Wild Storm (15 page)

“So, take the Nazis,” he continued. “If you take moral relativism to its logical conclusion, suddenly you can’t say the Nazis were bad. They were just a group of people who applied their worldview to the extreme, right? Well, that’s not for me. I believe there is such a thing as absolute bad and absolute good. And, yes, there is a full spectrum of shades in between, which is where most people live. But when I see things that are a lot closer to the bad end of the spectrum, and see that people who are a lot closer to the good end of the spectrum are going to be hurt, I feel I have to act.”

“But again, why you?”

“Because I was the guy who was made bigger and stronger than most other guys. Because I’ve been trained in how to use that strength. Because my father remains one of the most decent men I’ve ever met, and I know he’d be disappointed in me if I didn’t use my skills to protect good, innocent people. And mostly because if I don’t respond to these situations, I’m not sure anyone else will, and I can’t live with the guilt of knowing I could have done something but didn’t. It’s some combination of all that, plus a lot of other stuff I can’t think of right now because this wine is going to my head a little bit.”

She crossed her glorious legs and looked at him earnestly. It made her even more attractive to him, if that was possible. “But how do we judge what’s bad and what’s good?”

“With our basic sense of humanity. It’s there, deep down in all of us. Or at least most of us. We just need to have the courage to listen to it and act accordingly.”

“So what happens when you need to be saved? Who does that?”

“I don’t know,” Storm said. “Luckily, it doesn’t happen all that often.”

“Well, if you ever need someone to save you, I’ll be happy to do it.”

“Really?” Storm said, as much bemused as touched. “You have to be careful making offers like that. You never know when someone is going take you up on it.”

She nodded thoughtfully, then held up her empty glass. “Drink up, Mr. Einstein. You’re falling behind.”

Storm tilted back his glass and took a Storm-sized swallow of the red wine. Then another, until the glass was done.

She was smiling at him the whole time. It was a pleasant, sweet smile, until it started going slanty.

Then, Storm realized, it wasn’t just her lips that were getting crooked. Her whole face was. No, wait, it was the whole world.

Nausea hit him harder than any of the waves crashing far below. The glass slipped from his hand and he was dimly aware of it shattering on the marble.

He felt himself going over. He tried to yell, to fight it, to battle the gravity that was taking him over. But nothing in his body would respond. He wasn’t even sure if the yell made it out.

The last thing he was cognizant of before it all went black was her reaching for her phone, picking it up, pressing a few buttons.

“He’s down,” she said into it. “You can come get him now.”

CHAPTER 16

SOMEWHERE IN THE MEDITERRANEAN

here was a hand in his face. It was large and hairy. Useful looking, if a bit ugly. Its knuckles bore the marks of too many scrapes, too many punches. The palm had a long scar running along it that looked strangely familiar and…

Yes. That’s because it was his own hand. He made an effort to flex it, and it moved. Not only was it his own hand, it was under his own control. This was a good start.

He was in a bed. It was a nice bed, with high thread-count satin sheets and a down comforter that provided ample protection against a blast of air-conditioning from above.

He blinked twice. Sunlight streamed through a set of windows to his left. When he looked out the windows, he could see only clouds. But the clouds were moving.

No. He was moving. He was in a vessel of some kind. A boat. Definitely a boat. It was a large one, but he could still feel the faint motion of the waves, the rumble of engines far below him.

He propped himself up on his elbows.

“There you are,” a pleasant voice sang out.

It was the redhead from the previous night. She was wearing a blue knit top and white shorts that were just long enough to not cause a scandal when she bent over. Her hair was up in a ponytail. She was still stunning, but there was an officious air to her.

“Good morning, Mr. Storm,” she said.

Storm made a grumbling noise that sounded like “wuueeaaaiii,” but it went up in pitch slightly at the end. The woman took it as a question.

“You’re aboard a boat called the
Warrior Princess
,” she said. “It is owned by my employer, Ingrid Karlsson. My name is Tilda. I am Ms. Karlsson’s personal assistant. You were brought here by helicopter last night shortly after you blacked out. I apologize for having to do it that way, but Ms. Karlsson is very security conscious. She never ties her boat up at port. She doesn’t like people coming by and gawking at it. She feels it invades her privacy.”

Storm sat all the way up, rubbed his eyes.

“I guess I needed saving sooner than I thought,” he said.

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” she said. “And I’m sorry about how last night had to end. But, for what it’s worth, I had a lovely time. You really are quite a magnificent dancer.”

She giggled, brought her hand to her mouth. “And an outstanding kisser. Thank you for that.”

Storm made a noise that was supposed to be “you’re welcome,” but it didn’t quite come out right.

“The effects of the sedative we used should be wearing off shortly,” she said. “If you like, I can have the ship’s doctor prepare a mild amphetamine for you to help you perk up a little quicker.”

“No drugs,” he croaked.

