However, she needed more answers. ‘Is Signor Renzo hurt?’
He shook his head but whether from evasion or exhaustion Joanne couldn’t tell. ‘Did Signor Renzo himself give you direct instructions?’ she persisted, and still dissatisfied asked, ‘Was he was the person who told you to sail with me to Ischia?’ Her brow furrowed as she puzzled again why Renzo hadn’t sent her a text to explain.
So Renzo was in trouble. Three men were with him. So that was all she could expect to glean from what’s his name, Rurik. ‘Are you a good sailor Rurik?’
Aghast, when he shook his head all Renzo’s careful sailing instructions slipped from her mind.
With a huge effort of will, Joanne garnered self- control and forced deep breaths into her lungs. Memory of a nasty incident flew into her head. It happened soon after her mother died. She’d gone to seek work in London and her money had been stolen. Desperate with grief, it had brought her to the brink of suicide. Somehow Joanne rallied but was forced to sleep rough that winter and survived. The experience had taught her she could rise above a difficult situation. With this in mind, she felt a spurt of confidence and almost looked forward to the challenges ahead.
It would be sensible to alert someone on the Island in case of emergency, yet she hesitated to cause more trouble between Fabio and Renzo. Suddenly she thought of Tom, and how he had insisted she call him any time of day or night if she was worried. Joanne appreciated his sound common sense and knew he could be relied upon to help Fabio.
Her hands flew to her satchel to rummage for his card and her fingers closed over it with relief. Thank God she’d not left that behind. She wouldn’t phone him at work but hastily composed a text to send him later, explaining her predicament and asking him to get in touch with Fabio. With luck and a following wind, she might arrive back in Ischia before Tom contacted Fabio, she decided with a return of optimism.
She gave Rurik an encouraging smile. ‘You will help me on the yacht,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what to do.’
A broad smile lit Rurik’s strained features. ‘I help,’ he declared.
Joanne’s spirits rose. He seemed a willing young man and with a big dose of luck, they might manage. ‘Okay, let’s get going then.’ An odd kind of excitement shivered down her spine. Hadn’t she always thrived on adventures?
In her haste, she failed to check the cabin to make everything secure as her brain clicked away and filled with the immediate course of actions to get the yacht away from the quay without mishap. Relieved, she spotted a dusting of lights on the headland at Posillipo which would serve to guide her out of the harbour.
‘Wait there on the quay, Rurik,’ she called to him. ‘You see that rope wound around the bollard?’ she demonstrated what he must do. ‘When I shout you must release it from that bollard and bring it with you onto the boat - and don’t let it go! Do you understand?’
Rurik nodded quickly.
Even if this fellow’s not a sailor, thank God I wasn’t sent a fool she muttered. She stood in the cockpit and started the motor in neutral. It ran smoothly and seemed in perfect working order. She must concentrate. It would need skill to guide the yacht out through the harbour into the open sea. ‘Right do it now!’ she shouted to Rurik and prayed he’d follow her instruction.
‘Well done Rurik,’ Joanne declared and breathed easier as he climbed on board, the rope firmly clutched in his hand.
She dashed forward and soon had the rope secured to a cleat. It was a startling moment when she stood for the first time in the cockpit, turned up the throttle and confirmed she was skipper of a large yacht. The throaty roar made her jump but taking the helm, Joanne calmly studied the vessels on mooring buoys and calculated each manoeuvre to guide them through the hazards.
Joanne took deep breaths and filled her lungs with the tang of fresh sea air. The fact of coping successfully thus far boosted her morale but she couldn’t afford to relax. She clamped the wheel in position so they were pointing into the wind and hurried to hoist the mainsail. ‘Give me a hand please,’ she instructed while hauling on the rope.
Rurik displayed quick wits, capable of following her commands and soon the sail was hoisted high on the mast and flapping wildly. Joanne stepped back to the cockpit to adjust their course and felt a surge of satisfaction as Bountiful veered away like a greyhound out of the trap, while its sails billowed like sheets on a washing line.
‘Go below into the cabin,’ she directed. ‘You’ll see a square wooden box. Open it and bring two life jackets here please.’
