Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (27 page)

Duncan was taken entirely off guard by the short, uneasy laugh that followed.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so to begin with?”

“Lady, I’ve been trying—”

“Just a moment, sir. Of course, I’ll connect you with Mr. Travers.”

The line clicked to hold, and Duncan braced the phone against his shoulder as he lit a cigarette, too relieved to be annoyed. And now, he could meet Mrs. Leen’s eye and watch her growing anxiety with some relish.

But something was drastically wrong, and Mrs. Leen’s anxiety offered little reassurance. Carl Berg was too good an operative to get out of reach of his radio for more than a few minutes, and Duncan had tried to contact him four times in the last half hour. He’d even attempted to telephone Dominic’s house, but the line was out of order. And that damned courier—Duncan blew out an impatient stream of smoke. He had to give the man credit; he was quick, and he knew all the tricks for shaking a tail.

“Hello. Conan, is that—?”

Charlie straightened. “No, Steve, this is Duncan.”

“What’s the problem, Charlie? My secretary said—”

“You can tell your secretary to—never mind. Steve, I need help. Can you get hold of somebody with some authority fast? Conan may be in trouble, and I’ve got a man down there with a two-way radio, but I haven’t been able to raise him. You’d better—”

“Wait a minute. Just slow down a little. What’s going on?”

Duncan sighed. It would take so long to explain.

“Get hold of the FBI and see if the name Alexei Demetriev rings any bells.”

Travers paused. “Hold on a minute.”

It was only a matter of seconds. The next voice was unfamiliar.

“Mr. Duncan, I’m Inspector David West, FBI. Mr. Travers and I were just discussing—”

“Thank God.” Duncan breathed a long sigh of relief. “Inspector, I haven’t got time to be polite. Will you tell Travers to get a patrol car to Demetriev’s house—
now
.”

A brief hesitation, then, “Yes, just a moment.”

Duncan waited again, watching Mrs. Leen. She’d turned noticeably paler at the word
Inspector
.

“All right, Mr. Duncan, he’s taking care of it.”

“Good. By the way, I have somebody here at the bookshop for you. Mrs. Edwina Leen.”

“We checked the name, but—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s probably an alias, and she’ll keep. I’m worried about Conan. He left here alone, headed for Demetriev’s place about—”

“How did he know about Demetriev?”

“I don’t know. All I have is a note and a file card. Do you guys have any idea what’s going on down here?”

West said sharply, “Mr. Duncan, we
do
have agents keeping Dr. Demetriev under full-time surveillance. I sent another man down this morning when Mills didn’t check in, and there are more on their way now. In fact, they should be arriving within a few minutes.”

“That’s encouraging. But when did you last hear from your agents in the house blind?”

“The house—well, they’re supposed to report at eight. I haven’t checked the Portland office to—”

“I can save you some trouble. There was no eight o’clock report from them.”

“But, what—?”

“Inspector, somebody’s about to walk off with your prize defector.”

“Are you sure? How do you know?”

“Maybe Conan’s wrong, but I don’t think so. I had a man working surveillance on Demetriev. Is Steve there?”

“Yes, Charlie,” Travers replied. “We have a conference phone; I’m listening.”

“Okay. I couldn’t raise Carl, and he wouldn’t get away from his radio for half an hour when he knew I might be calling. And if something’s happened to him, Conan’s on his own in very unfriendly territory. I even tried calling Demetriev’s house. The phone’s dead.”

West’s voice betrayed his chagrin at that.

“The phone’s dead? Mr. Duncan, perhaps you should call the local police until our agents—”

“
No
, for God’s sake, not the local police.”

“What do you mean?”

Travers cut in, “I’ll explain that to him, Charlie. Look, I checked and we have a couple of patrol cars in the area. I sent them to Demetriev’s.”

“Good.” Duncan crushed out his cigarette hastily. “You better send one of them to the Bay, and alert the Coast Guard to check out any boats leaving the dock. Mrs. Leen’s tied down here at the shop. I’m heading for Demetriev’s.”

“
Wait
,” West put in. “What about the Bay?”

Duncan thrust his gun in his belt holster, glancing impatiently at his watch.

