The Abigail Affair (21 page)

Krigov had taken to drinking alone in his bar with Toby. For hours already, Toby had been obliged to listen to Krigov’s slurred stories of his triumphs over adversity and his business acumen. Even to Toby, who was no businessman, and whose life was a world away from that of a Russian billionaire, Krigov’s accounts sounded completely implausible, a smokescreen for Toby’s consumption. Perhaps Krigov was storing up humorous stories for the future. “I told that boy barman that I made my fortune trading football cards. And he believed me!”

Most bizarre of all, no one ever mentioned the girls. It was as if they had never been aboard. They had simply been written out of history, as far as everyone on the yacht was concerned. Indeed, after the first twenty-four hours back on the
Amelia
, Toby began to wonder if his own memory was playing even more tricks with him than usual.

He had, after all, endured a terrifying ordeal adrift at sea, with little drinking water. That episode now seemed like a distant half-remembered dream. The business with the dead girl seemed even more unreal as he stood with his barman’s cloth in hand.

Krigov shifted his bottom and scratched his chest. The man could take heroic amounts of vodka. “So what about you, Toby Charles? Is your life fulfilled? Or are you just a comfortable middle-class mummy’s boy who will waste his best years away? You should be making some money by now. My son did at your age.”

“I believe I am well paid for my position here, sir,” Toby replied. No way was this man going to rile him.

“Well paid! No job is well paid when you work for someone else. Take my advice, start your own business—oil, gas, and minerals are still the biggest earners in the world. The stuff in the ground that’s there for the taking.”

“I thought the drugs trade was the world’s biggest business,” Toby said boldly.

“No—oil, gas, and mining first, narcotics second,” Krigov said. “Believe me—oil, gas and mining are better, if not for your wealth, then certainly for your health.
Budem zdorovy
, as we say.” He drank.

“I don’t think I have the experience to start a business yet, sir,” Toby said. He put down his third wine glass, now so well polished that it sparkled like a jewel on the bar. He longed to get away and find Julia. He’d had no real contact with her since he had come back aboard yesterday. He no longer reported to her for his steward duties, it seemed.

“That’s the whole point—I thought I had made that clear with my story of the football cards.” Krigov threw back his head, drained off his shot glass, and slammed it back on the polished wooden bar. How many was that? Toby refilled it. “You start from nothing, you try new ideas until something works, then you expand your empire very fast and protect it. Doesn’t your family run businesses? A family business is the way if you’re a bit slow, or unimaginative. Anyone can run his father’s business. It’s a great place to start.”

Toby felt himself colouring. “My father is a professional—a civil servant.”

“What of your other family? Brothers and sisters?

“I only have one sister, Kate. She is still at Uni.”

“Let’s hope she has more aspiration than you.”

This was too much for Toby to take. In a clear, steady voice, he said, “I may be an ordinary British guy from an ordinary family, but I don’t go around murdering young women and then framing my staff for the crime and trying to kill them, too.”

Krigov ran his finger around the edge of his glass as if trying to produce a musical tone from it. He said nothing for maybe ten seconds. Then he looked up at Toby. “I had nothing to do with Irina’s death. I regret it very much. I fear she suffered an overdose, and my crew loyally tried to cover it up. I have told them they did the wrong thing.”

“You were all in it. You helped Scott put me the in RIB and cast me away on that goat island. I could have died. Then there was the business with the fishermen. Scott sabotaged the RIB so it would blow up.”

Krigov said, “I knew you wouldn’t die. You are a little slow, you are naive, you are lazy and vain. Somewhat like my own son, at first. But like him, you also have tremendous pluck, only without any concept of the power of your personality and how you might use it to your advantage. You are using one tenth of one percent of your power. Your eyes are on the ground lest you trip, whereas they should be on the distant horizon that you can reach. There’s only one real difference between you and me. Self-belief.”

Toby tried to digest this. He wondered whether to mention that Irina had been to see him on the bridge, and whether Krigov knew this anyway from the monitoring system. He decided to keep quiet. Instead he said, “What about Natasha?”

