by Nancy Skopin
I wished we’d had time to make copies of Cliff’s disk and send them to prominent individuals in the media before setting sail. I’d been afraid to stay in port any longer than absolutely necessary until we reached our destination, so copying the disk had to wait until we reached D.C.
Off the coast of South Carolina I taught Cliff how to shoot. I’d collected a couple of good-sized pieces of driftwood along the way, and we used them as targets. Cliff was reluctant at first, just as he had been with swimming, but as soon as he got the hang of it, it was hard to get him to stop. He burned through two of the boxes of full-metal jacket ammo I’d purchased in San Diego. I also let him shoot a couple magazines of the hollow-point I use for carry, just to get the feel of it. If I hadn’t restrained him, he would have used up all the ammo we had.
Once Cliff was competent with a firearm I was finally able to sleep through his shift at the helm. Until that time, I hadn’t let myself realize the enormity of the burden I’d been carrying.
CHAPTER 26
BY THE TIME WE HEADED into port in Washington D.C. my shoulder had healed completely, but Cliff continued to handle the sail. I’d quit smoking, not really by choice, although I knew it was a good idea. I ran out of cigarettes during the cruise to San Diego, and when we were ashore getting supplies I was in too much of a rush to even think about buying any. By the time we stopped for fuel and provisions again the urge had faded. I’d been thinking about quitting again anyway. Not because of the health risk so much, but because knowing I was addicted to something, anything, made me feel like I was being held hostage by my own compulsions.
I’d gone through a period of withdrawal that included the urge to eat chocolate, difficulty focusing, and the occasional need to bite Cliff’s head off for no apparent reason. I always apologized as soon as I became rational again, and he always forgave me. Sweet kid.
We motored into D.C. from the Chesapeake Bay and tied off at the Riverboat Marina visitor’s dock. We told the harbormaster we’d be there at least forty-eight hours and paid her for a week, in cash. We gave her fake names and phone numbers, just to be safe. She let us borrow her phone book, and after locating the nearest Compudisk shop we headed out on foot.
Three blocks from the marina we caught a Metrobus that would take us to a local mall. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, but I didn’t see anyone who looked shady. We got off the bus one stop past the mall and walked back. I was still wearing my Giant’s baseball cap, but it had faded from black to gray and the Giant’s insignia was now pink, rather than orange. My hair was a couple shades lighter, sun-fried, and frizzy from the lack of my favorite Ouidad gel and conditioner. My lips were chapped and I wore no make-up. I was pretty sure we looked different enough to escape detection, if anyone was even looking for us here.
The Compudisk store was in the center of the mall. I sent Cliff in first and I waited near the door, watching to see who came in behind him. It took eleven minutes to make three copies of the CD. During that time only two other people entered the store, a woman in her thirties and her pre-teen son. I decided they were legitimate customers. Not that I’m naive enough to believe the Federal Government would not employ a minor on a dangerous espionage assignment, but the kid did a double take when he saw me in my shorts and racerback tank top, and then abruptly headed for the electronics. Never even glanced at my face.
No one was loitering outside the store when we left. We walked to the opposite end of the mall, stopping briefly to purchase postage and antistatic mailers. For safety we split the disks. I carried two of the copies and Cliff had the original and one copy. The plan was to mail disks to Russell and Norris, in case we didn’t survive long enough to meet them in person. We didn’t have appointments scheduled, but I felt confident that we would be able to arrange meetings, given the material in our possession.
Our next stop was a Motel 6. We rented a single room with twin beds and paid with cash. Our room was on the ground floor facing the street, which was good if we needed to leave in a hurry, plus facing the street would make it easier to spot someone approaching. Cliff offered to let me shower first. This would be my first real shower since we’d bought the boat and set sail, and I was looking forward to it. I had to force myself to turn off the water after ten minutes so there would be enough hot water left for Cliff.
