Buried At Sea (12 page)

"Not based on what I've seen of your cooking so far. But if you can drive, and keep your eyes open in case that squall has any cousins, I'll pop another morphine and rustle up something to eat."

As alarmed as she was that Spark would vanish forever, Val McVay had to admit that on some animal level she was enjoying the hunt. Do I have a talent for this sort of thing?

she wondered. Could I excel at it?

Hurrying through the rambling mansion to her father's library, she found a book about commandos. She took it to the basement gymnasium and was reading it while pumping and pedaling a Schwinn Airdyne when a scrap of paper fell out and drifted to the polished oak floor. After her workout, she dried her hands, picked it up, and read it. It was a block-print note to her father, dated ten years ago.

Dear Mr. McVay,

I know how much you like books and thought you might like this one. Some of my friends are in this book and it may answer some questions as to what I do in the army. Sincerely,

Andy

It read, Val thought, like a child's letter dictated by an adult. She had no doubt that Andrew had put his nephew up to it, starting early to make a place for him in the firm. But she wondered, not for the first time, whether Andrew Nickels had gained too much influence over her father. It would have been in the fixer's nature to try; but there was no excuse for her father's allowing it to happen.

Later that afternoon, they broke for cocktails—a dry martini for Lloyd, a Gibson for Val.

"Tell me about Andy."

Her father answered with a brusqueness calculated to project total contempt for a pointless question. "Andrew Nickels's nephew."

"That much I know," she replied evenly.

"Dickensian childhood before Andrew stepped in," her father added. "Made Andy his ward. Took charge of his schooling until he joined the army. Andy flourished. Joined Special Forces—Rangers. Commando stuff down in South America."

"Drug interdiction?"

"Let's just say, not the sort of work where one presses for details. He joined us four years ago:'

"Why did Andy quit the army? Specifically to 'join us'?" "Why do you ask?"

"I found gaps in his Pentagon file:'

Her father did not ask how she had cracked a Pentagon file. Nor did he quite answer the question, saying only, "To be frank, I suspect that Andrew realized he was losing his mind and brought Andy aboard while he still possessed sufficient faculties to train the boy to take over."

They finished their drinks, ate a light supper served by

liveried staff in the dining room next door, and went back to work. Dear Shannon.

Almost home. Just two more weeks or so, with luck. We're making better time than Will thought. The wind's been good and the Guinea Current is with us—it's like an offshoot of the Equatorial Current—so we pick up another knot, sometimes two. It seemed to Jim like months since they had escaped the Doldrums, though it was only three weeks. Even his memory of the squall had faded into an entry in the log—a waypoint in the two thousand miles they had sailed east since Will had changed course. Their course had veered gradually north of the equator to pick up a boost from the Guinea Current. It swept them under the bulge of West Africa parallel to the coasts of Liberia, Ivory Coast, Ghana, Togo, Benin but grew weak as they neared the Bight of Biafra. But first, we're sailing into a sea of "buts." What's a sea of buts? For example, on the chart, the area we're entering off the oil coast of Nigeria is called the Bight of Biafra. But the locals. Will says, call it the Bight of Bonny. (A bight, in case you don't know. which I didn't, is an indentation in the shore that forms a big open bay.) He says that the coast is rimmed for twenty or thirty miles-by mangrove swamps and is virtually impenetrable except where the rivers of the Niger Delta. the Bonny among the biggest (where we're heading. I think), empty into the sea. But, says Will. sandbars block the mouth of each river and they're pounded by heavy surf.

Channels cut through some of the bars, marked with buoys. But the problem. Will says. is that when the channels shift. it sometimes takes a while for the Nigerians to realign the buoys. (Like the Daily Shaw said. there's a major corruption and chaos problem in the Niger Delta. Will says the Deily Show is tasteless. I say accurate.) Anyway, before we even reach the sandbars. we'll have to

sail through a maze of offshore wellheads and drilling platforms. But Will says, "Many are lighted, some aren't. Some are marked on the charts, others are not." If that weren't enough, he tells me that new wells are under construction. And abandoned old wells aren't lit. I couldn't resist telling him that it sounds more dangerous than the people chasing him. (He didn't laugh.) Will is kind of wired, but I don't think it's a tough piloting job that's worrying him. I think it's more about business. He keeps making sat calls and sending faxes. but no one's returning his calls. When he gets really jumpy I make him do a spinning class and that usually calms him down. Or at least exhausts him so he has to take a nap.

