He arranged himself on the bed, pulling the pillow out from underneath the cheap tropical print bedspread. He was asleep in less than five minutes.
The ring on his Blackberry woke Collins. The answer to his message — his way out of the United States.
His client owned a Libyan shipping company that had been seized by a larger company in a hostile takeover attempt. That is, until the Greek owner of the larger shipping company mysteriously died an untimely death. His heirs had offered Collins’ client the opportunity to buy them out at an incredibly low price. Now his client owned the largest shipping company in the Mediterranean, shipping to hundreds of ports worldwide.
The reply to Collins’ message was welcome, but he had less than one hour to make it to a Jacksonville port to board a freighter to Portugal. He tossed everything he had haphazardly into a duffel bag and hurried to his vehicle.
Collins drove to the terminal and parked his leased Cadillac Escalade in a nearby convenience store parking lot. He walked to the security gate at the Blount Island Marine Terminal, a vast complex with exactly one mile of berthing space. He reached the ship with little time to spare.
The anxious captain greeted him at the gangway. “You almost didn’t make it this time,” he said. Then he escorted Collins to his room. The room was familiar enough, he had been on this ship before, several times. Same captain, same crew, same horrible stench. He told the captain he needed to see the ship’s doctor, and the captain said that as soon as the ship sailed, the doctor would come to his quarters.
He pulled out his laptop, inserted his cellular wireless modem card and went online to check his accounts. The deposits were there, three of them. Two for the death of Laurence O’Rourke and a considerably smaller one for the death of Michael Sullivan.
The time zone difference worked to Collins’ advantage. The news of O’Rourke’s escape hadn’t reached his clients in Europe yet but it wouldn’t be long before his Blackberry started buzzing with angry messages. It was his first failed attempt and he vowed it would be his last. But this was far from over. He made himself a vow. He would see this to its end. He would get the information he needed then he would kill Laurence O’Rourke.
He felt the ship pull away from the terminal. The tugboats weren’t gentle but they did their job. As the ship pulled farther away from the dock, another tug moved in between the dock and the ship and pushed the bow around, guiding the big freighter out into the channel.
Soon the ship’s doctor would arrive, but not soon enough for Collins. He placed his hand on his wound and could feel the heat. He’s had worse wounds, he’ll survive this one too.
He turned off his laptop and lay on the cot. It was smelly and uncomfortable but it would have to do for the next few days while he was incommunicado.
CHAPTER 59
The white sterile room in Candler Hospital’s critical care unit was filled with sounds. Mechanical sounds. A respirator thumping back and forth forced breath and life into Beth. The pumping and hissing of the blood pressure cuffs contracting and deflating at regular intervals interrupted the slow beeping of the heart monitor.
Beth’s mother, Rebecca, was a Southern lady. She had been a debutante in her teenage years, and her mother was a Daughter of the Confederacy. She sat next to the bed holding Beth’s hand, dried tears on her face. Her weeping had finally stopped but her eyes were still red and puffy, a tissue balled up in her fist. She had thick chestnut hair, brown eyes and dark tanned skin like her daughter.
Mike McAllister had indulged his only child with the finest of everything. Spoiling her rotten was part of the fun. The son of an Irish immigrant, self-made millionaire and President-CEO of the First Commerce Bank of Newnan, McAllister could certainly afford the excesses he spent on his daughter. He was a large robust man, somewhat intimidating at first, with a stern manner and a seemingly emotionless state. This was the exception, he wore this emotion on his sleeve. Visibly shaken by the ordeal. His only daughter, his pride and joy, lay next to death in a coma in front of his eyes, the victim of an innocent trip to Savannah gone awry.
Jake sat in a chair beside Beth’s bed, opposite Mrs. McAllister. His left arm in a sling and his chest bandaged under his shirt. The knife wound had required eight internal stitches and fifteen external stitches, a blood transfusion, an IV of antibiotics followed by ten days of oral antibiotics, and his chest taped to prevent him from pulling out the stitches. He had laughed after the doctor cleaned and stitched his wound, and then applied the hospital’s version of Super Glue followed by a strip of medical tape — the same remedy the assassin recommended. How ironic.
Jake held Beth’s right hand in his. Their wedding was scheduled for early June and now she lay in a coma in critical condition. All the plans they had made, all the traveling they would do. He couldn’t bear to see her like this.
Her dark hair was tangled and matted from the blood. The nurses and doctors wanted to cut it but Mrs. McAllister wouldn’t allow it. They settled for pulling it into a ponytail and wrapping it in a hospital hair net.
Penrose drains protruded from underneath the gauze bandage wrapped around her neck. Pads at the end of each tube caught the drainage and required regular changing.
Beth was pale and her tanned skin looked jaundiced. A nurse came in every fifteen minutes to check her vitals. Logged them on the charts, then retreated to the nurses’ station for another round of hospital gossip. Leg cuffs inflated and deflated in an attempt to keep the circulation in her legs moving.
A light rap on the door broke the monotony of the machinery. The door opened slowly and a tall man in a trench coat walked in. He was about Mike McAllister’s age, early sixties, well groomed, wearing a coat and tie and holding a crocodile skin portfolio briefcase. His nearly unlined, light brown face was grave.
Both McAllisters looked at him, obviously thinking the man was in the wrong room, when Jake jumped to his feet, letting Beth’s hand drop to the bed.
Jake snapped to attention, automatically throwing a military-style salute.
“Admiral Bentley, sir.”
“At ease, Jake, we can dispense with those trifles. How is she doing?” He motioned toward Beth.
Jake relaxed a little. “Not good, Admiral. She’s barely hanging on.”
Bentley turned to McAllister. “Scott Bentley. I’m terribly sorry about your daughter. My prayers are with you and Mrs. McAllister.” Bentley turned and tilted his head toward Beth’s mother.
“I know who you are, Mr. Bentley, and I appreciate your concern,” replied McAllister, “but what I don’t understand is why the Director of Central Intelligence would come all the way from Washington to check on my daughter’s health?”
With his usual authoritative voice and calm demeanor, Bentley explained, “Jake and I go back quite a ways. Jake worked for me at the end of my military career. Best damned intelligence officer I ever trained. Your daughter is important to Jake, therefore she is important to me. If there is anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Mrs. McAllister walked over to Bentley and gave him a hug. “Thank you, Admiral, from both of us. It’s been a trying time and we’re both exhausted and scared.”
“I certainly understand.” Bentley looked at Jake. “Jake, maybe we could give them some privacy and you and I can take a walk?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be right there, sir.”
Bentley turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Jake grabbed Beth’s hand, leaned down and kissed her cheek and said, “Baby, I’ll be right back.”
Jake stood in the hall without moving until Beth’s door closed. The nurse glanced up, and then returned to the mounds of paperwork the hospital’s administration required of them.