It was a beautiful morning to be on the water with clear skies and only a slight breeze out of the east-northeast. The azure Mediterranean was calm and the Kiwis, Boyd and Jeremy, were enjoying themselves as the big Riva day boat they rented skimmed over the sea at about forty knots.
The henchmen had gotten up early and decided to try to get a visual identification on Khamsin. They defined a search area within a fifty mile radius of Monaco and figured on finding her to the east-southeast. If conditions remained the same they would be able to cover a lot of water in the time they had available. Boyd, the more cerebral of the two, wanted to be back in the harbor at Nice by noon allowing them to refuel the boat, go over their plans to abduct Ilya, and meet up with their accomplice. Bringing someone else into an assignment always made Boyd nervous, especially a job as important as this one would be. He could already see a comfortable retirement in his future and he didn’t want anything or anyone to fuck it up.
As Boyd handled the helm Jeremy opened a bottle of lager and took a long drink.
“Plenty of time for that after the job is done. Get rid of it, Jeremy.”
“Like hell. It’s my breakfast, mate.”
“And it’ll be your last if you screw up anything today.” Boyd glared but kept his hands on the wheel. They were traveling at more than forty-five miles an hour and the boat was nearly forty feet long. It would be a train wreck if he lost control.
Jeremy thought about staring him down, but instead just tossed the bottle in the air and watched it drop into the gleaming white wake that fanned out behind the speedboat.
“Right. Plenty of time for that later,” he smirked. Boyd’s big brother routine pissed him off, but he had to admit, there was a lot of money on the table.
Boyd pointed to his left and yelled over the wind and engine noise, “There’s Monte Carlo.”
Both men admired the view of the principality from three and a half kilometers out. The sun glinted off its bright buildings, old and new alike and the harbor was full of the most luxurious yachts in the world. Perhaps Monaco would be a good place for them to retire. No taxes and an endless supply of beautiful women.
“Do you think we should check out the marina basin? Maybe Khamsin put into port.”
Bart thought for a second and said, “Not a bad idea. We won’t have to get too close. She’s two hundred and fifty feet long and has an unusual radar mast.”
Jeremy nodded in acknowledgment and Boyd turned the boat to bring the bow into alignment with the entrance to the channel. They noticed a helicopter lifting off directly ahead.
“Probably taking off from one of the yachts moored over there.” Boyd kept a firm hand on the wheel.
“Right.” Jeremy made do with a soft drink for breakfast and that diminished his already limited flair for conversation.
The Jet Ranger flew in their direction and they watched as it approached. The helicopter passed by at high speed as it headed out to sea.
“Wonder where he’s going in such a bloody hurry?” When both men turned around to follow the chopper Boyd immediately pulled back on the throttles fast enough to knock Jeremy to the deck.
“Hey, what the fuck?”
“Shut up.” Boyd snatched up a pair of binoculars from the console and scanned to the south of their boat. Jeremy dragged himself to his feet and strained to focus on the object capturing Boyd’s attention. Then he realized it was Khamsin.
“Imagine? We’ve been so busy playing tourist we were looking the wrong direction. There she is, mate. The bloody Khamsin in all her glory.”
The elegant black-hulled yacht appeared to be stationary at a point about three kilometers south of their position and the helicopter seemed to be on course to intercept it. Boyd wasted no time turning the Riva a hundred and eighty degrees. He backed off on the throttles and headed in the direction of Khamsin at a sedate twenty knots.
“Let’s see what happens.”
Jeremy just grunted in reply as he rubbed at the bruised spot on his ass and pulled another Coke from the refrigerator. As they looked on, the Jet Ranger slowed and made a wide turn around the ship. Khamsin, already turned into the light wind, was ready to receive the incoming craft on a broad platform astern. The pilot impressed Serge’s goons with his skill as he approached Khamsin and, in a delicate maneuver, landed softly on the helipad.
Boyd put down his binoculars moments before the helicopter exploded in a fireball that engulfed the stern of the yacht and sent flames and black smoke hundreds of feet into the air. Within seconds another explosion and an accompanying flash erupted just below the forward section of bridge and main salon. This time it was different. The hull blew out as though Khamsin had been hit by something on the opposite side. A missile?
The stricken yacht was sinking quickly and with it Boyd’s chances for a wealthy retirement. He shoved the throttles forward and aimed his boat toward the conflagration. They had covered less than half the distance to the doomed ship when a third explosion erupted from the middle of its once beautiful hull. Khamsin was already dying, but the last hit was the coup de gras. By the time Boyd and Jeremy arrived at the scene the megayacht had vanished. Burning patches of oil, plumes of dark smoke, and scattered bits of wreckage were all that remained on the surface. Through the smoky haze Boyd was able to discern the white wake of a very fast boat moving away. It was at least a kilometer off to the south and picking up speed. He knew he could never catch it and didn’t try. Instead he circled the debris field hoping in vain to find a survivor. Preferably, Ilya Rusikov. They found no one, not even a floating corpse, and Boyd understood instinctively that that was precisely the result the killers had been aiming for.
“What the fuck?” He hammered his fist into the console and drew back bloody, skinned knuckles.
Jeremy didn’t say a word as he threw his soft drink overboard. He pulled a couple of lagers out of the refrigerator. He handed one to Boyd and plopped himself down on a white upholstered swivel chair near the helm.
“Two million euros blown to freakkin’ hell.” Boyd wiped his bloody hand on his shorts and took a long pull on his beer.
There was no point in leaving the scene: that would only look bad. The authorities were already on their way. Worse, he had to call Serge in the short time remaining before they arrived. In moments what started out to be the best day of his life had gone straight to shit. Fuck it all to hell! He drained half the bottle of beer. Boyd stabbed the buttons on his phone and was rewarded with an immediate answer. The sour man delivered the news as quickly and succinctly as he could. At first Serge said nothing then erupted with an angry “Find Anya Kovich. DO IT!” The line went dead. Boyd’s mood strangely improved. A new assignment and maybe another shot at a payday. Then, the authorities arrived.
Malroff, dangerously enraged, sat staring out at the lake with thoughts spinning through his head like a maelstrom. Anya had to be found and returned to him immediately. He got up but felt unsteady on his feet. Stress aggravated the leg injury and caused his thigh muscles to cramp. A string of curses followed in his wake as he hobbled down the hall to the room Penelope Goldman occupied. Before he opened the door he stooped and went back to his own suite where he rummaged through an assortment of containers in his drawer full of medications. Taking three or four pills from one he popped them into his mouth and washed them down with a half a bottle of water. Past experience told him relief would come soon and as he waited he picked up the phone and dialed Duccio’s desk in his small office downstairs.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need a masseur sent. Now."
“Of course, sir.”
“Remove Lady Goldman from my house. Do it now!”
“Yes, Mr. Malroff.” Serge knew Duccio would obey his instructions without fail. He didn’t love Penelope by any means, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to torture and kill someone. It would be inconvenient if that person were Penelope Goldman. Then he went back to obsessing
over Anya Kovich.
35.