call the authorities and let them look into it?”
The captain’s genial mask slipped. “With all due respect, I’m not going to bother the authorities and risk falling behind our sailing schedule over a couple of fishermen having fun shooting at fish in the water—an activity that may not be strictly legal or advisable, but one that is certainly not worth wasting the time of either law enforcement or our passengers.”
She responded in her best litigator voice, “I just want to be sure that I understand. What you’re telling me is that you refuse to pass along a passenger’s report of a possible murder. Is that correct?”
He took his time answering. “What I’m telling you is that you simply did not witness a murder.”
She fixed him with her most withering look—the one she usually reserved for sexist opposing attorneys and busybody mothers offering unsolicited advice on the playground. He flinched but didn’t back down.
“I know what I saw,” she insisted again, careful to keep her tone even and her pitch low, even though she wanted to shriek in his face and flail her arms around frantically. Her instincts told her Captain Jan van Metier would waste no time dismissing her as a hysterical woman.
Now he arranged his concrete face into something that approximated a smile. “The eyes can play tricks on you at sea. I assure you, Mrs. Connelly, if someone had fallen overboard from a nearby vessel, an SOS call would have come across the radio. One did not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am quite busy. Perhaps you would enjoy some roulette in the casino or, better yet, a massage in the spa. I’m sure it would help relieve your stress.”
He turned on his heel and left her standing at the bridge. She scanned the white-capped waves below, as if she might miraculously spot the girl. Futile, she knew. That girl was dead, sinking below the ocean’s surface—and not because she’d fallen overboard. Sasha had witnessed it: the push; the cries; the quick flash of guns; the small shape falling into the water; then the burbled scream that faded; and, lastly, the men’s laughter that hung on the sea air.
She rubbed her arms vigorously to warm herself from the chill that settled over her and took one last, long look at the water. The small boat that the woman had been pushed from grew even smaller. If she squinted, though, she could still make out its shape in the vast ocean. And the resupply boat was just a dot near the horizon.
She stared at the ocean for a moment. Then she jutted out her chin and set off to find Connelly. Captain van Metier could blow her off, but she’d like to see him try that with her hulking federal agent of a husband.
* * *
Leo gathered his wife into his arms. Her shoulders shook against his chest. He didn’t know whether she was trembling from the horror of what she had witnessed, her anger at not being believed, or some combination of the two. All he knew what he needed to comfort her and then deal with that idiot of a captain.
“Hey, hey,” he soothed, “you’re okay. It’s okay.”
She took a shuddering breath then looked up at him. Her green eyes were troubled. “I saw a murder.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you.” He did, and not only because plenty of classified briefings detailing murder on the high seas had crossed his desk over the years. He believed her because she wasn’t prone to histrionics—if anything, she was the opposite.
Her body relaxed against his. “Thank you.” She paused a beat. “But we have to do something.”
He smoothed a hand over her hair, still damp from her run, then squeezed her narrow shoulder. “You take a long, hot shower. Leave Captain van Metier to me.”
She smiled weakly.
Leo knew she loathed having to ask for help. She hated appearing needy almost as much as she hated being dismissed on the basis of her gender or her size. But she was realistic enough to know that sometimes it took a caveman to persuade a caveman. And for all his evolved, modern sensibilities, Leo Connelly was perfectly capable of being a caveman when the situation warranted.
Sasha gave him a quick peck on the cheek and headed toward the bathroom. “A hot shower does sound like heaven.”
“Good. Then when I come back, we’ll have some coffee and plan the rest of our day.” He snatched up his key card from the bedside table and grabbed a jacket from the back of the chair in the living area. He paused by the door. “Don’t forget to lock this behind me. You don’t want Bruce to get an eyeful.”
She laughed for a second, but then her tone grew serious again. “Hey, babe?”
He turned to face her.
“Did you happen to bring your gun?”
He kept his face neutral even though the question revealed just how deeply rattled she was. They had struck an uneasy truce around the subject of whether he was carrying his weapon outside the house. It was a don’t ask, don’t tell sort of policy. In their home, by agreement, his Glock was secured in the gun safe at all times. But sometimes he deemed it advisable to conceal carry when he was out on the street. But an international cruise that involved clearing customs at the Singapore airport and multiple ports of entry throughout Southeast Asia was not one of those times. He’d talked to Hank, and they’d agreed getting the appropriate clearances would raise more questions than he was comfortable with given the unofficial nature of his job—not to mention the unofficial status of the entire department Hank ran. He looked at Sasha for a long moment before answering. “No, I didn’t bring it. But don’t worry.”
She shot him a look. “Who said I was worried?” She tossed the question over her shoulder and strode toward the bathroom.
Her bravado made his heart ache just a little.