“Very well. Perhaps some breakfast, then?”

He nodded. Moments later, he heard, “Good morning, Mr. Storm. What can I have the chef prepare for you?”

Storm’s eyes struggled to focus. When they did, he saw that it was Jacque, from the previous night. Except he no longer looked like an indolent, spoiled cocaine addict. He was neatly attired in white pants and blue polo shirt. White and blue were apparently the staff uniform around here. He was a lot thinner than Storm remembered. No beer gut.

“You had a chest protector on,” Storm said.

“Yes, sir,” he said, smiling good-naturedly. “Though that was still a mighty good kick. I’m a little sore this morning.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t go for your face.”

“Ms. Karlsson’s security staff had studied your tendencies. They said if I brought my hands up and left my midsection exposed, that’s where you would strike. Good thing they were right. Anyhow, what can I get you from the kitchen?”

“Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Coffee,” Storm said, knowing that combination would restore his vitality more efficiently than any pill or potion from the ship’s doctor.

“Yes, sir,” he said, disappearing as quickly as he came.

Tilda showed Storm to the shower—though, sadly, did not join him—then pointed him toward a closet where several clothing choices were laid out for him. Storm went casual, selecting a black cashmere sports coat, a gray polo shirt, and a pair of jeans that fit his thighs and ass like they had been tailored for him. For all he knew, they had been.

After his breakfast, served to him on china that cost more than the first three cars Storm owned, Tilda led him on a long tour through the
Warrior Princess
, from the top of its glistening superstructure to the depths of its engine rooms. She let him have the run of the place, skipping only the crew’s quarters—which weren’t all that interesting—and Ingrid Karlsson’s personal quarters, which were very interesting, but which were only open to guests who were invited by Ingrid herself.

Tilda stopped at her own stateroom, which was just off the main aft deck. He wasn’t sure if it was just part of the tour or if it was a suggestion for later. He hoped it was the latter, but by now he recognized he didn’t have much of a read on Ms. Karlsson’s personal assistant.

As they continued, Storm got to take in some of its more entertaining features: a cinema with a screen as large as any he had seen at a commercial movie theater; a library that included Scandinavian crime-fiction masters Henning Mankell, Jo Nesbø, as well as Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö, but not a trace of any hornet’s-nest kicking, fire-playing tattooed girls; a three-level swimming pool complex that included a waterfall, a lagoon, and four hot tubs, from an intimate two-seater to one that looked like it could accommodate a full party; and an indoor health club that included an assortment of weight machines, cardiovascular contraptions, and courts for tennis and racquetball.

Some of the other recreational facilities included a retractable sea deck off the stern from which snorkelers and/or scuba divers could jump into the water when the ship was anchored; a floating dock that could be deployed for the launching of any one of several pleasure crafts, be they Jet Skis or powerboats appropriate for pulling water-skiers; and upper decks that could be used to entertain guests with skeet shooting, kite flying, or the opportunity to blast biodegradable golf balls into the great blue beyond. The helicopter pad—where, apparently, Storm had landed the night before—was on a deck near the stern, next to a sleek smokestack that was the ship’s tallest feature.

There was also a variety of dining rooms, both covered and open, to serve all manner of meals to groups both large and small; a ship’s commissary, where all the items were, naturally, free; and an inebriating assortment of bars, wet and dry, from which alcohol and other liquid concoctions could be prepared. More or less, every amenity that might be available to a person staying in a resort or on a cruise ship was accounted for.

Each room was decorated with a grandeur that staggered even Storm, no stranger to wealth or those who possessed it. Stylistically, each had its own design aesthetic, which varied widely, almost as if the boat’s owner wanted to be able to pick the era that fit her mood. Victorian could give way to modern, which in turn could give way to cubism. Influences ranged from west to east, north to south, with Russian Imperial being followed by feng shui being followed by African folk art.

If there was a common theme, it was simply opulence. Everywhere he went Storm caught glimpses of rare antiquities, the finest furnishings or priceless artwork. Any one of the pieces might have been the jewel of another person’s collection. Here, they were commonplace. At times, Storm could scarcely believe that everything he was seeing was floating on a ship that could go anywhere it wanted across seventy-five percent of the Earth’s surface.

But, no, they were definitely on a boat. At one point they passed another ship, calling out to it with three loud blasts of what sounded like a more mellow version of a trumpet.

“What is that supposed to be? A trombone?”

Tilda laughed. “You’re close. That’s actually meant to mimic the sound of a French horn. Ms. Karlsson loves the sound of a French horn and one of the touches she insisted on when commissioning this ship was that it signaled other ships with something that sounded like a French horn. She really did think of all the details.”

The tour ended in the ship’s bridge, which was, to a gearhead like Storm, the most impressive part. It was less a wheelhouse in the traditional sense and more of a command center, decked out with walls full of computers and digital screens. The
Warrior Princess
’s gadgetry was every bit as advanced as anything Storm had seen on a warship, in some cases even more advanced than the U.S. Navy vessels Storm had been aboard. Ingrid Karlsson obviously didn’t have to worry about any sequesters.

