Under Suspicion (22 page)

On deck once more, he stopped at the largest of the ship’s three boats, a rakish three-decker power cruiser big enough to be a floating caravan in its own right. Black and menacing, it crouched in its cradle, a panther poised to hunt.

‘A beauty, isn’t she?’ He ran his hand lovingly over the gleaming hull. ‘Top speed 30 knots, range 440 nautical miles, twin 440 diesels.’

‘Wow, it’s one of those game-fishing boats.’ I tilted
my head back and squinted against the glare of the sun. ‘What’s that contraption on top, like a lifeguard platform?’

He shot me an amused glance. ‘It’s a Global Transmitter. Safety gear. If we lose radio contact,
Samarkand Princess
can use GPS to track her.’

Or to track floating packages.
Yes, that’s how it was
done
. A Global Positioning Transmitter signalling to a Global Tracking Device. A stealth vessel homing in on the target, dark packages bobbing in the vast expanse of the Atlantic…

To hide my excitement, I turned away. ‘I don’t fancy taking a trip in that. I’m turning green at the thought – it’s not envy, though. I’m a hopeless sailor if it’s at all rough. Funny, I can windsurf in Force 5 and it doesn’t bother me at all.’

You know how it is when you’re trying too hard to cover up something, you babble on, say something you later regret. Not that it would have made any difference. He’d have got me onto that sailboard somehow.

‘Yes, you mentioned you were into water sports. On
Samarkand Princess
we’ve got jet skis, underwater scooters, scuba gear…’ Exactly what he needed for collecting those packages. ‘And, of course, a couple of sailboards. How about working up a little appetite before lunch?’

Just like Millie, I made it easy for him. ‘I’d
love
to have a go on one of your sailboards. It’s been weeks
since there’s been a good wind.’

Just like Millie, I’d forgotten the kind of man I was dealing with. To be honest, I’d been so concerned with Vanheusen’s designs on Gorgonzola, that I’d not given a thought to the possibility that I might also be in danger – not because I was under suspicion, but because if he got rid of me, Gorgonzola would be his.

‘It’s blowing a Force 4 to 5 today, judging from those white crests on the waves. Take that board there. I’ll take this one.’ He pointed to a mean, lean, racing machine with fluorescent yellow footstraps. ‘I haven’t had the chance to try it out since it was delivered last week. We’ll put it through its paces.’

Well, I couldn’t resist the thought of skimming over those waves, leaning out, wind in the hair, all the time nursing that secret warm glow from outwitting his dastardly plans for G. So five minutes later I was changing into a wetsuit in a guest suite with one of those bathrooms to die for – wall mirrors, pale wood and creamy egg-shaped polished stone bath complete with gold-plated taps. I performed a fancy whirl in front of the angled corner mirrors, generating a chorus line of red-and-black neoprene-clad figures pirouetting to infinity. I waved and grinned. They waved and grinned back.

I sat on the edge of that wonderful bath and ran a hand over its sensuous curves. Should I? Yes. I swung my legs over and slid into its depths. I lay back and
closed my eyes, imagining scented soapy suds, soft music playing, lights romantically dim… Just the pampering I’d need when I returned from my whirl over – and no doubt occasionally under – the chilly waves. Mustn’t keep Ambrose waiting, though. I clambered out and tugged on the neoprene boots.

He was standing on the boat-launch-cum-bathing deck, his suit a snazzily understated black and yellow. The slap of waves against hull had replaced the thrum of powerful engines as
Samarkand Princess
idled head-on to the run of the waves, ten or so miles off the Los Gigantes cliffs.

‘Happy with that board, Deborah?’

I was indeed. It was not your usual hire board, battered and slightly dated. This should give that lean, mean racing board of his a bit of competition. And a nice touch, the red and black of my suit was an exact match for the sail.

‘Like it, eh? That sail’s a six metre. That do?’

‘Fine,’ I said.

The wind tugged impatiently at the sail as he slid the board into the water. I stepped on, lifted the rig and clipped the harness onto my buoyancy aid. I leant out and powered across the waves.
Ya-hee-ee
. Arms braced against the pull of the sail, legs flexing to transmit the wind force to the board, I heard nothing but the water bubbling and hissing under the tail. I forgot everything, lost myself in watery combat against the elements. Forgot about Vanheusen and his
plans for Gorgonzola, forgot about Victoria Knight and El Sueño, forgot Gerry and the office behind the white door. Forgot Millie Prentice and her fate.