“Conan took a little fishing trip earlier this evening and caught a signal light between Mrs. Leen’s house and those Russian trawlers. You figure it. Now, you two can sit there and ponder this thing if you want; I’m going to Demetriev’s and find out what the hell’s going on.”

“Charlie, hold on,” Travers said. “How long ago did Conan leave?”

“Maybe half an hour ago. I don’t know exactly. Oh—put out an APB on a tan Ford, license number ETM581.”

“Okay, but who—?”

“No time to explain now. Where can I reach you?”

“Here. I’ll keep the line open for you.”

“That’s a relief. I might not have time to work through your secretary again. Thanks. And good-bye.”

“Charlie—”

But anything Travers had to add was cut off as Duncan slammed the receiver down and started for the door. He didn’t even glance at Edwina Leen.

CHAPTER 27

The ticking of his pulse, metronomic, and paradoxically regular, parceled out the time.

Conan listened, body and mind locked in numb paralysis, to the lonely, baleful moaning of the marker buoy. Then abruptly, the metronomic beat of his pulse quickened, and he raised his bound wrists, his hands cramped into fists, pulling at the ropes in helpless rage and frustration.

It was the pain that finally subdued the panic; the pain radiating from his shoulder until it impressed itself upon his consciousness, acting as a sort of cauterizing agent. He forced himself to relax, letting his balled fists uncurl, loosening the tension on the ropes. Panic was another luxury; he couldn’t afford it now. He had to think.

The ropes. He had to find some kind of instrument, some sharp edge. But he wasn’t familiar enough with fishing boats to know what might be available that would serve his purpose.

He was tightening again, moving to the edge of panic, and again, he forced himself to relax—and to think. The marker buoy formed a counterpoint to his pulse, meting out the passing time. Think. The ropes weren’t his primary problem. The gun. There wasn’t time to worry about the ropes. The gun in Demetriev’s pocket.

The high cards; the gun and his hands tied in front. Perhaps that would be enough. It had to be. And another high card he hadn’t taken into consideration—darkness.

Zimmerman couldn’t see into the back of the boat, and he was intent on the trawlers. And the roar of the motor; another high card.

Perhaps on some level he was aware of the hopeless odds against reaching that gun alive, but he wouldn’t allow himself to recognize them now. He couldn’t, unless he was willing to surrender himself to despair.

He began to slide to his left toward the port railing. Demetriev and Zimmerman were on the left side of the pilothouse. If he could get close enough without being seen, and if Demetriev was alert enough to react at the right time…

He reached the railing, his breath coming fast and hard, and he was still capable of awareness of pain; but it was a peripheral awareness. His mind was too intently concentrated on his objective, and on Zimmerman.

Then he froze as both Zimmerman and the pilot turned and looked back.

But after a moment, he realized they weren’t looking at him, but at something beyond the boat. He heard their voices in a brief exchange that was unintelligible against the roar of the motor.

But if the words were unintelligible, something in their tone still came through; an urgency, even anxiety. And it was in their posture and gestures, too. He watched intently as Harrison again turned to look backward, then leaned closer to Joe for hurried consultation.

At length, Conan risked a look over the stern, pushing himself up cautiously and twisting around. Behind them, in the darkness between the
Sea Queen
and the scatter of shore lights, he saw two closer lights; red and green. Running lights.

He slid back down against the stern, unconsciously holding his breath as he looked up toward the pilothouse. But Joe was still staring back at the second boat, his body tense and rigid.

Conan’s breath came out in a long, tremulous sigh. Perhaps the odds were turning in his favor; one of his high cards might be about to pay off.

Perhaps.

But whether that card paid off or not, the other boat offered a distraction. The gun. That was the only card that counted now. He reached up for the railing to pull himself into a crouching position, but again froze at a shout from Zimmerman. And again, it wasn’t directed at him. It was a command to Harrison, and without further warning, the pilot turned the wheel abruptly to the right, and gunned the engine to full speed.

The
Sea Queen
heeled over, sending Conan sliding across the deck, then she seemed to leap forward, trembling under the full power of the motor.