The ship’s defenses were particularly impressive. Like Xena herself, this
Warrior Princess
was equipped for a fight. There was the human security force, which consisted of barrel-chested men—Storm had seen three or four—wearing the blue-and-white uniforms that Karlsson favored. Storm was actually surprised there weren’t more of them, but only until he was shown the electronic security, which was far more formidable.

Storm listened as the first mate ran through some of its features. Radar, of course. Sonar, both passive and active. Lidar for anything any of those systems missed. Surface-to-air missiles that could knock out anything that tried to approach from the air. Torpedoes that could handle anything coming from the water, either on top of it or below it. And they were all linked to an automated advanced detection system that was at the ready 24-7, whether humans were monitoring it closely or not.

“We’ve had to tinker with some of the settings,” said the first mate. “We’ve had some issues with schools of tuna tripping it, but we’ve kept it at a pretty sensitive level. Truth is, anything much larger than a dolphin tries to come at this ship and it’ll have a warhead heading toward it. There was one time when we nearly blasted a whale out of the water.”

“And that would
not
have made me happy,” said an authoritative voice. “Even with the amount of money I give to Greenpeace, I never would have heard the end of it.”

Storm turned to see a middle-aged woman, nearly six feet tall and well kept, with black hair cut in straight bangs across her forehead and lively gray-blue eyes.

It was the warrior princess herself.

THERE WERE PROPER INTRODUCTIONS,
followed by a lively recounting of the previous evening’s activities.

“I must apologize, again, for the method of extraction,” Karlsson said when they were through. “In addition to my usual concerns about privacy, I felt the CIA’s involvement required some extra care. If we had met at Slip F-18 as planned, we would have been practically begging for someone to tail us. Unleashing Tilda on you was the only way I could think of to prevent that.”

“That’s okay,” Storm said, winking at Tilda. “There were benefits.”

Storm and Karlsson left Tilda and the other crew members, retiring to a salon just off her private quarters.

As with other rooms in the ship, this one was decorated in its own style—in this case, Queen Anne. Storm recognized a classic example of portraiture of that era. The largest was of a man with a doughy face in knight’s armor. He had a towering pouf of center-parted curly hair. It was a wig that would have made a Jersey girl proud.

Storm selected a high-backed walnut chair with swooping cabriole legs and sat.

“That’s from the early eighteenth century,” Karlsson told him. “It is believed that Queen Anne herself sat in that chair when she celebrated passage of the Acts of Union with Parliament. Are you familiar with the Acts of Union?”

Storm bit his lip rather than make a joke about the acts of union he personally preferred. “Not really,” he said instead.

“They were two acts, passed by the parliaments of England and Scotland, that ended hundreds of years of bloody fighting between the English and the Scots with the stroke of a pen rather than the flash of a sword. What’s interesting is that, unlike most treaties, both sides came away claiming to be the victor. But I would argue that’s what happens when you erase national borders, which are human constructs that never should have been drawn in the first place. Everybody wins. That chair is a symbol of my hope for humanity.”

“Should I stand instead?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I know my tastes are a bit eclectic, but it is done thoughtfully. I don’t want to be a slave to one design style any more than I’d want to be a slave to one government. I don’t want people to come here and say, ‘Oh, a Swedish lady lives here’ or even, ‘Oh, here’s a Swedish lady who’s pretending to be Hindu.’ I want the whole world represented on this ship. I want people to find something that’s familiar and comfortable in one place, and then something that broadens their horizons or challenges their perspective in another.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Storm said. “Every bit of it.”

“Well, thank you,” she said. “To tell you the truth, Brigitte had a very heavy influence on this room. She picked out several of the pieces. She loved the Michael Dahl portrait behind you.”

Storm turned around and again appraised the painting of the guy with the Jersey-girl hair.

“That’s Prince George of Denmark. He was Queen Anne’s husband. Brigitte picked out that painting because of the kind of spouse Prince George was. He was always supportive of his wife in public, even when they disagreed privately. And unlike most men of that era, who would have tried to assert their dominance over their wives in some or all aspects, Prince George was quite content to let Queen Anne be the powerful woman that she was. You could say Queen Anne had the world’s first truly modern mate, a person who was not fixated on gender roles.”

Ingrid’s voice trailed away. Storm could tell she was lost in a memory.

“You cared for her a lot, didn’t you?” he said.

“Oh my, I…yes, of course. Brigitte and I were lovers, as you may have heard. She was…I won’t say she made me realize I was a lesbian, because that’s not true. I had figured out fairly early on I was not interested in a sexual relationship with a man. No offense.”

“None taken. I’m not interested in a sexual relationship with a man, either.”