In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

  “What do you mean, too late?” demanded Jordan.

  “This, I take it, is young Tavistock?” asked MacLeod.

  “My nephew Jordan,” said Hugh. “What’s happening here?”

  “We arrived a few minutes ago. The Villafjord was scheduled to sail at midnight from this dock.”

  “Where is she, then?”

  “That’s the problem. It seems she sailed twenty minutes ago.”

  “But it’s only nine-thirty.”

  MacLeod shook his head. “Obviously they changed plans.”

  Jordan stared out over the dark harbor. A chill wind blew in from the water, whipping his shirt and stinging his face with the tang of salt. She’s out there. I feel it. And she’s alone.

  He turned to MacLeod. “You have to intercept them.”

  “At sea? You’re talking a major operation! We have no firm evidence yet. Nothing solid to authorize that sort of thing.”

  “You’ll find your evidence on the Villafjord.”

  “I can’t take that chance. If I move on Van Weldon without cause, his lawyers will shut down my investigation for good. We have to wait until she docks in Naples. Convince the Italian police to board her.”

  “By then it may be too late! MacLeod, this could be your best chance. Your only chance. If you want Van Weldon, move now.”

  MacLeod looked at Hugh. “What do you think, Lord Lovat?”

  “We’d need help from the Royal Navy. A chopper or two. Oh, we could do it, all right. But if the evidence isn’t aboard, if it turns out we’re chasing nothing but a cargo of biscuits, there’s going to be enough red faces all around to fill a bloody circus ring.”

  “I’m telling you, the evidence is on board,” said Jordan. “So is Clea.”

  “Is that what you’re really chasing?” asked Hugh. “The woman?”

  “What if it is?”

  “We don’t launch an operation this big just because some—some stray female has gotten herself into trouble,” said MacLeod. “We move prematurely and we’ll lose our chance at Van Weldon.”

  “He’s right,” said Hugh. “There are too many factors to weigh here. The woman can’t be our first concern.”

  “Don’t give me any bloody lecture about who’s dispensable and who isn’t!” retorted Jordan. “She’s not one of your agents. She never took any oath to protect queen and country. She’s a civilian, and you can’t leave her out there. I won’t leave her out there!”

  Hugh stared at his nephew in surprise. “She means that much to you?”

  Jordan met his uncle’s gaze. The answer had never been clearer than at this very moment, with the wind whipping their faces and the night growing ever deeper, ever colder.

  “Yes,” said Jordan firmly. “She means that much to me.”

  His uncle glanced up at the sky. “Looks like some nasty weather coming up—it will complicate things.”

  “But…they’ll be miles at sea by the time we reach them,” said MacLeod. “Beyond English waters. There’s no legal way to demand a search.”

  “No legal way,” said Jordan.

  “What, you think they’ll just invite us aboard to comb the ship?”

  “They’re not going to know there is a search.” Jordan turned to his uncle. “I’ll need a navy helicopter. And a crew of volunteers for the boarding party.”

  Troubled, Hugh regarded his nephew for a moment. “You’ll have no authority to back you up on this. You understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “If anything goes wrong—”

  “The navy will deny my existence. I know that, too.”

  Hugh shook his head, agonizing over the decision. “Jordan, you’re my only nephew….”

  “And with a bloodline like ours, we can’t possibly fail. Can we?” Smiling, Jordan gave his uncle’s shoulder a squeeze of confidence.

  Hugh sighed. “This woman must be quite extraordinary.”

  “I’ll introduce you,” said Jordan, and his gaze shifted back to the water. “As soon as I get her off that bloody ship.”

  The men’s voices moved on and faded down the corridor.

  Clea remained frozen by the door, debating whether to risk leaving the storage area. Before they docked again, she’d have to find a new hiding place. Eventually someone would check the cargo, and when that happened, the last place Clea wanted to be was trapped in a crate.

  The coast looked clear.

  She slipped out of the storeroom and headed in the opposite direction the men had taken. The below-decks area was a confusing maze of corridors and hatches. Which way next?

