“Shades of you and the American army,” Philip observed.
“I suppose,” Ty said, deflecting the analogy. He assumed Philip had come by this information from Ian, though he might have read it elsewhere. “Anyway, I think his line was something like, ‘There’s no VIP room at the Skillful Skillet, because here everyone’s a VIP.’ At the time the publicity not only made him a local celebrity but aroused the interest of pooh-bahs in his state’s politics. When the congressman from his district died jogging a few months before an election, they urged Garland White, who was then a buck short of bankrupt, to put his name on the ballot. He did. Those ads were replayed a million times during his campaign. He won, and the rest is history.”
“More precisely, ‘an accident of history,’” Philip corrected. “Do you think he’s a ditherer?”
“How would I know?”
Philip laughed. “When it comes to politics, lots of people have firm opinions on subjects they know precious little about.”
“I’m not one of them,” Ty said.
“I wonder why.”
Half an hour later, forgoing coffee, Philip wiped his brow with his handkerchief and said, “I’m afraid, for me, the time has come to turn in. It’s been a busy day, and tomorrow promises to be another.”
“Not tomorrow, too,” Isabella reacted plaintively.
“I’m sorry, darling. There’s no choice.”
Isabella shot a friendly glance toward Ty, then a more amorous version to Philip. “How much longer must we stay here?” she asked.
Philip said, “God willing, I should be able to wrap things up tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” she exclaimed. “Including with the Tangier authorities?”
“I don’t see why not. Barring something unforeseen we ought to be able to lift anchor and be under way well before dark. That’s not a promise, though.”
“Just an educated prediction?” Isabella teased.
“Yes,” Philip said. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“It’s meant to be lovely tomorrow,” Isabella told him.
“It was lovely today,” Ty said.
“Yes, but tonight’s gone filthy. I hate it when the levanter comes up and forces us inside. It’s so muggy. Just listen to that drumroll of rain against the deck.”
“It’s only a storm,” Philip told her as he stood. “It will pass. Coming, darling?”
“I’m right behind you,” Isabella said. “’Night, Ty.”
Back in Vanilla, Ty stretched himself across the comfortable bed. He had to contact Oliver. Deciding that a conversation would be more effective and easily camouflaged than an e-mail, yet afraid even of his end of it being overheard, he fumbled for his BlackBerry and, when he found it, pressed first the MENU key, then the appropriate encryption code followed by the speed-dial number for his friend’s mobile.
“Hello,” Oliver answered.
“Hi, Netty,” Ty said, employing their familiar code. “How are things in California?”
“Heating up,” Oliver said, “even more than usual for this time of year.”
“I’m still on vacation,” Ty said.
“Well and good,” Oliver replied, “but I have to tell you, interesting things are happening on this end. I wouldn’t stay away too long, or they’ll go to others less deserving than you.”
“You can’t swing at every pitch.”
“But when they come at you straight over the plate . . . well, never mind, we’ve had this conversation before. One thing I should tell you is that I’ve been meeting some resistance where your new rider is concerned.”
Ty smiled at Oliver’s ingenuity and the facility with which he had acquired and adapted the language of Hollywood. A “rider” was appended to a star’s contract for a particular film. It spelled out, often in embarrassing detail, that star’s requirements while on the set, the studio lot and location during a shoot. “What kind of resistance?” Ty asked. “And from whom?”
“To staff levels, mostly. No one gives a rat’s ass about the color or thread count of your sheets, the brand of your water, or that you happen to prefer Lapsang souchong tea and cannot stand the smell of ammonia. They gave up long ago on the square footage of your trailers, but the boys in the front office—and I mean just about as high up the corporate ladder as you can climb—would prefer to pay for less in the way of backup.”
“I’m sure they would, but will they?”
“Not today.”
“That’s too bad, but not all that important, really, until I choose my next script.”
“Agreed, but I’ve always found it’s handy to have certain things in boilerplate. What if you wake up tomorrow and not that script itself but the idea for it smacks you in the face?”
“Can’t we deal with that then?”
“Depends on who we’re dealing with,” replied Oliver, “and when. In this business the generosity of the fellow across the table depends on the moment. And moments pass.”
“You’re a pessimist, Netty.”
“I’ve heard that before. Oh, I almost forgot. Your contractor called my number two. He’s pretty sure he’ll be getting things under way in your kitchen tomorrow.”
“Does he have everything he needs?”
“He has the keys and he has your money. What else does he need?”
“The appliances he’s going to install.”
“I believe he expects them tomorrow as well,” Oliver said. “I’ll be in touch if it’s otherwise,”
“Bye for now then,” Ty told him.
