Shivering a little as the brisk sea breeze hit her despite the long sleeves of the high-necked, baby-pink, all-over-sequined mini that she wore with kicky little pink lace gloves (the better to keep from leaving fingerprints behind, my dear), sexy pink lace stockings (to give her loaded and lethal baby-pink satin garter belt something to attach to) and silver spike-heeled (literally) pumps, she ran down the narrow stone steps that led to the dock. The silky strands of her stick-straight, shoulder-length black wig blew back from her face; the long bangs felt cool and smooth as the wind ruffled them against her forehead.
For this operation she was black-haired, blue-eyed (no contacts needed), twenty-eight-year-old Cara Levine, fledgling restaurateur, LA resident and friend of Gemma Sturgeon, the bride-to-be.
The plan—get on board the Conquistador, determine if the prototype was on there, too, and, if it was, steal it.
Anything beyond that, she was going to have to wing it.
Her previous plan to switch briefcases, for example, was toast. To begin with, she wasn’t even sure she was going to find the briefcase with the prototype in it on board. She was sure that as a girlie, pretty-in-pink partygoer she’d look way out of place trying to carry a big metal briefcase onto the boat.
An open-topped metal trash can was conveniently located near the bottom of the steps and was just as conveniently blocked from the view of the yachts by a trio of well-trimmed bushes. Bianca stopped and flicked the Bic until the flame caught. Careful to keep the Bic tilted at the precise downward angle that would allow the small flame to ignite the cloud of leaking gas as it grew, which would then, just a moment or two later, melt the lighter’s own plastic casing, causing the remainder of the trapped gas to explode with a bang as loud as a mortar and a subsequent fire as the piled-high trash in the can caught, she duct-taped the lighter to the inside of the trash can.
Leaving the flickering flame to do its thing, she skipped down the remaining few steps and hurried the ten or so yards up the darkening road to attach herself to the end of the line of the fourteen people who still needed to get past security and onto the boat.
Sidling up next to a tall, slim brunette in a red satin romper who along with her friends was grooving to the dance music blasting from the boat, Bianca smiled at her, said, “Totally awesome,” in response to the Dancing Queen’s exuberant “Isn’t this the best?” and waited for it—
Bang!
The flash of the explosion was followed by flames roaring out of the top of the trash can. The Dancing Queen screamed and stopped dancing. A flock of seagulls that had been cruising past squawked and scattered in a dozen different directions. A maintenance worker who’d been pushing a wheeled cart down the road threw himself on the pavement and covered his head with his arms.
“Oh, my God!”
“Fire!”
“What the hell...?”
“Something exploded!”
“Look at that!”
“Quick! Throw me a fire extinguisher!”
Under the cover of the confusion and noise, Bianca lifted the Dancing Queen’s party invitation from her purse. She knew where it was because, while she’d been reconnoitering with the binoculars, she’d seen the girl look at it and then stow it away. A hand beneath the bucket-style bag to stabilize the weight, a quick lifting of a flap, and then her fingers were in the bag and closing on the gilt-edged invitation and the thing was done. The diversion had accomplished its mission: focus attention away from her small theft.
Tucking the invitation away in her own purse, Bianca moved quickly away from the mark, skirting the line until she was the next one set to be let through, all while everyone else was still ogling at and exclaiming over the blaze. By this time the flames were being extinguished by the timely application of two fire extinguishers, the maintenance worker was getting to his feet and brushing himself off, and the seagulls were wheeling out over the bay. A little harmless excitement to add variety to the evening.
Airily waving her invitation at security, Bianca was motioned through. She was up the gangplank and being offered a mimosa as she stepped onto the boat even as the flames subsided into a smelly column of smoke.
Accepting the drink with a smile, she made her way across the sheltered exterior deck that was crowded with knots of the young and the beautiful standing around drinking and shouting to be heard over the chest-thumping music. Sliding glass doors festooned with a banner that read Congratulations, Gemma and Greg opened into a saloon. She walked through them, ducking her head a little to avoid the confetti dripping from the dangling letters of the pair’s names.
Glancing around, she saw rich-looking paneling, a built-in white leather sectional, a quartet of club chairs surrounding a glass coffee table, a pub-worthy bar with dark green leather bar stools and enough liquor on the mirror-backed shelves behind it to intoxicate an entire NFL team—and people everywhere. Glamorous people in gorgeous clothes talking, dancing, knocking back drinks, inhaling unknown substances from smooth surfaces with rolled dollar bills, making out in corners.
Unfortunately, none of those people was Walt Sturgeon.
She looked for surveillance cameras. There didn’t seem to be any, probably because a boat like the Conquistador was the kind of private environment where owner and guests could indulge themselves and nobody who was participating in anything questionable, whether legal or illegal, wanted to record it.
She also checked for security and found it: two men in black suits with impassive faces and name badges clipped to their breast pockets unobtrusively walking around. Probably there were more. At a guess, for a two-hundred-strong crowd on a yacht the size of the Conquistador, a pair on every deck. So, three decks, probably six private security types.
Okay, then. Stay away from the men in black.