  The question was settled by the sound of footsteps. In panic, she ducked through the nearest door.

  To her dismay she discovered she was in the crew’s quarters—and the footsteps were moving closer. She scrambled across to the row of lockers, opened a door and squeezed inside.

  It was even a tighter fit than the crate had been. She was crammed against a bundle of foul-smelling shirts and an even fouler pair of tennis shoes. Through the ventilation slits she saw two men step into the room. One of them crossed toward the lockers. Clea almost let out a squeak of relief when he swung open the door right beside hers.

  “Hear there’s rough weather comin’ up,” the man said, pulling on a slicker.

  “Hell, she’s blowin’ twenty-five knots already.”

  The men, now garbed in foul-weather gear, left the quarters.

  Clea emerged from the locker. She couldn’t keep ducking in and out of rooms; she’d have to find a more permanent hiding place. Some spot she’d be left undisturbed…

  The lifeboats. She’d seen it used as a hiding place in the movies. Unless there was a ship’s emergency, she’d be safe waiting it out there until they docked.

  She scavenged among the lockers and pulled out a sailor’s pea coat and a black cap. Then, her head covered, her petite frame almost swallowed up in the coat, she crept out of the crew’s quarters and started up a stairway to the deck.

  It was blowing outside, the night swirling with wind and spray. Through the darkness she could make out several men moving about on deck. Two were securing a cargo hatch, a third was peering through binoculars over the port rail. None of them glanced in her direction.

  She spotted two lifeboats secured near the starboard gunwale. Both were covered with tarps. Not only would she be concealed in there, she’d be dry. Once the Villafjord reached Naples, she could sneak ashore.

  She pulled the pea coat tighter around her shoulders. Calmly, deliberately, she began to stroll toward the lifeboats.

  Simon Trott stood on the bridge and eyed the increasingly foul weather from behind the viewing windows. Though the captain had assured him the passage would present no difficulties for the Villafjord, Trott still couldn’t shake off his growing sense of uneasiness.

  Obviously, Victor Van Weldon didn’t share Trott’s sense of foreboding. The old man sat calmly beside him on the bridge, oxygen hissing softly through his nasal tube. Van Weldon would not be anxious about something so trivial as a storm at sea. At his age, with his failing health, what was there left for him to fear?

  Trott asked the captain, “Will it get much rougher?”

  “Not by much, I expect,” said the captain. “She’ll handle it fine. But if you’re that concerned, we can turn back to Portsmouth.”

  “No,” spoke up Van Weldon. “We cannot return.” Suddenly he began to cough. Everyone on the bridge looked away in distaste as the old man spat into a handkerchief.

  Trott, too, averted his gaze and focused on the main deck below, where three men were working hunched against the wind. That’s when Trott noticed the fourth figure moving along the starboard gunwale. It passed, briefly, under the glow of a decklight, then slipped into the shadows.

  At the first lifeboat the figure paused, glanced around and began to untie the covering tarp.

  “Who is that?” Trott asked sharply. “That man by the lifeboat?”

  The captain frowned. “I don’t reco
gnize that one.”

  At once Trott turned for the exit.

  “Mr. Trott?” called the captain.

  “I’ll take care of this.”

  By the time Trott reached the deck, he had his automatic drawn and ready. The figure had vanished. Draped free over the lifeboat was an unfastened corner of tarp. Trott prowled closer. With a jerk he yanked off the tarp and pointed his gun at the shadow cowering inside.

  “Out!” snapped Trott. “Come on, out.”

  Slowly the figure unfolded itself and raised its head. By the glow of a decklight Trott saw the terror in that startlingly familiar face.

  “If it isn’t the elusive Miss Clea Rice,” said Trott.

  And he smiled.

  The cabin was large, plushly furnished and equipped with all the luxuries one would expect in a well-appointed living room. Only the swaying of the crystal chandelier overhead betrayed the fact it was a shipboard residence.

