Frozen Fire (44 page)

“We have to hope for the best,” she said weakly and looked away.

Hell, yeah, lady, you
should
be damned embarrassed to have just said that
.

“I’ll do that, Ms. Clark,” Sam replied sarcastically, then turned away from her and slapped his laptop on the conference table. “I got a question for you, Ms. Clark. Doesn’t have anything to do with microbes or methane.”

“All right.”

“I was talkin’ to someone over at your embassy earlier today and got hung up on.”

The look she gave him left Sam in no doubt of her opinion of his brain power.

“I’m sorry to hear it. As you can imagine, it’s been rather hectic—” she began quietly.

He shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m not lookin’ for an apology. I called over there to try to find out some information about a boat that might have been taken into custody.”

Victoria’s expression didn’t change but everything about her seemed to go still. “Taken into custody? By Taino security?”

A spider of panic raced up his spine and disappeared. He shuddered before nodding at her question. “My girlfriend and a few of her girlfriends were on a clipper cruise and got permission to go divin’ somewhere inside your waters. After the crash happened, they were told they couldn’t go divin’, but they decided to go nosin’ around anyway. My girlfriend is a TV news producer and an all-around bad influence,” he finished, his attempt at humor falling flat.

Victoria gave him a tight smile, any recent softness he might have imagined in her eyes gone. “My orders were that all vessels not our own were to be kept outside the boundary waters, Dr. Briscoe. Any boat that did cross over would have been escorted back to the territorial coordinates. We don’t take anyone into custody.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, but Cyn—that’s her name, Cynthia Davison—she told me they were goin’ to sneak in from around the other side of the island,” he said, looking down as he clicked his mouse to open an application. “And if you knew her, you’d know why I’m concerned. To say she’s a loose cannon is like sayin’ a rattlesnake isn’t the ideal pet. Is there any way you could check if a boat—” A glance at her face made him stop. “Ma’am?”

She swallowed and immediately replaced her look of alarm with one of relative composure, which did nothing for his gut.

Oh, hell, Cyn, what did you do?

“There was a report of a boat that had strayed into our waters near the southwestern end of the island,” she replied slowly. “What sort of boat did you say it was?”

“A clipper. One of those big old-fashioned sailboats where the passengers pay through the nose to be a crew member for a week.”

“And when did she say they were going to try to make this attempt?”

“Last time I talked to her was yesterday. They were goin’ to try it today, I’m pretty sure.”

“Do you know the name of the boat?”

He frowned. “Something Dutch. They took off from Miami, but the boat was registered in the Bahamas. The
Flying Dutchman
?”

“The
Floating Dutchman
, perhaps?” Victoria asked slowly.

“That sounds more like it. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the name,” Sam replied, the knot in the pit of his gut tightening painfully.

After a split second of hesitation, Victoria gestured that they should move toward the corner of the room. Sam glanced over his shoulder to see Marty seated at the far end of the table, where a laptop had been set up for him.

Sam and Victoria came to a stop near one of the tall windows and when she didn’t start talking right away, Sam shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and looked her straight in the eyes.

“I appreciate you tryin’ to think of a way to soften whatever news it is you have for me, Ms. Clark, but it’s not necessary. Just tell me where she is. I’m guessin’ she’s in jail.”

“No, she’s not in jail,” Victoria began slowly. “As I said, we don’t take anyone into custody. But—Dr. Briscoe, I’m not sure how to explain this, and it pains me to be the one to have to tell you, but my security personnel did have an encounter with the
Floating Dutchman
earlier today. The clipper had crossed into our territorial waters and was coming around the southern headland when our officers made visual contact. The timing—”

“Ms. Clark, please just get to the point,” he said, trying to keep his impatience out of his voice. “I haven’t been able to contact her since yesterday, and I’m gonna wring her neck when I finally do. Just tell me where she is. Please.”

“She may be on one of our ships that is taking part in the search-and-recovery operation. There was a passenger from the
Dutchman
who came aboard after—” She stopped. “I don’t know her name.”