Exhilaration
. The board was a living thing beneath my feet, gathering speed, planing across the breaking crests of a picture-postcard blue sea. I looked up at the black cat logo on the red sail and hummed the opening bars of ‘The Ride of the Valkyrie’. Alas, regardless of her doom, the foolish victim plays…

The shout came slightly behind and off to my right, words torn away by the wind. I turned my head and squinted across my shoulder. The yellow sail with its black cat logo was coming up fast, a welter of white foam beneath the raised nose of the board, the black-suited figure crouching to coax every knot of power from the rig. The wind seemed stronger now, but still within my capabilities. I’d make that new board of his work at it. I leant back and sheeted in.

Another shout, very close. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the nose of his board. Typical male, aggressively competitive, crowding me. I held my course. To obey the rules of the sea he’d have to veer away. He didn’t. Our boards were now less than a metre apart, the sea boiling and frothing between them. His yellow sail blotted out the sky, blotted up the wind. My board was losing power, slowing.
Bastard
, this was foul play, deliberate sabotage–

Without warning, rig and board spun violently into the wind, whipping the board out from under my feet.
Standing on water is not one of my accomplishments. In the slow-motion sequence of nightmare, I hung in mid-air for interminable seconds, then fell backwards, still hooked into the rig.

My brain screamed,
Punch at the harness release.
In an unstoppable chain reaction, the sail collapsed on top of me, I hit the water, the mast cracked hard, very hard, against my head. Darkness.

I choked as a small wave broke over my face, cold, shocking me awake. Dazedly I tried to remember what had happened. It seemed important…I’d been windsurfing…and something had gone wrong. What? I’d fallen off the board. At least I wasn’t trapped under the sail. Concentrate,
concentrate
. Another wave reared, huge, towering, the white foam of its crest whipped off by the wind.
Find that board
. I kicked my way up the face of the wave, twisting round in a desperate attempt to spot the thin line of white board against all the white crests. Kick, twist, scan.
There
, a long way off, a glimpse of a big motor yacht.

As I sank down into the trough, memory returned – Vanheusen, the race, that rash manoeuvre of his, crowding me. Kick up to the top of the next wave, twist, scan. With a surge of relief I recognised the distinctive outline of
Samarkand Princess
. Where
was
testosterone man? Must have gone for the rescue boat. Down I went into the trough and back up again. The flat platform on the ship’s stern was just visible
through the spray. Yes, the bows were turning – but not towards me, turning
away
. Down…up. Down… up. Each time I reached the crest,
Samarkand Princess
seemed further off, but I didn’t give up hope till it was only a black smudge on the horizon.

I bobbed up the waves and down the waves and took stock of my situation. Wishing wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I had to face it, things looked bad – miles from land, wind strengthening to Force 6, water cold, board lost. The outlook was one hundred per cent black. Then I recalled Gerry’s silver-lining speech. At that awful debriefing on Jason and Juanita he’d raised our morale when spirits were down. He’d spelt out the bleak facts – the bug on
Saucy Nancy
used against us, Juanita dead, Jason critical, fatal setback to Operation Canary Creeper. Everything as black as it could be. Then he’d fished in the top drawer of his desk and held up a black silk handkerchief.

‘Sums up the situation, eh? As black as this?’

We’d nodded. He’d flexed the elbow of his anglepoise desk lamp, and
click
. The black square was no longer entirely black, but shot with threads of silver and grey. ‘Juanita’s dead. That’s the black. The grey? Though Jason’s critical, he’s not dead, and we’re
aware
the opposition has discovered the bug on the boat. The silver is that now that we know how Vanheusen launders his cash, our tendrils will soon have a stranglehold on his little empire. Operation Canary Creeper is not in fact wilting,
but alive and well. Endgame in sight.’

Could I find a silver lining in my present situation? Well…I could see the brown cone of Teide and the rounded shoulders of the upper slopes. That meant I knew the direction of land, and therefore knew the direction to swim. And that Force 6 wind was onshore, pushing me
towards
the land. The water was cold, but I was wearing a wetsuit, wasn’t I? That would ward off hypothermia for some time. Board lost? I hadn’t
really
looked, had I? I’d been too busy watching
Samarkand Princess
fleeing the scene.

