“I’ll find the logbook and the GPS unit,” Paul said.
“I’ll check the cabins,” Gamay said.
Joe moved to the driver’s seat. He flicked a few switches. Nothing happened. “Power’s out.”
Kurt glanced around. The catamaran had two solar panels on the roof, which seemed to be intact. In addition, a small windmill high in the mast was spinning freely. The system should have had juice even if there was no one around to use it.
“Check the cables,” he said.
Joe climbed on the cabin’s roof and found the problem. “Burned through up here,” he said. “I think I can splice it.”
As Joe went to work, Kurt began poking around near the life-raft canisters. Not only hadn’t they been deployed but the casings hadn’t even been unlatched.
“Any sign of water below?” he shouted, thinking maybe a rogue wave had hit them and taken them overboard, though that wouldn’t explain the fire.
“No,” Gamay shouted back. “Dry as dust down here.”
Kurt crouched down to examine the marks left by the fire. The residue was odd and thick, more like sludge than soot.
The boat had an auxiliary engine for use in emergencies or when there was no wind; it lay below deck near the aft. He lifted the deck cover to get a look at it.
“No sign of fire in the engine bay,” he said, holding the cowling open and glancing over the top of it.
The Polynesian brunette had moved closer to them, standing on the main walk beside a small tree near the edge of the dock. She held a phone oddly as if she was taking pictures of the catamaran with it.
Was she a reporter?
Somehow, this mess didn’t strike Kurt as newsworthy unless this woman knew something he didn’t at this point.
Gamay returned from below.
“Anything?” Kurt asked.
She held out a handful of items. “Thalia’s journal,” she said. “Some of Halverson’s notes. A laptop.”
“Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Nothing major, but the table in the main cabin is broken. And there are dishes and plates smashed in there as well. But the cupboards are latched, so I’m assuming what’s broken was out and probably in use at the time. Also, the bulk food in the pantry is gone, everything except the canned goods.”
For a second Gamay’s words sparked some hope inside Kurt. If a situation had put the catamaran’s crew in survival mode, food would be a priority, but they wouldn’t have left the canned goods behind. More likely, that’s all they would have taken.
Paul made his way back from the bow. He had the GPS unit and the sampling tools. “Nothing out of the ordinary up front, except a deck hose left in the on position.”
“Maybe they used it to fight the fire,” Gamay said.
Kurt doubted that. A pair of red fire extinguishers sat untouched in their supporting clamps, one on each side of the boat. “Then why didn’t they use these?”
With no answers or even guesses, Kurt looked to Gamay. “Dirk tells me you’ve been taking classes in forensics.”
She nodded. “My time last year with Dr. Smith made me realize small things can tell us a lot. Especially when little else makes sense.”
“None of this makes any sense to me,” Kurt said. “A few containers of missing bulk goods doesn’t mean they were pirated, not when the computers and anything of real value was left behind. Broken dishes and a broken table might suggest a struggle, but it isn’t enough to make me think they went crazy and killed each other. So the only danger I see is this fire, but if they fought it with the hose, they seemed to forget they had fire extinguishers.”
“Maybe the fire disoriented them,” Paul suggested. “Maybe it happened at night? Or it released toxic fumes somehow, and they had no choice but to go overboard.”
That sounded like a possibility to Kurt. Thin but at least possible. And that might explain the strange residue. Perhaps it was an accelerant or gel of some kind. But if so, how did it get there?
“Let’s start with that,” he said. “The fire didn’t come from the engine bay, so something else had to cause it. Let’s get samples of the sludge, and anything else that seems odd.”
“I’ll do that,” Gamay said.
“And I’ll help Joe get the power back up,” Paul added.
“Good,” Kurt said smiling. “Leaves nothing for me to do except introduce myself to an attractive young woman.”
CHAPTER 6
GAMAY STARED AT HIM AS IF HE WAS JOKING. “OF COURSE you will,” she said. “You’re Kurt Austin, what else would you do?”
