“Can you contact him?”
“I don’t even know his name. He works the graveyard shift and usually eats breakfast about the same time we deliver our fish. We’ve talked a few times over a cup of coffee. He’s not happy about the working conditions. During our last conversation, he claimed that in the past year over twenty Chinese workers have died in the mines.”
“If I can get ten minutes alone with him, he might be of great help in solving the acoustics enigma.”
“No guarantee he’ll be there when we make the delivery,” said Broadmoor.
“I’ll have to gamble,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “When do you deliver your next catch?”
“The last of our village fleet should be docking within a few hours. We’ll ice and crate the catch later this evening and be ready to head for Kunghit Island at first light.”
Pitt wondered if he was physically and mentally primed to lay his life on the line again. Then he thought of the hundreds of dead bodies he’d seen on the cruise ship, and there wasn’t the slightest doubt about what he must do.
Six small fishing boats, painted in a variety of vivid colors, sailed into Rose Harbour, their decks stacked with wooden crates filled with fish packed in ice. The diesel engines made a soft chugging sound through tall exhaust stacks as they turned the shafts to the propellers. A low mist covered the water and turned it a gray green. The sun was half a globe on the eastern horizon, and the wind was less than five knots. The waves showed no whitecaps, and the only foam came from the prop wash and the bows of the boats as they shouldered their way through gentle swells.
Broadmoor came up to Pitt, who was sitting in the stern, watching the gulls that dipped and soared over the boat’s wake in hope of a free meal. “Time to go into your act, Mr. Pitt.”
Pitt could never get Broadmoor to call him Dirk. He nodded and pretended to carve a nose on a half-finished mask the Haida had loaned him. He was dressed in yellow oilskin pants with suspenders that were slung over a heavy woolen sweater knitted by Irma Broadmoor. He wore a stocking cap pulled down over his thick, black eyebrows. Indians are not known for five o’clock shadows so he had given his face a close shave. He did not look up as he lightly scraped the dull side of the knife over the mask, staring out of the corners of his eyes at the long dock-not a small pier but a true landing stage for big ships, with anchored pilings-that loomed larger as the boats entered the harbor. A tall crane moved on rails along one side of the dock to unload heavy equipment and other cargo from oceangoing ships.
A large craft with unusually smooth lines and a globular-shaped superstructure, unlike any luxury yacht Pitt had ever seen, lay moored to the dock. Her twin high performance fiberglass hulls were designed for speed and comfort. She looked capable of skimming the sea at over eighty knots. Going by Giordino’s description of a seagoing, space-age design, this was the boat seen running from the freighter Mentawai. Pitt looked for the name and port, normally painted across the transom, but no markings marred the beauty of the yacht’s sapphire-blue hull.
Most owners are proud of their pet name for their boat, Pitt thought, and its port of registry. He had a pretty good idea why Arthur Dorsett didn’t advertise his yacht.
His interest kindled, he stared openly at the’ windows with their tightly drawn curtains. The open deck appeared deserted. None of the crew or passengers were about this early in the morning. He was about to turn his attention from the yacht and focus on half a dozen uniformed security guards standing on the dock, when a door opened and a woman stepped out onto the deck.
She was incredibly stunning, Amazon tall, strikingly beautiful. Shaking her head, she tossed a long, unbrushed mane of red-blond hair out of her face. She was wearing a short robe and looked as if she had just risen from bed. Her breasts looked plump but oddly out of proportion, and were completely covered by the robe that shielded any hint of cleavage. Pitt perceived an untamed, ferocious look about her, as undaunted as a tigress surveying her domain. Her gaze swept over the little fishing fleet, then fell on Pitt when she caught him openly staring at her.
The everyday, devil-may-care Pitt would have stood up, swept off his stocking cap and bowed. But he had to play the role of an Indian, so he looked at her expressionless and merely nodded a respectful greeting. She turned away and dismissed him as if he were simply another tree in the forest, while a uniformed steward approached and held out a cup of coffee on a silver tray. Shivering in the cold dawn, she returned inside the main salon.
“She’s quite impressive, isn’t she?” said Broadmoor, smiling at the look of awe on Pitt’s face.
“I have to admit she’s unlike any woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Boudicca Dorsett, one of Arthur’s three daughters. She shows up unexpectedly several times a year on that fancy yacht of hers.”
So this was the third sister, Pitt mused. Perlmutter had described her as ruthless and as cold and hard as ice from the bottom of a glacier. Now that he had laid eyes on Dorsett’s third daughter, Pitt found it hard to believe Maeve had come out of the same womb as Deirdre and Boudicca. “No doubt to demand higher production from her slave laborers and count the take.”
“Neither,” said Broadmoor. “Boudicca is director of the company’s security organization. I’m told she travels from mine to mine, inspecting the systems and personnel for any weaknesses.”
“Dapper John Merchant will be particularly vigilant while she’s probing for cracks in his security precautions,” said Pitt. “He’ll take special pains to ensure his guards look alert to impress his boss.”
“We’ll have to be extra cautious,” Broadmoor agreed. He nodded toward the security guards on the dock, waiting to inspect the fishing boats. “Look at that. Six of them. They never sent more than two on any other delivery. The one with the medallion around his neck is in charge of the dock. Name is Crutcher. He’s a mean one.”
Pitt gave the guards a cursory glance to see if he recognized any that had gathered around the floatplane during his intrusion with Stokes. The tide was out, and he had to stare up at the men on the dock. He was especially apprehensive about being recognized by the guard he’d laid out in John Merchant’s office. Luckily, none looked familiar.
They carried their weapons slung over one shoulder, muzzle pointing forward in the general direction of .the Indian fishermen. It was all for show and intimidation, Pitt quickly perceived. They weren’t about to shoot anyone in front of observing seamen on a nearby cargo ship. Crutcher, a cold-faced, arrogant young man of no more than twenty-six or -seven, stepped up to the edge of the dock as Broadmoor’s helmsman eased the fishing boat along the pilings. Broadmoor cast a line that fell over the guard’s combat boots.
“Hi there, friend. How about tying us up?”
The cold-faced guard kicked the rope off the dock back onto the boat. “Tie up yourself,” he snapped.
A dropout from a Special Forces team, that one, Pitt thought as he caught the line. He scrambled up a ladder onto the dock, and purposely brushed against Crutcher as he looped the line around a small bollard.
Crutcher lashed out with his boot and kicked Pitt upright, then grabbed him by his suspenders and shook him violently. “You stinking fish head, mind your manners.”
Broadmoor froze. It was a trick. The Haida were a quiet people, not prone to quick anger. He thought with fearful certainty that Pitt would shake himself loose and punch the contemptuous guard.
But Pitt didn’t bite. He relaxed his body, rubbed a hand over a blossoming bruise on his buttocks and stared at Crutcher with an unfathomable gaze. He pulled off his stocking cap as if in respect, revealing a mass of black hair whose natural curls had been greased straight. He shrugged with a careless show of deference.