EG03 - The Water Lily Cross

by Anthony Eglin

  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.

  With the sun setting and clouds moving in, the sky was darkening. Through the window Kingston could see the reflection of the starboard running lights blinking on the choppy water. He glanced at his watch. Two hours had passed since he’d stepped aboard and he was starving. The measly pastry and coffee had been ages ago. He started to think again about the condemned prisoner and the proverbial last meal but banished that from his mind instantly. He stretched out on the bed again, wondering if anyone had discovered his absence yet. There was a remote chance that Andrew, his friend and neighbor, could have called or stopped by the flat uninvited, as he did occasionally. He had a key. Even if he had, there would be no reason for him to think anything was amiss. Kingston often took off for a couple of days at a time without telling him. In any case, it was barely twenty-four hours since Kingston had left his flat for the garage.

  A knocking on the cabin door woke him, followed by the sound of a key in the lock. The cabin was pitch black; he must have dozed off. He rubbed his eyes and got off the bed. At last, he said to himself, food. Perhaps Zander would have been thoughtful enough to include another bottle of wine. Never mind the wine, he thought. Right now he’d give a mortgage payment for a double Macallan.

  The door opened and the silhouette of large man appeared at the threshold. “Doctor Kingston?”

  Kingston stood. “Who else?”

  “Look, I don’t have time for word games, Doctor, I have a medical emergency on my hands. I need your help—now. Let’s go.”

  With little light coming through the door Kingston couldn’t make out the man’s features except that he was balding and had a trim beard and moustache. His voice was gruff, the almost imperceptible accent, European.

  “I’m Captain Becker,” he said, stepping aside, motioning with his hand for Kingston to hurry. Outside, he closed the cabin door and took off along the deck. “Follow me.” He glanced back to make sure Kingston was right behind him.

  As they hurried along the deck, Kingston’s mind was in fast forward. Obviously, the captain had assumed that Kingston was a medical doctor. Given the circumstances, he wasn’t going to deny it. He’d go along with the pretense until it proved inexpedient or could risk harm or suffering to the patient—doubtless one of the crew. He just hoped it wasn’t a grisly accident. Second, it suggested that Blake was not aboard. If he were, he certainly wouldn’t have instructed the captain to ask for Kingston’s help—unless Blake himself had the medical problem. Wouldn’t that be an amusing irony? They stopped at another cabin door near the stern. The captain opened it and they went in.

  In the dim light from a bedside table lamp Kingston saw a man under the bedclothes. His face was ashen, his gray hair and bushy beard unkempt. As Kingston approached, the old man ignored him, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  “He’s been like this for two days now.” The captain said in a lowered voice. “Won’t eat, doesn’t talk. Nothing.”

  “And no accident, as far as you know? No unusual symptoms?” Kingston asked, as he sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to sound like every doctor he’d ever known.

  The captain shook his head. “No.”

  “Let’s take a look then.” Kingston held the man’s wrist, checking his pulse—uneven, rapid—then leaned forward and pulled one of the man’s eyelids back, not knowing what he should be looking for. Next he opened the man’s mouth and peered down his throat. “Hmm,” he mumbled, for effect.

  “There’s a thermometer on the table there,” said the captain, with a nod.

  Kingston reached over and picked it up, relieved to see that it was digital, almost identical to the one he’d bought last year when he’d had the flu. He turned it on, checked to make sure it was operative, opened the man’s mouth again and slipped the sensor under his tongue.

  “Fill me in,” said Kingston, glancing up at the captain, standing beside him.

  “Can’t help you much, I’m afraid. One of the crew found him stretched out across the bed, seems he was having a hard time moving. Been like this ever since.”

  Kingston nodded, staring at the man’s pallid face framed in the grizzly beard, waiting for the thermometer to beep. Could it be …?

  He kept staring.

  “Good Lord,” Kingston gasped.

  He put a hand to his mouth, as if trying to stifle the words.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kingston replied. But the longer he gazed at the man’s pitiful face the more certain he was. He looked at the captain again. “Do you know who he is?”

  “I don’t. No. He came aboard the day before yesterday. The fellow who works for Mr. Zander was with him—Blake.”

  “Did he appear sick then?”

  “A bit unsteady on his feet, that’s all. I asked Blake if the old boy was all right. He said yes, he was fine, just needed a good rest. I was given the impression that he was important and my instructions were to take good care of him, to give him anything he wanted, within reason.”

  “You didn’t ask who he was or why he was on board?”

  “Over the years, I’ve learned not to ask questions.”

  “You don’t know why I’m aboard then?”

  “Other than you’re to remain in detention and that I’ve to hand you over to an agent in Sfax—no, I don’t. It’s better that way.”

  “This is Stewart Halliday.”

  “You know him?”

  “I do. He’s a friend of m
ine.”

  “A friend?”

  “An old friend, yes.”

  The thermometer beeped. Kingston removed it and held it up to take a reading.

