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  TWENTY-FOUR

  Roxana had showered and changed and now she sat on the comfortable bed, her eyes on the door in front of her. The American woman had said she would return, and though the Romanian could see the first hint of morning outside the portal, she had no doubt that her night was not yet over.

  And she was correct. The door opened and Claudia entered, followed by one of the ship’s smartly uniformed interior crew, who carried a bottle of Bollinger champagne in a bucket, along with two crystal flutes.

  What the hell is this? Roxana thought.

  While the male crew member set the items down and began removing the foil from the cork, Claudia said, “It must feel glorious to take a nice hot shower after all you’ve been through.”

  Roxana made no reply, so the American continued. “The other girls are taking their showers now. Don’t worry about them. They will be fed and clothed and attended to, same as you. Well . . . not the same as you, but more than adequately.” Claudia smiled. “Certainly more than what they are used to back home. You, too, right?”

  “I had no complaint about my home.”

  “Of course not, dear. Everyone says that at first. Then they see what they’ve been missing, what is available to them in this world, and they come around.” She put her hand on Roxana’s knee. “I promise you, you’ll come around, and you’ll never look back.” There was a comfort and an assuredness in the woman’s voice; it seemed to Roxana to be practiced, like one of her professors in college who’d been teaching the same class year after year.

  She wondered how many girls had sat here on this bed looking at the American woman with bewilderment, just like she was doing now.

  Roxana asked, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Dr. Claudia. We don’t do last names here.”

  “A doctor of what?”

  “I am a psychologist.” The cork popped, jolting Roxana, but Claudia just laughed. The champagne was poured by the crew member as the ladies looked on.

  The man soon left the cabin, closing the door behind him. As soon as it shut, the Romanian asked, “Why is there a psychologist on board?”

  “I provide services as needed,” the American said as she handed the younger woman a flute of champagne. “Every one of the ladies on board is unique and important, and they are all getting special treatment. But you and one other young lady who will be joining us tomorrow are the absolute cream of the crop.”

  “What is so special about us?”

  The doctor’s teeth were white and straight; she bared them easily with her smile. “So much is special about you. So much, indeed. But you’re getting the star treatment, darling, because of where you are going.”

  Roxana felt a tightening in the pit of her stomach. “Where . . . where am I going?”

  “You have been personally selected by my employer.” Claudia kept up her smile. “The director of our entire global organization, in fact.”

  “Selected?” she said, but the woman did not address what she meant.

  But Roxana knew, and she was pretty sure Claudia knew that she knew.

  Claudia said, “You seem like a smart girl, so you know who he is. The two of you have already met.”

  Roxana looked down at the Bollinger in her hand, as yet untouched. “Yes. I know what this is all about. The American. Tom. I met him in Bucharest.”

  The doctor replied, “I don’t know what name he gave you, but we call him the Director. He is our leader, but the man who runs day-to-day operations is here on board, and he is who I report to. He rarely comes on these voyages, so it’s a very special night for us.”

  “You are talking about the South African. What is his name?”

  The older woman cocked her head in surprise. “You are very inquisitive, aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t most girls? How many have sat right here like I have?”

  After a pause, the answer came. “Quite a few. You’ll meet some of them where you are going, I’m sure.”

  “You do this all the time, don’t you?”

  “We make these journeys regularly, yes.” Claudia straightened up and took a slow sip of champagne. “Let’s talk about what you want in life, Maja.”

  “I want to be called by my real name. My name is—”

  “No. We don’t use real names. It’s for your own security, and I’m sure you’ve already been told this at all the other stops on the pipeline.”

  Roxana said nothing, and the American placed a hand on top of hers and squeezed. “I understand this is all . . . new, and more than a little stressful. I’m going to help you with that part of this. Believe me, I’m only here for your benefit.”

  “Why are you being nice to me? Do you think I’m just going to go along with this because you hand me expensive clothes and give me a glass of champagne and squeeze my hand?” Roxana pulled her hand out from under the doctor’s.

  “Maja, we all have bitter pills we need to swallow in life, to get us to where we want to be. A lot will be asked of you in the next few weeks and months, but so much more will be offered to you. You will be treated well, like a princess, in fact, if only you do your part.”

  “And my part is, is what? To submit to rape?”

  Claudia’s smile seemed forced now, but it persevered. “It’s not rape if you want it, and you will want it. We decided you would be a perfect fit for the Director. He agreed, of course, and he wanted no expense spared in bringing you to him.”

  “If I am so fucking special, why was I kept in dungeons, why was I chained, why was I forced to go to the toilet in buckets?”

