Dark Moon Walking (6 page)

Fernandez was his best customer. He provided an endless supply of goods of one kind or another, all of them packaged in such a way as to pass inspection and all of them complete with documentation that eased the task of the carefully nurtured and amply rewarded customs officials at the destination.

The barman finally arrived with his drink and slid it carelessly across the table, ignoring the two empty glasses already there. Both belonged to Harry; Fernandez had yet to touch his brandy, although his long slim fingers tapped slowly and rhythmically on the snifter.

“It's not going to be a problem.” Harry spoke into the silence. “She'll come back and find her boat gone and figure it went adrift in the storm.”

The figure across from him remained silent, and Harry's unease grew. “We need to move,” he continued. “If we're seen here, it will look odd. There's nothing here, no reason to be here. We're supposed to be taking a quick trip along the coast to test the new engines and show you the wondrous sights.” He laughed at his own wit as he let his glance wander around the gloomy bay that surrounded them.

Still Fernandez remained silent, and Harry finally stood up and wandered back to the wheelhouse.

Fernandez followed his passage with half-closed eyes, his fingers maintaining their hypnotic rhythm on his glass. Harry was fast becoming a nuisance. He had good instincts where his business was concerned, but he was becoming too fond of the rewards. In a year or two he would simply be another aging playboy, uncaring and incautious, totally immersed in living the high life. That trait served Fernandez well right now, but once this was over, Harry would have to go. In any case, he was wrong about the girl, although he was right about moving. It was time.

Their passage up here had been carefully plotted to appear casual: a business associate taking a break on board a friend's yacht. Fernandez had flown in early in order to ensure their departure appeared leisurely. There had been a couple of lunches at which Harry introduced him as a business colleague. Dinner with a group of lawyers and accountants. A night at the theater with an investment banker and his wife, who had sported a stunning display of jewelry and spent the evening alternately stroking her husband's coat sleeve and looking at Fernandez from under her false eyelashes. They had even hosted a party aboard the yacht the evening before their departure, lavishly catered and attended by an eclectic mix of neighboring yacht owners and the artistic types that Harry loved to mingle with.

They loaded crates of food and wine, which delivery boys placed on waiting palettes to be winched aboard. Fishing rods, encased in graphite tubes, were delivered by a
UPS
truck. New electronic gear, sealed in original cardboard boxes, arrived in a black van emblazoned with the name of a marine electronics company and were carried aboard by two tradesmen dressed in shirts embroidered with the company logo.

Alex and Gunter came aboard separately. Harry greeted each of them warmly and publicly and later took them all on a tour of the harbor in the big runabout that now hung on davits above the top deck. A van brought a mountain of luggage and disgorged it onto the dock. Four more of Fernandez's men, all wearing the navy-blue shorts and monogrammed T-shirt that Harry provided to his crew, carried it aboard and stowed it in the cabins. Meanwhile, Harry and Fernandez wandered the decks with binoculars and cameras or relaxed on the aft deck, drinks in hand.

They left on schedule and without a hitch. Fernandez had expected none. The goods had arrived weeks before, each shipped separately in small, carefully hidden containers. They had been received, re-packaged, and carefully placed in the cartons and crates that had been delivered and loaded on board
Snow Queen
. Fuses coiled in fishing rods. Timers stowed inside electronics. Explosives inserted into cereal boxes. Small canisters of gas mixed in with the kitchen supplies.

If there was going to be a problem, it would have been at customs when the items first arrived, not now, when they were simply being loaded aboard a yacht at a marina.

Everything had gone like clockwork . . . until now. They had to find the girl. They only had three days until the team arrived in Shoal Bay and they could not be delayed. The schedule was too tight. The first of the targets would arrive in Vancouver eight days from now. Two days after that they would all meet in the new convention center, and by then the weapons had to be assembled, the team trained and given their instructions and each of them put in place.

Silently he cursed Alex. Sinking the boat had been stupid. They should have waited for the girl to return and taken care of her before setting the boat adrift. If they had timed it right, the boat would have drifted out with the wind and current before it sank and the emergency radio beacon would have focused attention far away from Shoal Bay. As it was, they had to hope that no one would come across the wreck and set off an alarm. At least Alex had been smart enough to remove the beacon before he sank the boat, but they still needed the girl—or at least her corpse. A search for a possible survivor would threaten everything.

