Quickly she reread and memorised the message and then replaced the letter. Luckily the tape still held and if it did come away the next time it was removed, Cate reasoned, it would look accidental. She replaced the frame exactly as it had been on the bedside table and went to check the other photographs. The first one, showing Nancy with a turtle, drew a blank. The next, a smaller one of her with a Siberian tiger, was empty as well. Cate had just checked the last frame when suddenly, through the speakers, she heard the sound she had been dreading. Footsteps, treading heavily up the staircase and headed her way. Not quickly, but Cate calculated that, even so, she had less than a minute to cover her tracks and get out of the room.
With no time to be frightened, her mind went into overdrive. The laptop was shut down and hidden within the pile of towels on the bed in seconds. Cate switched off the light and opened the door quietly, giving silent thanks for the thick pile carpet that silenced her footsteps. She grabbed the towels and the cleaning equipment and slipped quietly and quickly out of the room and across into a guest bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Like a whirlwind she ran into the bathroom, turned on the taps and raced back again to the door where she stood, breathless and listening.
Less than ten seconds passed before Cate heard the door to Nancy’s room being opened and held her breath, waiting to see if she had left behind any evidence that would betray her to the bodyguard. But there was nothing, no explosion of anger, no shout of annoyance and at last Cate allowed herself to breathe easy. That had been close, very close. And she wasn’t out of the woods just yet.
A minute later, when Ahmed barged unceremoniously into the second bedroom, he found Cate in the ensuite bathroom, humming a song and scrubbing the bath with faultless industry.
‘Oh hi,’ she said in a surprised voice to Ahmed as she turned to see him. ‘Glad you’re here. I’ve nearly finished up. Can we go and do Nancy’s room now?’
An hour later, her cleaning finished and given the rest of the night off by a weary-looking Wendy, Cate was back in her cabin. Checking that her door was securely locked, she knelt on the floor, powered up her laptop, switched on the scrambler and went into Google. Frederico Mantoni drew a blank. So did Frederico Mantani. But Frederico Mantanini – Professor Frederico Mantanini to be precise – had over three million entries, almost all of them alluding to his controversial work in the field of human cloning.
Cate looked hard at his image – a strange-looking man with a beaky nose, and unusually, one brown and one blue eye. He looked clever, urbane, self-important even. But he didn’t look wicked.
‘Arthur,’ said Cate to her younger brother who had, rather unwillingly, been roused from a game of Star Wars Battleship by a series of increasingly frequent pings from his sister. ‘I think we have just made a breakthrough. Nancy has a thank-you letter from one of the few doctors in the world who will admit to experimenting with human cloning. In fact, two years ago, this Professor Mantanini claimed he was successful and had delivered a baby who was a clone of its long dead brother. But when he didn’t produce this cloned baby for medical examination, he was laughed out of the public arena and even those who supported him dropped him like a bad smell. He was struck off the Italian medical register and stripped of his professorship from the University of Milan.
‘He hasn’t really been heard of since, although some say he is now working for a lab in Eastern Europe, where the regulations on genetic research are a bit more flexible than they were in Italy. Wherever he is, he has been in contact with Nancy Kyle, that’s for sure.’
‘And not to discuss human cloning,’ Arthur echoed Cate’s thoughts. ‘She already has more than enough babies for one person.’
‘Nope,’ said Cate flatly. ‘Not for babies. Perhaps animals. Rare endangered animals. Just think of the kudos that would come your way if you managed to clone a mountain gorilla or giant panda, say. People have been working on cloning since Dolly the Sheep, but they aren’t able to clone all animals, and anyway, nothing cloned has ever survived for long. If you could, though, you would save an entire species from oblivion. It would resurrect his career in an instant.’
‘It’s not just the kudos,’ said Arthur slowly. ‘Have you any idea how much he could charge for his expertise if he succeeded? But no one would let him anywhere near animals like that, not for experimental research.’