Rurik soon completed the mission and Joanne helped him on with his jacket before easing on her own. ‘Now watch out for boats – shout if you see anything in our way!’
Rurik held up his two thumbs to show he understood and Joanne smiled her thanks. She realized her commands were brusque, just like Renzo’s but there was no time for politeness if she was to get the yacht underway.
Rurik fished in the pocket of his worn jeans. ‘Il Signor writes...’ he handed Joanne a piece of paper torn from a diary.
Ah, a message! But instantly her hopes turned to fury. ‘Set course 136 degrees west.’ A bold statement; nothing more. The navigation chart lay open before her and gripping the wheel, she turned it until the compass pointed to 136 degrees west.
Joanne had to believe Renzo had been kidnapped, convinced he wouldn’t otherwise trust her to sail his beloved yacht from Naples to Ischia.
There wasn’t a second to bother about it; vital to keep steady nerves and take charge of the yacht if she was to get safely back to Fabio that night. Thankful for the calm sea the sequence of necessary tasks came back to her.
Naples had almost disappeared behind them when Joanne felt she could relax a little, surprised to find herself enjoying command of the yacht, thankful for Renzo’s instruction. As for Renzo, it was his fault if he’d got mixed up with the Camorra and any sympathy for him flew away like the sea birds circling above them in the darkening sky. They were sailing well with a following breeze and about two thirds of the way from Naples.
Joanne was congratulating herself for making good time to Ischia when a loud bang from below decks shattered her mood. She stiffened. ‘What was that noise?’ she shouted back to Rurik, annoyed when he seemed not to hear, busy coiling a rope in the stern.
What if they’d hit something below the surface? The wind had freshened and she daren’t leave the helm. Her heart began to pound. If the yacht was holed, then they’d be done for. Her head filled with Renzo’s tales of disasters; of huge containers which fell off ships and were known to drift dangerously around the seas.
The wind blew stronger and increased she reckoned to a Force 6. They plunged through the waves as the wind tugged the sails and Joanne’s heart hammered her chest. ‘Rurik!’ She yelled. ‘Go below and check damage!’ But he stared back as if frozen with fear while the yacht bucked and swayed, the mast tipping dangerously low near the sea while a deluge of water flooded the cockpit and she struggled to gain balance on the slippery deck.
Rising panic shrilled her voice over the roaring elements but instinct drove her to head straight into the wind, clamp the wheel and lean forward to release a cleat so the mainsail dropped down a few feet and reduced the strain. She then quickly cleated the rope again and took a deep breath as the yacht automatically righted itself.
Rurik dragged himself along to her side. ‘Roll up the loose sail!’ she ordered and pointed. He nodded and began to secure the surplus sail along the boom. Another huge wave washed over the cockpit, drenching her. It was vital to check for damage. Joanne staggered a few feet, reached for the handle and heaved the cabin door open.
Stale air rose up to greet her. She blinked, scarcely able to see in the dim interior. When her eyes focussed she felt her legs weaken with shock. A group of dishevelled men crouched on the lower bunks inside the cabin. They all stared up at her, alarm widening their eyes.
Instinct had her retreat. She slammed the cabin door shut, stood, took a deep breath and dashed
back to the helm. And then holding their course steady she ordered Rurik, ‘Come!’
He must have guessed her discovery for he gained her side in a moment.
‘What the Hell’s going on?’ she cried, ‘Who are they?’ and watched him flinch and his face lengthened with alarm. ‘Rurik,’ she said sharply, ‘what are these men doing on the yacht?’ Yet it hadn’t taken her any time to work it out.
‘Signor Renzo – he say they go on yacht. Put ashore on Spiaggia dei Maronti. Lorry waits for them.’
‘What place? What did you say?’ Joanne’s heart gave a jerk. Briefly it failed to register as her brain struggled to make sense of it. She’d set their course for 136 degrees west assuming they were headed towards Bountiful’s mooring in Porto d’Ischia harbour. Fright leapt in her throat as she studied the chart. 136 degrees west would not take them to Porto d’Ischia. Had Renzo made an error? Had she misread his message? She snatched up his note. No, he’d underlined 136 degrees west, but she clearly recalled him demonstrating compass bearings on their outward voyage. We’re sailing from Porto d’Ischia to Naples on 65 degrees east,’ he’d explained, drawing her attention to the navigation chart. ‘That means on the return trip one would steer the boat on a course diametrically opposite, which is 130 degrees west. You understand?”
