Arctic Rising (12 page)

“I
know
she’s good.” Anika turned back around. “I should have taken the cash.”

Jim shook his head. “Jones is one of Violet’s most important working relationships. I’m just asking you to be … careful. She’s already lost The Greenhouse for now. For what it’s worth, I think, having heard what Chernov told me about your problems, that you should meet Jones.”

“Okay. But who does Jones work for?” Anika asked.

Jim smiled and cut the engine off, and they coasted up to the leftmost scooped-back pontoon of the catamaran.

“Jones!” Jim shouted as they bumped up against the fiberglass stairs. He unzipped his skirt from the kayak. “Jones!”

A tall black man with dreadlocks opened the sliding door of the cabin and stepped out into the cockpit to look down at them. He smiled. “Jim
fucking
Kusugak,” he shouted. “Is good to see you, man.”

“Violet left you a message?” Jim said.

Prudence Jones walked over to the back of the pontoon and held out a hand to Anika. “Anika Duncan, right?”

Prudence Jones, thought Anika as she unzipped herself out of the tuiliq, had to have come from the Caribbean somewhere. The accent was … well, not quite Jamaican as she thought Jamaican should sound. It sounded very much like some of the English Nigerian patois she’d heard on the streets in Lagos.

Prudence had a very light accent, though. He’d been away, and far from home, for a long time, she guessed. “Yes,” she said, and held up a hand.

“Call me Roo,” the tall spy said as he grabbed the offered hand and yanked her right up on out of the kayak onto the steps. “Got some iced beer in the fridge, Jim. You coming aboard?”

“No,” Jim said. He pulled her backpack out and threw it up onto the cockpit deck, then zipped a cover over the exposed hole Anika had sat in. He started paddling backward. “I have to go and post bail for Violet and set up the escape trip.”

Roo sucked his teeth, making a frustrated sound. One familiar enough to Anika that she felt like Roo was a distant cousin she was visiting.

Then what Jim said sunk in. “You didn’t tell me she was in jail!”

Jim nodded. “They were going to be taking her in, they said. Best to keep you in the dark and get you out of Arctic Bay. Don’t worry. I’ll have her out by the morning.”

He fired up the engine, and the kayak surged into motion. Minutes later it was a distant dot.

“So you’re a spy?” Anika said.

“And you a fugitive, yeah…” Roo pointed at the cabin’s door. “Beer?”

*   *   *

The cabin, which sat straddling the large pontoons, was spacious. A U-shaped settee and polished wood table dominated the area as they stepped down a few stairs and went in. Varnished floors sparkled, and the large oval windows let in lots of light.

Roo stepped down a small set of stairs into the right-hand hull, his head now just above the main cabin’s floor. There was a small kitchen laid out along the side of the right hull: three-burner stove, a freezer, and a small fridge. Anika leaned over a wooden rail to see more shelves on her side: spice racks, dishes, and boxes of pasta cluttered them.

She was able to look down toward the back of the right hand hull, and saw a small office with four screens mounted on swinging arms. To the front was a bathroom.

Roo handed her a bottle of Red Stripe. “It’s a cliché,” he said. “But also a taste of home.”

He showed her where she’d be sleeping. The left hull, to the rear, had a twin-sized bunk in the very back. The bathroom was to the very front, and in between was more storage: shelves full of dried goods, cans, a locker of heavy weather gear.

Back up in the main cabin, Anika frowned. “Where do you sleep?” she asked.

Roo pointed to the wall the settee backed up against. “I have a very comfortable room up in there. The door opens on the office you was peeking at by the galley.”

“Oh.”

“And, after this beer, we need to get moving.”

“Where are we going?”

“Pleasure Island. You been?”

“No. I’ve heard of it. That’s where Vy’s hideout is? That’s eight hundred miles of sailing.”

Roo grinned. “The cockpit’s enclosed, so you be helping keep watch. But I don’t want you on deck. Don’t want you washed over, or for anyone to see you.”

“Why the hurry?” She swigged the rest of the Red Stripe, and he took the empty bottle.

“This UNPG cutter that lurks around Somerset Island. Trying to avoid a boarding.” He waved a hand.