The sound of an outboard motor caught Fernandez's attention and briefly stilled his tapping finger. He turned his head to glance at the barman and gave a faint inclination of his head. Minutes later he was joined on deck by two men, both wearing jeans and orange Floater coats.

Gunter Rachmann, blond hair cut short and blue eyes hidden behind dark glasses, dragged over a chair and sat down. His companion, a short, dark-skinned, dark-eyed man known only as Trip, remained standing.

“Nothing.” The dark man shook his head in disgust.

Fernandez turned his head and let his stare rest on Trip's face. Trip shuffled his feet but did not flinch.

“We searched the whole island. There ain't no sign of her.”

Fernandez moved his flat gaze to Gunter. The man remained silent for a few minutes, then spoke in careful, clipped words that held the trace of an accent.

“We have picked up no other boats on the radar, either here or on the dinghy. We have heard no other engines. There has been only a little local radio traffic.” He paused, then continued. “I think she has a small boat. Maybe a canoe or a kayak. There is some new paint on the float. Not much. Not regular paint. Maybe some kind of fiberglass coating. It forms a rough outline.”

“That's nuts,” Trip interjected. “Why would she take a toy boat out in a storm? We arrived the day the storm quit and she wasn't there then.” He shrugged. “Anyway, the paint ain't that new.”

Fernandez ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on the blond German.

“The paint is new,” Gunter reiterated. “And it is yellow. Her boat was old and it had no new paint. The dinghy was blue.” He shrugged. “I think she has a small boat.”

“Well, if she went out in a toy boat she's probably dead by now,” Trip snorted. “The last two days have been good, and she ain't back!”

The German still did not show any expression. “She could perhaps be with someone else. There are surely people who live around here somewhere.” He gave what might have been a shrug. “Or perhaps she is stranded, her ‘toy boat,' as you call it, damaged or sunk.”

“So who cares?” Trip snorted derisively. “If she's stranded, she'll end up dead!”

“Enough!” The single word from Fernandez was enough to silence both men. “Get Alex and Marty.”

Trip left and returned minutes later with two other men.

Fernandez stood and beckoned to Harry, who was watching them from the wheelhouse, then turned back to address the men now gathered around him, keeping his voice low.

“Take the Whaler and the inflatable, two men per boat. Take fishing gear in case you meet up with anyone. It will give you a good cover. I want every beach and inlet searched. If you find cabins or boats, check them out. Make up a story. Say you are looking for the owner of the boat. Maybe say you are worried about her. Act friendly. But find the girl.” His eyes briefly met Gunter's. “And lose her.”

He turned to greet Harry. “Time to move, my friend.”

SIX

Annie had the kettle boiling when Walker returned to the galley. “So?”

“I called a guy I know.” Walker knew he would have to tell Annie the whole story. She would not welcome a stranger into the bay, let alone allow him onto her boat.

“When I was a kid . . .” He stopped, not sure how to begin. “A while back, ten, twelve years ago, I got into trouble.” He hesitated again, then forced himself to continue. “I was down in the city. Got to drinking. Got into drugs.” He looked across at her, his face twisted with remembered pain. “I needed money, so I broke into a house. Stole some stuff.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Guess I was good at it. Didn't get caught.”

He paused to sip at his tea, his eyes staring unseeingly across the cabin. The words came a little easier now. “Did that for a long time. Houses, then a couple of stores. Got so it seemed easy. Got a reputation, I guess. The guys called me ‘The Ghost.'”

He looked back at Annie, searching for a reaction, but she sat calmly, her expression unchanged.

“Couple of guys asked me to help them rob a bank. Said it would be easy. Had it all planned out.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I was on the roof when the cops came. Tried to run but fell off instead. Ended up in the hospital, both legs busted.”

He stopped and looked down at his twisted legs, vividly remembering the pain and the long weeks in physio. Annie remained quiet.

“This cop. He kept coming in to see me. Had all these questions. Who else was there? What other stuff had I done? All that. Wouldn't leave me alone. Every day, it seemed like. Same goddamn questions. Over and over. Made me mad.” He shook his head. “Finally told him to fuck off, but it didn't make any difference.”

He pulled himself back to the present. “Pretty ugly story, huh?”

Annie shrugged easily. “I've heard worse—and a lot of them don't end up as good as you.”

He stared at her. That wasn't the reaction he had expected.

“So what happened when you got out of hospital?”