Deception (8 page)

The boy pulled himself up again. The world had slowed; time drew out in a thin blade.

Thank God I'm wearing flats
, Hannah thought distantly, as she kicked again at the rung.

Then the ladder was groaning, separating from the wall. The boy was retreating, scaling down, dropping to the second floor and covering his head as the ladder came free.

He looked up at her with baleful eyes. In the next instant, he had turned, and vanished down the stairs.

Hannah stared after him.

The Epsteins lay still, their bodies touching, a pool of blood spreading slowly between them.

SIX

1.

The loudspeaker behind the bed crackled.

Hannah pushed her head into the pillow, trying to block it out. The speaker gave a series of rising tones and then the voice of Jackie Burns, sounding oddly subdued:

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Jackie's tone was solemn and formal. “In light of today's tragic occurrence at the fortress of Sapienza, the captain has asked me to brief all passengers on a change in our itinerary …”

There had been ammonia on the doctor's hands when he'd given Hannah the shot. She could still smell it, faint and lingering.

“—we will not be docking at the port of Malta. Instead the
Aurora
will now take several days at sea, and sail directly to Istanbul. Once we arrive, the question of refunds will be taken up with all appropriate dispatch. We regret this change in plans. Please allow me to offer the sincere apologies of both myself and all personnel affiliated with Adventure Dynamics and the
Aurora II
.”

Dark waves leaped high outside the cabin's window. A trio of seagulls whirled, dipping and swirling. Hannah's eyes followed them mechanically.

She had seen Renee Epstein stabbed to death.

She had grown fond of the woman, after a fashion. Her fondness had manifested itself as irritation, much as it had with Hannah's own grandmother. It was always the way. Only when it was too late did she learn to express her feelings. Her grandmother; Renee Epstein; loved only in absentia.

Her mind was floating, skipping like a stone across a pond.

She had witnessed a murder.

She would never sleep again.

She moaned, and dug her face deeper into the pillow.

2.

“Vicky?”

Her eyes opened. Jackie Burns was sitting by the side of the bed.

“How do you feel?”

Hannah struggled up onto one elbow. “Thirsty,” she managed.

Jackie moved to the refrigerette. The window had been shuttered, Hannah saw; the standing lamp was on, emitting a soft glow.

After finding a liter of Evian, Jackie came back to the bedside. Hannah returned her head to the pillow without opening the bottle. Her eyes moved to the digital clock. It was twenty minutes past eight. But did that mean morning or night?

Jackie was looking at her pityingly. She reached out and smoothed a strand of hair off Hannah's forehead. “Did you manage to sleep at all?”

Hannah didn't answer. The hand on her brow felt cool, soothing, almost matronly.

“We're all a little shook up,” Jackie said. “You more than anyone, I bet …”

It was an understatement.

In reality, Hannah hadn't let herself shut down until the moment that the doctor had given her the shot. Until then she'd kept herself superficially together—all through the long wait on the tower platform, and all through the conversation with Jackie and the sleepy-eyed Turk, as she had described the incident to the best of her ability. Yet on the inside, where it counted, she had shut down right there on the third-story landing.

Witnessing the murders had been enough trauma. Having the man-child come after her had been even worse. The three hours spent trapped on the platform, as they'd tried to figure out how to jury-rig a ladder to bring Hannah back down to earth, had been only the icing on the cake. She'd watched as the Epsteins' bodies were covered with blankets and then laboriously removed from the prison tower. She'd kept watching, trapped, as the shakes had come and gone.

“… but you'll be glad to know,” Jackie was saying, “everything's been worked out now. I don't know if you heard the announcement—but we've decided to skip the rest of our islands. We're going straight to Istanbul.”

“‘Istanbul,'” Hannah repeated dully.