  The captain was confused. His expression showed it. He was shaking his head. “It can’t be a coincidence. No way.”

  “It’s not, believe me.” Kingston was thinking hard. Telling the captain that he and Stewart had both been kidnapped could only make matters worse. He had to keep up the masquerade and convince the captain beyond all doubt that Stewart’s life rested in the captain’s hands, to persuade him to return to shore and call the nearest hospital.

  At any moment, the captain would expect Kingston’s diagnosis, or at least a reasonable medical explanation for Stewart’s condition. Stewart’s temperature was high but not enough to cause concern. Kingston mind raced as he tapped the thermometer on his palm, buying a few seconds. Should he be vague in his diagnosis, or decisive and name a specific medical condition? He decided on the latter. That way, providing he could sound authoritative enough, there was a lesser chance that the captain would question his prognosis, giving him no reason to doubt that Kingston was a medical doctor. At this juncture, it was all or nothing. “We must get him to a hospital, captain,” he said soberly. “As quickly as possible.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “A stroke, by the looks of it. Immediate treatment is crucial.” He placed a hand on Stewart’s cheek, as if he knew what he was doing. “There’re no signs of facial weakness,” he said, leaning back “I’d know more if we could get a speech pattern or find out if there’s been any loss of movement in his limbs.” He glanced up at the captain. “Didn’t one of your men say he was having a hard time moving?”

  “Correct.”

  Kingston expected the captain to make a move or at least say something, but he just stood, looking at Stewart, stroking his moustache as if deciding what to order from a dinner menu. “I think I’d better call Mr. Zander,” he said, finally.

  “Dammit, man!” Kingston leaped to his feet. “This man could die. If he does, you’ll be responsible. This is your boat. As captain, you have the final word. This is no time for a second opinion—certainly not from someone who’s a hundred bloody miles away or more, on the other end of a phone. I’m not asking you anymore. I’m ordering you. Turn this boat around, captain, or you’ll be the next one locked up.”

  The captain pursed his lips and nodded. “You’re right, Doctor. I didn’t mean to question you. It’s just that Mr. Zander—”

  “Never mind, we can discuss that later. Right now we must get Stewart taken care of.”

  “You’d best come with me, then.”

  They left the cabin, headed toward the bow—probably to the bridge, Kingston assumed. Outside the cabin, Kingston exhaled a silent sigh of relief. It wasn’t over yet, by any means, and Stewart was clearly sick. Whether he’d had a minor stroke or not was moot, but his not recognizing Kingston was troubling. A thought struck him: Could Stewart have been heavily sedated? Were that so, Kingston had little idea of what the symptoms might be, what to look for.

  For the time being, he had to forget Stewart and focus on what could happen in the coming two hours or so, the time it would probably take the Allegra to reach a port somewhere on the south coast. There was no question that Captain Becker would try to reach Zander. Kingston couldn’t stop him. He could only hope to delay the call somehow or that Zander couldn’t be reached. He recalled reading that Zander’s company did a lot of overseas work, so there was the long shot that he was out of the country. They reached the bridge, where Becker spoke briefly with the crewman in charge. The two went to a navigational workstation where they studied a chart and the radar, presumably deciding in which port to dock and the quickest route. Kingston watched and waited as the Allegra commenced a wide turn and was soon on a reverse course headed north. Trying not to be too obvious about it, he attempted to sneak a peek at the chart and radar. The captain had a few more words with the crewman and rejoined Kingston.

  Ten minutes later Kingston and Becker were sitting in director’s chairs at a small dining table on the rear deck. Kingston didn’t know it, but Becker had told the crewman on the bridge to call the galley and ask for sandwiches, chips, a bowl of fresh fruit, and two cans of Pepsi. Over their meal, they talked about Stewart Halliday, the captain quizzing Kingston about his and Stewart’s relationship, what Stewart did for a living and his connection to Zander. It became clear that the captain and crew had been given little or no information as to their two passengers.

  “So, why are you aboard, Doctor?” asked Becker. “Why does Viktor Zander want you dropped off in Sfax of all places?”

  Knowing that Becker would have a raft of questions, Kingston had cobbled together what he thought would be a plausible story. “First, I have no idea where Sfax is,” he said.

  “It’s a seaport on the north coast of Africa. Tunisia,” Becker replied, taking a sip of his Pepsi. “Not the most glamorous place in the world. I have difficulty believing that Zander does business there.”

  “He does, as a matter of fact—or plans to. I’ve invested a tidy sum with him on a construction project his company is heading up. Desalination,” said Kingston. He was now thinking on his feet, hoping Becker would buy his story.

  “Hmm. Makes sense, I suppose. Water’s like gold in that part of the world.”

  Kingston nodded. “You’re right.” The less said the better, he figured.

  “But why keep you under lock and key?”

  “I’d like to know that myself. When we get back, Zander’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

  “You didn’t know we were headed to Africa?”