“Came aboard after what, Ms. Clark?” Sam demanded, a sick jitter in his gut.

Victoria paused and took a deep breath and, to her credit, kept her eyes on his. “The clipper was in the area where the landslide occurred at the time it was occurring. Going by what we know of the landslide and the initial reports from our security officers who encountered the boat, the clipper
appeared to be almost directly above the . . . the pipeline. The point at which the methane is erupting into the atmosphere,” she said slowly, her words softening as her voice became hoarse. “Nobody knew exactly what was happening, but the officers reported that the sea surface became unstable. They described it as turning foamy.”

Sam stared at her with mounting horror. “Ms. Clark, did you say ‘foamy’?”

She nodded, her face tight with suppressed emotion. “Our officers reported seeing the boat sink, Sam. With all hands on board. No one on the boat was able to escape. No survivors were found. My officers were too far away to offer assistance, and the nature of the situation precluded any rescue attempts.”

Her words couldn’t have had a bigger effect on him if they’d been delivered with a brass-knuckled blow to his solar plexus. His breath was just as hard to come by, and his brain was just as foggy.

As Sam stared at Victoria Clark, her face, her eerie blue eyes, seemed to fill his entire field of vision. Her voice was low and indistinct, and coming at him as if from a great distance.

After a minute of what he thought might be silence, he felt a hand grip his arm lightly and then felt his body move forward until it dropped into a chair.

“The only person from the clipper to survive was a female passenger the boat’s captain had dispatched to meet our security officers. The male crew member with her became hysterical and drove the inflatable they were in back toward the boat. She threw herself overboard. The inflatable—” She stopped talking and looked down at her hands.

A small, silent movement at the blurred periphery of his vision caught his attention and it took him a minute to realize it was a tear splashing on to the back of her hand, which was clasped over its mate and hugged to her chest.

Marty had joined them and was crouched near Sam’s chair, looking concerned. Sam nodded at him, then blinked and refocused on Victoria Clark’s face. She looked hollow. About as hollow as Sam felt.

Sam shook his head as if to dislodge the information, and then tried to swallow. It was nearly impossible to do, his mouth was that dry.

“What I said back there, what I said would happen—the Bermuda Triangle—” he said, his voice so hoarse that it didn’t sound like his own. “It happened to Cyn? She just . . . disappeared?”

“I’m so very sorry to have had to tell you, Sam. Let me try to find out the name of the survivor,” Victoria whispered in a voice that wasn’t steady, and picked up his hand and clasped it between her own. “Let’s hope for the best. Let’s hope it was Cyn who survived.”

7:10
P.M
., Sunday, October 26, off the coast of Islamorada, Florida Keys

Sixteen-year-old Glory Bennett sat in her ocean kayak rocking in the light chop. Her paddle was out of the water and resting in her hands against the bright red fiberglass of the hull. The rest of the girls from her group had already headed into shore. She could see them climbing out of their kayaks and pulling them onto the beach, or pulling on their sweats for the drive home.

Such obedient girls
. Glory could hear her mother’s voice as if she were sitting out here next to her. She could also hear the comment her mother would never say out loud:
You should try to be more like them
.

“Right. As if you know a thing about any of them. As if you know what they do when adults aren’t around,” she muttered.

Glory knew she should have followed the others—they’d had a full day on the water and it was a long drive home—but she just wanted one last look at the sunset, one last, quiet, solitary moment on water that had turned to molten gold. So they’d leave ten minutes later. Maybe fifteen. It was no big deal. Her mouth turned down into a pout and she stared defiantly straight into the last glare of the melting sun.

It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like there will be consequences when I finally
do
get back to shore
.

Her father—Pastor Ted to everyone else—wouldn’t do anything more than frown at her. He frowned at her most of the time regardless of what she did anyway, so what difference would this make? He’d frowned at her when she’d told him she didn’t want to join the all-girl teen Bible study group that he led, and then he’d frowned again when she’d grudgingly changed her mind and said she would. There was no pleasing the man.