While he took his turn in the shower I settled in front of the window, drapes closed, with the room phone in one hand, a pen in the other, and the Glock in my lap. First I called the ABC studios, then Environmental Defense, Norris’s organization, and obtained mailing addresses for both. There was a mailbox just down the street from the motel. I addressed the two antistatic mailers, marking them Personal and Confidential, and enclosed short notes to each celebrity, explaining the contents of the CDs.
When Cliff came out of the shower I handed him the Glock and told him I was going out to the mailbox. I asked him to sit on the floor between the beds with the gun trained on the door until I returned. He laughed at my paranoia but humored me nonetheless.
Once I’d mailed the two CDs I felt lighter. At least now, if anything happened to us the information would still get out. I called the TV station again and asked to speak with whomever scheduled Brayden Russell’s interviews. It took me six minutes to get connected to the correct individual and another three to convince her I wasn’t a crackpot. I’m pretty sure the clincher was my threat to go to a competing network. She put me on hold for a minute, then came back on the line and said that Mr. Russell would meet with us at 11:00 the following morning.
I called the Environmental Defense offices and asked to speak with Ross Norris himself. Of course he “wasn’t available,” so I spoke with his assistant, a charming woman with a mid-western accent who assured me he would return my call. I explained that I wasn’t going to be near the phone for long and attempted to impress upon her the urgency of our situation. After a lengthy conversation she put me on hold and an impatient sounding man picked up.
“What is it you want, exactly?” he asked.
“What I want is to be able to go home, secure in the knowledge that my name is not on some hit list,” I sighed. “What I need is a ten minute interview with Ross Norris. Do you manage his calendar?”
“Not usually, but I think I can squeeze you in around six tonight.”
I felt my heart move up into my throat. “Oh, crap. It’s you, isn’t it?” Why do we all crumble in the presence of our favorite celebrities?
“It is,” he said. “Can you be here at six?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “We’ll be there. Thank you.”
Norris put his assistant back on the line. I spelled my name and Cliff’s for her, and got directions to their offices on Dupont Circle in Northwest D.C.
Then I took a short nap while Cliff cradled the Glock and watched the news. He woke me at 3:30 and, after I had fortified myself with a lukewarm cup of instant coffee, we set out for the bus stop. We had to transfer twice to get to the Dupont Circle Metro Station. It took almost two hours, and we still had to walk a couple of blocks. I hoped Norris was a patient man, but somehow I doubted it, and our lives might depend on this encounter going well.
We eventually located the office, but the front door was locked. I pressed the buzzer. We waited what seemed like hours but was probably only about two minutes before the door was opened and I found myself looking into two of the most penetrating blue eyes I’d ever seen.
“Ms. Hunter, I presume?” he said, stepping back so we could enter.
Since I’d temporarily lost the power of speech, I simply nodded. Cliff gave me a shove and I stumbled over the threshold. He followed.
The next hour whizzed by in a blur. Cliff answered all of Norris’s questions eloquently. We popped a copy of Cliff’s disk into one of the office computers that was disconnected from their network, and I was relieved to see that the information remained intact. I’d been afraid that whatever had melted the inside of the video camera in Cliff’s bedroom might have damage
d the original CD, even though it had been inside a heavy ski boot in the closet. Norris scanned the information quickly and then printed hard copies of all the files.
I’d always thought of him as very serious and dedicated, but in person he’s actually quite impish. His speech pattern was clipped and concise and his mind seemed to operate in hyperdrive. At the end of our interview Norris neatly stacked the ream of paper the printer had spewed out and said he wanted to forward the information to some friends of his at MIT for validation.
“If it checks out, I think we should publish it on the Web,” he suggested. “That would diffuse the situation considerably, don’t you think?” He looked from Cliff to me with a twinkle in his eyes.
I told him we had an appointment with Brayden Russell the next morning and asked if there was any way he could get back to us with the results of the MIT evaluation before 11:00 a.m. He said he’d try, and asked where he could reach us. I realized at that moment that I had no idea where we would be.