Despite her gibe, and suspicious glances from the others, Kurt said nothing more. He crossed the gangway onto the jetty but kept his eyes on the guard at the kiosk as if the guard was heading back inside.
At the last second he turned, locked his gaze on the woman by the tree, and began to march toward her.
He moved briskly, with long strides. She stared at him for a second and then began to back up. Kurt kept going.
The woman moved faster, backing toward the street. As she did so, a delivery van came racing down it. A partner coming to whisk her away, Kurt guessed.
But the woman stopped in her tracks, appearing confused. She stared at the approaching van and then looked at Kurt and then back at the van as it screeched to a stop several feet away.
The door flew open and two men jumped out. She tried to run, but they grabbed her.
Kurt didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he knew that wasn’t a good sign. He broke into a run, shouting at the men.
“Hey!”
The woman screamed as they dragged her backward. She struggled, but they flung her through the open door and piled in behind her. By the time Kurt reached the street, they were speeding off. The guard from the kiosk raced up behind him, blowing a whistle.
A whistle wasn’t going to cut it.
“Do you have a car?”
“Just a scooter,” the guard said, pulling out a key and pointing to a little orange Vespa.
Kurt snatched the key and ran for the scooter. It would have to do.
He threw a leg over the seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and turned it. The 50cc engine came to life with all the power of a bathroom fan.
“Who doesn’t have a car?” he shouted as he popped the kickstand, twisted the throttle.
“The whole island is only two miles across,” the guard yelled back to him. “Who needs a car?”
Kurt couldn’t argue with that logic, and even if he could have, he didn’t have time. He twisted the throttle wide open, and the Vespa accelerated, buzzing like a weed whacker, chasing after the fleeing van.
A minute ago he’d wondered if the woman was a reporter, then became suspicious that she might be something more dangerous. Now he was trying to save her from kidnappers. It was making for a very interesting morning.
The van rumbled down the street two hundred yards ahead of him. Its brake lights came on and it turned left, moving inland.
Kurt followed, nearly taking out a bicyclist and a street vendor selling fish. He swerved and went up onto the sidewalk, nearly dumping the scooter in the process. A moment later he was back on the street.
The van had widened its lead substantially, and Kurt was afraid he might not be able to catch it on his underpowered ride.
“Great,” he mumbled to himself as bugs began hitting him in the face. “All those years listening to Dirk tell stories about the Duesenbergs and Packards he borrowed, and I end up on a thirty-horsepower scooter.”
He ducked down, trying to make himself more aerodynamic, and decided to count himself lucky that the scooter didn’t have tassels on the handlebars or a basket for Toto on the front.
A group of pedestrians lay ahead, moving along the crosswalk. Kurt’s thumb found the horn.
Meep-meep.
The annoying, high-pitched buzz was just enough to part the line of people. Kurt zipped through the gap like a madman and focused in on the van.
They wer
e racing inland now, traveling along a road with so many letters and vowels in the name Kurt didn’t bother trying to read or remember it. All that mattered was keeping the delivery van in sight.
He wasn’t sure how fast other scooters went, but this little Vespa topped out at about forty miles per hour. Just as he began thinking his task was impossible, his luck began to change for the better.
Despite the guard’s rhetorical question as to who needed a car, plenty of people seemed to have them. The narrow streets were filled with cars—not to East Coast rush-hour standards perhaps—but enough to make the road into an obstacle course.
As Kurt swerved around one sedan and then cut between two others traveling side by side, he found himself gaining on the van. He could see it up ahead, trying to bull its way through a busy intersection.
As he whizzed around another slow car, he could hear the van’s horn blowing loudly. It made it to the corner and turned right.
Kurt negotiated the turn easily, knifing between a pair of stopped cars and hoping no one decided to open a door.
They were headed west now, and Kurt was closing in on the van, suddenly thrilled with his little orange steed. He saw the water approaching. Somehow, they’d reached the other side of the island already.
