by Taylor Smith
Cutting the engines entirely, he drifted in the last few yards, paddling lightly with a small, collapsible fiberglass oar from under the rear bench. At the side of the ship, he glanced up, but the ship seemed to be operating on minimum crew, and there was no sign his approach had been spotted. Pulling himself and the light craft hand over hand, Tucker passed along the lowest line of portholes, mostly unlit, peering into one after the other. Even research vessels had rooms deep in the bowels of the ship that served double duty as a brig. He found the Pushkin’s almost at the stern of the ship. Dimly lit as the small room was, he could just make out two slight forms. Mariah was lying on her side and she seemed to be asleep, although there was a small dark spot on the pillow near her head. Unless he was mistaken, that was dried blood. Lindsay was sitting beside her, watching over her, looking very worried.
Tucker tied up the Zodiac to the Pushkin’s anchor chain, then slipped out of his jacket, shoes and socks, and tossed them aside. After checking the tool bag at his waist, he slipped silently into the water.
His first order of business was the speedboat he’d spotted tethered to the other side of the ship. Hugging the Pushkin’s hull, Tucker approached the unoccupied craft. He withdrew the pliers, wrench and chain from his belt bag, then slipped over the side of the Zodiac and went to work, submerging several times to get at his target. A frogman once more—although he could have done with his old scuba gear, he thought when he finally finished, breathless, and made his way back to the Zodiac, guiding it to the rear of the ship once more.
The Pushkin hadn’t even been built the last time Tucker had shinnied up an anchor chain, and it hadn’t been easy even then. But where he’d had youth working for him in those days, this time he had motivation that went well beyond a desire not to look weak in front of his men.
He launched himself off the Zodiac’s deck and up the anchor chain. A few minutes later, he was on the deck of the ship, dripping wet, padding softly toward the aft stairs.
Mariah awoke to a dull thump outside the cabin door. She’d lost track of time, drifting in and out of sleep since being brought on board the larger ship. She kept trying to stay awake, for her daughter’s sake as much as anything. Lindsay’s immense relief at seeing her brought aboard Porter’s boat had quickly shifted to anxiety as her mother’s step had faltered. Mariah’s focus had kept going blurry, and her head had been pounding since the moment she’d been struck from behind in Renata’s library. The more she tried to concentrate on staying awake, the sleepier she became, until she would drop off once more.
The outside bolt on the steel door of their cabin prison slid open with a dull, rasping scrape. Lindsay jumped up, and Mariah pulled herself to a sitting position, determined not to look vulnerable when their guards returned. When the door opened, a pair of broad shoulders backed in, carrying something—a dinner tray, Mariah guessed. Oh, joy. Feeding time at the zoo.
But then she saw a pair of sprawled legs dragging along the floor. The burly man backing in was pulling a prostrate man. Another prisoner? Mariah got to her feet, ignoring the searing pain in her head. “What did you do to him?” she demanded.
He dropped the load and straightened.
“Uncle Frank!” Lindsay cried.
He turned and gave her a smile, but put a finger to his lips. When his gaze shifted to Mariah, she felt her face break into the world’s widest grin. He was wet and barefoot, shirt plastered to his skin, but he was the most wonderful sight she’d ever seen.
“Shh! Keep your voices down,” he whispered, cutting off her cry of relief. “Lins, get the door.” He pulled the prostrate man farther inside. It was one of the guards, the one called Sergei, Mariah had gathered during a moment of lucidity. Lindsay leaped over the man’s still form and yanked the door shut, then turned back as Tucker lifted him and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed.
“Is he dead?” she whispered, wide-eyed.
“No, but he’s going to have a bad headache.”
“I know the feeling,” Mariah said.
“We think Mom’s got a concussion,” Lindsay said. “I’ve been trying to keep her awake.”
Tucker straightened. He walked over to them and accepted their hugs, and then his hand gently probed Mariah’s head. “Ouch. That’s a real goose egg. The skin’s broken.”
“What are you doing here?” she whispered. “Not that we’re not thrilled to see you.”
He shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets. “Thought you ladies might need a lift out of here,” he said, rocking back on his bare heels.
