EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (27 page)

“If you’re thinking of doing a runner, don’t.You won’t get more than ten feet and you’ll have a hole in your back.”

Kingston kept walking, his stomach churning, sussing out the surroundings. The area was light industrial but the sight of cranes and ships’masts rising above the buildings to his left affirmed that it was also a shipyard. The snapping of nearby marine flags in the offshore breeze and the squeal of seagulls wheeling overhead left no doubt that they were near the sea. As they approached the low building where they were headed, he caught sight of the end of a quay and a row of iron bollards mooring an older boat. He recognized it as a navy tender, converted for private use. The bow of a motor yacht was visible behind it. Soon they reached the door of the whitewashed building over which the name JENSEN MARINE was affixed in gold painted, three-dimensional letters. The man opened the door and gestured for Kingston to enter.

As the door closed behind him, Kingston heard the lock click into place. He turned to see that the thug had left and he was on his own. The room was spacious with a high ceiling crisscrossed with wooden trusses. Part living- and part workspace, it was surprisingly airy and light, decorated in shades of cream and beige, a confection that had the unmistakable stamp of an interior decorator. A bit twee for a marine business, he thought. Glancing around the room, his eyes came to rest on a large ship model in a mahogany-framed glass case. He walked over to the model and stood, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship. The sleek motor yacht was painted in dark blue and cream, every detail a miniature masterpiece. Kingston read the discreetly positioned plaque:

ALLEGRA.

A converted “Baltic” tugboat built in Germany in 1990 and completely rebuilt and refitted in France in 2001. Welded steel hull and aluminum superstructure. Length O.A. 110.0 feet. Beam 27.5 feet. Draft 10.5 feet. Main engine: SKL 6 cylinder turbo-charged diesel engine. Range: 2,000 nautical miles. Various cabins (all with bathrooms and showers), accommodating up to 16 passengers. Fully equipped galley with dining area. Communication and navigation equipment including Satcom C mobile earth stations satellite communications unit, a cellular system, VHF and SSB radiotelephones, radar, DGPS, magnetic and gyrocompasses, wind instruments, and echo depth sounder.

Kingston turned away from the model. For a blissful minute or so, his mind had been taken off the present and his fate in the coming hours. He was transported back to happier times. He had always been fascinated with boats, having learned to sail as boy during summer holidays in Devon. In later years, he had bought a restored 1920s diesel-powered gaff-rigged cutter that he named
Old Gaffer
. Soon after, he joined the Cramond Boat Club, whose clubhouse and moorings were on the river Almond, only four miles from the center of Edinburgh. He, his wife, and daughter Julie had spent many memorable summers plying the waters of the Firth of Forth, picnicking on its numerous islands. It had been heartbreaking to have to let
Old Gaffer
go after his wife had died and he moved to London.

His reminiscing was broken by a man’s voice. “So you like boats, do you, Doctor?” The voice sounded familiar.

Kingston turned to see two men. He stared vacantly at the taller of the two for several seconds, numbed—as if he’d stubbed his toe on the furniture and was waiting for the throbbing to start.

He was looking at Gavin Blake.

It took no imagination to figure that the other man was a bodyguard or minder. Alongside the tall Blake with his mannerly looks and stylish casual clothes, the man looked like a latter-day Bill Sykes. By his stocky build, Kingston pegged him as the man who had filched his TR4—the Range Rover driver’s accomplice.

“You look surprised,” said Blake. “Nice of you to join us.” His expression showed mild contempt, as if he were saddled with an obnoxious guest at a cocktail party. “I trust the accommodations and snack met with your approval,” he added.

Kingston decided to go along with the “nice guy” opening, knowing full well by the look on the bodyguard’s face that it was merely a prelude to unpleasant news. “The Bordeaux was a nice touch, yes. Good taste,” he replied. “Pity it wasn’t chilled, though.”

“Not my taste or my idea,” Blake countered. “If it had been up to me, you wouldn’t even be here now, Kingston. You’d have been taken care of long ago.”

“You take your orders from Viktor Zander, then?”

Blake’s eyes narrowed momentarily, then his expression became impenetrable.