The van broke out into the open, zoomed along past the containers and equipment of the commercial harbor. It skidded to a stop across from a waiting speedboat, and the door opened.
The two men who’d thrown the mystery woman inside dragged her out. The van itself raced off.
Kurt ignored it and bore down on the Polynesian woman and her captors. He sped toward them and jumped off the scooter.
Without a rider, the Vespa went down and slid across the concrete. Kurt flew through the air and tackled the two men and the woman all at once.
The four of them tumbled and rolled across the concrete. Kurt felt his knee and hip scraping on the street, the familiar pain of road rash shooting through him. But he hopped up and charged the assailants.
One of them ran for the boat. The other stood, drawing out a knife. He faced Kurt for a second, backed up a few steps and then threw the knife.
Kurt dodged it, but the effort gave the man a precious second or two. He followed his friend to the boat and jumped in. The outboard engine roared and the utility boat moved off in rapid fashion. Kurt saw no identifying numbers or marks on it.
He shook his head. The match was a draw. The thugs had been denied their captive, but they’d made a clean getaway.
He turned his attention to the woman. She was crouched on the ground, holding a bloody elbow and looking as if she were in great pain.
He walked toward her.
“You all right?” he asked gruffly.
She looked up, her face streaked with tears, her mascara running. She nodded but continued to cradle her arm. “I think my arm is broken,” she said, speaking English.
Kurt’s natural protective instincts kicked in, but he reminded himself that, moments before, this woman had been spying on him and his friends and even taking pictures of the catamaran. He figured she owed him a few answers.
“I’ll get you to a hospital,” he said, helping her up, “but first you need to tell me who you are, why you’re following me, and what you find so interesting about a derelict catamaran?”
“You’re Kurt Austin,” she said in a tone of determined certainty. “You work for NUMA.”
“That’s right,” he said. “And just how do you know that?”
“I’m Leilani Tanner,” she said.
The name rang a bell. She explained before he could place it.
“Kimo A’kona was my brother. My half brother. He was on that boat.”
CHAPTER 7
SEVERAL THOUSAND MILES FROM MALÉ, IN SHANGHAI Province, Mr. Xhou of China and Mr. Mustafa of Pakistan rode in a private car on a bullet train, rushing to Beijing. Xhou wore a suit, Mustafa wore Pashtun tribal dress. A half dozen others riding with them could easily be identified as belonging to one side or the other.
The speed and smoothness of the ride were undeniably impressive, as was the decor. Recessed lighting lit the car in a soft mix of white and lavender. Supportive leather seating cushioned the bones of the passengers while air purifiers and conditioners kept the cabin feeling fresh at a perfect temperature of seventy-four degrees.
Chinese and Pakistani delicacies sat in trays tended by a pair of chefs. Out of respect for Mustafa’s religion, there was no alcohol present, but herbal teas quenched the thirst and refreshed the palate.
Despite the opulence, this was a business meeting.
Xhou spoke firmly. “You must understand the position we’re in,” he said.
“The position you’re in,” Mustafa corrected.
“No,” Xhou insisted. “All of us. We have made the gravest of mistakes. And only now does the full scope of reality become plain to us. The technology Jinn controls will be one of the most powerful ever developed. It will remake the world, but our stake in it is limited. We have invested in an outcome without any claim to the machinery that will produce that outcome. We are nothing more than end users of what Jinn is selling. Like those who buy power from a utility instead of building a power plant of their own.”
Mustafa shook his head. “We have no use for the Jinn’s technology,” he said. “There are none in my country who would be able to use it. All we want is for the Jinn to keep his promises, divert the monsoon from India to Pakistan. Change the weather in our favor. Weather can build an empire or destroy it. My people hope it will do both.”
A condescending look appeared on Xhou’s face for a moment. He knew Mustafa as a shrewd but simple man. Simple desires, revenge against an enemy. Simple thoughts, not the kind that extended beyond short-term gain.