“Hors d’oeuvre, miss?” a steward asked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise.
“Thank you.” Snagging a crab ball and a napkin from the tray he held out to her, Bianca bit into the delectably crunchy mouthful and sipped her drink as she followed her ears to what, from the sound of it, was the heart of the party.
That involved making her way up a spiral staircase that had been turned into an obstacle course by the dozens of white and silver balloons tied to the rails and the sheer number of guests trying to go up and down it at the same time.
Reaching the next level, she glanced around and chose what seemed like the most promising option, heading out through open glass doors to the exterior deck. Having finished the truly yummy crab ball, she dropped her napkin on a tray a steward wordlessly held out to her for that purpose but kept her half-empty glass as silent proof of her party spirit to anyone who might glance her way.
Once outside, she took an appreciative breath of the cool, salt-tinged air and strolled casually across the deck, where dozens of guests eating dinner crowded around small tables. A buffet had been set up at the stern, and a line of people clutching plates patiently waited their turn to fill them. The food smelled wonderful—the crab ball had been appetizer-size, after all—but she kept her focus on the people, her growling stomach be damned.
She searched the entire deck: another large, dark-paneled saloon filled with dancers and make-outers, briefly illuminated by a strobe light that was enough to give people prone to seizures a seizure. Another, smaller room where a pretty blonde—Gemma, Bianca recognized her from the picture in the Chronicle Doc had shown her—was having photos taken. Four staterooms, all locked. Unless he was in one of the secured staterooms—possible; something to be checked out later if necessary—no Walt Sturgeon and no sign of the briefcase. Two security types in black suits, as she had supposed: laid-back, careful to be unobtrusive, clearly not expecting trouble, a rich crook’s insurance policy. No threat to her, but best avoided. Still hanging on to the unfinished mimosa—from what seemed like time immemorial it had been drummed into her head
that alcohol on a job was a bad thing, so she deliberately didn’t finish it—she made her way up an outside staircase to the top deck.
There was a lot of exterior space where she came out, a huge open-air deck with lounge chairs and a pool and people everywhere, including up on the built-in banquettes that lined the low walls, dancing like wind socks in a hurricane. By that time it was almost full dark, and she had to make a pretty up close and personal tour of the revelers to be sure that her target was not among them. The revving of the boat’s engines followed by a surge of forward motion had her bracing herself to keep her balance and then glancing out over the smooth teak rail she’d grabbed.
The Conquistador was pulling away from the dock in a froth of white wake. The sun was gone, the sky was navy blue with a scattering of stars beginning to appear and only a crimson rim on the western horizon to mark the day’s passing, and the Dancing Queen was down on the dock with a man beside her, staring disconsolately after the departing boat.
Bianca had only a moment to feel bad about ruining the other woman’s night when her attention was drawn to a second man walking past the couple. The dock’s security lights had come on, and he was caught in the unforgiving white glare.
Her pulse kicked it up a notch as she recognized him: Justin Lee, aka Austin Hunt, aka just the thief she was looking for.
He’d looked younger and cuter in the photo Doc had found of him.
He could only have come from the Conquistador. He must have disembarked right before the boat pulled away from the dock.
The prototype had to be on the boat. Delivering it was the only reason Lee would have been on board.
Spiraling excitement twisted through Bianca’s bloodstream. A smile just touched her lips. The hunch she’d followed had paid off.
Now to find the prototype.
A good-looking blond surfer type blocked the doorway as she tried to leave the deck to head into the adjoining saloon, which a bright blue neon sign flashing on the room’s right-hand wall announced was called the Sky Lounge. The guy was wearing a polo and khakis and holding a beer. He looked her up and down before smiling at her.
“So what’s your Patronus, baby?” he asked her.
Seriously? Harry Potter’s your pickup line?
“Scooby-Doo,” Bianca said without blinking an eye and pushed past him.
There was more dancing in the Sky Lounge, girls boogying singly and in groups to the pulsing beat, couples wrapped around each other swaying and groping in a blue-light-bathed version of Dirty Dancing. Bianca checked each face as she walked through, but given the wonky lighting, she would have had to go nose to nose with everybody present to make one hundred percent certain she wasn’t overlooking Sturgeon. Although he was in his midfifties, a stocky guy with a bad toupee, she was pretty sure she would be able to pick him out of this group by silhouette alone.
She could feel the movement of the boat, the slight bounce of it cutting through the water, as she walked through the galley, which was occupied by half a dozen caterers—no mistake there, the lighting was fine—and into the next saloon. It was outfitted as a library with three walls of built-in shelves in rich mahogany. The shelves were filled with books and ornaments behind glass doors. The music was slightly muted here, the room smelled faintly of cigars and soft lighting from sconces set into the walls made it bright enough so that when Bianca spotted Walt Sturgeon standing with a group at the far end of the room there was no mistake.
The titanium briefcase rested on the floor right beside his left leg.
For the briefest of moments, as her gaze riveted on that briefcase, her stomach tightened and her breathing quickened. She was sure her eyes widened and her face changed, as well.
Bingo.
Then she got a grip, remembered her surroundings and forced herself to glance away even as her mind raced.
