“Didn’t know you had friends in these parts,” Kurt said, though Joe seemed to have a friend in every port.
“She’s the reporter who did the story on how I rescued you from the maw of the angry sea,” Joe explained. “We hit it off while you were recuperating.”
“Well, if anyone’s earned some R & R around here, it’s you. See you back in D.C.”
Joe nodded, sauntered down the gangway, and left with the young woman.
As others made their way off the ship, Kurt turned to Calista. She’d begun to recover from her injuries but looked more drawn than ever.
“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked. “Am I going to prison?”
Kurt took a deep breath. “A lot of people have questions for you,” he admitted. “The FBI, Interpol, Scotland Yard. But there are significant extenuating circumstances in your case. Beyond that, you helped us when it counted, and you’ve already provided useful information about the other conspirators.”
She perked up a little bit and looked down at her legs. A cast covered the lower half of her left leg while a tracking bracelet on her right ankle reminded her that she wasn’t free. The South African police and the British consulate intended to keep track of her until they decided her fate. She’d been told someone would be with her at all times and, indeed, a member of the Durban police force was waiting at the bottom of the gangway.
It certainly didn’t look like she was going to have a lot of freedom anytime soon. She turned back to Kurt. “Will you come visit me in the klink? I’m sure I’ll be in solitary most of the time.”
He laughed. “Absolutely,” he promised. “I’ll bring you a cake with a file in it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“It’s the least I could do,” he added. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re part of the pack now.”
She looked at him strangely. “ ‘Part of the pack’?”
He didn’t bother trying to explain. “When you get some downtime, read Kipling’s The Jungle Book. It’ll make more sense after that.”
She nodded and turned back to the pier, watching as a group of people filed out through the doors of the passenger embarkation building and stood together, waiting. The group seemed to be three generations. A couple with gray hair, three people in their thirties or forties, and several children.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said.
“These people are your family,” Kurt said, “your real family. They’ve flown all the way from England to meet you.”
“What are they going to think of me?” she asked. “What am I going to tell them? I’ve done terrible things.”
“They’re going to see you as the prodigal daughter,” Kurt said. “They’re going to find in you the reward for the hope they kept alive all these years. They’re going to tell you stories about your mother and father. To be honest, if it’s anything like my family reunions, you’ll be lucky to get a word in edgewise.”
She appreciated what he was saying, but the fear was overwhelming. “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head.
“Calista can’t,” Kurt replied, “but Olivia can. Remember how you set your horse free? Set Calista free too. It’s time to let her go.”
She took a deep breath, obviously trying to steel herself against the waves of emotion. She turned toward him and changed the subject. “You really should have kissed me,” she said. “Back on Acosta’s yacht. It would have saved us a whole lot of trouble.”
Kurt laughed deeply and a smile came to his face, giving him dimples and wrinkling the sun-kissed skin around his eyes. “I highly doubt a kiss from me is going to change anyone’s life.”
“Would have been nice to find out,” she said.
He continued to smile and then slowly leaned toward her. Sliding his hand across her cheek and cupping her face, he pulled her gently toward him and their lips met softly in a lingering kiss.
When they parted, she was smiling broadly. “I don’t know,” she said. “That was pretty good.”
Kurt laughed again. “Go see your family,” he said. “They’ve been waiting for thirty years.”
She nodded, looked at him one last time, and then was helped down the gangway by a ship’s officer. The constable from the Durban police force met them and led her toward the family she’d never known.
Twenty-six hours later, Kurt was passing through customs in the main terminal at Washington’s Dulles International Airport. He’d lost all track of time, but it was dark outside. And considering how deserted the terminal was, it had to be late at night or very early in the morning. In fact, the only people he saw were members of the cleaning crew.
Kurt moved slowly toward baggage claim, pausing when he saw a gathering of airport police near one of the security doors. Outside on the tarmac, several vehicles with flashing red and blue lights were parked in a circle around a private jet that sat with its door open and its stairs down.
Curiosity gave way to surprise when he recognized David Forrester being escorted into the terminal by two agents in windbreakers with FBI written on the backs.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Kurt said.
At the sound of Kurt’s voice the agents and the prisoner looked up.
“Excuse me, sir, you’ll have to step back,” said one of the agents.
“It’s all right,” another voice interjected.
Kurt didn’t recognize the speaker, but the man obviously knew him. He introduced himself. “Trent MacDonald out of Langley.”
Kurt recognized the name, recalling that MacDonald was the first person at the CIA to share any information regarding Sienna’s possible survival.
They shook hands. “Thanks for your help,” Kurt said. “Caught yourself quite a fish, by the look of things.”
“Not as big as the one you bagged,” MacDonald admitted, “but we’re happy. We passed the information your friend gave us to the FBI. Fortunately, they were able to grab Forrester before he took off for a country with no extradition treaty.”
One more point in Calista’s favor, Kurt thought. “So what part did he play in all of this?”
“Forrester was Brèvard’s inside man,” MacDonald explained. “All the financial maneuvering ran through him. He used his contacts to plant the computer viruses at the Federal Reserve, compromising the main system and the accounting protocols. He also set up a network of shell corporations that would have made it virtually impossible to track the money once it was moved.”
Kurt wasn’t surprised.
“And if that’s not enough, he’s been controlling Westgate,” MacDonald added, “with an implant in Westgate’s brain, making sure he didn’t remember too much too soon.”
That put a new light on the confrontation at the Smithsonian. “I knew this guy was a snake from the moment I met him,” Kurt said.
“First impressions,” MacDonald said.
Kurt nodded and looked past Forrester out the window, where he could see FBI agents clearing the plane, looking for evidence. As they worked, the first sign of daylight appeared, and the high clouds were brushed with the slightest hint of pink. Apparently, it was morning after all.
Kurt looked back at Forrester, who glared back at him without a trace of remorse. “Might want to enjoy the sunrise,” Kurt said coldly. “You’re not going to see many more where you’re going.”
A twitch ran across Forrester’s cheek, but that was his only response. It was enough.
Kurt turned back to Trent MacDonald, shook hands once again, and then continued on his way.
He left the terminal and stood at the curb, wondering just how long he’d have to wait for the shuttle to long-term parking. Before he could hazard a guess, he spotted a familiar-looking black Jeep coming his way. His Jeep. It pulled up and stopped right in front of him.
As the driver’s door opened, Anna Ericsson’s pretty face, flaxen blond hair, and beaming smile popped up over the roof.
“Did you take up auto theft while I was gone?” Kurt asked.
&nbs
p; She laughed. “With all your memory problems, I thought you might have a hard time finding your car in the parking lot when you got back.”
Kurt pretended to be hurt, but he honestly couldn’t remember driving to the airport two weeks earlier. “You might be onto something,” he said, and then added, “Sorry for how I behaved. I wasn’t exactly myself.”
“I realize that,” she said. “I crossed a line too. Any interest in starting over?”
“Nothing would make me happier,” he said.
She jumped down, came around the Jeep, and offered her hand. “Hi,” she said as if meeting him for the first time. “I’m Anna Ericsson. I’m a psychiatrist. And I’m not allowed to date my patients.”
He shook her hand. “Kurt Austin. Fortunately, I no longer need a shrink.” He opened the passenger door for her and asked, “Mind if I drive?”
She settled into the passenger’s seat as Kurt made his way to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Somewhere we can look out at the river,” she said coyly.
He shut the door, put the Jeep in gear, and pulled away from the curb, smiling. “I know just the place,” he said. “And the best part is, we’ll be the only guests.”
Clive Cussler, Ghost Ship
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