“Yes,” he said. “But you must understand, the weather change is not once and for all. It is not permanent. In this form, it is a gift from Jinn, revocable at his will. Once the rains begin falling on our lands, we become as dependent on them as those in India who are now desperately watching the skies. There is little to stop Jinn from changing his mind and sending the rains back.”
Xhou paused to let this sink in, and then added, “If he wishes, Jinn will become the rainmaker, selling to the highest bidder year in and year out.”
Mustafa lifted his cup of tea but did not take a sip. The truth hit him, and he placed it back on the saucer.
“India is more wealthy than my country,” he said.
Xhou nodded. “You will not be successful bidding against them.”
Mustafa seemed to brood. “Jinn is Arab, he is Muslim, he would not chose the Sikhs and Hindus of India over us.”
“Can you be sure of that?” Xhou asked. “You told me that Jinn’s family have long been called foxes of the desert. How else to explain their rise to wealth? He will choose what is right for his clan.”
Still considering Xhou’s point, Mustafa placed the cup and saucer back on the table. He glanced at the food and then turned away disgustedly. It seemed his appetite was gone.
“I fear you might be right,” he said. “And what’s more, I now suspect this has occurred to Jinn long before it occurred to any of us. Why else would he insist on keeping the production facilities in his tiny country?”
“So we agree,” Xhou said. “With only the Jinn’s promises and no way to enforce them, we are all in a precarious situation.”
“None as precarious as mine,” Mustafa said. “I do not enjoy the luxuries you have here. We have no bullet trains in my country or new cities with gleaming buildings and untraveled roads. We have little in the way of foreign reserves to cushion our fall if it should come.”
“But you have something we do not,” Xhou said. “You have people with long memories and a history of dealing with Jinn. He is far more likely to trust you than an envoy of mine.”
“Jinn will never let us near his technology,” Mustafa said.
Xhou grinned. “We do not need it immediately.”
“I do
n’t understand,” Mustafa said. “I thought—”
“We need only eliminate Jinn’s ability to direct it. Or better yet, eliminate him and direct it ourselves. Without Jinn to countermand the existing orders, the horde would do what he has already promised. The rains will come to us permanently.”
Mustafa’s mustache turned slowly upward as a sinister smile came over his face. He seemed to grasp what Xhou was getting at. “What are your terms,” he said. “And be advised I cannot promise success. Only the attempt.”
Xhou nodded. There was no way anyone could guarantee what was being asked.
“Twenty million dollars upon confirmation of Jinn’s death, eighty million more if you can deliver the command codes.”
Mustafa almost began drooling, but then a chill seemed to take him, strong enough to cool the fires of his greed.
“Jinn is not a man to be trifled with,” he said. “The desert is littered with the bones of those who’ve crossed him.”
Xhou sat back. He had Mustafa and he knew it. A little prod to his pride would seal it. “There is no reward without risk, Mustafa. If you are willing to be more than Jinn’s puppet, you must understand this.”
Mustafa took a breath, steeled himself against the fate. “We will act,” he said firmly, “upon receipt of ten million in advance.”
Xhou nodded and waved one of his men over. A suitcase was dropped to the floor. Mustafa reached for it. As he touched the handle, Xhou spoke again.
“Remember, Mustafa, there are places in my country littered with bones as well. Betray me, and no one will care if a few Pakistani carcasses are added to the pile.”
CHAPTER 8
AFTER A BRIEF SESSION WITH THE MALDIVE POLICE, KURT took Leilani to the island’s main hospital, a modern building dedicated to Indira Gandhi. As they waited for X-rays to come back, he sent a text to Joe, letting his partners know where he was and how the chase had ended. Then he turned his attention back to Leilani.
“I don’t mean to be blunt, but what in the world are you doing here?”
Her arm was in a sling. A scrape above her eye had been stitched and dabbed with iodine. “I came to find out what happened to my brother.”