‘Not him, sure,’ agreed Cate. ‘But an international supermodel with friends in high places and a well-known interest in animals might find it a bit easier. I don’t want to believe it, but it seems as if the further I get into this, the more explaining Nancy has to do. I have to get to Marcus and tell him what I know.’
‘Hold on,’ said Arthur quickly. ‘I’ve got some news to report as well. First of all, your gorgeous friend Tass. Guess what his boat – or rather his dad’s boat – is called?’ Arthur could hardly keep the triumph from out of his voice. ‘Go on, try.’
‘I give up!’ said Cate with amused exasperation.
‘Rubbish, sis,’ laughed her brother. ‘Seriously though, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. His yacht is only called The Good Times.’ He paused theatrically, waiting for the news to sink in, watching his sister’s reaction. He was not disappointed. The colour drained from Cate’s cheeks as her mind rushed back to those terrible moments only the day before when she had thought she was witnessing the death of a man.
‘Tell the Roman to look for the good times,’ Andrei had said to her.
And the good times was nothing to do with remembering the past. It was about a boat. A specific boat with links to Nancy Kyle.
Cate groaned inwardly. ‘I just thought Andrei was rambling,’ she said more to herself than Arthur. The Roman – of course, that was Marcus, a Latin name.
She thought for a minute then spoke again. ‘Arthur, well done,’ said Cate. ‘I need to speak to Marcus immediately and I have to get onboard that yacht.’
‘It won’t be easy,’ said Arthur, who had clearly done his homework thoroughly. ‘According to the blueprints of the boat, which I just happened to find on the highly secure website of the New Zealand yacht builders who designed it, The Good Times is one of the most secure boats in the world. In fact, it is one of the top twenty most expensive boats ever built, mainly because of the security features it carries.
‘Apparently Tass’s father is the paranoid type – not surprising when you consider that he has already survived three attempts on his life. Probably because he made his money making dodgy gas deals in very dodgy countries.
‘The entire hull is bullet and bomb proof, there is a NASA-designed sonar centre which can pick up a fish farting four miles away and it carries a full range of weapons – from rifles to anti-aircraft missiles. Not to mention twenty-four-hour CCTV cameras covering every centimetre of the boat, and a panic room equipped with enough oxygen and food to last for two weeks. There’s also a helicopter landing pad – naturally – and the latest must-have toy, a submarine with a docking bay in the lower decks.’
‘Wow,’ said Cate. She couldn’t think of what else to say.
‘You won’t get on board by stealth,’ said Arthur. ‘I doubt if even a small navy could do that.’
‘Well,’ said Cate, ‘in that case it will just have to be by invitation.’
As if on cue, there was a loud knocking on her door. ‘Cate, are you awake?’ It was Bill, sounding harassed. ‘Nancy wants to go ashore and find a party. And she wants us all to come with her to keep her company.’
An hour later, Nancy, Tass, Cate, Wendy and Bill, not to mention a grumpy-looking Mikey and a very sullen Ahmed, were arranged around a large oval table in the basement of one of the coolest restaurants in Antibes. Marcus, who was nowhere to be found on the boat, had been texted and was expected to arrive at any minute.
The room was dark with deep red walls and aged wooden floors. Black and white pictures of famous jazz singers hung over the long timber bar and young waiters, wearing classic Fifties black and white uniforms, ca
rried large trays of drinks which they swooped and swung over the heads of the crowded tables. At the back of the room, crammed to one side of a small, badly lit dance floor, a jazz quintet ripped enthusiastically and efficiently through a series of Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck classics.
The band, who had their audience mesmerised by their skill, were an eclectic mix: a very old grey-haired and bearded double bass player, a young Japanese female pianist who didn’t once look up from the piano keys, a seriously good-looking black trumpeter, a skinny drummer with long blond hair who could have been either a man or a woman and a very young, dark-haired saxophonist who looked strangely familiar.
It was a heady atmosphere, a combination of lively and relaxed, and it was impossible not to get into the spirit of things. Nancy and Tass ordered drinks all round and then, after a few minutes of gazing into each other’s eyes, suddenly got to their feet.