“Natasha was too upset to continue the voyage and we put her ashore to go home. You can telephone her, if you like. She doesn’t speak good English, as you know, but you will recognise the voice, I’m sure.”

Toby hesitated. It sounded plausible.

“Anything else I can clear up?” Krigov said sweetly. He sipped from his glass with his little finger extended, like a British duchess taking tea in a costume drama.

“You keep mentioning your son. Tell me about him,” Toby said.

Again there was a period of silence before Krigov replied. Again he traced his finger around his vodka glass. When he looked up, Toby was startled to see that his eyes were moist with tears.

The Russian reached into his trouser pocket and produced a small metallic case. He flipped it open to reveal two passport-sized photos. “My son, David,” he said. “My only son. A ladies’ man, as you would like to be. A gallant knight, as you see yourself. A boy who had everything and who took nothing for granted. A young man who was cruelly taken from me, for which crime I hold the British Government responsible.”

Toby felt his eyebrows zoom upwards in surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise ... your son was dead.”

“Yes, he is dead. If not technically so, then as good as.”

“How—what do you mean?”

Krigov said nothing. To Toby, it seemed as if he was about to unburden himself of some long-concealed secret, his emotions lubricated and his inhibitions dissolved by his copious intake of neat, iced vodka. Toby tensed. Maybe this would be the confession he needed.

However, after maybe a minute had passed, Krigov merely said, “Toby, this is turning into a confessional. I will not burden your youthful shoulders any more. You may go and have a cuppa, as I believe you say in Notting Hill.” He looked at Toby through puffy eyes. “I was a Londoner myself, I expect you realised?”

Krigov dropped heavily off his bar stool, and glass in hand, made his way towards the cloakroom. As he departed, he sang, in a low but surprisingly pleasing baritone, “
Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner ...”

Toby breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly he tidied up, making sure he had fresh supplies of cocktail snacks, lemons and olives in case the bar was needed again in a hurry, as it often was.

He twisted the winder of his watch in the special way Smithers had shown him.

Then he scooted out on to the side deck for a breath of fresh air.

What the hell was that all about?
he thought
.

Chapter 20

Toby dug in his pocket and produced the rather squashed packet of Marlboros that he had managed to smuggle on board. Next, he needed a light.

And then it was time to find Julia, if the coast was clear.

By now, he knew where all the cameras were positioned and could move around the yacht unseen. It often meant taking a long, circuitous route, but he could do it. He walked down the deck, passed a row of cylindrical life rafts on racks that looked a little like depth charges, and took a right turn into the galley service corridor. This led to the galley, where Bernadetto laboured over his stainless steel worktops to create the most mouth-watering desserts. (He had finally given Toby a portion of the tiramisu.)

Another door brought him out on to deck again. He glanced both ways. He caught a glimpse of two figures behind him, down almost at the bows of the
Amelia
. It was Scott and Ski-Pants. They were examining some piece of equipment. That was a bit of luck. It meant it was probable that Julia was on the bridge. Either she or Timmins must be on watch. The bridge was never supposed to be left unoccupied, day or night.

The cigarette break would have to wait.

Toby slid back into the service corridor and retraced his steps. The easiest way up to the bridge was from inside. He would have to pass cameras, but didn’t care now that he knew Scott and Ski-Pants were not monitoring them.

He padded over the plush crimson carpet through the bar and dining area and into the lobby with its golden (possibly solid gold) statuettes of women carrying water pots and primitive agricultural implements. From here, a short, broad staircase led up to the guest quarters, and another staircase in the corner led up to the bridge deck.

Julia was the sole occupant of the bridge, as he had hoped. She had the binoculars up, and peered out to starboard. She didn’t see him.

He took a deep breath and looked at his wrist. The numerals in ball-point pen were still just visible. He keyed them in and hit “enter.” The glazed bridge door slid open.

“Hi, Julia,” Toby said brightly. “We need to talk. But first, I need to thank–”

Julia spun around, lowered the binoculars, shook her head in horror, and held up her forefinger to her lips. Toby stopped with his mouth open. Then Julia beckoned him.

