At the time there was only Ricci for her.
His face, his eyes, his voice…
His firm, steadying hand. He’d slipped it around her back, held her erect, kept her from falling as the strength returned to her legs, helping her toward the door.
Guiding her toward freedom with his hand.
Julia had hesitated before she stepped out into the hallway. Looking into his eyes, meeting them with hers, wanting to say something. Groping in her mind for something to say, and not quite knowing what in the moment she had available.
A hurried thank-you had seemed woefully, ridiculously inadequate, but it was all that had occurred to her…
And only then had it registered with Julia that there was still a gag around her mouth. The scarf, or strip of cloth, or whatever it was, taut between her lips, its knot uncut.
It had left Julia with no chance to say anything, no chance, and she had simply nodded mutely and gone through the opening, the door shutting behind her with a slam, Ricci’s team of Sword operatives rushing around her, sweeping her down a flight of stairs — a spiral staircase — and outside into the sunlight, and then finally through the door of a car and away, all of it happening in a blur from the point at which she’d heard the loud slam of that door at her back.
Now, over twelve months later in her darkened bedroom, Julia sat up thinking for a time, letting her dream’s intensity fade, as it did for even the worst of dreams, before she gradually let her head sink down to her pillow.
Turning onto her side, she reached across to the empty half of the bed where her husband had once slept, briefly spread her fingers over the cool, unruffled sheet, and then pulled back her hand to gather the covers against her breast.
The tears came on and off before she slept, but Julia had learned to get by with that sort of minor nuisance.
At the herbal boutique today, in fact, she’d picked up a fresh bottle of eyedrops that would wash away the redness before she again had to face the world.
FIVE
Nimec held off on phoning Vince Scull, up Link’s chief risk assessment man and lead crank, until nine o’clock in the morning. With the difference in time zones, this meant it would be five A.M. in San Jose, not exactly regular office hours, but Nimec had punched in Vince’s home number and figured he would be up getting ready for work by then. And if he wasn’t, Nimec figured he ought to be. And if that was a stretch to justify the early call, Nimec wasn’t about to let himself feel too bad. He’d waited to the extent that his patience had allowed, reasoned he’d suffered enough aggravation from Vince over the years to be due a huge credit bonus, and in any event had never known Vince to react any better to consideration versus inconsideration. The guy would invariably find some reason to grouse, so why let it be a factor either way?
“What the hell do you want?” Scull said groggily once Nimec had announced himself.
“We need to talk, Vince.”
“Gee-fucking-whiz what a treat,” Scull said. “Just when I think I’m rid of you for a couple weeks, you decide to haunt me long distance.”
“This is important, Vince.”
“It occur to you I might have company and we’re maybe in the middle of something?”
“No, Vince. Honest. Can’t say it did.”
“Yeah, well, up yours, too,” Vince said. “Speaking of which, want to hang on while I pay a visit to the throne, or is it okay I carry the phone in and chitchat as things move along?”
“We need to talk right now, Vince.”
There was a pause of what Nimec took to be consternation at the other end of the line.
“Have it your way,” Scull said. “You hear a grunt come out of me, it’s not because I got turned on by your voice.”
“Good of you to share that,” Nimec said, and without any further holdup went on to outline the observations he’d made at the harbor.
Ten minutes and various undefined rumblings from Scull later, he’d gotten around to the questions that had plagued him since then… the first of which concerned the lines he’d seen run between the main container ship and its three feeders.
“I think they were fuel transfer hoses,” he said. “And I’m wondering if you’ve ever heard of cargo ships that double as oil tankers.”
“Uh-huh,” Scull said. “I have.”
“You
“Oh, sure. Multitasking’s the word these days. What it’s all about,” Scull said. “Take this pair of shoes I bought, for instance. Put ’em under a bright light and they can dance ballet, tap, and modern jazz on their own. I’m telling you, Petey, you oughtta see the razzle-dazzle show they give on my kitchen table.”
Nimec rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“Come on,” he said, exasperated. “Be serious.”
“Okay, I was full of crap about the ballet part, and the taps lose rhythm after a minute or two,” Scull said. “What the fuck you want for fifty bucks at Payless?”
“Damn it, Vince—”
“I’m seriously trying to tell you I’ve never heard of anything like you mentioned,” Scull said. And was quiet a second. “Well, okay, strike that. Think it was in World War Two, the Allies used to dress up fuel tankers heading out to the Pacific as standard freighters. Made ’em lower value targets for the Zeroes. And far as I know they really carried freight on deck.”
“Dress them up.”
“Is what I said two sentences ago, yeah,” Scull said. “There’s a problem with your phone connection, Petey- boy, you could always hang up and call back after the birds start to chirp.”
Nimec was tugging his chin.
“The Second World War dates back a ways.”
“You’re implying what’s old ain’t relevant, I’d have to take that as an insult.”
Nimec ignored him. “Question, Vince. You figure it’s possible anybody would be doing that now?” he said. “I mean
“Anything’s possible,” Scull said. “Can’t be too complicated a trick to overhaul a ship. But you know you’re asking me a two-in-one of your own here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So which you want me to check out for openers? Who might be doing it on the up-and-up, or who might have reasons that’re on the slippery side?”
“Both,” Nimec said. “It’s why I asked the way I did.”
Scull gave him a somewhat exaggerated harrumph.
“This happen to tie in with Megan’s mystery e-mails?”
“I’d say so if knew, Vince.”
“But you don’t.”
“No,” Nimec said. “I don’t.”
“How about theories?”
“Yours would be good as mine.”
Again, Scull didn’t say anything.