Stealing the briefcase right now is out. The location is too exposed. Too many potential witnesses.
Cordovan leather club chairs were scattered in pairs around the perimeter of the room. They were full of people, just like the room was full of people. The hum of their chatter rose and fell like the floor beneath her feet. Three older women, meticulously groomed and obviously affluent, stood talking in the nearest corner. A gaggle of pretty young women—six, by count—huddled in a group next to them, sipping wine, giggling and nudging each other, their focus on the rear of the room where Sturgeon stood talking to a number of younger men. On the other side of the young women, a gray-haired man helped himself to a drink from a tray being passed by a waiter. He was only a few feet away from Sturgeon.
Never go in without an exit strategy. It was one of the rules. Before she did anything, she needed to plan how she was going to get away. This was complicated by the fact that she was on a fricking boat in the middle of San Francisco Bay, which made any kind of quick exit problematic. A snatch-and-run, for example, was definitely not going to work. A snatch-and-swim, maybe. Except the boat was a long way from shore, the water in the bay was cold and she had no idea what being immersed in salt water would do to the prototype.
Hmm.
One thing for sure, standing frozen just inside the doorway while she figured things out was not a good move. Getting it together, she strolled around the edge of the room, careful to attract no special attention. She headed toward the gray-haired man. He was alone, would probably be receptive to female attention and was close to the briefcase.
“This kid and me, we’re going to be family,” Sturgeon boomed, drawing all eyes. He held up a glass of what appeared to be Scotch on the rocks while wrapping an arm around the shoulders of a dark-haired, thin-faced twentysomething man who nodded and looked faintly sheepish as Sturgeon pulled him close. The men surrounded them, twentysomethings, too, nodding along with the first guy.
Sturgeon swept his gaze over them and said, “Since Gemma’s busy getting her picture taken right now and isn’t with us to hear this, I can speak straight from my heart. Greg here screws this up, I’m not just coming after him, I’m coming after all of you.”
He used his glass to encompass the eight-strong group. Bianca deduced that she was looking at the male portion of the wedding party.
They all laughed, but nervously, like they weren’t sure he was kidding. Bianca didn’t believe he was. She felt sorry for the prospective son-in-law as Sturgeon released him, clapped him on the shoulder and said, “My girl says she loves you, God knows why.”
Still moving in the direction of the gray-haired man, Bianca was scoping out the terrain—the room had two exits, the door she’d just entered through and one at the opposite end of the saloon that opened into a short hallway, which, from what she’d been able to ascertain from the layout of the boat, probably led to the master stateroom, and three side-by-side windows that were curtained, closed and useless to her—and coming to the conclusion that getting out of there with the briefcase was going to be next to impossible, when prospective son-in-law Greg found his courage and replied, “I love her, too.”
What she needed to do, Bianca decided as the young women responded with a collective “Aww,” was go ahead and plant the tracking device on the briefcase. She’d meant to save it for when she was ready to hand the recovered prototype over to the client, but now worked, too. At some point Sturgeon would take the briefcase away, hopefully to somewhere more private, and she could move in and retrieve it from wherever he put it. Locating it was the hard part, and she’d done that. What she didn’t want to do was lose it again.
She’d brought the shirt-collar-button-size tracking device with her. It was part of one of what would appear to any outside observer to be several purely decorative charms dangling from the zipper of her purse.
The adhesive required to secure it had the consistency of gummy-bear candy, came in a tiny tin that looked like it held breath mints and was kept in her purse. Slipping off her right g
love, she tucked it inside her purse, located the tin with a groping hand, pinched off a Tic Tac–size amount of the adhesive and withdrew her hand from the purse, manipulating the tiny ball between her thumb and forefinger until it was soft and pliable. When it was ready, she popped the tracking device out of the back of the concealing charm and pressed the small metal circle into the adhesive.
All actions low-key and under the radar, nothing anyone would notice or remark on.
Planting the device would require a distraction. She was, regrettably, fresh out of incendiary devices. She was, however, in a prime location just a few feet away from Sturgeon and the briefcase.
So, okay, use your words.
“Tell us how you proposed, Greg,” she called to the prospective groom, then looked at the other women in the room for support. “We want every little detail, don’t we, ladies?”
Her impromptu street team immediately responded in exactly the way she’d hoped. A couple of them clapped their hands; they all looked eager, and one cried, “Yes, how did you do it? What did you say?”
The others chimed in.
“Did you go down on one knee?”
“What did Gemma say?”
“Where did you do it?”
“Is that when you gave her the ring?”
“Tell us everything!”
Stammering and blushing, Greg was pushed to the center of the room. “Well, I, uh...”
Bianca tuned him out. What she needed to do had to be done fast, and there was no margin for error. When the adhesive set, which it would do within seconds of leaving the warmth of her fingers, it would be like concrete. Letting her purse slide off her shoulder—it was satin, so it hit the floor with a barely audible slither rather than a plop—she crouched down ostensibly to retrieve it, positioning her body between the briefcase and the rest of the room so no one could see what she was doing.
The Ultimatum--An International Spy Thriller Page 19