Then I do what I can with the free weights—my legs are in good shape from the bike, but I'm losing my pecs. Hope you'll still love me.

In the interest of not making Shannon crazy, Jim deleted "Hope you'll still love me." They were going to have to start at the beginning if they were going to work anything out. Fishing for "I'll still love you" wouldn't help.

He also decided to spare her the information that before they even got to the oil rigs, they would have to sail among scores of supertankers converging upon and steaming away from the Nigerian coast. Ships so big, Will noted cheerfully, that they could trample a sailboat like Hustle into the sea and never know they had done it. SHANNON RILEY CHECKED here-mail on the Pahn V beside her bed when she woke at five. When she checked again from her chair at the front desk—during the brief eightthirty lull at the RileySpa and Health Club between business types and the housewives and retirees—she laughed out loud.

"What's so funny?" her father called from his office. "Jim, trying to keep me from worrying?'

Her father responded with his "Oh, Jim" grunt, which was a lot easier to take than her mother's "That Jim" sigh. Although both grunt and sigh conveyed pretty much the same message: couldn't you have done better than one of the trainers?

"He's started writing wonderful letters."

"Really?"

"At first it was just like news reports, but now he's really fun. Sometimes I feel like I'm there with him."

"That's nice," said her father.

Up yours, thought Shannon. She clicked Reply, then typed like wildfire: Jim!!! Look out for *supertankers.* They're a very dangerous menace. They can't see yo and they cant stop and if you think

about it they're all over the place around oil wells. Right? So look out. I could never forgive myself if you got hurt or killed out there because I pushed you there. Come home safe. Kisses.

She deleted "Kisses"—it wasn't fair to hint at promises she wasn't ready to keep—and replaced it with

I've been loving your letters. Thank you so much. I feel like I'm running around on the boat with you.

and flashed it off, typos and all.

But after her father brought her a fresh coffee, she took the last few minutes of quiet time to try to write Jim a longer e-mail

I dreamed about you last night. It was so real. I could feel you inside me and Delete.

What am I doing? Give him a break. Let's see .. .

Dear Jim.

The cat's been sleeping with me end

High heels clicked across the marble lobby—her father had gone nuts with marble—and Shannon looked up from her computer. A tall and unbelievably beautiful woman, who was dressed like a Vogue model, came clicking toward the membership office with a worried smile.

"Hi, good morning." Shannon smiled back. "Can I help you?" The woman had an accent, very European, very stylish-sounding. "My membership—I am trying to make new?"

"You want to renew. Sure, which club?" Had to be Greenwich.

"No, not new. It is . . . cold?"

"Cold?"

"No, no, no. How you say . . . '?' Her hands fluttered as if she were trying to pick a word out of the air. Large hands,

Shannon noticed. Tennis-player hands that didn't quite go with her Manolo Blahnik boots.

"I am back. . . . I was away."

"Frozen! Your membership was frozen. Right. You're back. You want to start up again."

"Ah. Of course. Frozen. I go away for two month and I lose all my new words:"

"We say reactivate. Start up again. Do you have your card? If not, I'll just look your name up."

"I have it here, someplace." She opened a to-die-for Prada handbag and took out a little lizard case for her credit cards.

"I love your bag." Shannon was a Kate Spade girl when it came to bags, but the Prada was gorgeous and suited the woman to a T:

"Thank you. It is gift, from friend. Here, I have card." Shannon swiped it through the reader and her screen brought up the woman's picture and the information that she had signed up several months ago at the Westport club, then frozen her membership. Reason: travel. "Dina. Hi, Dina. I'm Shannon. How do you pronounce your last name, Usamov?"

"U-sa-mov," Dina replied, emphasizing the middle syllable.

"U-sa-mov. Dina U-sa-mov." Shannon quickly typed in a note for pronunciation. "What a great name. Welcome back, Dina." She reached up to shake hands and repeated, "I'm Shannon."