“And if we get boarded?” Anika asked.

Roo’s smiled wavered. “Then we have to get creative, yeah?”

17

The anchor took all of a few minutes to haul up by hand. Roo leaned over the front of the boat, grunting, his back flexing and arms rippling as he pulled the rope up, hand over hand. His tightly wound dreadlocks swayed about as he moved.

For a few minutes, the
Spitfire
drifted aimlessly without the anchor, but then Roo bounded back to the cockpit and yanked on ropes.

Another minute of vigorous winching later the catamaran’s two sails were filled with wind. They’d been both been wrapped up on thin spindles, and had easily deployed.

The boat now slipped through the water with Roo at the helm.

Around the horn of Baffin Island the wind kicked up and the catamaran sped up, climbing the swells and sliding down them with her twin hulls cutting cleanly and quickly through the water.

From the cockpit Anika could just see over the top of cabin. Occasionally they’d slap a wave roughly enough that a massive blast of ocean spray would slap the cockpit windows.

“Nice and dry up in here,” Roo declared. “And
Spitfire
makes good time.”

He stood in front of a large, white leather command chair that let him look out over the catamaran. An array of small LCD screens were bolted onto the fiberglass surfaces around him, just underneath the plane of various winches on the cabin top. Cold air, and some water, leaked through holes that led sheets through.

After an hour, her brief education in sailing began.

The large wheel: that controlled the rudder, of course. Although, in this case, the catamaran had two rudders, one on each pontoon. Either way, turn the wheel and the
Spitfire
turned.

There was also an autopilot for the catamaran that could take control of the wheel for her. Roo showed her how to set it. It would keep them pointed in the right direction using the compass, GPS, and some other internal sensors.

Anika had the radar figured out in a few seconds.

One winch controlled how far out the boom went for the main sail, the one over her head. She could see that one by looking up through the plexiglas skylights over her head.

The jib—that was the triangular sail up at the very front—was controlled by the winch just ahead of the main’s winch. Both of the sails could be reeled in and out by other winches, and there was also one that caused the jib to roll itself up.

There was a lot to a boat she knew she didn’t understand. Maintenance. How wind and sails worked. But looking at the
Spitfire
’s setup, she could see how Roo sailed it around the Arctic by himself.

“You got the radar,” he said, but showed it to her again just to make sure. “And here you have the collision avoidance alarms. That’s how I single-hand the long hauls. Catch my sleep right on this floor.”

During one jarring thump coming down off a wave, she winced and Roo noticed it. “You all right?”

“Someone attacked me, and now my ribs are bruised. A medical student looked me over and said I need rest and painkillers. Vy gave me some oxycodone.”

He studied her face for a moment, and then her neck, and nodded. “I can help with that.”

He was gone for a moment, leaving her alone with the waves that rose high enough to block the horizon out, but then gently lifted
Spitfire
up on their backs, before they let her down again.

When he came back, she took the pills and the bottle of water offered, then turned the chair back over to him.

“I’ve seen the weather from up in the sky,” she said. “What’s it like down here?”

“You get a taste soon.”

The oxy rolled over her and wrapped her up in a cocoon of relief. “What do you do, exactly, Roo? As a spy? And who do you work for?”

And why did Vy think it was a good idea to pair us up, she wondered.

“Is mostly deskwork, you know?” Roo said. “No James Bond types running around these days. Agencies: they like their gadgets, their networks.”

But she looked at the wiry musculature that had yanked up the fifty-or-so-pound anchor so easily by hand. Roo wasn’t just a desk jockey.

“And a desk worker. What does he do, out here in the sea?”

Roo scratched his nose. “This Coast Guard cutter we trying to avoid. Back in the old days, we would skulk around trying to move past it. Today, I have a peer-to-peer system, right? I hire a bunch of people online to keep an eye on the cutter. They ain’t doing nothing illegal. Most of the time, no one realizes anything is strange, because if you clever, maybe you start a site for fans of the Coast Guard, and wherever they see a cutter, they report which one and where it is. Whether it’s cutters, or a crowd of people online all being given pieces of a satellite photo and being asked to look for a certain shape that’s really a piece of some army we’re looking for, I’m pulling the strings from back here.”