“We’ll call you,” I said. “And for the time being, I recommend you travel with bodyguards.”
Norris nodded as though he understood and was used to this kind of risk. However, he was the only person we saw the entire time we were in the Environmental Defense offices. Apart from a surveillance camera I’d spotted above the front door, no security of any kind was evident. He gave us his cell number, saying he would keep the phone on. We shook hands and went on our way.
I was afraid to go back to the boat, but being out on the water was probably safer than being trapped in a motel room. It was a tough decision. I still had my bug detector, so I could check the interior of the Nonsuch for electronic surveillance equipment. But without a mask, fins, and an underwater flashlight there was no way I could know if someone had planted an explosive device on the hull. Maybe I’ve seen too many adventure movies. Maybe my mother is right and I should consider a career change. Eventually I decided to put it to a vote.
“What do you think Cliff?” I asked, as we hiked to the Metro Station. “Should we rent another room in a different motel or go back to the Nonsuch?”
He looked at me, considering the situation. “Well,” he began, “if we’re on the water, we’ll be able to see anyone approaching from a distance. If we’re in a hotel room, we lose that advantage. But if anyone’s been keeping track of us, they probably know we came in on the Nonsuch, so it might be rigged with some kind of explosives. What we really need is a different boat,” he concluded.
“That’s a great idea,” I agreed. “But we aren’t likely to find a brokerage open at this hour.”
“Do you know how to hotwire a boat?” he asked.
“Cliff, this would not be a good time to get arrested.”
He just smiled.
We hopped on a bus at the Metro Station and, after a couple of transfers, walked the remaining distance to the Riverboat Marina. It wasn’t that we were short of cash. But cab drivers tend to have better memories than bus drivers do, and we didn’t know if anyone was looking for us. When we arrived at the marina we walked up and down each of the docks.
“We wouldn’t know how much fuel was in the tank until we started the boat,” I mused.
Cliff chuckled.
“I didn’t say I was going to do it,” I snapped. “I’m just considering the pros and cons.”
At the moment we were standing in front of an eighty-seven-foot Johnson motor yacht. The lights were on in the main salon, so there was apparently someone onboard, but it was such an elegant boat that we just had to stop and admire it. We were about to move on when a woman in her thirties stepped out on deck and called down to us.
“Would you like to come aboard and take a look around? It’s even prettier on the inside.”
I immediately assumed she was a sales person, but on closer examination I realized she was wearing black spandex exercise pants, well-worn Nike athletic shoes, and a skin-tight red pullover. Not what I think of as typical sales garb. She also had a rocks glass in her left hand and a cigarette in her right. Okay, maybe not a sales person. Maybe the owner.
“Sure,” I volunteered for both of us.
“I’m Karen Jessub,” she said, as we climbed the dock steps to the Johnson. She stubbed out her cigarette in an anchored standing ashtray and held out her hand.
“Nicoli Hunter,” I said.
Firm dry handshake. I have to admit that it did occur to me as I said my name that I might be making a huge mistake. If the CIA or NSA or whoever, was having any trouble identifying us because our appearance had changed, I might have just given us away. I looked into Karen Jessub’s sparkling brown eyes and saw no visible malice. I stepped aboard, noting that she smelled faintly of Thierry Mugler’s Angel parfum. Of course that could also be the combination of tobacco and scotch with an undercurrent of dark chocolate.
“Cliff Montgomery,” said Cliff, as he took Karen’s hand.
I glanced over my shoulder and noticed that she held onto Cliff’s hand for a couple of beats longer than was necessary. He was smiling. So was she. I was on the verge of visualizing them in bed together when Karen released Cliff’s hand and turned back to me.
“Can I offer you two a drink?” she asked.
“I’d love a beer,” I said.
She looked up at Cliff and I swear I saw electricity arc between them. “And what would you like, Cliff?” she purred.