  The chair Clea was tied to was upholstered in green velvet and the armrests were carved mahogany. Surely they won’t kill me here, she thought. They wouldn’t want me to bleed all over this pricey antique.

  Trott emptied the contents of her pockets and her knapsack onto a table and eyed the collection of lock picks. “I see you came well prepared,” he commented dryly. “How did you get on board?”

  “Trade secret.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “You think I’d tell you?”

  With two swift steps he crossed to her and slapped her across the face, so hard her head snapped back. For a moment she was too stunned by the force of the blow to speak.

  “Surely, Miss Rice,” wheezed Victor Van Weldon, “you don’t wish to anger Mr. Trott more than you already have. He can be most unpleasant when annoyed.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” groaned Clea. She squinted, focusing her blurred gaze on Van Weldon. He was frailer than she’d expected. And old, so old. Oxygen tubing snaked from his nostrils to a green tank hooked behind his wheelchair. His hands were bruised, the skin thin as paper. This was a man barely clinging to life. What could he possibly lose by killing her?

  “I’ll ask you again,” said Trott. “Are you alone?”

  “I brought a team of navy SEALs with me.”

  Trott hit her again. A thousand shards of light seemed to explode in her head.

  “Where is Jordan Tavistock?” asked Trott.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is he with you?”

  “No.”

  Trott picked up Jordan’s gold pocket watch and flipped open the lid. He read aloud the inscription. “Bernard Tavistock.” He looked at her. “You have no idea where he is?”

  “I told you I don’t.”

  He held up the watch. “Then what are you doing with this?”

  “I stole it.”

  Though she steeled herself for the coming blow, the impact of his fist still took her breath away. Blood trickled down her chin. In dazed wonder she watched the red droplets soak into the lush carpet at her feet. How ironic, she thought. I finally tell the truth and he doesn’t believe me.

  “He is still working with you, isn’t he?” said Trott.

  “He wants nothing more to do with me. I left him.”

  Trott turned to Van Weldon. “I think Tavistock is still a threat. Keep the contract on him alive.”

  Clea’s head shot up. “No. No, he’s got nothing to do with this!”

  “He’s been with you this past week.”

  “His misfortune.”

  “Why were you together?”

  She gave a shrug. “Lust?”

  “You think I’d believe that?”

  “Why not?” Rebelliously she cocked up her head. “I’ve been known to tweak the hormones of more than a few men.”

  “This gets us nowhere!” said Van Weldon. “Throw her overboard.”

  “I want to know what she’s learned. What Tavistock’s learned. Otherwise we’ll be operating blind. If Interpol—” He suddenly turned.

  The intercom was buzzing.

  Trott crossed the room and pressed the speaker button. “Yes, Captain?”

  “We’ve a situation up here, Mr. Trott. There’s a Royal Navy ship hard on our stern. They’ve requested permission to come aboard.”

  “Why?”

  “They say they’re checking all outbound vessels from Portsmouth for some IRA terrorist. They think he may have passed himself off as crew.”

  “Request denied,” said Van Weldon calmly.

  “They have helicopter backup,” said the captain. “And another ship on the way.”

  “We are beyond the twelve-mile limit,” said Van Weldon. “They have no right to board us.”

  “Sir, might I advise cooperation?” said the captain. “It sounds like a routine matter. You know how it is—the Brits are always hunting down IRA. They’ll probably just want to eyeball our crew. If we refuse, it will only rouse their suspicions.”

  Trott and Van Weldon exchanged glances. At last Van Weldon nodded.

  “Assemble all men on deck,” said Trott into the intercom. “Let the Brits have a good look at them. But it stops there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Trott turned to Van Weldon. “We’d both better be on deck to meet them. As for Miss Rice…” He looked at Clea.

  “She will have to wait,” said Van Weldon, and wheeled his chair across the room to a private elevator. “See that she’s well secured. I will meet you on the bridge.” He maneuvered into the elevator and slid the gate shut. With a hydraulic whine, the lift carried him away.