  Kingston shook his head. “No. All I was told by Blake, who drove me to the boat, was that Zander would be aboard and wanted to talk to me. I didn’t even know the man had a boat. Truth of the matter is that over the last few months, I’ve become highly suspicious about what’s been going on with the damned project.” He took a long sip of Pepsi, only to buy time and to keep his story straight. “Not been going on would be more accurate,” he added, wanting to belch. He never could stand carbonated drinks.

  There was nothing in Becker’s expression to suggest that he doubted Kingston’s veracity. “Zander’s a busy man,” was all he said, with a shrug of his big shoulders.

  Kingston carried on. “I’ve heard similar stories from two other investors. We were told that Zander had made a lucrative deal with a foreign, government-owned utility but we’ve yet to see any kind of agreement or contract. One of the investors has filed a complaint with the International Trade Commission, I believe.”

  Becker threw his head back and downed the last dregs of Pepsi. “Tell me more about your friend, Stewart. Why is he aboard?”

  It was clear from Becker’s question and his tone that he wasn’t completely satisfied with Kingston’s earlier explanation. Kingston looked out to sea, but not long enough to make it appear that he was thinking up an answer. “Stewart?” he said, looking back into Becker’s inquisitive gray eyes. “I wish I could answer you, Captain. Except that he’s another investor, I haven’t the faintest idea. That’s why I was dumbfounded when I saw him.”

  They were interrupted by the loudspeaker system: a request for the captain to report to the bridge. Becker excused himself.

  “Phew!” Kingston muttered, watching the big man lumber along the deck and disappear through a door to the bridge. A few more questions and Becker might have rumbled him. It was impossible to tell if Becker was buying his story or not, but at least he was sure of one thing—Becker hadn’t reached Zander yet, thank God.

  Within five minutes the captain returned, easing his bulk into the wobbly director’s chair. “We’re docking at Poole harbor,” he said, pulling out a box of Swan Vestas and a pipe. He inspected the tobacco in the bowl, tamped it with a finger, then put the pipe in his mouth and lit it, shielding the match with his hands. “An ambulance will meet us when we dock, to take him to Poole G
eneral Hospital. They’re expecting him.” He glanced at his watch. “About two and a half hours, I’d say.”

  “I’ll go with him, of course.”

  Becker nodded in agreement, then frowned. “Is he married?”

  “Yes. He and his wife Rebecca live in Fordingbridge, not far from Poole, as it happens.”

  Becker took a long draw on his pipe. “I wonder if she knows where he is.”

  “You’ve got me. If she doesn’t, she’s probably worried sick. I’ll call her from the hospital.”

  Kingston maneuvered the conversation to the Allegra. It became quickly apparent that he couldn’t have picked a better subject. Becker needed no encouragement. Starting with a history of the vessel, followed by an account of its two-million-pound overhaul in France, he went on impressing Kingston with details of its construction, accommodations, engine, advanced communications systems, navigation equipment, safety features, hydraulics, and on and on. After ten minutes—though he admired the man’s fervor—Kingston was wishing he hadn’t broached the subject. Finally, Becker’s pipe went out, signaling the end of the conversation. Kingston went back to his cabin to shower and get cleaned up, ready for their arrival. Two and a half hours, Becker had said. Kingston prayed it would pass quickly and with no nasty surprises.

  Standing on the quay at Poole harbor before dawn, Kingston breathed a sigh of relief and glanced skyward, thankful that Zander hadn’t called Becker and to be safe on terra firma. He watched, as Stewart was carried off the boat by two crewmembers, and was transferred immediately to the ambulance. Standing at the rear of the ambulance’s open door, Kingston saluted Captain Becker, watching from the deck of the Allegra. The captain raised his pipe and smiled in return. Kingston climbed into the ambulance and sat next to Stewart, who was sleeping. In ten minutes they were at the hospital.

  Stewart was wheeled off immediately for evaluation while Kingston met with the hospital administrator, an efficient woman named Laura Hargreaves. In the fifteen-minute meeting, he explained his relationship to Stewart and described the events that had taken place on the Allegra, telling her that Stewart was a kidnapping victim and that the Hampshire Constabulary and Inspector Carmichael had been working on the case for many weeks. The need for a round-the-clock watch over Stewart was paramount, he stressed. Not only by hospital personnel but also—because it was a criminal matter—by the police. The administrator assured him that the hospital would file a report immediately and inform the Poole police of Kingston’s concerns. In turn, Kingston said that he would be contacting Inspector Carmichael as soon as possible. He would also try to reach Stewart’s wife and give her the good news. Hargreaves assured Kingston that the hospital would also be contacting Rebecca Halliday immediately, as a matter of routine. Despite Kingston’s insistence that he wait at the hospital until Becky arrived, Hargreaves persuaded him otherwise. Stewart would be going through evaluation and a series of tests over the next several hours, she said, and it would be pointless for Kingston to wait.