International Incident

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Especially after today’s event,” Bruce added. “He detests any unusual activity that upsets the natural order of things. He’s already beside himself that the ship was boarded and his passengers inconvenienced.”

  Sasha considered pointing out that her attack by a murderous mercenary was somewhat more troubling than an inconvenience, but she was suddenly too tired to argue. So, she simply said, “I understand. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s quite late, and I’m exhausted.”

  They tripped over themselves in their hurry to leave her to get some rest. She chained and dead-bolted the door behind them, doubled checked that it was locked, then triple checked.

  And then, nineteen hours after she witnessed the callous murder of a teenaged girl; ten hours after she was stalked through the streets of Samut Prakan by a gunman; seven hours after she had a bare-knuckled fight with a mercenary; and ten minutes after learning that her husband was in a Thai prison cell, Sasha McCandless-Connelly ended her day the only way that made sense: she cried herself to sleep.

  34

  Jan didn’t need to look at his titanium diver’s watch to know that Leo Connelly had missed the final call to re-board The Water Lily, but he did it anyway. For effect. He pushed back his shirt cuff, squinted at the dial, and emitted a short, harsh sound of displeasure.

  Beside him, Julia stiffened and clutched her clipboard to her chest.

  “We don’t depart for another two hours, sir. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”

  He didn’t turn to look at her as he spoke, but continued to stare straight ahead, out at the horizon. “Miss Otterbein, you know my rule.”

  His rule was elegant in its simplicity: Anyone not on The Water Lily by the designated time was left behind. He’d made exceptions in the past, of course. When the bus transporting passengers back from a Sacred Lotus-sponsored excursion in China had been delayed by an engine that had caught fire, he’d allowed the harried travelers to re-board late. When Mrs. Garner had experienced a mild cardiac infarction at the Singapore Art Museum, he’d permitted her to board after the medical center had made the necessary arrangements to transport her to the cruise center.

  But exceptions were made at his discretion, after a careful consideration of the circumstances. And there were many situations in which he had refused to permit lollygaggers to board: inconsiderate honeymooners; flaky groups of older women who lost track of time at the markets; ineffective parents who failed to herd their offspring through a city’s tourist attractions in a timely manner—all these hapless travelers had been left behind in ports of call throughout Asia. He had a schedule to keep. And those passengers who had managed to arrange their day properly should not be inconvenienced by those who had not.

  Each of these points was true. Still, Jan could feel himself growing defensive. Sasha McCandless-Connelly had been attacked on his ship. So far, he had no reason to believe that anyone suspected him of being complicit; after all, why would they? But if he were to leave behind the woman’s husband one day later, how would that look? Appearances mattered.

  He turned to Julia. “Where the devil is he, anyway? What sort of man doesn’t return to his wife’s side after the ordeal she’s just lived through?”

  Julia blinked at him wide-eyed, apparently struggling to craft a response. “I’m certain Mr. Connelly … oh, look!” She used her pen as a pointer and traced the progress of a sleek black SUV that was slowly weaving through an area of the port in which motorized vehicles were prohibited. The car was headed directly toward their dock. Ordinarily, Jan would have radioed port security, but seeing as how a security vehicle was escorting the SUV, that step seemed superfluous.

  An ice-cold wave of apprehension coursed through his body. Had the Thai authorities put it all together? Had Thale failed to pay a bribe? Maybe the American had rolled over, dishonoring his contractual vow of silence.

  Stop that, he commanded himself. Whatever was about to happen, he would face it with the dignity that befit his position. He squared his shoulders and waited.

  Julia and two of his petty officers descended the ramp and were standing at the bottom when the security golf cart and the SUV reached them. The port security officer executed a tight U-turn, gave a little wave of his hand, and headed back in the direction from which he’d come.

  The driver of the SUV killed the engine and hopped out of the car. He was a stocky, olive-skinned man with short cropped hair. He wore a dark suit and mirrored sunglasses that hid his eyes. He walked around to the back of the car and opened the door.