“The FBI spent the afternoon conducting a preliminary investigation on the island, and they've decided to let us go on ahead. In a case like this, jurisdiction is determined by the first port at which we dock following the incident. Of course, the incident took place
at
a port. But we put in a call to the head office, and they spoke with the State Department, and now everybody's on the same page—the company, the FBI, the Greeks, and the Turks. We'll go straight to Istanbul.” She paused. “Once we get there, Vicky, the FBI is going to want to interview you. Since you're a witness.”

Hannah kept her face blank. “Why not now?” she asked.

Jackie picked an invisible speck of lint off her tan slacks.

“Well,” she said. “It's not clear just what's happened. But evidently the Bureau is satisfied that there aren't any more answers to be found on Methoni. And the Greeks would be just as happy not to have an incident like this, now, on their soil. They've put a lot of effort into breaking up this terrorist group, November 17, recently, and aren't eager to have their international relationships complicated. We're already in bed with the Turks, of course, so they've got to welcome us regardless. It's a tragedy, what's happened with the Epsteins. There's no getting around that. But now we need to look ahead, and make things as easy as possible on the rest of us.”

Hannah nodded.

“I've discussed the situation with Chief Security Officer Yildirim. We both agree that the important thing now is for you to get some rest. So that once we do reach port, you'll be ready to help as much as possible.”

Hannah nodded again.

“It seems that Mr. Epstein was sort of an important person,” Jackie said. “Did you just meet him on the boat?”

“Yes—just on the boat.”

Jackie gave Hannah a searching look. Then her face, once again, turned kindly and professionally blank.

“Well. I just thought you ought to know the whole situation. Are you waking up now?”

“… Still logy.”

“That's the sedative the doctor gave you. It should be wearing off soon. Are you hungry?”

Hannah thought about it. She shook her head.

“Well,” Jackie said again. “I need to show my face at dinner, to keep up appearances. But if you decide you can handle some food, just pick up the phone. Call the purser. He'll bring you anything you want.”

“Thank you.”

“And if you want to talk about anything, or want anything at all …”

“I think I'll just sleep for a while.”

“All right,” Jackie said. She stood. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you.”

“Sleep well,” Jackie said again. She gave Hannah a final empty smile, and left.

3.

That doesn't look safe
, Renee Epstein had said.

It'll be fine
, Hannah had assured her.

Yet it hadn't, of course. It had been very far from fine.

Had it all been a dream? That face, oddly ageless. The Epsteins, touching each other in death.

All a fever dream, she decided. She was sick. The weather seemed to be worsening, which didn't help. The sea had turned choppy; the boat pitched and yawed relentlessly. She kept her eyes tightly closed.

She was finished.

When they reached Istanbul, they would be met by the FBI. Every person on board the ship would be put under a microscope. They would look at her passport, and see that it had been forged. And she would be finished.

She was as bad as Jackie Burns, in her way. She had witnessed two murders. And yet already her mind was turning to her own concerns.
Now we need to look ahead, and make things as easy as possible on the rest of us.

Perhaps it was just part of life, Hannah thought. Perhaps life meant moving ahead, when death showed its face.

In her case, however, the only place to move ahead to was prison.

When the niggling voice spoke, her eyes opened halfway.

Remember: there's no record of your presence here.

Suddenly she felt overly warm. She shoved the blanket aside and then lay on her back, limbs splayed, aspirating shallowly.

It was true. There was no proof that she had ever been on the ship. Vicky was the one who had been on board, according to the passenger roster. So if she could somehow find a way to slip away undetected, then she might still have a chance. If she could get herself home, to her father …

How would he react now, if she appeared on his doorstep with a warrant out for her arrest? There had been bad blood between them. But would he turn on his own daughter? No. Instead he would help her broker a deal, an exchange. He was a criminal lawyer in Baltimore; he would get her the best possible terms. She would turn over Frank, and in return the company would forgive her mistakes and wipe her record clean. A fresh start.

Wishful thinking.

But was there any other option?