“You’re a piece of work, you are, Frank Tucker.”
“Yeah, well, you can sing my praises if we get out of here in one piece,” he said, pulling up sharp as the man on the bed groaned and stirred. “Help me tie this guy up.”
“With what?”
There was a blue nylon bag hanging off his belt. He unzipped it and withdrew a roll of duct tape, handing it to Lindsay, who picked at the ends to get it started, then ripped off a long strip. Tucker, meanwhile, handed Mariah a pocketknife. She cut another strip of tape, slapping it across Sergei’s mouth while Tucker held the waking man down. Lindsay, meantime, whipped off a third strip as calmly and efficiently as if she did this every day, slinging it around his left wrist and the bedpost Tucker was holding it up against. Then they did the same on the other side.
“They jumped Renata and me at her house,” Mariah said quietly. “Chap’s neighbor kidnapped Lindsay.”
“I know,” Tucker said, taking a long strip of tape from Lindsay to bind the guard’s ankles.
“Porter told me he had Chap and Emma’s cat Rochester on his boat,” Lindsay said, “and that he was just on his way over to feed him. He said the cat was afraid of him and the dog, and he asked if I’d help while we waited for Mom to show up. Then he tied me up and gagged me. I’m so sorry, Mom,” she added. “Sorry I ran off, and then fell for such a lame con.”
Mariah put her arms around her, ignoring the ache in her own head that throbbed with every movement. “It’s all right. You couldn’t have known. Chap thought the man was his friend, too, and Porter poisoned him. He’s a terrible person.”
“You were taken along with Renata?” Tucker asked her.
Mariah nodded. “She’d agreed to go to the police about Porter and her son, Nolan, and their connection to Chap’s and Urquhart’s murders. Lermontov, Zakharov’s bodyguard, is still in the country. He grabbed Renata. Somebody else knocked me out. I’m thinking maybe it was Yuri Belenko.”
“I’ll tell you about Belenko after,” Tucker said.
“Lindsay says Renata jumped off Porter’s boat. I was down in the cabin, out cold, for most of the trip over here.”
“The lady was screaming at her son and the others,” Lindsay added. “About me and Mom and a man named Urquhart?” Mariah and Frank nodded. “Next thing I knew, there were fireworks exploding overhead and when I turned around she was gone. Just jumped overboard in the confusion. Porter pulled out a gun and fired. They spent quite a while looking for her, but I think she got away.”
“Time to hit the road,” Tucker said.
Mariah touched his arm. “Frank? Do you know if she made it?”
He shook his head. “No, she didn’t.”
“Oh, God…”
“Come on,” he told them. “Let’s get out of here. Forget your shoes,” he added as Lindsay started to slip her feet into her sneakers. Mariah had lost her sandals somewhere between being hit on the head the previous night and waking up on the Russian ship that morning, probably in the course of being manhandled.
Tucker opened the door and peered out into the passageway, then took Lindsay’s hand and headed out, Mariah following close behind. They made it as far as a staircase at the end of the hall, but just as they started up, they heard voices approaching the stairwell from the top. They backed down quickly, and finding nowhere else to hide, ducked behind the open stairs.
Their luck held. At the bottom of the stairs, the crewmen headed
straight down the passageway without a backward glance, moving in the direction from which Frank, Lindsay and Mariah had just come. Frank nodded, and they left the alcove again, padding swiftly up the steps. If the two crew-men noticed the guard missing outside her door, Mariah knew it would only be a matter of seconds before they found him trussed up inside and sounded a general alarm.
Sure enough, a split second later a muffled shout echoed up the stairwell. Then came the sound of running feet.
“Up one more level,” Frank said as they turned on a landing and fled up the next flight of stairs. “If we get separated, head aft—to the back, all right?” Lindsay’s copper curls bobbed energetically. “There’s an inflatable boat tied to the anchor on the starboard side,” Frank added. “The key’s in the ignition. Don’t wait for me. If you can’t get to it, jump overboard and swim like hell for shore. Just get away from this ship, you hear me?”
“All of us together,” Mariah said as they reached the upper deck.
Shouting voices and pounding feet sounded in the stairwell behind them.
“Aft!” Tucker said, letting go of the girl’s hand and pushing her forward. “Grab your mother, Lindsay, and run!”
They ran as fast as their legs would carry them. When they got to the back railing, Mariah looked over and made out the form of an inflatable boat about thirty feet below, bobbing against the side of the big ship.
“Okay, you guys, we jump,” she said. “Ready?”
Lindsay grabbed her arm. “Mom! He’s not with us!”
The deck was alive with pursuers now, and they heard Frank shout from the far side—the port side. Mariah turned toward his voice. From a tower high above the deck, she caught the movement of a rifle swinging in his direction as he yelled at them again. “Jump!”
Dammit, Frank, you said starboard! Mariah’s brain cried as she saw him freeze against the opposite rail. What kind of an ex-navy man doesn’t know his port from his starboard? He remained still for a second, his eyes locked on hers as he mouthed two words. Love you.
Then Frank pressed himself against the railing, and leaning backward, he tipped into the water like the frogman he’d once been. At the last second, a shot rang out. A patch of red exploded on his shirt, but the point of no return had been reached, and his momentum carried him over the side.
“No!” Mariah and Lindsay screamed in unison. Other voices shouted. Shaken out of her stupor, Mariah saw half a dozen crewmen running toward her and Lindsay. Overhead, the barrel of the rifle turned in their direction. “Lindsay, jump!” she cried.
They were up on the railing and over as the first shots rang out. Mariah’s stomach heaved at the roller-coaster drop of three stories, and when she hit the water, she landed awkwardly, arms and chest slapping painfully against the cold surface. She sank down and down, the salt stinging the cut on her head. But when she resurfaced, she knew she was fine, her senses cleared by the shock of immersion.
The Zodiac was only a few feet away, and Lindsay was already at the side of it, looking around frantically for her. Mariah swam as hard as she ever had, ignoring shouts from above as she grabbed the stern cleats and scrambled over the rear-deck platform. Stumbling over the back of the pilot seat, she grabbed for the mooring line. A crack of gunfire sounded overhead, and the ping of metal on metal told her they were firing down. If the shooters hit the boat’s inflatable tube, they were sunk—literally.
The mooring line finally dropped free, and Lindsay pushed them off from the side of the hull while Mariah turned the key in the ignition. The outboards roared to life, and she found the gearshift, slamming it into forward, then throttling up the engines.
Hugging the Pushkin’s hull line, she ran up the starboard side to the bow, then spun the wheel hard to port, rounded the bow and headed back down the other side. Frank had told them to get away from the ship, but that was before he had decided to take a backward swan dive off the opposite side. In Mariah’s view, that made all previously agreed-upon deals null and void. He was in the water somewhere on the other side, and she intended to find him.
Suddenly, she heard the distinct fwapping sound of a helicopter overhead, and then the roar of other outboard motors. Straight ahead of her, she saw with a shock that Lermontov, the burly wrestler, was at the wheel of a speedboat, getting ready to push off in hot pursuit. Mariah had to cut her engines and yank the rudder hard around to avoid running into him.
Lermontov was still trying to move his craft away from the ship, but while the engine roared, the propeller refused to kick in. From where Mariah stood, it look as if his propeller had gotten itself tangled up in something.
Lermontov handed over the wheel to another man while he leaned over the stern of the speedboat to check out the problem. He shouted something in Russian, then started making a wild go-backward gesture. The man at the wheel finally caught on, as police patrol boats began closing in from all sides. He slammed the gears into reverse. The propeller finally kicked in, churning the water while a chain that had somehow become wrapped around it thrashed the surface. Mariah immediately thought of Frank and that little nylon bag of tricks at his waist.
Lermontov was still hanging over the back of the boat, shouting directions. When the whipping links rose into the air he tried to jump back, too late. A mighty metallic whack to the head dropped him overboard like a stone. The chain continued to gyrate like a crazed snake for a couple of revolutions, and then Mariah watched as an extraordinary thing happened. The propeller unscrewed itself from its shaft and sank unceremoniously into the ocean.
