“The venue is a concern,” Drake said, suddenly serious. “That Kobe bell is too out in the open. I’d prefer we moved it to a more secure location like the Japan Cultural Center. At least it’s got walls. In case you haven’t noticed, our actions have garnered me an enemy or two.”
And I should be at the top of that list, Ran thought but kept it to herself.
“That is fine,” McKeon said. “The location is of no consequence. The message is the important thing. I’ll have David inform the Secret Service.”
“After the speech then,” Ran said, still watching McKeon’s eyes.
“What?
Ran glared at him. “After the speech, I will sort out your wife. Having her in the picture exhausts me.”
McKeon pulled away, laughing, avoiding her eyes. He did many things, but he never avoided her eyes. “Oh, dear Ran,” he said. “I have the situation with my wife under control. Trust me. Everything will work out as it must.”
Chapter 30
A half hour after they’d arrived at the Bursaws’ inn, Quinn straddled the little BMW 75/5 under the shade of the beech tree and planted his feet for Song to climb on behind him. She assured him she’d ridden before, but the tentative look in her eye said her experience had likely been on little more than a scooter. Kevin and Petra Bursaw had outfitted them with riding jackets, helmets, and leather gloves from the extras they had accumulated over the years of running a motorcycle touring company.
Quinn, who had crashed more bikes than many people have ridden, opted for a black full-face helmet and an armored mesh jacket — following his father’s advice to plan for the wreck instead of the ride. The jacket had started life as khaki in color but hours under the sun had combined with road grime and bug guts to give the material a natural camouflage that blended with the scrub and limestone of the surrounding hills. Song wore a more stylish half helmet, yellow to match the bike’s bumblebee paint job. Petra loaned her a pair of goggles since the shorty helmet didn’t have a face shield. The breezes rolling in off the sea would be just cool enough to make her kidskin jacket comfortable once they were riding. The lightweight leather was stylish, but was also discreetly armored at the elbows and spine, giving her some protection in the event they suffered an involuntary get-off.
Quinn thought about asking Kevin Bursaw if he had a pistol but decided against it since he was already apparently taking the man’s favorite bike. Petra stuffed a couple of sandwiches and a pair of binoculars in a small knapsack and gave it to Song.
“I am not sure what you’re doing,” Petra said. “And to be completely honest, it is probably better that way. But the sandwiches will help you blend in while you are doing it.”
Quinn put a hand to his helmet in a sloppy salute and then eased out on the clutch, rattling down the cobblestone toward the Državna Cesta D8, a narrow ribbon of highway that ran along the coast of Adriatic Sea. Song scooted up close, squeezing with her long thighs and clenching her fists around his gut as if she was trying to save him from choking. She proved to be a quick learner and relaxed by degrees with each passing mile once they hit the highway.
Traffic was light and other motorcycles made up a good deal of what little there was.
It had been so long since Quinn had been on the back of a bike that he was almost sorry when he came out of a lean on a sweeping corner and saw Anton Scuric’s boat come into view. Song tensed behind him, seeing the boat as well, at anchor a quarter mile out in the aquamarine water, right where Kevin Bursaw said it would be.
Quinn downshifted and turned the bike onto a small gravel turnout on a wooded hill that overlooked the ocean some hundred meters below. They’d passed a small dirt lane not quite a mile back and Quinn assumed it was the service road for anyone going to or from the vessel.
Song slid off the bike immediately, using the binoculars to scan the ocean like a tourist, but not paying an inordinate amount of attention to the boat. Three other bikes — big American Harleys that stood out from the quieter European stuff — chuffed past on the highway behind them. Quinn straddled the bike, happy the Harleys moved on down the road. He slouched on the handlebars with the side stand down, waiting for his turn with the binoculars.
“I see no one onboard,” Song said before handing them to Quinn.
Quinn used the binoculars with one hand, shielding them against a low western sun with the other. Song was right. There might be people on the boat, but there was no one on deck.
The Perunika was a “gullet.” Originally Turkish trading vessels, the sleek wooden schooners were often used on the Adriatic as charter operations — or for smuggling. This one was on the large end of the scale. Judging from the size of the wheelhouse, Quinn estimated it at around ninety feet in length. Perunika had started life as a sailing vessel but the masts and all the associated lines and stays had been removed to make for a cleaner deck. The oak planks were varnished and she looked to be in decent shape with accents and trim painted bright white and deep blue.
“Some kind of pier down along the rocks,” Quinn said, scanning. “Looks like he’s got a small inflatable tied up there. Nice engine… looks fairly new.” He lowered the binoculars and passed back them to Song. “Awfully tempting for a thief. Odd that Scuric would leave it tied up and unattended for very long.”
“Unless everyone is so frightened they leave his things alone.” Song took a look through the glasses as she spoke. “You think the Fengs are on this boat?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “But I’m betting whoever left that dinghy there won’t be gone long. Let’s stash the bike and go down for a closer look.”
Quinn pushed the Beemer over the gravel lip, using the brake and clutch to move downhill in a controlled roll toward a stand of fragrant cedars. He skirted large stones and piles of toilet paper that lay like landmines in the tufted grass, left over from roadside toilet emergencies. Song followed along behind him with the pack.
Braking when he reached the trees, Quinn eased the bike through the dense underbrush and leaned it against a gnarled cedar trunk, making certain the front tire was pointing uphill so he wouldn’t have to do a lot of jockeying if he had to climb up and get back onto the road in a hurry. It was not difficult work, but Quinn found he was sweating by the time he was finished and chalked it up to the aftereffects of the surgery in China. Song noticed and looped the binoculars around her neck, helping him pile brush over the bike.
The cedar grove covered most of the hillside, giving them adequate concealment as they made their way to the shoreline. There was no trail, but the brush and rocks gave them passable footing even as it grew steeper above the beach. Quinn slid to a stop just inside the tree line. Crouching in the mottled shadows beside Song, he studied the Perunika where she bobbed at anchor. He thought he caught the sight of movement through the curtains in the raised salon, but the deck remained empty and quiet.