8
Jan van Metier felt the dull throb of the very beginning of a headache just behind his right temple. He was not surprised. His morning had gone poorly, to put it mildly. First, there had been the hysterical visit from the Connelly woman. Then her oaf of a husband had burst on the observation deck demanding to see him.
He rolled his shoulders to release some of the stress he’d been holding since the confrontation with Mr. Connelly. The American had blustered and threatened and, in general, had behaved as Americans tended to behave—ordering him to contact shore side authorities and making vague statements about how important he was back home. Jan had maintained his diplomatic demeanor, but it had taken all of his self-control. How dare a civilian passenger presume to tell him what to do. He was the captain of this vessel. He made the decisions. He gave the orders.
For a brief second, he thought longingly of his time in the Royal Netherlands Navy. The military life may have lacked the softness and the luxury of his current assignment, but at least in the navy everyone knew his place.
Jan had almost no doubt that Mrs. Connelly had witnessed a murder. But there was no margin in letting her, or her self-important hus
band, know that. He planned to continue to maintain that the very idea was laughable.
But he was not laughing. The moment she’d told him what she’d seen, he’d suspected a Thale vessel was involved. And the presence of the resupply boat had added to his belief. Those ships did, as he’d told Mrs. Connelly, bring supplies to the boats and take away the fish the crews had caught. But what he hadn’t mentioned to her was that they also served as an informal taxi service for the armed mercenaries who lived on the floating armory just north of Kuala Lumpur—and Thale was known to be an enthusiastic purchaser of their services.
Finally, to compound the situation, in his efforts to assuage Mr. Connelly’s concerns, he’d enlarged a still of the shipping boat taken by one of cruise liner’s many security cameras. The pixilated shot showed an empty deck, which hadn’t really satisfied Mr. Connelly, who argued that the fact the picture showed nothing untoward happening at that precise moment was proof of nothing.
For Jan, though, it was proof of something. It confirmed that the ship in the blurry photograph was part of the fleet owned and operated by the powerful Thale Group. In addition to its fishing enterprise, the family behind Thale owned most of the port city of Samut Prakan. They owned the bars, the girls, the restaurants, the fishmongers, and the local police. Although Thale’s ships were flagged out of Cambodia, the company had a finger in just about every pie in Thailand from the legal enterprises to the more lucrative, illegal ones. Crossing Thale would be suicidal, probably in a literal sense.
Just thinking about it made his headache bloom in full force. He checked the time: in just a few hours they would dock in Laem Chabang. The itinerary called for an overnight stay, so that the passengers could travel north to the city of Bangkok for an excursion, which meant that he could blow off a little steam of his own.
In the meantime, he deleted the photograph and erased the video footage that showed the shipping vessel. He knew the materials weren’t truly gone and could no doubt be restored by specialists, but at least they weren’t just sitting out there for anyone who cared to see them.
His sipped his tea, which was now quite cold, and willed the hands on his watch to move more quickly.
9
Connelly came back to the room just as Bruce arrived bearing a tray of fresh fruit and muffins. Sasha unbolted the door and let them both into the main living area of the suite. Bruce immediately set up the breakfast goodies while Sasha brewed the coffee herself. She liked Bruce—a lot—but there was just no way she was going to trust a tea-drinking Brit to make her cup of morning joe. She wondered idly if that made her a xenophobe, but then decided she really didn’t trust anyone not a blood relative or bound to her by marriage with the first cup of the day. After that first one, though, she’d let the devil himself make her coffee.
She almost laughed at herself, but one look at Connelly’s dark expression stopped her mid-giggle. She could tell that she wasn’t going to like what he’d have to report.
She was itching to know what happened, but she held her tongue while Bruce finished setting up the breakfast.
“Can I get you anything else at the moment?” the valet asked.
“No thank you.” Connelly’s voice was tight.
Bruce nodded and walked out of the suite.
Sasha crossed the room to hand her husband a mug of steaming coffee. “It went that well?”
He took the coffee in both hands and gave her a grim look. “The good news is Captain van Metier didn’t blow you off because you’re a woman.”
She couldn’t believe it. “He didn’t take you seriously either?”
“Not even a little bit.”
They sipped their coffee in silence.
After a moment, she picked up a fork, pushed some berries around her plate listlessly, and then dropped the fork with a clatter. “Now what? We can’t do nothing.”
His expression mirrored her frustration. He answered slowly. “I really hate to do this, but I think we need to reach out to Hank.”
Sasha felt some of her tension ease as a frisson of relief ran along her spine. She’d hoped he’d say that, but she hadn’t wanted to be the one to suggest it. Even now she wasn’t exactly clear about Hank’s role in the Department of Homeland Security, let alone her own husband’s. Involving Hank wasn’t her first option, either, but it seemed to be the best.