  “The pipeline is mandatory for all of our girls. As in life, you must experience true hardships to appreciate true comforts. This is part of the process. But your difficult time is over, dear. Now it is time to see what is possible for you if you only play your part. I was brought in years ago to refine this process, to make the experience more pleasurable for both the women and the men. My focus is on helping you see the opportunities before you, and not focus on the negative aspects of your new life.

  “We like to think of the pipeline as something they have in the American military called boot camp. Just like in the military, new recruits go through a difficult but crucial indoctrination period.

  “But unlike those in the military, you and the other girls will be making a lot of money, living in surroundings you could only have imagined in your wildest dreams.”

  “People choose to join the military. We did not—”

  “Conscripts don’t choose. Look. You were drafted into this; I won’t pretend you were not. But I promise you it’s the best thing that ever happened to you.

  “Look at this beautiful superyacht, for example. Have you ever been on anything so magnificent in your life?”

  “The girls down the hall are staying eight to a room.”

  Claudia shrugged. “Boot camp never looked so good to any young soldier, I promise you that.”

  Roxana shook her head in utter disgust. “But . . . you are a doctor? How can you live with yourself?”

  She saw the American’s placid demeanor falter and the tone of her voice darken slightly. “I live very well, dear, thank you for asking.” Claudia stood, headed for the door, and opened it. Right outside an armed guard leaned against the wall, a young man with a dark crew cut and a thick monobrow low over his dark eyes.

  The doctor said, “Enjoy as much champagne as you want, dear. This door will remain open as long as the glassware is in the room. We want to make sure you don’t accidentally break the flute or the bottle and injure yourself.” She added, “From experience we’ve learned that the first night on board is the most challenging for the girls.”

  Roxana’s stomach twisted, because she took this to mean that someone sitting where she now sat had used shattered glass to end her life.

  Dr. Claudia flashed her teeth again and lightene
d her tone. “I’ll pay you another visit this afternoon. Get some sleep, you’ll feel better then.” She turned and headed up the passageway towards the other rooms.

  Maja drank down the Bollinger with a trembling hand.

  * * *

  • • •

  I dream of the women in the red room again. Of imploring eyes, dread, and heartbreak. I try to open the door to the room to free them, but it won’t move, no matter how hard I pull.

  And I can’t get out, either.

  I’m helpless. As helpless as they are.

  And it’s all my fault.

  My head falls, then lurches back up. I’m holding on to a steering wheel on a highway, driving at one hundred kilometers per hour, and veering off the road. In front of me to the left is a concrete retaining wall, and I’m feet away.

  I correct, steering to the right, jolting upright fully after being startled so completely from a dead sleep. The sky is filled with daylight, so I’m lucky the highway around me is all but empty.

  Suddenly I remember where I am. The drive up the coast of Croatia, the hunt for the yacht somewhere out to sea.

  I survived two gunfights and one fistfight in the past three days, but I almost got smoked driving into a retaining wall.

  My passenger is next to me. “Be careful,” she admonishes, unaware that I just dozed behind the wheel because her face is still in her laptop screen.

  I say nothing.

  After a few moments she looks up at me. “If this yacht is part of something known as the pipeline, can we assume it goes the same direction every time?”

  I rub my eyes. “Not really, no.”

  “Why not? A pipeline doesn’t move. They are pipes. Fixed in place.”

  “I think your analytical brain is looking at this too literally.”

  She deflates a little, and she’s back to looking like a scared, helpless kid in an instant.

  But not for long.

  “What if it was all we had to go on? What if we just assumed that the yacht with these women on it has picked up other women and taken them to the same place?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I researched the vessel all the way back to when and where it was built, then followed the ownership until now. Three months ago it was sold from one corporation to another, the shell that owns it now. But I researched the previous shell, and see a similar pattern in behavior to the new one.”

  “Meaning they both incorporated in the same way, bank in the same place, that kind of thing.”

  “You are oversimplifying, but that’s essentially what I mean.”

  “So whoever really operates the Primarosa also operated it before three months ago. How does that help us find it?”

  “Both before and after the transfer it broadcast its transponder in some areas in the northern Adriatic.”

  “I thought you said it didn’t use its transponder because rich assholes don’t have to.”

  “Normally the Primarosa sails dark, but certain ports mandate that the transponder be turned on before allowing vessels to anchor offshore, for the safety of ship traffic coming and going. I was able to do research on the yacht’s history, and I found several ports where it has appeared multiple times.”

  “Which ports?”