The crewman stared, dumbfounded, at the impotent, roaring engine as Coast Guard officers boarded his craft.
As other police and Coast Guard vessels closed in, returning fire to the Pushkin, the deck of the Zodiac rocked violently. A helicopter dropped low out of the sky, and Mariah grabbed Lindsay to keep her from toppling overboard. They held on to the console for balance. Another hand suddenly landed beside Mariah’s, and she peered through the whipping wind to find Detective Scheiber, standing awkwardly next to her on the Zodiac’s deck, having apparently dropped from the sky. He was holding a gun, keeping a wary watch, and looking about as at home on the boat as the proverbial fish on a bicycle.
“Ms. Bolt, and Lindsay Bolt-Tardiff, I presume?” he shouted over the roar of the helicopter. Lindsay nodded. A few last sporadic shots of gunfire sounded from the deck of the Pushkin as Mariah searched the water frantically for some sign of Frank.
“Are you one of the good guys, I hope?” Lindsay yelled back at Scheiber.
“I like to think so,” he said, nodding. Police boats were in the process of dragging a very limp Lermontov out of the water, although he was obviously alive. Above the mayhem, Mariah heard him shouting two words, over and over. “Diplomat! Immunity!”
“Where’s Tucker?” Scheiber bellowed.
“He was shot!” Mariah cried. “He went into the water!”
The waves were choppy with the beating of the helicopter blades and the churning of cruiser engines as one patrol boat after another converged on the scene.
“Mom! There!” Lindsay cried, pointing off to one side.
Mariah spotted Frank, the top of his head shining like a small beacon on the water. She was over the side of the Zodiac in a flash, and reached him in a few strong strokes. He was limp, but his big frame was buoyant in the water. She flipped him onto his back so his face was clear of the water. Pulling his head back, she put her mouth over his and exhaled hard. Then, hooking one arm across his chest, she side-stroked furiously back toward the Zodiac, crying with each stroke, “Don’t you dare die on me, Frank Tucker! Don’t you dare!”
Scheiber and Lindsay had spread-eagled themselves over the pontoons, and they hooked their hands under Tucker’s arms to keep him afloat while Mariah climbed up and began mouth-to-mouth in earnest. “Come on, Frank!” she urged between breaths. “Breathe, dammit!”
It seemed to take forever, but finally he drew a strangled breath, then gave a couple of wet coughs
. “I thought I told you to take off,” he gasped.
“I had to stick around to see that trick with the propeller,” Mariah said, mustering a smile. “Now, be quiet, would you?” As his eyes closed, she looked up at Scheiber, mouthing worriedly, “He’s bleeding.” His shirt was plastered to his chest, streaked in blood.
Scheiber pointed up. “Air ambulance is on the way.”
The Coast Guard had boarded the Pushkin, Mariah noted, and things seemed to be fully under control overhead. As the police helicopter withdrew to a safer distance, a second, with a big red cross on its side, landed on the ship’s helipad.
Mariah watched every shallow breath Frank drew, until finally, an eternity later, a basket was lowered. A dozen hands appeared to help maneuver the basket under him and strap him down. As it rose again to the deck of the ship, Mariah and Lindsay scrambled up the Pushkin’s ladder to meet it at the top, Scheiber close behind.
“You two better go along and get yourselves checked out,” he said, adding to Mariah, “Your head’s bleeding.” She reached up and touched the back of her head. When she brought her hand down, it was covered in blood. “It’s not serious,” she said. But she let them lead her toward the hospital chopper, so she and Lindsay could be with Frank.
Tuesday, July 9
Epilogue
The gray slate deck warms her feet as Mariah shrugs off the thick hotel terry robe and drops it on one of the butter-yellow lounge chairs by the Beverly Wilshire pool. The chairs are lined up in two long rows to catch the sun. The pool is Romanesque in design, and the vine-covered arch-ways around its courtyard look transplanted from the Via Appia. Waxy palm fronds rustle softly overhead. It’s going to be another gorgeous day, but at this early hour, Mariah and the attendant are the only people around. He’s laying a thick, folded towel on each of the chairs, and they exchange friendly greetings as he hands her one. By now, they know each other by name.