It had made sense at the time and yet in her haste she hadn’t spotted the altered course he’d scribbled down.
Joanne gripped the wheel and drew on her reserves as they headed for the Island. She must decide what action to take; whether to follow his course to Spiaggia dei Maronti, ignore it and head for Porto d’Ischia – or, send up a flare to alert the coastal patrols...?
She checked their present course which would take them to Spiaggia dei Maronti. What if she ignored Renzo’s instruction and sailed to Porto d’Ischia to alert the Police? Yet she imagined they’d not believe her story when sailing a yacht with a group of illegal immigrants.
No, she’d keep on this course and sail into that quiet cove. Her decision came with a heavy heart knowing that neither Fabio nor Tom would be waiting for her there. No time to send another text; the wind was driving them towards the Island and she must keep her wits about her.
Even as she dealt with the emergency, anger rose on behalf of these men. So these were some of the illegal immigrants desperate to earn money for their families in Eastern Europe. Heaven knows what they’d escaped to make this perilous journey. She reasoned it was the threat of being reported and sent back if they protested their low wages or conditions which allowed the Balzarin Winery to prosper. They’d been tricked and would have no money to send back home.
‘It’s okay Rurik,’ she said. ‘I won’t get you in trouble. They need food and drink. Will you see to them? Food’s in the cupboards and drinking water in the hold.’
Rurik nodded and his features smoothed with relief. ‘Sure, you very kind lady. I sorry, Signorina,’ he said, his voice broken. ‘Il Signor, he promises good money for me.’
Joanne knew she couldn’t let them down; these poor fellows were trapped in this situation – and so was she. As she fixed her sight once more on the navigation chart, various riddles dropped into place. Of course! Until recently, Marco must have transported them in his fishing boat. Joanne recalled the angry confrontation she’d overheard by the harbour when Marco refused Renzo to “do the job” again despite Renzo’s offer of enough cash to buy another fishing boat.
So this had always been Renzo’s plan should Marco back out! That was what Marco tried to warn her. Her heart sank at what she’d let herself in for as she fought the dizziness that came with fright. He’d known Marco might refuse to do the job. Joanne’s brain worked fast. Renzo couldn’t risk involving another local lest he notified the authorities! She drew a deep breath. All Renzo’s generous sailing instruction had been with a purpose – to make use of her to transport the immigrants!
In a flash came the significance of Renzo’s questions. Joanne’s face screwed up. He’d quickly summed up her situation of not having family back at the beginning at that function in Rome. She recalled his smooth words,
‘You are a free spirit then, Joanne? So, you say there is no one back in England waiting for your return?’
If only she’d known. Beneath her soaking wet clothes a cold shiver of fear slid over her body. Renzo was clever. He’d be in the clear. Her thoughts hardened at this evidence of Renzo’s duplicity. How naïve she’d been. Somehow he must not get away with it. Her head swam and she forced herself back to the present. So far she’d managed to handle the yacht. Somehow she must focus on getting them all safely to shore.
Darkness had now swallowed the dusk and visibility reduced to nil so that only pin points of light from the Island gave her reassurance. The yacht swayed and dipped and Joanne was intensely aware just how vulnerable they were in a yacht amongst other commercial shipping. Surely there must be lights aboard Bountiful to warn of their presence? With a sense of urgency she shouted to Rurik, ‘You’ll have to take the helm. I’ll show you.’ As the deck tipped he lurched into her and she managed, pointing to the chart. ‘You must hold the wheel steady. Try to keep us on course. I’ll be quick as I can.’
Her mind in turmoil she staggered off in search of the light switch. It seemed hopeless. Then suddenly she remembered Renzo saying,
‘This switch operates the running lights.’
Running lights; that must be it! At the time she hadn’t thought to ask him what running lights were but now it made sense. Beyond care if she pressed the wrong one, Joanne flicked one of the switches and laughed with relief as Bountiful sailed along like a proud duchess in pools of bright light.