Kingston knew he’d hit a nerve but could tell right away that Blake wasn’t about to argue the toss. “You don’t want to discuss your boss?” He paused, meeting Blake’s icy stare. “How about Stewart Halliday, then?”

Still no answer, but Kingston noticed the muscles in Blake’s jaw tighten.

“We know he was at the reservoir and at Zander’s house. Where is he now?”

“
We
? Meaning you and the police?”

“You’re damned right. And it’s only a matter of time now before they catch up with you and Zander.”

“Is that so?”

Recovered from his confusion at being suddenly confronted by Blake, Kingston was thinking how naïve he had been not having seen through Blake when he showed up at Foxwood House. He’d put on a bravura performance. Good enough to convince Carmichael, too, despite his earlier suspicions. “I must admit, Blake,” he said. “You don’t look like the sort to be mixed up with organized crime.”

“I’m getting damned tired of you, Kingston,” Blake snapped, his hazel eyes smoldering.

“Really? Perhaps you’d prefer to talk about Miles Everard—that poor sod.”

“Just shut your bloody mouth and go over there and sit down.” Blake turned to the bodyguard. “Go and see if they’re ready for us yet. Call me.”

Kingston sat on the sofa and watched the bodyguard cross the room. He wondered who “they” were. At the door, the man reached for the doorknob. As he did, his jacket pulled aside, revealing the grip of a shoulder-holstered gun. The door closed behind him and a queasy tremor rumbled through Kingston’s belly. Forcing it back, he looked at Blake, who was now perched on the edge of a table studying his tank watch, seemingly content to wait. Judging by Blake’s aplomb, Kingston figured he was armed, too. Clearly there would be no further conversation until the bodyguard called.

Several minutes passed before Blake’s mobile rang. He took it out, flipped it open and held it to his ear, all the time avoiding Kingston’s gaze. “Good,” he said after a few seconds. “We’ll meet you outside.” He closed the mobile and returned it to his pocket. “All right, let’s get this done with,” he said with a long chilling look at Kingston, then nodded toward the door. Kingston got up and, with Blake close behind, walked to the front door.

Outside the sun was warm on their backs, the breeze tousling Kingston’s already unruly hair as they headed toward the quay. A half minute later, they were joined by the bodyguard who was waiting by the navy tender Kingston had seen earlier. Considering the number of boats moored alongside the quay there were few, if any, people around. The innocuous-looking threesome passed an old racing sloop with a young couple, on their hands and knees, working on the deck but they were too preoccupied with varnishing to notice them go by. When he’d first caught sight of the couple, Kingston considered making a scene, shouting for the couple to call the police. But knowing that the bodyguard was armed, he feared such action would put them all in harm’s way.

Kingston saw the boat ahead. He recognized it from the model. This was the real thing and just as impressive. The name
Allegra
was on the stern. As they walked alongside the boat, Kingston made note of the telescopic boat cranes and davits with Zodiac life rafts and an inflatable tender with outboard engine—all the very latest and most impressive. At midpoint along the hull, the bodyguard motioned for Kingston to board across the gangway. Blake followed, leaving the bodyguard on the quay. On the deck, they were met by a shaven-headed crewmember in a spotless white T-shirt and jeans. Kingston caught snatches of the brief conversation, something to do with cabin locations. The man pointed toward the stern. “The captain should be here soon,” he said, as they made their way along the deck. Kingston noticed that the bodyguard had remained on the quay and was keeping pace with them, obviously making sure that Kingston didn’t decide to jump off and make a run for it.

Blake paused at the second cabin they came to. No words were exchanged as the crewman opened the cabin door and Blake gestured for Kingston to enter. He stepped in, expecting to hear the door close behind him. It didn’t. He turned to see Blake standing by the door, the sun backlighting him, his face a black shadow. “Well, Lawrence Kingston, your journey’s almost at an end. Enjoy what’s left of it.” He closed the door with unnecessary force and Kingston heard the lock slip into place with an ominous click.

