“Yes,” Okura said. “It’s me, Tomio. All is safe now. But where is your briefcase?”
Ishimaru rolled his eyes to look over the edge of the platform. Okura followed his gaze with the light. There was no sign of the briefcase amid the cars and the darkness, but Ishimaru knew it must be down there somewhere. Okura grabbed him, rough. Shook him. “Talk to me, Tomio.” His voice desperate, urgent, unhinged.
Ishimaru lifted his chin and gestured over the edge. “Down.”
Okura peered over the edge of the platform. He swore. He looked at Ishimaru and swore again.
32
Okura stared down at Ishimaru. The stowaway was filthy and bruised and broken, a pitiful creature. The sight of him filled Okura with hot, sudden anger.
All you had to do was hold on to the briefcase, he thought. You could have made us rich. Well, me, anyway.
Ishimaru clawed at him, weak as a baby bird. “Water,” he rasped out. “Please.”
Okura ignored him. Shined his headlamp into the gloom again. Searched for any sign of the case, couldn’t see it. He kicked Ishimaru’s hand aside. Inched across the bulkhead to stand over him on the platform. Stared down at him for a long time—the stowaway feeble, blinking, near blinded by the light—and felt his anger only worsen.
Before Okura realized what he was doing, he’d put his foot down on his old classmate’s throat, stepped down hard.
It would be impossible to bring Ishimaru to the surface. The stowaway’s presence would bring more complications. It would raise questions that would stand in the way of Okura’s freedom.
This is the only way.
Ishimaru was too weak to fight. He clawed ineffectually at Okura’s boot. Gasping, his eyes bulging. Okura maintained the pressure, watched the desperation in Ishimaru’s eyes turn to surrender. And then those eyes went vacant and his old classmate was finally dead.
33
McKenna watched through her binoculars as the man emerged from the bridge of the Lion, climbed into a skiff tied to the freighter’s railing, and navigated it, slowly and perilously, back to the Salvation. Beside her, Court Harrington shifted his weight.
“What’s that about?” he asked. “Who’s that guy?”
McKenna shrugged. “One of Christer’s guys, I guess. Could be his architect. You recognize him?”
She handed Harrington the glasses, and the whiz kid studied the man in the skiff. “Nobody I know,” he said. “Whoever he is, he’s got guts to be running that dinghy through those waves.”
“Or he’s just crazy.” McKenna took the glasses back. The man had reached the Salvation, which rode the waves at the stern of the Lion, tethered to the bigger ship like a terrier on a leash, black plumes of smoke belching out of her stack.
Cripes, even the towline seemed thin for the job. The winch looked underpowered, too, and the Salvation herself was dirty, in need of a fresh coat of paint. She was doubtless a good ship—hell, she’d survived since World War II—but she wasn’t a salvage tug, and with the weather set to turn, McKenna wasn’t about to stand around waiting for Christer Magnusson to prove it.
She picked up the radio. “Coast Guard cutter Munro, this is the Gale Force.”
A pause. Then: “Gale Force, Munro. We were just about to hail you, sir—er, ma’am. Can you tell me your intentions in these waters?”
“Sure,” McKenna said. “I’m here to salvage the Lion.”
A longer pause. “Ma’am, it’s our understanding that Commodore Towing is handling salvage duties at this time. Have you been in touch with the Salvation?”
“I have,” McKenna said. “I told them they’re wasting your time. That little boat over there is pouring its heart out and it can’t move the Lion. What’s going to happen when this gale hits?”
“As far as we’re aware, Commodore’s operations are proceeding as planned,” the radio operator replied. “If you wish to assist, I’d suggest you try to negotiate something with the Salvation herself. We’re not in a position to be settling disputes of this nature.”
“You will be,” McKenna said. “When the operation fails and the Lion wrecks on a rock somewhere, you’ll have a mess on your hands, I assure you.”
She slammed the radio handset back into its cradle. Stared out at the Lion, now visibly rocking as the waves crashed against her hull.
“Well, we can’t just sit around and wait,” Court Harrington said. “I need to get aboard before this weather turns nasty.”
At the Lion’s stern, the Salvation bobbed, no sign of life from the afterdeck or the wheelhouse. McKenna studied the smaller vessel, felt Harrington’s eyes on her, knew he was growing impatient, probably doubting her ability to bump Christer Magnusson out of the way.
If your dad was here—
Shut up. McKenna reached for the radio. “Hell, no, we’re not waiting,” she told Court. “Hello, Munro,” she said into the handset. “This is the Gale Force. I’d like to talk to your commanding officer, please.”
THE MUNRO’S CAPTAIN WAS A MAN named Tom Geoffries. He listened as McKenna laid out her argument. But McKenna couldn’t convince him.
“The Salvation assures me they have the situation under control,” Geoffries told her. “Frankly, Captain, this sounds like a load of sour grapes from an outfit who gambled and lost.”
McKenna gritted her teeth. “I appreciate how it might sound that way, Captain Geoffries,” she replied. “From my angle, I have a high-horsepower, deep-sea tug stocked with the best salvage experts, divers, and naval architects in the business, and none of us can do our jobs because a group of pretenders are standing in our way.”
Geoffries came back harsh. “I think you’re out of line, Captain Rhodes.”
“Sir, you know as well as I do that this weather is only going to get worse,” McKenna said. “That ship’s rate of drift is going to increase, and assuming she doesn’t sink, she’s going to hit land sooner or later. And I’m telling you, in this gale we’ve got coming, that little navy tender over there isn’t going to be anything more than a speed bump.”
Geoffries didn’t respond. McKenna waited. If the Coast Guard captain cut her out, the Gale Force would have no choice but to stand down, watch the Lion drift toward land, and pray there was still time to act when the call finally came.
The radio crackled. “I’m sorry, Captain Rhodes,” Geoffries said at last. “Until they prove they’re not up to it, this is Commodore’s wreck. I just can’t break their contract without cause.”
34
This was a nightmare zone.
Okura dangled in darkness, lowering himself slowly down a line of rope, his feet pressed tight to the deck as he walked himself backward, searching the long line of Nissans for the briefcase. The cars hung around him, rocking with the ship’s motion. They reminded Okura of an uncut sheet of dollar bills, one single unit moving in unison, rising and falling and rising again.