‘Thank you Rurik, that’s good.’ Joanne returned and took over the helm. This mightn’t be the last problem. Her task now was to avoid the vigilant Guardia Costiera patrols – police patrols that’d board the yacht and discover the immigrants.
Joanne felt that these men on board had become her responsibility. Saddened by their plight, she guessed how desperate they must be to leave their families to earn money in foreign countries. However could she denounce Renzo without it affecting these innocent labourers? She glanced over the thwarts and watched how Bountiful skimmed through the water, her bow waves curling back to race alongside and she gave a start as the name of the cove sparked a memory. Her face flushed hotly as she recalled the tiny beach where she and Fabio had embraced on scorching, hot sand. As Spiaggia dei Maronti provoked sensual thoughts her body throbbed so it took an effort to focus on the job in hand.
Her thoughts turned to the people stuck down below. ‘Rurik, were you informed that a fishing boat would take you to the Island under cover of darkness?’
Rurik shook his head. ‘Not know. Men put us in lorry – drive us out of Rumania...’
‘So someone in Eastern Europe organised this for you all?’ Joanne pursued, determined to extract facts from him.
‘Keep mouth shut or get trouble,’ Rurik mumbled.
She nodded with understanding. How naïve she’d been, taken in by the glamour of a sailing holiday. Renzo must have foreseen that Marco might balk at the constant risk. Sickened, she suspected he’d make it impossible for her to prove her innocence. Maybe in Renzo’s eyes this was a fair exchange for the sailing instruction. So Marco hadn’t been rude when he sneered at her sailing with Renzo. He tried to warn her. Why had her instinct for caution let her down?
What a wicked schemer! How satisfied Renzo must have been to have met her and discovered a likely victim. Her forehead creased and she determined he mustn’t get away with it. Yet could she denounce him without creating awful unhappiness for Angelina and Fabio? Her mind twisted this way and that and she sighed. All this was only conjecture. She must allow Renzo some benefit of doubt. He’d given her a chance to sail this fine yacht and taught her invaluable skills. It could be she was wrong to malign him. Maybe the Mafia had forced Renzo’s hand. They could be behind this operation tonight. No use dwelling on it if they were to get safely back on s
hore.
She took a deep breath and firmed her resolve. She would meet this challenge and sail the yacht back to the Island!
Chapter 19
Joanne was unprepared when weather conditions changed. The sky darkened, the wind strengthened as a sudden fierce squall blew up. In an instant, rain slashed down, a great seethe of water obliterating the stars while the rising wind roared in her ears, the sea a raging monster belching gallons of stinging spray onto the yacht. ‘Rurik!’ she yelled. ‘Tie everything down!’
In desperation, Joanne peered into the deluge and struggled to keep on course, alarmed by the trim of the sail as her heart pounded like a beam engine. She did a mental check. Lessen the strain - reef the mainsail and sail on jib. ‘Rurik, quick! Help lower the mainsail!’ She clamped the wheel.
The heavy sail plunged down and took their combined strength to roll the sodden mass around the boom, her mind already fixed on the next task. How would she have coped without Rurik’s help? Thank God his skinny frame belied his strength.
An awesome thought struck Joanne; danger lay ahead! Spiaggia dei Maronti! The cove where Fabio rescued an injured boy stranded on the rocks! Rocks!! The thought terrified her. With a sinking heart, she knew her skills were not up to guiding a large yacht through the rocks even in perfect conditions; and some were hidden below the surface.
She stared over the black sea towards the faint line of Ischia, now shrouded in dense cloud. It was a perilous situation.
Rurik emerged from the cabin. ‘Are they okay? Sea sick?’ she managed.
Rurik shrugged. ‘All say much thanks,’ he reported. His clothes were soaked; his lank hair clung to his head. He’d fetched the lamp from the stern and sloshed towards her.
‘Use lamp soon.’
So, Joanne realized with a jolt, Rurik must have been instructed to signal accomplices on shore! She stifled a hysterical laugh. Truly an undercover affair!
‘Look, Signorina – there!’ Rurik shouted and pointed to starboard. ‘Boat comes this way! Quick - turn wheel – not good, not good!’ He tried to wrestle the wheel from her grasp.
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