  Trott turned his attention to Clea’s bonds. He yanked the ropes around her wrists so tightly she gave a cry of pain. Then quickly, efficiently he taped her mouth.

  “That should keep you,” he said with a grunt of satisfaction, and he left the room.

  The instant the door shut behind him, Clea began straining at her bonds. It took only a few painful twists of her wrists to tell her that it was hopeless. She wasn’t going to get loose.

  Shedding tears of frustration, she slumped back against the chair. Up on deck, the Royal Navy would soon be landing. They would never know, would never guess, that just below their feet was a victim in need of rescue.

  So close and yet so far.

  She gritted her teeth and began to strain again at the ropes.

  “You’re certain you want to go in with us?”

  Jordan peered through the chopper windows at the deck of the Villafjord below. It would be a bumpy landing into enemy territory, but with all this wind and darkness as cover, there was a reasonable chance no one down there would recognize him.

  “I’m going in,” Jordan said.

  “You’ll have twenty minutes at the most,” said the naval officer seated across from him. “And then we’re out of there. With or without you.”

  “I understand.”

  “We’re on shaky legal ground already. If Van Weldon lodges a complaint to the high command, we’ll be explaining ourselves till doomsday.”

  “Twenty minutes. Just give me that much.” Jordan tugged the black watch cap lower on his brow. The borrowed Royal Navy uniform was a bit snug around his shoulders, and the automatic felt uncomfortably foreign holstered against his chest, but both were absolutely necessary if he was to participate in this masquerade. Unfortunately the other seven men in the boarding party—all naval officers—were plainly doubtful about having some amateur along for the ride. They kept watching him with expressions bordering on disdain.

  Jordan ignored them and focused on the broad deck of the Villafjord, now directly beneath the skids. A little tricky maneuvering by the pilot brought them to a touchdown. At once the men began to pile out, Jordan among them.

  The pilot, mindful of the hazards of a rolling deck, took off again, leaving the crew temporarily stranded aboard the Villafjord.

  A man with blond hair was crossing to greet them.

  Jordan slipped behind the other men in his party and averted his face. It would be bloody in
convenient to be recognized right off the bat.

  The ranking officer of the naval team stepped forward and met the blond man. “Lieutenant Commander Tobias, Royal Navy.”

  “Simon Trott. VP operations, the Van Weldon company. How can we help you, Commander?”

  “We’d like to inspect your crew.”

  “Certainly. They’ve already been assembled.” Trott pointed to the knot of men huddled near the bridge stairway.

  “Is everyone on deck?”

  “All except the captain and Mr. Van Weldon. They’re up on the bridge.”

  “There’s no one below decks?”

  “No, sir.”

  Commander Tobias nodded. “Then let’s get started.”

  Trott turned to lead the way. As the rest of the boarding party followed Trott, Jordan hung behind, waiting for a chance to slip away.

  No one noticed him duck down the midship stairway.

  With all the crew up top, he’d have the below-decks area to himself. There wasn’t much time to search. Slipping quickly down the first corridor, he poked his head into every doorway, calling Clea’s name. He passed crew’s quarters and officers’ quarters, the mess hall, the galley.

  No sign of Clea.

  Heading farther astern, he came across what appeared to be a storage bay. Inside the room were a dozen crates of various sizes. The lid was ajar on one of them. He lifted it off and glanced inside.

  Swathed in fluffy packing was the bronze head of a statue. And a black glove—a woman’s, size five.

  Jordan glanced sharply around the room. “Clea?” he called out.

  Ten minutes had already passed.

  With a surging sense of panic he continued down the corridor, throwing open doors, scanning each compartment. So little time left, and he still had the engine room, the cargo bays and Lord knew what else might lie astern.

  Overhead he heard the sound of rumbling, growing louder now. The helicopter was about to land again.

  A mahogany door with a sign Private was just ahead. Captain’s quarters? Jordan tried the knob and found it was locked. He pounded on it a few times and called out, “Clea?”

  There was no answer.