On the crest of the next wave I lunged upwards like a basketball player aiming to score. Nothing ahead. Nothing, that is, but line after line of angry waves. Be systematic. Up the face of another roller. I swivelled a quarter-turn to the right. From the crest, another upward lunge. Nothing. Another quarter-turn. And another. 360o. I’d turned a full circle and hadn’t caught even a glimpse of the board. But it
had
to be close. The drag of the rig in the water would act as a sea-anchor. It couldn’t be far,
couldn’t
be…

I suppose it was the mix of adrenalin and rage that gave me the strength to repeat that upward lunge four, five, six times, I lost count…eyes searching the waves for that solid horizontal line among the flying spume and spindrift. Then, as I slid down into yet another trough, I glimpsed a flick of red. Upwind, four wave crests away, twenty metres. Not
very
far.

Head down, I thrust forward in a frantic splashing
crawl-stroke till exhausted muscles shrieked a halt. Maybe in the next trough.
No
. If anything, the board was further off, no doubt about it. Another wave passed beneath me. I bobbed like a cork into the trough. It was time to face facts. My flailing arms were making no headway against that silver-lining Force 6 onshore wind. Without my buoyancy aid there’d be less wind resistance. I’d be lower in the water and that would give me a
chance
of reaching the board. I fumbled with the release, then stopped. Without the buoyancy aid I’d drown. My fingers dropped away from the buckle. A catch-22 situation all right.

Top of a wave again. The board was definitely further off. I faced the unpalatable truth that by not making a decision, I was in fact making one. In a few minutes the board would be too far away. I’d be too cold and weak to reach it.
Stay with the board
is the windsurfers’ maxim. Even if I couldn’t get the sail up in this wind, it was my
only
chance of making it to shore. And my only chance of being seen by a passing boat.

My fingers were already stiffening. It was difficult to press and pull the release buckle. Press. Press.
Pull
. The straps loosened. I didn’t feel the belt fall away, but the abrupt loss of buoyancy left me spluttering and coughing as my mouth filled with water.

Decision made, go for it. Head down, weary arms rising and falling, legs desperately kicking. On the wave crest, lift head to check direction, head down,
slice through water, kick, kick, kick. Head up, head down, kick, kick, kick. Head up, head down, kick, kick, kick. Body a machine. No time to think. Every ounce of effort concentrated into action.

Pain jabbed through an arm as my hand smacked against something solid, but not hard enough to be the board. Treading water, I blinked to clear my eyes while the thinking part of my brain cranked slowly into gear. I’d bumped into the sail, still attached to the mast, semi-submerged, wallowing at an acute angle to the board. Well, my luck was in.

Next objective must be to hoist myself on board. I’d not much strength left, but leaning down on the mast would submerge it enough for me to float over it into the sail. I’d be halfway there… I put my hands on the mast, pushed down, wriggled forward. Success. I rolled over on my back and rested for a moment in the watery hammock formed by the sail. Halfway there… or halfway still to go. All a matter of perspective, really. The glass half-full is the glass half-empty. I stared up at the clouds scurrying across the sky, and debated this philosophical point. I’ve always been a sucker for oddball quotations like:
Distance doesn’t matter. It’s only the first step that is difficult
. Couldn’t remember who said that, though…

A wave broke over my face.
Thspafh
. I spat out a mouthful of salt water. What was I doing, lying here as if I’d all the time in the world? Must be sliding into hypothermia. I rolled over. A lunge, a desperate
half-scrabble, half-slither, and I lay breathless and panting, sprawled along the length of the board. I’d made it.

With the board see-sawing up and down, it was too risky to sit up, so I took a firm grip of the foot-straps and lay husbanding my strength. Was it wishful thinking, or had the wind dropped just that little bit? Possibly… Spray was no longer whipping from the crests. But the wind was still far too strong to raise the sail with the uphaul. And I was now too weak to attempt a water start. I’d just have to wait it out…

No warmth now in the sun hovering just above the horizon…no warmth in this neoprene wetsuit… shivering, shivering…