  A tall man, who held himself in the manner of someone who was accustomed to ducking under door frames and light fixtures, emerged. He was clearly a Westerner, judging by his coloring and his shock of wheat-colored hair. He, too, wore a suit and sunglasses. He turned back to the car and said something to someone still inside.

  After a few seconds, a third man exited the car. Another tall man, but this one was broad-shouldered and stood erect. Jan couldn’t make out his facial features—was he Asian or not? He had thick spiky hair and was dressed like a vacationer on holiday: a short-sleeved collared shirt, linen pants, and leather sandals. He glanced up toward The Water Lily and Jan got a good view of his face. Leo Connelly.

  Mr. Connelly shook hands with the driver and then pointed toward Julia. He and the tall man approached the ramp where she stood. The three engaged in a few moments of animated conversation. Whatever they were saying to Julia elicited a series of gasps and fluttery hand gestures. Jan knew he could, and as a matter of decorum likely should, walk down the ramp to see what was going on.

  But he stayed where he was. He was in a vulnerable position and maintaining the high ground felt safer to him. In any case, this was his ship; he was the captain. If the man wanted to speak to him, he could come to Jan. Apparently, that is what he wanted. He turned and called to the driver, who nodded and slid back into the car to wait. Then Julia, Mr. Connelly, and the tall man made their way up the ramp, trailed by the ship’s officers.

  Julia handled the introductions. “Captain van Metier, this gentleman is Ronald Rubin, the Legal Attaché to the United States Embassy in Bangkok. And, of course, you know Mr. Connelly.”

  Jan’s stomach clenched. He ignored the tightness and smiled. “Mr. Rubin. Mr. Connelly.”

  “Call me Ron.” The man from the embassy extended his hand.

  Jan shook it firmly and ignored the request for informality. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rubin?”

  “The American government wanted to ensure that this fine citizen was able to board the ship without incident. He was unavoidably delayed by an act of bravery and heroism that benefitted both the Royal Thai Government and the United States of America.”

  Jan flicked his gaze toward Mr. Connelly. The man seemed to be discomfited by the florid praise. He also appeared to be tired and somewhat disheveled. Jan looked back at the diplomat. “That sounds impressive.”

  “I assure you, it is. I’m not at liberty to speak about the details at the moment, but his actions were instrumental in securing the safety of several citizens from multiple nations. As a result, Mr. Connelly missed the final boarding time. I trust that’s not a problem?” The man smiled.

  “Certainly not. Mr. Connelly, in light of your service to your country and our host country, I would be honored if you and Mrs. Connelly would be my guests at my private table for dinner tonight,” Jan said with all the sincerity he could muster.

  A shadow flitted over Mr. Connelly’s face but he wiped it away almost instantly. “That sounds great. Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” His voice was hoarse, and he was clearly eager to escape to his room.

  “Of course.” Jan nodded to Julia. “Have you scanned Mr. Connelly’s keycard?”

  “He’s all set,” Julia said in a warm voice.

  Mr. Connelly turned toward the American official and clasped his arm. “Thanks for everything, Ron.”

  Rubin slapped him on the back in that jovial way the Americans had. “I’ll be in touc
h. You take good care. Give Hank my best.” Then he turned toward Jan and Julia. “Captain van Metier, Ms. Otterbein.” He nodded and walked back down the ramp.

  Jan turned to ask Mr. Connelly if he required an escort to his room, but he was already halfway to the elevator.

  At his elbow, Julia mused aloud, “Isn’t odd that both Mr. Connelly and Ms. McCandless-Connelly were each separately involved in some sort of drama at this port?”

  It was odd, indeed, Jan thought darkly.

  35

  Sasha slept like the dead and woke to the late-morning sunlight streaming through an opening in the drapes. She blinked in disbelief at the time displayed on the bedside clock then rolled over to nudge Connelly awake.