‘Come on, dance, have fun,’ shouted Tass to a table of bemused-looking French couples who were seated next to them.
Cate had forgotten how good it felt to dance. At one point, Nancy was her partner, then Wendy and Bill had a go at whirling her around the dance floor. To widespread cheers, Nancy climbed onto a table and began dancing and blowing kisses at the band.
Then Tass grabbed the microphone to sing along to a Louis Armstrong number in a surprisingly tuneful voice and Nancy came down from the table to join him at the microphone.
The band good-naturedly played up to them, keeping the number going until Tass and Nancy had tired of singing and gone back to their seats waving regally to the now cheering restaurant clientele. Then, suddenly the set was over, the lights were up and the musicians were setting down their instruments and thirstily gulping down glasses of water.
Cate sat back down and took a sip of her Diet Coke. As she did so she noticed, to her astonishment, that the saxophonist was headed straight for her.
‘Bonjour encore.’ He stood over her, his deep blue eyes looking amused at her obvious confusion. ‘We met yesterday. I was playing volleyball and you were running along the beach?’
Of course, it was him, the boy who had asked her to join in the match at the yacht club. Tonight he looked older than he had in his shorts and T-shirt – perhaps eighteen or nineteen – but his face was friendly and gentle and there was no hint of the aggression Cate had seen in some boys who had tried to chat her up in the past.
She smiled in recognition and, taking this as an invitation, he dropped into the seat next to her. Out of the corner of her eye Cate could see Wendy and Nancy grinning like idiots at this latest development, but if the boy noticed he didn’t seem to care.
‘I’m Michel, Michel le Blanc,’ he volunteered, holding out his hand for Cate to shake.
‘I’m Cate Carlisle,’ said Cate, still slightly shocked by the sudden turn of events.
‘I like the way you dance, Cate Carlisle,’ said Michel, still holding onto her hand.
‘I like the way you play the saxophone.’ Cate grinned, recovering fast.
‘So we’re equal,’ said Michel, smiling back at her and suddenly the noise of the bar receded into the background. ‘But I want to ask you a question.’
‘Such as?’ said Cate, teasing him.
‘Such as why are you here, where are you from, can I buy you a drink tomorrow?’
‘That’s three questions,’ said Cate, enjoying the banter. ‘How about you tell me three things about yourself first then I’ll answer your questions.’
Michel’s blue eyes were dancing with delight. ‘I can see you are hard work,’ he said. ‘But definitely worth it. OK. I am eighteen years old and Antibes is my hometown. I am a student but in the holidays I work for my father in his restaurant here in the town. Now, your turn.’
‘I come from everywhere. I am working on a yacht, Catwalk II, here in the marina and Nancy is my boss. And yes, you can buy me a drink sometime. Will that do for now?’
‘Oui.’ He dropped a piece of paper on the table in front of her. ‘I have to go now – we are playing in another bar tonight. But take my number, yes? And my father’s café is Le Rousillon just off the main square. Come in and I’ll be there. If not, ask for me at the bar and they’ll tell you where I am. I hope you do. Au revoir, Cate Carlisle.’
He stood up and lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell. Then he was gone. Cate sat still for a moment, wondering if she had just dreamt the entire conversation, until Nancy brought her abruptly out of her thoughts.
‘Wow, babe,’ she purred. ‘Have you got like a kind of aura about you that attracts the guys?’
Cate dissolved into laughter but Nancy stayed serious. ‘Listen up, Cate,’ she said, throwing a friendly arm around the younger girl’s shoulders. ‘Sax appeal equals sex appeal and that guy has got it in spades. If I were ten years younger . . . in fact, what does that matter? Look at Demi Moore. Put that number into your phone right now.’
Now Cate was blushing furiously and Wendy, seeing her embarrassment, kindly came to her rescue.
‘Right, Cate, you’re on the early shift tomorrow. I think you should get back to the boat and get some kip. Will you be OK on your own? I could get Ahmed or Mikey to walk you back.’
She stood up. ‘Wendy, I’ll be fine.’