She was quartering the swells, rocking sickeningly from side to side, her curved flanks cutting under the waves, sending cascades of icy water washing across the deck. The motor roared and spluttered irregularly, sounding eerily like the hoarse panting of a fleeing animal. Conan flailed helplessly in the darkness, chilled by floods of sea water, and finally managed to grasp the port railing again. He clung desperately to the wet metal, wondering what had precipitated this full-throttle flight—and wondering if the
Sea Queen
was equal to the battering quartering swells and the tearing vibrations of the engine.

But for the moment, he could only cling to the railing, gasping at the periodic onslaughts of water as the boat smashed into the oncoming waves. He closed his eyes against another flood of frigid water as the boat heeled into a swell. But he was only dimly aware of the cold and the pain.

For the first time since the
Sea Queen
left Holliday Bay, he was beginning to feel some real hope.

*

For what seemed an interminable length of time, the
Sea Queen
plunged ahead, full speed, with Harrison fighting the wheel all the way. Then, as suddenly as it began, the breakneck flight ended. Silence and darkness descended abruptly as the motor ceased its roaring, and a few seconds later all the lights went off. In the echoing quiet, the boat swooped down the back of a swell into the trough, the water washing against the hull in a silken rush. Then softly in the distance, the bleak call of the marker buoy sounded, and from the opposite direction—somewhere behind them—the faint rumble of a motor.

But the motor was a long way off now.

Conan crouched against the railing, trying to adjust his senses to the sudden absence of sound and light, remembering his equally silent and lightless vigil aboard the
Josephine
. And he had no doubt Zimmerman’s purpose was the same as his had been: to escape detection.

Harrison had taken a quartering tack northwest, and the blackness wasn’t entirely devoid of light. The trawlers. Conan looked over the railing, feeling a fleeting dizziness. That chain of lights wasn’t so distant now; it seemed to bead the entire horizon, to fill his span of vision.

The gun.

He had to get to Demetriev.

But he might as well have been blind in the darkness; now he couldn’t even be sure where the old man was. He could only assume he was still in the pilothouse, as he could only assume Zimmerman and Harrison were still there.

Voices. He tensed, his eyes focusing unconsciously, and uselessly, in the direction of the pilothouse.

Harrison was speaking, his voice low and indistinct, as if he were intimidated by the overwhelming silence and darkness. Conan could understand only a few words, but he caught the last of Zimmerman’s equally low-pitched response.

“…wait and see if he’s following us. Now, relax, damn it.”

The pilot’s reply was lost, but from his edgy tone, it was obvious he wasn’t close to relaxation.

Conan waited a few seconds longer until Harrison and Zimmerman resumed their conversation, then began edging his way along the railing toward the pilothouse, crouching low, remembering that the shore lights were behind him.

He made slow progress, waiting through the silences, and even as he concentrated on that intermittent exchange, he was listening to the rumble of the boat behind them. And it seemed to be getting louder.

There was still no sound to help him locate Demetriev, but he had no doubt he’d be close to Zimmerman.

The pilot’s voice knifed through the quiet.

“Listen, I don’t give a damn what you say, I ain’t just sittin’ here! That boat’s closin’
in
!”

“Shut up!” Zimmerman snapped, his voice rising in volume with Harrison’s. “Can you tell if it’s the Coast Guard cutter?”

A brief silence, then, “No…I don’t think so. Lights are too high in the water. But it’s gettin’ closer—”

“Don’t panic. It’s just another fishing boat.”

“Leavin’ the bay this time of night?”

Conan listened intently. He’d covered well over half the distance to the pilothouse, and the voices were uncomfortably close, and getting closer with every hesitant, cautious step.

Zimmerman said irritably, “You just calm down. He can’t do a damn thing if he does see us. If you just sit tight, he’ll probably go on past us.”

“Yeah, and he might not.” There was a movement and a few shuffling footsteps. “Hey! Damn it, look at them trawlers!”

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re takin’ off! They’re gonna leave us here holdin’ the bag! The dirty—”

“You damned fool, they’re just scattering. It’ll make it harder for anybody to find us. Now, shut up!”

“They’re leavin’, damn it! And that boat. I ain’t waitin’ any—”

“Harrison, I said shut up, or so help me, I’ll blow your brains out and run this leaky tub myself!” A short silence, cadenced with the sound of heavy breathing. “You settle down. I’m going back and check on Flagg; it’s been too damned quiet back there. Where’s that flashlight?”