But the bonds had disappeared. And that meant someone—an American—knew of their whereabouts.
Nakadate swiveled in his chair again, back to his phone. Picked up his handset and instructed his secretary to make another call.
He waited briefly. Then the call was placed, and Masao Tanaka answered on the first ring.
“Your colleagues have had no luck,” Nakadate told him. “It’s your turn to act.”
93
Four days into the tow.
McKenna made fresh coffee in the galley, and then climbed the stairs back to the wheelhouse. Nelson Ridley had the controls this morning. The engineer heard her coming, glanced back to greet her, and let his eyes fall meaningfully on the chart table by the stairs, the stainless-steel briefcase that sat upon it.
“You ever going to look inside that thing, skipper?” he asked McKenna. “It’s kind of giving me the heebie-jeebies here.”
McKenna handed Ridley a cup of coffee, took a sip of her own. Surveyed the wheelhouse, looked out through the windows. It was a nice enough day on the water: not much sun to speak of, but no wind, either, and nothing more than a low, westerly swell, as far as the seas were concerned. The Pacific Lion followed the Gale Force as she had for days now, and McKenna found it almost hard to believe that the well-behaved freighter dawdling behind the tug was the same beast of a ship that had nearly killed Court Harrington.
Of course, there was a reason that saving the Lion was worth thirty million dollars, and towing her to port only paid a fraction.
Ridley took the coffee, but he wasn’t about to let the subject drop. “I mean, be honest. Aren’t you at all curious?”
McKenna looked back at the briefcase, felt her body tense involuntary, constricting around her lungs just enough to be uncomfortable. She’d found the briefcase just where Harrington had described it, stashed under his bunk with a whole family of dust bunnies, had brought it up to the wheelhouse and looked at it for a while, long enough to make her feel uneasy. Then she’d set the thing down on the table, tried to forget about it. Tried to focus on the tow.
“Of course I’m curious,” she told Ridley. “But it’s locked, Nelson.”
Ridley raised an eyebrow. “We’re the roughest, toughest salvage tug on the North Pacific,” he said. “We raise ships from the dead. You don’t think we can open a briefcase?”
“I’m quite sure we can,” McKenna said. “It’s just—”
She trailed off, unsure how to tell Ridley how that damn case gave her the creeps, too, how she could close her eyes and hear the gunshots that had almost killed her and Harrington, see the look in the gunman’s eyes as he’d prepared to pull the trigger.
“I know,” Ridley said. “It’s weird, all right. But the kid’s got a valid argument. It’s lawfully our property.” He gave her a devilish grin. “What if there’s a million bucks in there, skipper? Wouldn’t you want to know?”
“I’ve already made my millions for this trip.” She forced a smile, gestured to the controls. “Let me take over here, would you? Grab a sandwich or something.”
Ridley paused, like he was debating pressing the issue. Finally, he shrugged. “You worried I’m going to crash your big boat?”
“I’m just saying, I’ve seen you drive that motorcycle of yours. Go on back to the engine room where you can’t wreck anything.”
“You’d be surprised.” Ridley retreated, casting one more meaningful glance at the briefcase before disappearing down the stairs and out of sight.
McKenna listened to her engineer fumbling around in the galley. Checked the autopilot, the GPS, replotted her course, anything to keep from thinking about that case.
The tug was making good time anyway, made it halfway across the Gulf of Alaska already. Another couple days, they’d home in on Cape St. James, the southern tip of the Haida Gwaii archipelago off the British Columbia coast. They’d skirt down the western side of Vancouver Island to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, cut in and down to Puget Sound in Seattle, and home, easy as pie. If the weather held, they might make it in early.
But the briefcase still gnawed at her. Throw it overboard, she thought. Forget about it. Hand it off to the authorities when you get to Seattle. Wash your hands of the whole ordeal.
Yeah, she thought. Maybe.
But even that wouldn’t guarantee safety. What if whoever owned the case came looking for it?
What would your dad do, girl?
Riptide Rhodes? McKenna couldn’t be sure, but she had a damn solid suspicion her dad wouldn’t be turning the case in to any authorities, not until he’d figured out what was inside.
It’s lawfully ours. Rules of the sea.
Her dad would have been curious. Hell, McKenna was curious. Just not enough to do anything about it, not yet.
She replotted the Gale Force’s route on the GPS screen—again—the vast expanse of ocean, not another soul around for hundreds of miles. Sooner or later, though, the tug would reach landfall, and McKenna wondered what—or who—would be waiting for them when they arrived.
It was a worrying question, and McKenna had days and days to mull it over. She settled into an uneasy discontent, and it hung over her head and didn’t go away.
94
Court Harrington had just returned to his suite at Seattle’s Fairmont Olympic Hotel—hey, he was a millionaire now—when there came a knock at the door.
Harrington sighed. He was tired, and he was hungry. It had been a long day of physical therapy, feeling weak and helpless as the cute doctor put him through a succession of strengthening exercises. A steak sounded pretty damn good right about now. So did alcohol, for that matter. He’d earned it.
Three knocks, quick and solid. Someone meant business. Harrington crossed the suite to the door and peered through the peephole. Saw a man standing in the hall, young, a black suit.
“Yeah?” he called through the door.
The man seemed to fix his eyes on Harrington’s own, even through the tiny looking glass. “Hotel security, Mr. Harrington,” he said in an accented voice. “There is a matter we need to discuss with you.”
“Security?” Harrington frowned. “What are they saying I did?”
“It’s nothing so serious,” the man replied. “Please, there are some questions about your account with us. If you’ll allow me to verify them with you, I can leave you in peace.”
Damn it. Harrington sighed again, felt his stomach rumble in protest as he slid the security chain loose and unlocked the door. Swung it open to reveal the slender security man, smaller than Harrington had first imagined. He gave Harrington a wide smile.
“My name is Tanaka,” he said. He gestured into Harrington’s suite. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
This was weird. But the guy was small, and Harrington figured if the joker tried anything, he could take him.
“You said you had questions about my account?” he asked, turning to walk into the suite’s spacious living area as the door swung closed behind Tanaka. “Listen—maybe you should show me some ID, first.”
He turned back, pleased with himself, figured he’d put the guy on the defensive, see how he liked it.
Felt significantly less clever when he caught sight of the gun.
THE GUN had been easy for Masao Tanaka to obtain.
The Inagawa-kai was yakuza, after all, and the yakuza had friends in Seattle. One discreet phone call to one of those friends, one late-night meeting in one empty parking garage, and Tanaka found himself the proud owner of a Beretta 92FS 9mm pistol, with a Gemtech GM-9 suppressor thrown in for good measure. An easy transaction, to be sure, but a worthwhile one, judging by the expression on Court Harrington’s face.