  Her hand closed around a fistful of empty sheets and then she remembered. Connelly was in jail.

  She sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes. How could she have slept so well while her husband was stuck in some concrete cell, no doubt crawling with insects and who-knew-what? She was a terrible human being.

  She stretched, and the muscles in her back protested in a fiery complaint. She got to her feet gingerly. She was sore all over. She ticked off the previous day’s activities: five-mile run; evasive action in Samut Prakan; skulking around the cruise ship; oh, and, the hand-to-hand combat. She decided to give herself a pass on the good night’s sleep. Her body had obviously needed it.

  She padded to the glass doors, pulled the rod to open the drapes and let in the sun, and then began a series of gentle yoga postures to get herself moving. Next on the agenda would be some strong coffee.

  And then? Then she’d raise holy hell until she got to speak to Connelly.

  She was mid-cat in a cat-cow pose when she heard the doorknob jiggle. The chain did its job, and then there was light rapping at the door. Hopeful that it was Bruce with a breakfast tray, she abandoned the yoga in favor of sustenance and caffeine and trotted to the door. She grabbed a short silk robe off the back of one of the Queen Anne chairs and cinched it closed around her thin tank top and shorts.

  She unlocked the deadbolt and slid off the chain then pulled open the door. “Bruce, just the man—”

  Connelly stood in the doorway. He looked rumpled, tired, and gorgeous. He drank her in with his gray eyes for a long moment, then he gathered her into his arms, kicking the door closed with his foot.

  “He better not be the man you were hoping to see,” Connelly teased huskily before covering her mouth with hungry lips.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched her back to meet him. He was back. And in one very solid piece.

  They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. She trailed kisses from his jawbone to his shoulder. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head. Then he took her chin in his hands and inspected her face. “Ron told me you were attacked. Did that dirtbag lay a finger on you?” He pushed the robe off her shoulders, searching her bare arms for bruises.

  Some distant part of her logical brain informed her that this inventory of battle wounds was not normal foreplay, but she tucked the message away to deal with later.

  “I’m okay. Just sore. Are you really okay?” she said, pulling his face down to hers.

  “I’m better than okay.” He smiled his crooked smile and then buried his face in her hair.

  She wrapped her legs around his back and decided there were better ways to start one’s day than with yoga and a cup of coffee.

  * * *

  Sasha’s mouth ached from smiling politely. Dinner at Captain van Metier’s personal table reminded her of her entire 2-L summer of law school. It wasn’t a fond memory.

  Law firms offered summer associate positions to students who’d done well during their first two years of law school. The summer associates were paid obscenely well, coddled and pampered, and typically offered permanent employment at the end of the summer. Part of the law firm’s goal during the summer was to impress its associates with mind-boggling displays of wealth and excess. Various partners had their own takes on what delivered that ‘wow’ factor.

  Unfortunately for Sasha, her partner mentor had been a man not-so-affectionately nicknamed ‘Attorney Peanut.’ Although Reginald Bartholomew Bonaparte-Jones, Esquire, didn’t actually have a monocle, top hat, and cane like the icon in the canned nuts commercial, he did have an extremely formal manner and had subjected her to endless, bland, overpriced dinners that stretched on for multiple courses and featured lengthy monologues by Attorney Peanut himself.

  As Captain van Metier started his fourth consecutive story about his time in the Royal Netherlands Navy, she had to force her eyelids to stay open by sheer, wide-eyed will. It occurred to her that he hadn’t asked her a single question—not about her family, not about her work, not about the U.S. presidential election. Bupkis. She glanced at the other end of the table where Connelly had totally lucked out and been seated next to Elli Kurck. Oliver was at the far opposite end, laughing and joking with an actor from a popular Mexican telenovela, who definitely told better stories than the captain.