“So where is it?”

“The Coast Guard cutter?” He pulled a satphone out of his front jeans pocket and thumbed around on its screen a bit. “According to the Coast Guard cutter fan club, she’s moving south down the western side of Somerset Island. Three hours ago.”

He smiled at her. Terrorists had been buying satellite footage for years to help build pictures of their targets, he said as they continued to sail farther from Baffin. While police arrested vacationing tourists for taking shots of national monuments, bombers used Google Earth and online photo-sharing sites.

So now small nation states, like those in the Caribbean that couldn’t afford full intelligence agencies, hired freelancers and used the tools on the ground.

“You don’t mind not having a full-time job, then?”

“Look, working in an office somewhere, unless your job really requires you to interface with that environment for a customer, like a waiter, or a factory worker, then why should you remain in a single place? It’s a fool’s job to stay put if you don’t have to, right? Is more efficient to hire out, and for all the Caribbean islands to pool their agents. We island nations trying to guide a course through the tempest of the world without getting run over by the big ones.”

They hit a point in the conversation where Anika realized she would have to reciprocate, to give something of herself up to Roo. But she didn’t feel like it.

After everything she’d been through, she felt she deserved to be selfish for a bit. She had days ahead to try to decide who Roo really was, and what she might reveal to him.

She looked around. “This is a beautiful boat. I’ve never been on one that someone lives aboard.”

“I won it.”

“Like, in a bet?”

“A lawsuit. Purchased it with my share. Anegada versus the United States of America, Europe, China, Japan, and South Korea et al.”

“Who was Anegada?”

“What, not who. It used to be home,” Roo said, looking out at the sea. “Before the sea levels rose. We sued, and I decided I’d put my share of the settlement into something that would float.”

And like that, the conversation died.

In a way, Anika was relieved.

*   *   *

She took a shower. An acrobatic procedure. At first she’d been a bit alarmed at the small, claustrophobic fiberglass confines of the shower. But now, with the entire hull pitching about, she was relieved she could jam a foot up against a wall, her back against the other side, and keep herself locked in place.

It was not a relaxing, luxurious shower, but she enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment and the mild sense of routine it gave her.

If the weather got any rougher, she decided it would be better just to wipe herself down quick rather than risk another shower.

She crawled into the bed. Within minutes she found herself dozing off. This was really no worse than sleeping through turbulence, she thought.

“Anika!” Roo banged on the cabin door, and she sat up.

“Yes?”

“Your watch,” Roo said. “You been asleep for half the day, and I need to turn in a bit. Time for you to stand watch.”

She stared at him, shaking her head and trying to get up to speed. “You
really
want me to sail your ship?”

“We at sea for a week, yes, I need you to sail.”

“I don’t know the first thing…”

He cut her off. “Just stand there, keep an eye on the radar. Look around. See any ships: wake me up quick. Look, it’s not as hard as flying a blimp, right?”

So he knew who she was, she thought. Then she nodded. “Airship. Not a blimp. But wake you up. Okay.”

He escorted her up to the enclosed cockpit, and she hugged herself as the cold wind blew in through the eyeholes the sheets ran through.

“Four hours,” Roo said.

“And what about that Coast Guard cutter?”

“An hour ago it was still headed south.” Roo left, sliding the salon door behind him.

And then it was just her alone with her thoughts and the open sea again. The tap of saltwater spray against the cockpit windows.

*   *   *

It was a rhythm she felt comfortable with. Watches in the air, or watches on a deck, the life remained the same: four-hour intervals, broken down between leisure, watch, and sleep.

She chose sleep for the first two days, aided by more oxycodone.

In the cockpit, she played with the sails a bit. Nothing drastic, just trying to understand how they worked. She understood the theory. They were like plane wings. Another curved surface that wind rushed past, and where the negative pressure was created, it pulled the ship forward.

Unless you were going downwind, she knew. Then you were just letting the wind push you.

On her morning watch of the second day, she’d changed course to dodge a large container ship on the horizon. Why bother Roo? she reasoned.