“Beer’s fine,” said Cliff, blushing visibly, even through his tan.
Karen Jessub was a superb hostess. She gave us a full tour of her beautiful yacht, including the four spacious staterooms, each with its own head and shower. When Cliff and I had finished our beer she offered us another.
“I was going to throw some chicken on the barbecue,” she said when we were settled in the main salon. “I hope you’ll join me for dinner.”
Cliff looked at me with eyes that reminded me of a hungry dog begging for scraps.
“I could eat,” I said. “What about you, Cliff?”
“I’m starved,” he said, gazing at Karen.
Karen Jessub was about five foot six and around a hundred and forty well distributed pounds. Her legs were muscular, her face was tan, and her short hair was light brown streaked with gold. Her brown eyes were almond shaped, and the little make-up she wore was skillfully applied. In short, she was a babe, and Cliff was clearly smitten.
I kept an eye out for suspicious activity on the docks while Cliff helped Karen in the galley. Not that she needed any help. When they strolled out on deck to light the barbecue I went into my PI routine. I started in the aft stateroom, riffling drawers and built-in cabinets. I quickly went through her hanging lockers and dug my hand into each of her pockets, shoes, and boots. I did not find any weapons, but I did find a driver’s license and a passport in her purse, both in the name of Karen Jessub, with photographs of our hostess.
I went out on deck and asked Karen which head I could use.
“They all work,” she said, barely taking her eyes off Cliff.
I wandered around the boat looking for anything out of the ordinary, used the head in the aft stateroom, searched the cabinet under the sink, then went back out on deck and walked clockwise until I located the gun locker. It was padlocked. I took a deep breath and went forward. Somehow I felt better knowing where the guns were. If the locker was padlocked then the weapons were not easily accessible. There was no way she could conceal a weapon under those workout pants, and her sweater was equally revealing.
I joined the lovebirds on the foredeck. Cliff was listening with rapt attention while Karen talked about her recent cruise to Hawaii. I planted myself in a deck chair and leaned back to enjoy the show. Once the chicken was on the grill Karen went inside to refill her rocks glass, and Cliff and I were momentarily left alone.
“So,” I said. “Karen’s really something isn’t she? You want me to get lost after dinner?”
“Would you?” he asked, grinning widely.
Cliff had indeed come a long way. I was about to
answer him when Karen returned with a fresh drink for herself and two more beers for me and Cliff. I wondered if she was hoping to get Cliff a little drunk so she could take advantage of him. That was clearly unnecessary.
Karen’s barbecued chicken was marinated in something that tasted like ginger and honey. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Of course, Cliff and I had been living primarily on canned food. I asked her for the recipe and she produced a dark brown bottle from the galley, labeled Ki-Fu Chicken Sauce. The woman was totally unpretentious, and I couldn’t help liking her. We also had a fresh green salad, which Cliff had assembled, and wild rice on the side, to which I added a lot of butter. Heavenly.
After dinner we moved into the main salon and Karen served us Grand Marnier in snifters.
CHAPTER 27
I MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP in that comfortable chair because the next thing I knew sunlight was streaming through the windows, I smelled coffee brewing, and I was covered with a light blanket. I inhaled the aroma of the coffee and had just started drifting back to sleep when I remembered where I was. My eyes snapped open and I quickly scanned the main salon. Then I heard a throaty chuckle coming from the aft stateroom. I grabbed my pistol purse and located the Glock. The magazine was still loaded. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then dug around until I had also located the copy of Cliff’s CD in the hidden compartment, right were where I’d left it.
I folded the blanket quickly and walked to one of the forward staterooms to use the head. Too much beer last night. After relieving myself, I washed my face and looked in the mirror. I needed a good eye cream. I also needed a shower and a change of clothes. Coffee first. I helped myself to a cup and was adding milk from Karen’s refrigerator when she walked into the galley behind me.