She heard her name shouted from the beach and deliberately didn’t turn to acknowledge it. It wouldn’t kill them to wait another few minutes for her.

She took a deep breath and tilted her face to the last of the rainbow hues painting the sky. “Only two more years and then I’m free. I don’t care what they say. I am so outta here,” she whispered into the breeze.

The promise, made to herself and the warm, darkening wind, made her smile, and then the thought of what she’d be like once out from under the microscope of her parents’ nosiness turned the smile into a laugh.

Another shout from the shore wiped it from her face.

The whiff of a rancid odor, like something rotting, blew toward her on the breeze.

No doubt Dad would call it a Sign. Or a punishment
.

Rolling her eyes, Glory lifted her paddle and took a deep breath to brace herself for the exertion of getting back to shore. But the breath didn’t help her get going.

An invisible sheet of fire seemed to coat the back of her throat, making her cough, and she dragged in another huge breath. That only made it worse, and Glory bent forward, dropping her paddle in the water as her hands rose to claw at the neck of the wet suit she wore.

With the next inhalation, the fire in her lungs burned hotter and she flung herself into the water to get away from the searing pain. Nothing helped, and Glory wasn’t sure if the darkness that settled over her was the water or something else.

It didn’t matter anyway.

1:40
A.M
., Monday, October 27, Annaba, Algeria

Arms folded across his chest, Garner rested his ass against the edge of the wide, stone windowsill and looked at the young woman standing a few feet in front of him. Her name was Bridget Malloy, and she was young enough, beautiful enough, and smart enough to do anything she wanted in the world of business. A degree in computer science from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology had been followed by a master’s from the London School of Economics. And then, one fine day, two years ago she’d blown off an interview at British Telecom to spontaneously participate in a peaceful demonstration outside an animal research lab.

It hadn’t taken his staff too much time or too much effort to persuade her to join the ranks of GAIA. Since that day, she had proven her loyalty to the cause over and over again. That steadfastness was one of the reasons Garner had brought Bridget into his inner circle and to this villa. He was sure it was also why she wasn’t complaining about the many inconveniences North Africa had to offer someone used to a high-end, thoroughly Western lifestyle.

Despite being an American, Bridget Malloy was amazingly adaptable
and wonderfully easygoing. She didn’t complain about working around his schedule as he recovered from jet lag. She didn’t complain about the food, or the heat, or having to hide herself beneath traditional Muslim clothing.

Though Garner had no patience for religion of any sort, he’d nevertheless instructed his women to wear the region’s long robes and head scarves, even on the villa grounds, to avoid drawing undue attention to themselves. The household employees were locals, and the last thing he needed were rumors drifting through the city about any goings-on at the villa, real or imagined. He needed GAIA’s next project to stay under the radar and on schedule.

Garner shifted position and felt sweat trickle down the side of his face and from underneath his arms. It was the middle of the night, but the air was still hot and the wind was still dry and gritty with the fine sand that found its way everywhere. Neither seemed to bother Bridget. She’d arrived in his suite a few minutes ago, covered from shoulder to foot in a loose-fitting dark blue abaya, her head and neck draped in a lavender hijab.

But even though she followed his rules without argument, she found ways to make herself comfortable. The moment the guards who had let her into his private office had closed the door behind them, she’d casually let her face veil drop and slipped the lightweight scarf from her head. And as she’d begun debriefing him on the imminent deployment of his latest project, Bridget had slowly been opening the trail of buttons down the front of her long, dark tunic. Stopping after undoing the button just below her waist, Bridget shrugged off the garment designed to protect her modesty and presented Garner with a vision that couldn’t be more Western or more decadent. Every curve, every shadow was visible through compellingly sheer lingerie.

“Your interpretation of my dress code is as unique as your execution of it is provocative,” Garner said quietly, lifting an eyebrow and letting his gaze drift appreciatively over her body before meeting her eyes again.

She put her hands on her hips and executed a quick twirl. “I had to show
someone
. This is the first summer in my life that I haven’t had tan lines.”