Despite the humidity outside, the atmosphere in Vanilla was perfect, Ty thought, as he stripped and entered the shower. As the tension in his muscles eased, he felt first aroused, then a simmering rage that Isabella should have to be with Philip for another night or longer. As he rinsed off, he regarded his own physique, a scar unknown to his public on his right side, a second arthroscopic puncture wound hidden closer to his waist. He was still youthful, but only because of the discipline he brought to his diet and workouts. He had left behind that magical time of life that forgave recklessness. Without self-control he could all too easily begin to show signs of age. He had seen it happen to other film stars and had no intention of succumbing to such weakness himself. He had not exercised in several days, and his body craved what it was used to. He would do a hundred push-ups and a hundred crunches, a sequence of isometrics before he gave himself over to sleep. Dried off and with the plush towel around his neck, he entered his sitting room in search of a jockstrap and shorts.
Caught off guard by the unexpected presence of a small Slavic man dressed in black and carrying a miniature nylon duffel, Ty felt his temper flare. He was an instant away from raising his knee and twisting his body to deliver a side kick, a yoko geri, to the Slav’s solar plexus when reason got the better of him. Obviously one of the crew Philip had brought on board, the man was, Ty recognized at once, a breacher, an op who specialized in silence; who came in like the wind, usually to lay an explosive charge on a high-value target, then retreated.
Quickly wrapping his bath towel around his waist, Ty stood the expressionless breacher down. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
The intruder, who was at least eight inches shorter than Ty, replied in a calm but fearless voice. “Security check, that’s all.”
“I feel very secure,” Ty told him. “So that won’t be necessary.”
“Yeah, but I must go by my orders,” insisted the Slav.
“I must go to bed,” Ty said, showing his uninvited guest the door. “Good night.”
Without resistance, the intruder departed, then waited until Ty had slammed and double-locked the door to Vanilla before reaching into his duffel and switching off the electromagnet it contained.
Ten minutes later the
telephone on Ty’s night table rang.
“Mr. Hunter, this is Jean-François.”
“Hello, Jean-François, what’s up?”
“I must apologize for the intrusion,” Jean-François began.
“Never mind, everything’s all right now.”
“Yes, I am happy about that. The man was merely following procedure, perhaps too eagerly.”
Ty processed this information as well as the ambiguity in Jean-François’s voice. “What procedure is that?”
“It has been decided to crash the ship.”
“What the hell? Are you crazy?”
“Not a literal crash,” Jean-François explained, nearly laughing, “merely a security one.”
“I see,” Ty said. “A strange choice of verb, but I take it that it refers to a kind of lockdown.”
“Exactly so,” replied Jean-François.
“On whose order is this being done?”
“It is the captain’s order, of course.”
“And it meets with the approval of Miss Cavill, does it?”
“Implicitly, the answer to your question has to be yes. Mr. Frost approved the order, and Mr. Frost and Miss Cavill are, as you are aware, together.”
“So they are,” Ty replied, “so they are.”
Jean-François cleared his throat. “If you need anything, please ring the steward’s office, but until first light please do not leave your suite. You will be safe there, I assure you.”
“Now that you put it that way,” Ty said, “I’m sure I will.”
No sooner had Jean-François hung up than Ty returned to his sitting room and picked up his BlackBerry. Philip, he reasoned, would not be able to get away with crashing Surpass for very long. The authorities might return at any time. Isabella might ultimately object. And it would be difficult to explain the imprisonment of Ty Hunter indefinitely, especially once the excuse that it was merely as a safety precaution had worn thin. The fact that Philip had taken such a drastic step gave strong evidence that there were indeed warheads missing and that he was on the brink of transferring them. Oliver had been right. Now a way had to be devised for Ty to escape Surpass and get to shore, where Oliver would need his help.
He once more pressed the speed-dial number for Oliver, but although the screen lit up, no number appeared, nor could a ring be heard. He made a second attempt, with the same result. He tried another number and another after that. Finally he held the red END/POWER key until the phone, with an unfamiliar shudder, seemed to shut down. When it had, he removed its back and battery, checked to be sure its SIM card was in place, counted to five, and replaced both the battery and the back. Again he pressed the red key until the screen brightened, but it was clear that his smart phone no longer possessed a brain. His logs and contact lists were blank. The instrument he held was the same device. He was sure of that. He’d found it where he’d left it. And it had worked only a short while before. There was no doubting what had happened. The breacher had exposed it to an electromagnet powerful enough to wipe clean its circuitry.
Ty settled into bed and turned off the light. Now there was nothing to do but wait and plan for every possibility. Let yourself go, he told himself. He felt a heavy weight on his chest. His nerves were frayed. The tips of his fingers and even his face where his skin had been cut and stretched in surgery began to tingle. Put that out of your mind. Don’t be distracted, he commanded his brain. Imagination was his enemy at a time like this. He had been taught that in the army. He had been taught as well how to neutralize his imagination, but before he could do so, his mind snagged on that old acronym, SERE: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape. Those were the skills he would need in the coming conflict. And summoning those skills required rest.