Once outside the bar, the air was cool and fresh and, as the noise of the town faded behind her, Cate felt herself relaxing. The stars were out and a gentle breeze was coming in from beyond the harbour. Lights from fishing boats heading out on the tide trailed across the sea in front of her and she could hear snatches of conversations from the fishermen coming across the water as they prepared for their long night ahead.
Cate paused, running back over the events of the evening in her head and then, after a minute of agonising whether she should or shouldn’t, texted Michel her number, crossing her fingers as it disappeared from her screen.
Suddenly she heard the soft sound of footsteps tracking closely behind her, but when she turned there was no one to be seen. She hadn’t imagined it she was sure. Was she being followed again?
She increased her pace and headed straight for the packed marina car park. The dim lighting and rows of cars and motorbikes provided the perfect cover for her and within seconds she had dodged in and out of so many vehicles that she knew it would have been impossible for anyone without supernatural night vision to have kept track of where she was.
She paused for a minute, listening. Only the tinkling of yacht masts and snatches of music from the restaurants on the other side of the wall disturbed the night silence. Then she heard someone singing quietly and instantly knew just who had been shadowing her.
‘Marcus,’ Cate called out softly, ‘if you want to talk to me why don’t you call me on my mobile?’
‘Very funny, Cate.’ Suddenly Marcus was right beside her, his large frame as solid as a statue in the poorly lit car park. ‘Actually, the mobile phone is a very unreliable and unsafe piece of equipment. It can give away your position and it is very easily tapped.’
‘Thanks for the lecture.’ Cate was worn out and tetchy. She wanted to go to bed and dream about Michel.
‘Mmmm,’ said Marcus, looking at her as if he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t hanging onto his every word. ‘OK. I just wanted an update, to find out if you had learnt anything new today.’
Cate shrugged. Where to begin? Quietly and methodically she worked her way through the events of the afternoon, telling him what she had found in Nancy’s room, about the professor, what Andrei had said, and finally what Arthur had discovered about The Good Times. When she had finished Marcus let out a quiet whistle and pulled out his phone to make a call.
‘Cate, I knew you were good but, man, you are really good,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I was right; you’re just perfect for this job. I would never have been able to get into that bedroom without setting off very loud alarm bells in those bodyguards’ sharp little brains and it was damn clever of you to think of looking in the picture frames.’ He beamed p
roudly. ‘And that brother of yours. It’s like we got two for the price of one. Tell him from me, he’s one cool dude.’
Just then Cate felt her mobile phone vibrating in her pocket and felt herself blushing. Could it be Michel calling her so soon?
She tried to ignore her disappointment when she realised it was Wendy. ‘Just to warn you, Cate, you’d better get some beauty sleep. Nancy has decided we’re all off to St Tropez in the morning.’
CHAPTER 8
Cate woke early to an unfamiliar but overwhelming sound. It was coming from beneath and around her cabin, a throbbing rhythm that reminded her of being in the mosh pit at a rock gig.
It took her a few seconds to work out that the massive engines that powered Catwalk II were up and running, all four of them producing an energy which could only be described as awesome. Cate looked quickly out of her porthole. Catwalk II was still moored up in her usual spot in the marina.
Bill must be giving the engines a warm up before we go out, thought Cate, enjoying the sense of anticipation uncoiling in her stomach.
She had a shower, washed and dried her hair and then tied it up in a ponytail. Up on deck, Bill was sitting at the steering console, watching the weather report on his sat nav. As Cate came towards him, he flicked the master switch to shut down the engines and slowly, almost painfully, they fell silent.
‘Morning,’ said Cate. ‘Everything ready for the trip?’
‘Uh huh.’ Bill was clearly not a morning person. ‘Right, Cate, you’d better get up on top deck and start storing all the movables away. Bring the sun loungers down below, shut up the bar and put away the parasols. We’re not a huge boat and, although the weather forecast is showing calm, you can never be sure. Once we get past the point and head out to the main channel the wind can change really quickly.’
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