TWENTY-TWO

K
ingston sat on the edge of the boxed double bed and surveyed the cabin, surprised by its spaciousness. The interior reflected everything else he’d observed about the yacht since boarding—first class and no expense spared. The cabinetry wall facing him—rosewood, he figured—had an LCD television, DVD player, and AM/FM radio built into a center panel. On either side, two other panels recessed into the wood surround displayed gold-framed abstract paintings. Below, a row of custom-designed cabinets spanned the wall. Louvered shutters covered the long window next to the bed on his right. A built-in vanity with matching framed mirror filled most of the third wall. Through an open door, a mirror-walled corridor led to a bathroom. From where he sat, the counter appeared to be marble or granite, the fixtures, gold finish. Kingston was gaining new respect for Victor Zander—if indeed he owned the
Allegra
. Foxwood House, with its precious library and elegant trappings, had been impressive, but the yacht left no doubt that lack of cash flow was not keeping Zander awake at night. Kingston was starting to understand why he would be the sort to broker a deal for Stewart’s desalination process. He visualized Zander as businesslike, polished, and erudite—the kind that could sell ice to Eskimos.

He stood, looked down at the Berber carpet, then glanced around the cabin again. The only escape was through the door or window. He went to the window to find that it was double-pane, apparently tempered glass—difficult or impossible to shatter—and that, not surprisingly, it would slide open only enough to provide ventilation. Though he knew the door was locked, he tried the handle anyway. As he had reckoned, there was no other way out of the cabin.

Trying to size up his predicament, attempting to second-guess what might come next, he was brought to his senses by the sudden hum of the big diesel engine starting. Even if he could get out of the cabin, there would be no escaping the
Allegra
at sea, save for the inflatable. “What a bloody mess,” he mumbled to himself.

Kingston had often professed that some of his best ideas bubbled to the surface when he was horizontal. He had solved many a crossword clue or vexing problem in the moments before dozing off into the arms of Morpheus. Feeling powerless, while waiting for what he was coming to accept as his fate, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, still wide awake, listening to the steady throb of the engine.

If escape was impossible, perhaps he could cause a disturbance, a diversion that would make someone open the door. Then what? He was unarmed. Smoke would get their attention but he quickly rejected that idea as ill advised. He could die of smoke inhalation before anyone noticed. Though he hadn’t examined the cabin thoroughly, from what he’d seen so far he hadn’t found anything that might help his escape.

A mosquito or some kind of flying insect buzzed around his head. Swatting at it, he opened his eyes for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. Staring at the recessed lights and a smoke alarm, another idea started to form. The scheme was simple and could be carried out in seconds using things already in the cabin—guaranteed to cause a ruckus, if nothing else. First, he would set off one of the smoke alarms either by depressing the test button or, better yet, by using an inverted aerosol can that would emit HCF gas detectable by the alarm—if by luck the bathroom had spray toiletries or an air freshener. Then he would trip a breaker in one of the fuse boxes by shorting out one of the lights. This could be done easily by taking out a light bulb, putting a coin in the socket, and screwing the bulb back in. Whatever else was on that circuit—most likely other lighting—would also be shut off. In the hubbub that followed, they would quickly realize that the problem lay in his cabin. What then? If just one crewmember investigated, he might be able to overpower him. But a fire would likely bring the entire crew to his door. He sighed. So much for his 007 flight of fancy.

Frustrated by his impotence, Kingston got up, went to the window, and glanced out. The
Allegra
was in open water and he could see the quay receding in the distance, the sky blushed with the sun’s last hurrah. They were headed southwest, it seemed. Where were they, he wondered. Yesterday, they’d driven west out of London onto the M3 toward Southampton, so surely he was looking at the south coast, meaning that the
Allegra
had to be in the English Channel. Until now, he hadn’t given thought to where they might be headed. Did it matter anyway? Blake’s last comment about Kingston’s journey being almost at an end and to enjoy what was left of it, left little doubt as to its meaning. Kingston could only hope that such a decision would be Zander’s to make and not Blake’s.

The fact that Blake was on board—if he still was—suggested that the boat had a specific destination requiring Blake’s presence. Connecting the dots wasn’t difficult. All along he had believed that a foreign country, in an arid region, would be the most likely first prospect for a biological breakthrough in water desalination. So, where were they headed, he wondered? Africa seemed an educated guess.