Chapter Forty-three
By morning the levanter had stilled. The new wind, from the southwest, was dry and sweet and the weather clear.
Ty was surprised to find breakfast being served, as usual, outside on bridge deck, although he observed that even there they remained under a discreet yet heavy guard. Six men, including the breacher, had disembarked with Philip from the chopper the night before. Ty identified four of them, hiding in nearby shadows.
“I’m sorry for that misunderstanding last night,” Philip said over a single poached egg.
“What misunderstanding?” Isabella asked.
“Actually, I was speaking to Ty,” Philip said. “One of the security men entered his room without knocking and caught him—”
“Buck naked,” Ty interrupted.
“I hope you didn’t get him too excited,” Isabella teased.
“No chance of that,” Philip sniffed. “They’re not that sort.”
“Well, I hope he didn’t have a camera,” Isabella continued. “People post pictures of naked movie stars on the Internet, you know. Or so I’ve been told.”
“They do more than that,” Ty said. “They’ll attach your face to entirely different bodies.”
“What an elegant subject of conversation,” Philip said. “It’s too bad I have to run.”
“Before you go, would you mind putting us in the picture a little bit more?” Isabella asked resolutely. “How long is our leash?”
Philip stopped in his tracks, hesitated, gave a thin smile, and said, “You are not on a leash, darling. You’re free to go anywhere and do anything you like. The men are here for your safety. In my judgment it would be imprudent to expose yourself to unnecessary danger, certainly before we leave port. Perhaps your own assumption is correct and there’s none lurking. But it would be rash to discount the possibility that there is. If Ian was murdered, then as I said last night, there is at least one murderer on the loose.”
“Do the men know all this?”
“Yes,” Philip snapped, but at once recovered himself. “Isabella, please, I beg you, I love you, please indulge my paranoia for one more day.”
She gave a solitary laugh. “As long as you realize that’s what it is,” she replied.
“I do, and that’s all I ask. Ty’s free to go, if that’s what he really wants to do.”
“I wouldn’t dream of abandoning Isabella,” Ty shot back immediately, “at least until things here are on their way back to normal. She needs someone around, if only to make the time go by.”
Isabella smiled.
“You’re too good to be true, Ty Hunter,” Philip said, barely concealing his sarcasm.
As the EC130 prepared to lift off, Isabella turned toward Ty and asked, “Why didn’t you go?”
“It was a bluff.”
“Are you certain?”
“Certain enough not to have risked it,” Ty told her. “If I’d forced him to play his hand, he would have done so. It would have been six armed men plus Jean-François and whomever else he’s co-opted against a single unarmed one, very likely with you as a hostage.”
“He said he’d told the men—”
“I heard that. If it’s true, why do they look so ready to use their weapons should we get out of line?”
Isabella frowned. “I’m going to test one of them.”
“Don’t! That’s the last thing you want to do. Right now let’s go back to the deck just as we would after breakfast on any other day. I meant what I said seriously. I’m going to bore you senseless with my stories and want you to do the same to me until—”
“Until . . . ?”
“Until I’ve figured out who is where,” Ty said, “and how to eliminate them.”
“You’re full of surprises,” she told him.
“Try not to show your fear.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult. I’m so frightened I’m numb.”
“Never mind,” he told her as the chopper rose and its shield of noise slowly dissolved into the deceptively innocuous quiet of a high summer morning.
> After an hour Ty thought he had a good idea of the four guards’ mission and routine, which was clearly to corral the couple on bridge deck even as they appeared to keep their distance.
“I think I’ll go for a walk,” he said.
“You’ll have followers,” Isabella whispered.
“Care to join me?”
“In fact, I think I would,” she replied, without conviction. “A walk sounds nice.”
“Let’s keep to the starboard deck,” Ty said, slowing his speech and focusing on Isabella just enough to emphasize that this was an essential part of his plan.
They had advanced only a short distance when they spied one of the Slavs at the entrance to the wheelhouse, feigning nonchalance but nonetheless, Ty noticed, poised to spring into whatever action might be required.
Stopping amidships, Ty quickly put his arm around Isabella, resting his left palm on her bare shoulder, turning her toward shore as if in the distance, perhaps hidden in a valley of the Atlas Mountains, there was something that demanded her attention. “I’m going to kiss you,” he said.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You could fight me off, but after what happened in Marbella, Ty Hunter breaking up in public is a stale story. Don’t you want me to kiss you?”
She didn’t reply immediately. “What woman wouldn’t? Is that what you’re thinking?”
Ty drew her toward him, lowered his hands to the center of her back and, feeling the fullness of her breasts against his chest, brushed her lips with his. “Now, once more with feeling,” he said, then kissed her deeply. It was his best screen kiss and had about it the air of something he’d done many times before, which bothered Isabella.
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