She bit her lip, trying to think of one, and came up empty. Her mistakes over the past few months had whittled her options down to nothing.

Slowly, her mind turned to Yildirim.

He was chief security officer aboard the boat. If the chief of security couldn't find a way around his own rules—a way to help her slip unnoticed through customs at Istanbul—then who could?

For another ten minutes, she stayed where she was, her brow creased. Then she got out of bed. The feeling of sickness had passed. Only shock, after all. She looked at herself in the mirror above the dresser. Her hair wound crazily in a half-dozen directions. The skin beneath her eyes was purplish and bruised-looking. She wouldn't get far with Yildirim, not looking like this.

Which was, of course, why God had created makeup.

She went into the bathroom, took a long shower, and then considered herself again in the mirror. Better. There was something to work with, at least. Something was better than nothing.

Anything was better than nothing.

She reached for her makeup, and went to work.

4.

Francis Dietz stood on the hotel balcony, considering.

Before him, night had fallen. The town of Methoni was waking up. Tablecloths were unrolled in outdoor cafès as pretty hostesses took up spots on winding sidewalks to waylay tourists. Behind him, Leonard was grabbing some sleep on the room's couch. Dietz could hear the sounds of his breathing, labored and stertorous in the heavy air.

He returned to his thoughts. The Epsteins' cabin had been empty. Leonard had taken care of the couple—yet they still did not have the formula. Perhaps this meant that there had been no physical copy. Perhaps this game was already finished, before it had truly begun.

Leonard, however, had reported a young woman in the Epsteins' company on the tour. If she was involved somehow, perhaps she could lead them to the formula.

He would have to report back to Keyes, though. Keyes couldn't be cut out of the loop just yet. That would create more troubles than it would solve.

He moved into the room quietly, to avoid waking Leonard. He found the telephone near the front door and placed his call. Keyes was not in the office. Dietz left a message, then hung up, returned to the balcony, and took out his pack of cigarettes.

Who would he approach? Yurchenko, he thought. Yurchenko had been a member of the FSB back when it had been the KGB. Yurchenko knew both the old guard and the new guard. In all likelihood, Yurchenko would put him in touch with Ismayalov. Vladimir Ismayalov, the agent's cagey, self-promoting ex-boss, known as the vulture. The vulture's network of contacts was international. He'd be able to find an interested buyer, Dietz was sure of it.

But he was getting ahead of himself. When the moment arrived, he would make his move. Until then, he needed to be patient.

He lit a cigarette.
Patience
, he thought.

SEVEN

1.

Hannah Gray accepted a vodka tonic from a waiter, signed for the drink, and then turned her eyes to the lounge before her.

At minutes before midnight, the space was nearly deserted. The ship's piano player was navigating a desultory version of “Summertime.” An elderly couple sat before the piano, singing along in soft, cracked voices. Except for two waiters and Hannah herself, there was nobody else in sight. The rough seas, combined with the shock of the afternoon, had driven most of the passengers on board to retire early. In a way, Hannah was surprised to see anybody at all here in the lounge. Death had intruded on this tranquil voyage; and in its face, the passengers had retreated to solitude.

Then Yildirim was coming out of the rest room on her left, heading for the corner table where he had left a whiskey and a pack of English Ovals. Hannah counted to three before stepping into his path. When they collided, her carefully positioned drink spilled down the front of her blouse. She grimaced.

“My fault,” she said, as he said, “Forgive me—”

He found a pile of cocktail napkins on a nearby bar, realized that he could not start mopping at Hannah's blouse, and handed one to her awkwardly.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Please, forgive me.”

“My fault. I'm still rattled, I guess.”

“Let me get you another.”

“Oh, you don't need to do that. I'll just—”

“Please,” he said, and gestured toward his corner table. “Please. I insist.”

2.

“If you ask me,” she said, “it's a question of legality, not morality.”

Yildirim was listening, his head cocked to one side. Before he had a chance to comment, she rushed on: