Christine tried to comprehend. “How did he end up in the middle of the ocean?”
“No telling right now,” Bennett mused. “Perhaps he was hired to sink the ship, this Polaris Venture, and then botched up his escape.”
“He told me there were no other survivors. I thought that was odd.”
“Nothing odd about it. All his doing, I suspect. Now, you said that he made you turn your boat around and take him here, to England. Did he mention why?”
Christine considered that and was about to answer when the telephone rang. She went to the nightstand to pick it up when Harding spoke for the first time.
“Let it go, Dr. Palmer. They’ll leave a message at the front desk.”
“No,” Christine said, “I think it might be Chief Bickerstaff. I told him —” Her line of thought derailed. Something was wrong. What was it? Harding had spoken for the first time, and his voice — no his accent — it was anything but British. She turned to see both men moving toward her.
“What—”
She reached for the phone but Harding’s hand came down firmly on top of hers. When the phone stopped ringing, he reached around behind the nightstand and unplugged the wire.
Chapter Seven
Christine sat quietly on the couch, stunned. Her stomach was knotted, her muscles rigid. Harding sat next to her, a gun in his far hand. She wanted to cry out, to scream for help, but they’d warned her against it. That warning was reinforced by the ominously calm expressions of her new captors. It had happened again. Ever since she’d pulled that miserable, half-dead wretch from the ocean, her life had gone mad, a nightmare with no end.
They had spent the last few minutes asking questions, many of the same ones they’d already asked her. She could see them mentally compare her answers to the previous ones. The two men exchanged looks and nods as she talked. Christine couldn’t imagine what they wanted from her.
Bennett performed the questioning, “And what were the actual coordinates where you found this man?”
Christine tried, but it was hopeless. “I told you, I don’t remember the exact latitude and longitude. I marked the spot and recorded the coordinates on a chart, but I didn’t memorize them. I do remember plotting it to be 280 miles on a zero-five-zero bearing from the Madeiras.”
More looks. Harding got up, and the two men retreated out of earshot for a hushed conversation. Christine didn’t like it. They were standing right by the big window at the rear of the room. The only other way out was the front door, but she’d never make it if they were serious about using that gun, and she suspected they were. For some reason, these two scared her even more than the other madman.
Bennett and Harding, or whoever they were, broke their huddle. Harding’s gun was gone, but she figured he could make it reappear fast.
“You’ll need to come with us.”
“I’m not going anywhere. All I did was pull some poor soul out of the ocean, and ever since people are pushing me around. I’d like to know why!”
“The man you found is very dangerous. We’re trying to find him.”
“Well, that still doesn’t tell me who you are. You’re certainly not the police.”
There was no reply to that. Bennett went to the front door. He opened it, looked in both directions, then left while Harding closed the door and stood in front of it, a guard with his eyes locked on a prisoner. Christine heard a car pull up outside, and moments later, a single knock on the door.
“Time to go,” Harding said.
Christine stood fast.
“No harm will come to you.” His accent was hard on the consonants. He put a hand obviously into his jacket without showing the gun. “Now!”
Christine knew she had to find a way out, and find it now. She walked slowly to the door and Harding reached out, obviously intending to lock an arm around her before going outside. Christine was passing the small alcove that served as the closet when she saw what she needed, up on the shelf above her clothes. When Harding turned his head to find the door handle, Christine lunged up for the clothes iron on the shelf.
Harding, alerted by her quick movement, reached into his jacket for the gun. He arced it up toward Christine, but before he could level, she smacked the iron down onto his arm. Harding screamed in pain as he lost his grip on the weapon. The gun hit the floor along with the iron. Christine went for the gun, as she thought he would. But Harding surprised her by lowering his shoulder and charging, using his bulk to drive her crashing into the wall. The blow stunned Christine and she collapsed, gasping for breath, her vision blurred.
When she finally looked up, she saw Harding holding his gun gingerly with the arm she’d just whacked, a thoroughly angry look on his face. He grabbed Christine and yanked her violently to her feet. She stumbled, still woozy from the blow she’d taken. Her head, her shoulder — everything hurt. Harding propped her up, opened the door, and was about to shove her outside when they both froze at the sight. Bennett was lying face down in a planter, groaning weakly.
Harding never had time to react as a hand swung around from the right and caught him in the throat. The big man fell back into the room, pulling a stumbling Christine with him until she fell to the side. Harding recovered his balance but had no time to raise the gun before another strong blow, this one a heel kick, crashed into his face just below the nose. It snapped his head violently up and back, the motion ending with an audible crack. Harding crumbled heavily to the floor and lay motionless, his head twisted at an impossible angle.
“Damn!” she heard her rescuer say. It was a voice she knew. Christine looked up in disbelief.
“You!”
David Slaton ignored the girl and charged the other man who was stumbling toward the open driver’s door of a big BMW. He collared him and threw him headlong into the car’s fender. The man groaned and rolled onto his side. Slaton picked him up roughly and sat him against the front tire. He didn’t bother searching for a weapon — if there had been one, he’d have already used it.
“Who is Savior, Itzaak?” Slaton demanded.
The man gave no response.
“How many are in the group?”
No response again. Slaton looked to his left and saw someone scurrying in the window of the motel office. There wasn’t much time. The girl was still sitting beside the dead man. Slaton moved toward her.
When she saw him coming, she scrambled on her hands and knees, searching frantically for the dead man’s gun. She found it under his hip, but before she could do anything more, Slaton was on her. They struggled with the weapon, grabbing and twisting, her finger near the trigger. A shot rang out and she let go reflexively as bits of plaster rained down from the ceiling above.
Slaton took the gun, a 9mm Beretta, and stood over Christine and the dead man. He looked back and addressed the man who was still leaning against the car. “Who, Itzaak?” he yelled.
“I don’t know,” came the weak reply.
Slaton pointed the gun at the man’s partner and let go a round. The girl jerked away involuntarily at the shot, and a small hole erupted in the wood floor right next to the body. Slaton walked purposefully to the man he knew as Itzaak, leveled the gun at his head and said, “That’s it for him. Last chance for you.”
The man’s eyes went wide as he recognized the fate of his comrade. He broke, his expression disintegrating into raw fear, and Slaton knew he’d get the truth.
“I don’t know! I swear I don’t know who controls. I take my instructions by phone.”
“Who are the others?”
The man babbled a half-dozen names. The two Slaton recognized had to be small fish.