The man looked down at the table. “I mean, I work for the boat, right? This is Commodore’s job.”
“Was Commodore’s job. We’re taking over.”
“Fine by me. Look, I spent most of my time on the wreck with the other guy, Japanese buddy.”
McKenna swapped glances with Matt Jonas. “Who?”
“Guy from the Lion, Hiroki or something. He paid us twenty-five grand to get him back out to the wreck without telling anybody.” He sipped his coffee, his teeth chattering. “The guy’s still on the ship, to tell you the truth. Last I saw, he was down in the cargo hold.”
McKenna frowned. What the hell was the guy doing in there?
She was about to ask the man to elaborate when Al called down from the wheelhouse. “Salvation’s coming up alongside us now, skipper,” he said. “Better tell the boy to get ready.”
MCKENNA JOINED THE REST of the crew on deck as the Salvation pulled up beside the Gale Force. Spied Christer Magnusson on the smaller tug’s afterdeck. He met McKenna’s gaze, raised a hand in greeting, looked away.
So be it, McKenna thought. You gambled and lost, now get out of our way.
Al idled the Gale Force close, and Jason Parent stood ready with a long coil of rope as Matt and Stacey Jonas readied the Gale Force’s life raft. The Salvation’s deckhand started to the rail as Matt and Stacey lowered the raft to the water. Then he stopped and turned around, came back to McKenna.
“Robbie Peters,” he said, his hand outstretched. “You guys saved my life.”
McKenna shook the man’s hand. He had a firm grip, though his hand was frigid. “Glad we got to you in time,” she said. “I assume this means you guys are giving up on that freighter.”
The deckhand glanced back at the wounded Lion. “Hell,” he said, “I’ll be happy if I never see that ship again in my life.”
The two boats inched closer, and Jason Parent heaved the line across the narrow chasm to Christer Magnusson, who made it fast on his end. Then Robbie Peters was climbing over the gunwale and into the life raft, and, gripping the rope with one hand and steadying the raft with the other, he pulled himself across the rough seas to the Salvation.
McKenna watched the kid make it home to the Salvation’s scuffed hull. Watched Magnusson pull him to his feet, help him into the house. Tried not to think of her dad in the water, lost and alone.
Christer Magnusson didn’t stop to help you then, she thought. He raced right past and claimed the Argyle Shore as his own. Sent that damn pile of flowers to the old man’s memorial.
Would he have done what you just did, if it was Jason Parent in the water?
She shook the thought from her mind. Watched the Salvation until Magnusson and Robbie Peters were long gone from the deck and Jason Parent had the raft reeled in and the line coiled.
“Okay, enough of this amateur hour,” she said, starting back to the wheelhouse. “Let’s get our line on that ship.”
40
McKenna called the Coast Guard on channel 16, the maritime distress frequency. “We’re taking over. The Salvation has agreed to relinquish the tow.”
The Munro responded quickly. “Copy, Gale Force. Please advise if there’s any way we can assist.”
“Actually, there is,” McKenna told the radio operator. “The Salvation left a man aboard the wreck, one of the Japanese sailors. He’s somewhere in the cargo hold, looking for lost property, but the last thing we need is some treasure hunter in our way right now.”
A pause. Then the Munro returned. “Roger, Gale Force. Funny thing, the customs agents in Dutch Harbor reported a missing Japanese sailor. We’ll pick him up and make sure he gets home.”
McKenna thanked the radio operator and hung up the handset. Then she picked up the satellite phone and placed a call to Japan.
IT TOOK McKENNA THIRTY minutes of holding and transferring before she reached who she was looking for, a vice president of the Japanese Overseas Lines, a man named Matsuda.
“We already have signed an agreement,” Matsuda told her. “Commodore Towing is handling our ship.”
“Commodore tried and failed,” McKenna replied. “Technical difficulties. Gale Force Marine is taking over.”
Matsuda didn’t answer for a minute. “I assume you are calling to negotiate,” he said at last. “In which case, I can offer you an Open Form agreement. Five percent of the Pacific Lion’s value, as established by an independent arbitrator.”
McKenna laughed. “Commodore brought five guys and a seventy-year-old hulk, and I know you gave them a better offer. I have a crew of salvage experts and a deep-sea tug. You’re going to have to do better.”
“Double, then,” Matsuda said. “Ten percent.”
McKenna pursed her lips. Ten percent of the Lion’s value would net the Gale Force approximately fifteen million dollars. Even after paying off the crew, it would make for a substantial windfall. But McKenna didn’t bite.
“Ten percent is the industry floor,” she told the executive. “And this is an extraordinary job. We’ll sign the Open Form for thirty percent of your ship’s value.”
Matsuda gave a sharp bark of disbelief. “This is a one-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar ship, Ms. Rhodes. You’re asking me for forty-five million dollars?”
“Those pretenders on the Salvation jerked our chain for days,” McKenna told him. “Now I’m fighting a gale and a sinking ship. My crew’s going to earn every penny of that award. Thirty percent, or I’ll let the arbitrator figure it out.”
Matsuda went silent again. McKenna pictured the man in his office, hoped he was gripping the phone tight. “Twenty percent,” he said finally. “Thirty million dollars. We sign the agreement now, and save the legal costs.”
McKenna looked out at the Pacific Lion through the wheelhouse windows. The ship wallowed in the swell, waves breaking over her red keel.
Matsuda coughed. “Ms. Rhodes?”
She blinked back to focus. Idled the Gale Force toward the Pacific Lion’s stern. “Twenty percent,” she agreed. “Fax me the paperwork. And Mr. Matsuda?”
A pause. “Yes?”
“It’s Captain Rhodes,” McKenna said. Then she ended the call.
41
Okura woke up in darkness. In cold and damp, with the ship still moving, still shuddering as the waves outside battered the hull. He was lying on something hard, something painful, and for a moment, he couldn’t move his arms or his legs, and he panicked, afraid the fall had paralyzed him.
Gradually, though, he regained feeling in his limbs. Brought his hand up to his face, felt blood, warm and sticky. His face hurt, his nose. The side of his head. He reached for his headlamp, but it wasn’t there. The cargo hold was pitch-black. Water sloshed beneath him, but Okura had no way of telling how far below.
The briefcase.
He’d landed on a car. He could feel the windshield beneath him, cold steel at his back, the wipers digging through the fabric of his pants. The car rocked with the movement of the freighter, and the tie-up straps groaned.