"Shannon, hello. It is very nice meeting you . . . So now, what am Ito do?"

"It's done. You're back. We'll resume billing your credit card monthly. And next time, you don't have to bother coming to the central office. They can do it at your regular club."

"That is it? That is all? Thank you, thank you. I am very happy to be back. Oh, tell me, is my favorite spinning instructor back too?"

"Which one?"

"The boy named Jim."

"No, not yet. Soon, I hope."

"He went sailing, you know."

"I know. We're friends."

"Oh, he is the best boy." Dina gave her a little smile. "Good friends?"

"Are you one of the clients who gave him the heart-rate monitor?" Dina's face fell. "No, I'm so sorry. I was with no money—broke—you say broke? I was broke."

Shannon kicked herself for embarrassing her. Dina was so cool-looking it never occurred to Shannon that she was a working girl struggling to make ends meet.

"I was wondering, though, is working no problem? I fear that salt water is very, very corrective—corrosive."

What if Dina told someone else in the class that Jim's crazy shipmate had thrown the gift overboard? "He told me that he really loves it."

"Do you know how he is doing? Does he telephone?"

"He e-mails me. It's great. Sometimes I feel like he's next door. Then I realize he is so far away it's unbelievable."

"Please to e-mail him my best regards and I hope he comes home soon."

"Two weeks, I hope."

"Where is he now?"

"Almost to Africa. Can you believe that? I mean, he was sailing to Rio de Janeiro, in Brazil. And now he's going to Africa."

"Where in Africa?'

"Shannon! Sweetie." Her father came barreling out of his office, as round and soft as a poster child for a join-a-healthclub-to-get-some-exercise-before-you-die campaign with his belly straining his shirt and his chipmunk cheeks bulging around a Danish. "Where in hell did you put the workmen's comp check? They'll fine the hell out of us if it's late."

"It went out yesterday, registered mail, return receipt."

"I didn't sign it!"

"I did."

"You did? Oh. Thanks, sweetie. Hey, is my best girl going to have lunch with me today?"

"It's a little busy."

"I don't care. Name your favorite restaurant. I want to go out with the prettiest girl in town."

"The Fish House." She was not going to sit and watch him shovel steak into his mouth.

"We're on. Oh, sorry." As dense as a lawn jockey when it came to women, he had finally noticed Dina, who was truly the prettiest girl in any town she went to. "Sorry—did I interrupt? Hi, there. I'm the boss. Any problems, see my beautiful daughter." Shannon was rolling her eyes at Dina when her telephone rang. At the same time a gang of stay-at-home moms came through the front door, and several beelined her way with problems on their faces. The second line rang. The lull was over.

"Nice to meet you, Dina. Welcome back. Hello, thanks for calling RileySpa. Please hold. Hello, thanks for calling RileySpa. Please hold. Dina," she called across the lobby, "email him! He'd love to hear from a client. Here, I'll write it down for you: [email protected]."

Dina got into her rented car and called her boss. She told him everything she had seen and heard. Vinnie was pleased. "Now that's the kind of details that get you more jobs."

"Happy that would be making me." Dressing up and practicing accents while playing assistant detective beat bar-tending between casting calls.

"Talk normal, for Christ's sake:"

"I'm staying in character."

"Character being the operative word." Vinnie told her to drive over to Bridgeport and check out Shannon Riley's rented condo.

"She's going to lunch with her father. Do you want me to follow them?"

"No! You gather information. I write a report. We don't do following for this client. They do their own—hang on a sec, I gotta put you on hold:'

As Dina pulled out of the RileySpa parking lot, she saw the bright red BMW 740i with SHANNON vanity plates parked in a handicapped slot where no one would dare ticket the boss's daughter.

An eighty-thousand-dollar car for a ditz of a receptionist dating a spinning instructor?

Had to be a gift from Daddy. No wonder she was so goddamned cheerful. Who wouldn't be, taking for granted living every day with your bills paid?

"I'm back," said Vinnie.

As she passed behind the 740 Dina saw the wheelchair emblem on the license plate. " Jesus H.!"

"What?" said Vinne.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"The poor kid can't walk. She's disabled."

"You been talking to her half an hour and you just figured that out?"