  “And so, you see, the ship was a Karel Doorman frigate, sometimes called an M-class, and—”

  “That reminds me,” Sasha interrupted, bored out of her mind and no longer concerned as to whether she was being rude, “what kind of ship is a dragon shuttle? Is that a military term or a fishing term or what?”

  He pulled his head back like Java did when she smelled citrus—disgusted and perplexed all at once. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A dragon shuttle. I heard someone use that term recently, and I thought it was a reference to a boat. It’s very evocative, don’t you think? I picture one of those Chinese paddle boats, but of course, that wouldn’t be a shuttle. Anyway, I just thought you might know.” She realized she was prattling, mainly because it was her first chance to speak in well over an hour—since just after the salads had been served and she asked the waiter for oil and vinegar dressing.

  Captain van Metier was staring at her as if she’d taken off her dress and was dancing on the table. “I’m sure I don’t have the slightest idea, Mrs. Connelly. Really, a dragon shuttle.” He huffed and puffed and frowned and finally got up and walked away.

  The older woman who was seated on the other side of the captain leaned across his empty seat and said, “What did you say to get his knickers in a twist?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Sasha told her.

  “Well, I wish you’d have said it sooner. I finally had to turn down my hearing aids to tune out that old bore.” She laughed and raised her sherry glass in a toast.

  Sasha sipped her wine and scooted her chair closer to the woman’s. “So what did you do to get sentenced to this table?” she asked in a conspiratorial tone.

  36

  Phu My Port, Vietnam

  Leo and Sasha walked hand-in-hand through the crowds rushing to disembark from the cruise ships that lined the piers. Most of the vacationers were racing to catch tour buses for the two-and-a-half hour drive north to Ho Chi Minh City. But their plans didn’t include any sightseeing excursions, so they strolled at a leisurely pace.

  Elli and Oliver Kurck waved as they rushed by on their way to meet their tour guide.

  “Have fun at the Jade Emperor Pagoda,” Sasha called after them as they vanished into the crowd.

  They walked in silence for a bit, then Leo said, “Are you sure you don’t mind staying behind? There’s really nothing to do here.”

  Sasha shot him a look. “Trust me, Thailand pretty much dampened my desire to go on any shore excursions.”

  “They don’t all involve being chased through the streets, you know,” he said, giving her a nudge.

  Her easy laughter made his chest tighten.

  “Says you. Anyway, I thought you wanted to visit a friend.”

  “I do,” he agreed.

  “And you promised me lunch.”

  “I did.” He laughed to himself at the thought that she could possibly be hungry after the way she’d devoured the musse
l stew and crusty bread during dinner at the captain’s table last night.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” Leo Connelly was many things, but he wasn’t stupid enough to tell a pocket-sized woman she ate like a lumberjack.

  “Hmm. I would like to visit Ho Chi Minh City someday.”

  “So would I. But I’d like to have more than eight hours to spend in the country.” Maybe, he thought, when the twins were older. They could all spend a summer in Vietnam. They’d rent a villa somewhere in the countryside between Ho Chi Minh City and Vũng Tàu and explore both cities. He could introduce Finn and Fiona to their ancestral culture, even though he himself didn’t know it all that well.

  They crossed through a row of empty container ship piers and walked along a narrow cobblestone path that was partially overgrown with weeds. The streets beyond the port were filled with scooters speeding by with no apparent regard for pedestrians. He kept to the path.

  “This area seems very industrial,” Sasha remarked.

  “It is. This is a commercial zone. The cruise ships just dock here because they’re too big to go up the Saigon River to Ho Chi Minh City,” he explained.

  He led her across a lot to a wooden ticket stand that looked like it had just received a fresh coat of red paint. She examined the map and the timetable then turned toward him. “Wait. This looks like a water taxi service. I thought you didn’t want to go anywhere?”

  “You’re right on both counts. This is a new venture—a private hydrofoil boat that offers daily service to both Vũng Tàu to the south and Ho Chi Minh City to the north. But we aren’t buying tickets.”