Toby bent over, his ear to her mouth. He felt her warm breath as she whispered, “The bridge is wired for sound, you goof. Don’t say anything. You’re not supposed to be in here.”

She hadn’t tied her hair back today. She had styled it just a bit ragged, but artfully so, suggesting a bit of an independent spirit beneath the neat, precise exterior.

Toby cursed his stupidity. Julia crossed over to the port side door that led out to a little gantry area that the lookout could use to see right back over the stern of the vessel during close-quarters manoeuvres. She opened the door and stepped out. Toby followed.

The door closed behind them. Outside, it was warm. Julia looked up at Toby and said, still in a whisper, “I don’t know why you’re back on board, but for God’s sake, take care.”

“Where are we headed?” Toby asked.

“Back to St Helen’s.”

“I thought we would go to St Bart’s for the New Year’s Eve fireworks.”

“Too much has happened. You know.”

“Anyway, that’s great news. How long will we be on passage?”

“Until tomorrow morning. We’ll probably dock around dawn.”

“That doesn’t give me long,” Toby mused.

“For what?”

Toby decided on the spur of the moment to trust her. “I’ve been tasked by the Royal Navy,” he said. “They think Krigov uses the
Amelia
to ferry high-class contraband. I’m back aboard undercover to get evidence.”

Her eyes and mouth opened wide in amazement.
That impressed you
, Toby thought.

However, she said, “Are you kidding me? What do you think you are—some sort of apprentice spy? How did you team up with them, anyway? Why did they bring you back, take you away, bring you back again?”

“It will take too long to explain now. Don’t worry, I won’t involve you if you don’t want me to.”

“There’s nothing illegal on this yacht,” Julia went on. “Do you seriously think the Boss would put all this at risk for the sake of—what—dope or something?”

“It’s more than that. Forged currency—arms—this ship is a floating laundry for dirty goods, we think.”

“Christ, Toby, get real! Even if it was, what do you think you can do? Szczepanski will kill you for sure this time if he finds you snooping.”

“They don’t know that the Navy and the Antilla Coastguard found the dead girl. They think they got away with that scot-free, and also with their story of me deserting the ship. All they need to do now is put me ashore, reunite me with my passport somehow, and get me back home, and they can deny everything forever. So no way will they mess with me, girl.” Toby felt bravado coursing through his veins. “By the way, what happened to the other girl—Natasha?” He needed to test Krigov’s story.

Julia pursed her lips. “She disappeared. The story was, she had felt unwell in the night and Szczepanski had run her to shore on the RIB. It could be true. The girl didn’t look well.”

“Julia, open your eyes. Irina was murdered. They tried to frame me and then kill me too. Natasha may well have gone the same way. What do the others say?”

“Nothing. I’m not sure what Chef or Timmins knows. I haven’t spoken to them.”

“I expect they are as frightened as you are.”

“Timmins has his head in the generator room 24/7. Chef is Chef—he keeps his head down and pipes cream, and his English isn’t great. They might not even know that Irina is dead.”

“What about me? Didn’t Timmins or Chef notice I had gone?”

“I don’t know, Toby. What difference does it make? Let’s get back to St Helen’s and get the hell off this ship. And in the meantime, just be invisible. Please don’t go snooping around. You’re lucky to be alive, you know that. You don’t owe the Navy anything.”

“I do, actually. I’m lucky to be alive, sure, and the Royal Navy saved my life. And I owe you a big one, too. That phone was my lifeline. You were brave to slip it to me. And to text the message later exonerating me. Brilliant.”

“That’s OK.” There was a sudden silence. Julia looked scared and vulnerable.

Toby felt his pulse quicken. It was time to seize the moment and, truth be told, Krigov’s weird pep talk had boosted his ego. He put his hand behind Julia’s neck and drew her to him. He kissed her briefly on the lips, just a touch, but a bit more than a peck on the cheek.

She closed her eyes and didn’t pull away. Toby gave her the chance, but she just murmured, “Do it properly if you’re going to.”