“Okay,” she agreed. “Go get your secret agent phone, and let’s see if we can reach out to him.” Connelly hesitated. He checked the time and did a quick calculation. “It’s pretty late there. We might wake the kids.”
“It’s Hank. Just because he’s a single dad to half a dozen children doesn’t mean the man’s going to turn his cell phone off after dinner,” she pointed out.
“I know. But … still.”
She understood his reluctance. The instant they’d become parents their own obsession with being available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, suddenly seemed ill-advised, if not insane. They both tried hard to leave work behind at the end of the workday and only responded to true emergencies after-hours. But she was fairly certain the murder of a young woman in international waters constituted an emergency.
“I think it’s okay to call him. Really.” She picked her fork back up and speared some blueberries.
Connelly opened the drawer by his side of the bed and removed his government-issued satellite phone. She ate some fruit salad and picked at a muffin while he placed the international call. Hank answered almost immediately, and Connelly put him on speakerphone.
“Hank, it’s Leo and Sasha. We’re sorry to bother you this late at night, but something’s come up,” Connelly began.
Hank’s voice was full of concern. “What do you mean, ‘something’s come up’? What could come up? Aren’t you supposed to be on your cruise?”
“Oh, we’re on the cruise,” Sasha assured him.
“You mean to tell me that you two managed to get yourselves into trouble in the middle of the ocean?” Hank’s tone suggested that his disbelief was completely feigned.
“Something like that,” Connelly said. “Sasha, why don’t you tell Hank what you saw?”
She took a steadying breath before plunging into her story. “I was having trouble sleeping this morning, so I went for a very early run. The sun hadn’t quite come up yet, so there wasn’t really anyone else up and about.” She began slowly, but as she recounted the scene, her cadence increased until she was almost breathless and she had to force herself to slow down. “I stopped to tie my shoe, and I saw a flash of light out on the water—”
“A flash? What kind of flash? You haven’t run into any unidentified flying objects out there, have you?” He chuckled.
She wished she’d seen little green men from Mars. That would have been a welcome alternative to the reality. “It was a muzzle flash.” She paused and let that information sink in.
“You’re sure?”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat, but before she could answer, Connelly said, “She’s sure.”
“I heard the gunfire,” she went on, “and then I heard screaming—a woman screaming. There was more gunfire, then she plunged into the water from the deck of what is apparently a small fishing boat.”
Connelly reached over, covered her hands with his, and gave a gentle squeeze.
When Hank spoke again, all the humor had drained from his voice. “You witnessed a murder?”
“Right. Now, granted, the boat was some distance away, and the light was bad, but I know what I saw.” Even to herself, she sounded defensive—like a deponent who’d been backed into a corner by sharp questioning. She was still feeling the sting of the captain’s dismissal. She looked at Connelly helplessly.
He explained, “Sasha reported it to the ship’s captain and he basically blew her off as a hysterical woman. I went to talk to him and didn’t get much further. He insists she couldn’t have seen what she saw and refuses to call the authorities. So, what’s our play?”
Hank’s voic
e rumbled, “Where are you, exactly?”
Connelly looked her. “I’m not sure, exactly. We’re somewhere in the Gulf of Thailand. We dock this afternoon at some regional port for an overnight.”
“Is the port in Bangkok?”
“No, Bangkok’s about two hours to the north. I can’t remember the name of the seaside town where we dock.”
Connelly rifled through the welcome materials that Bruce had given them on the first day. “It’s called Laem Chabang,” he supplied. “Why?”
“Can you get to Bangkok?” Hank wanted to know.
“Sure, the cruise line arranged an excursion, actually. But we were thinking we’d find a local guide to take us—you know, get a more authentic look at the town. Why?”
“There’s a Legat in Bangkok,” Hank answered.
‘A Legat?’ Sasha mouthed toward her husband.
“An FBI Legal Attaché who’s assigned to the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok,” Connelly explained. “Their focus is principally on terrorism, though. Doesn’t this sound more like a local law enforcement issue, Hank?”
“Maybe. But the Legats also liaise with local law enforcement organizations and security departments in their host countries. You’re not going to get anywhere by walking in off the street and reporting it to the police station at Laem Chabang—assuming there even is one. And we don’t know if the shooter, the victim, or anyone involved is a Thai national. They’ll have no reason to get involved—unless the Legat asks them to,” Hank answered.
Sasha piped up. “Actually, I’m pretty sure that authority to investigate will depend on where that fishing boat is registered. If I recall my maritime law correctly, criminal activity at sea is governed largely by a series of international treaties that only bind the signatories.”
“And you know all this maritime law stuff, how?” Hank’s voice crackled over the phone.
Sasha glanced at Connelly, whose expression conveyed mild interest, as if he shared his boss’s curiosity.
International Incident Page 4