  “Athens, Santorini, Naxos, and Mikonos, all in Greece. Istanbul, Turkey. Bari, Naples, and Venice, in Italy. Dubrovnik and Pula, in Croatia.”

  “I don’t know where that last place is.”

  “The Istrian peninsula. Three hours north of here. I think that’s where they are headed now.”

  “Why not Venice? That’s north of here, too.”

  She shrugs. “Looking over the dates, I see some stops in Pula before Venice. Maybe they will do that, maybe they’ll go somewhere different.” She added, “Pula is on the way to Italy, anyway, so we might as well try there.”

  I prefer intelligence a hell of a lot more solid than this, but sometimes you have to take what you get.

  I type the destination in my GPS and see that we can be there by a little after noon. I ask her to look up the cruising speed of the yacht, and from this we do the math. The Primarosa, if it is in fact going to this port in northern Croatia, will not arrive before nine thirty p.m. tonight.

  That gives Talyssa and me an entire afternoon and evening to prepare to greet it. It’s a gamble to commit to one location without being certain, but the Europol analyst seems like she knows what she’s talking about. I haven’t slept in almost a day and I’m beat, but if Talyssa can do some of the logistical work while I drive, we can both catch a few hours’ sleep once we get to Pula.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s go there. We don’t know if they are coming ashore or not, so I’m going to have to be ready to board the yacht.”

  “By yourself?”

  I laugh a little. “You offering to tag along?”

  She just shakes her head. “I’d be in your way.” She’s right, of course. “No chance we can just go to the police, is there?”

  I shake my head. “The yacht goes to that port town because they have some influence over the police there. That’s been their MO everywhere else.”

  “So what can I do?”

  “We need a room near the port, ready for us when we arrive.”

  She nods. “I’ll book something. What else?”

  “I’ll need a speedboat and some diving gear. You can make some calls before we get there.”

  She nods, types a note in her laptop, then looks back up at me. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you are capable of. But there is no way you can rescue all those girls.”

  “That’s not my plan. My plan is, I’m going to get onto that boat to wrap my hands around somebody in charge. And if I have to kill any goons that get in my way, I’ll do that, too.”

  To her credit, Talyssa has become dramatically more accepting of my dirty work since we met. She doesn’t blanch at the prospect of me killing again. But she says, “You don’t seriously think the head of the operation is on board that yacht, do you?”

  I shrug. “There’s somebody on there who can give us some answers. I’m going to beat the shit out of them till they talk.”

  She just stares at me a few seconds, and I know what’s coming.

  She says, “That is literally the only strategy you know, isn’t it?”

  I laugh again. I’m so tired I’m getting goofy. “Like I have a strategy. It should be pretty obvious that I make this shit up as I go.”

  “Wonderful,” she mutters sarcastically, and then she looks back down at her screen to begin searching for an apartment to rent.

  * * *

  • • •

  Just after noon we arrive in Pula, park the stolen car at a bus station, and then take a cab to a rental car office on the other side of town. We get a two-door Honda using my fake passport and credit card, and only after leaving a large deposit. Then we head for the marina, stopping along the way to drink espressos and eat a small lunch in a café.

  At the marina I drop her off after reminding her of exactly what I need, and then I drive to a nearby scuba shop.

  Here I buy a complete scuba rig along with fins, a mask, and a wetsuit. Fully equipped, I next drive to a marine-supply business, and I buy several items I think I might need to board the ship from its mooring line tonight, and several more “just in case” odds and ends.

  I also stop at a hardware store and a pharmacy, and then, with the car laden down, I return to the marina two hours after I left Talyssa. I find her standing on board an eight-meter-long Mano Marine speedboat with a 350 horsepower Mercury Verado engine. I’d told her I needed at least 180 horsepower, so she has greatly exceeded her mandate.

  My plan is simply to motor out a few hundred yards away from La Primarosa when it moors here later this evening, and I don’t need a par
ticularly muscular boat to do this, but when it comes to gear, I do subscribe to the mantra that more is more.

  I’d been worried about her renting anything too ostentatious and conspicuous, but the boat she found for us has a simple, unassuming white hull and hardly looks like the powerful machine that it is.

  “Nice,” I say. “Any problems with the paperwork?”

  “Had to sign my life away, basically.”

  “I’ll try to return it in one piece.”

  She takes this as a joke and lets it slide with an eye roll, and I begin hauling gear out of the car to place in the little hold belowdecks.

  * * *

  • • •

  An hour later we are locked in our rented flat within sight of the marina, and we treat our various cuts and bruises with first-aid items I bought from the pharmacy. Talyssa is in pain, her shoulder is killing her, and I doubt the pills I bought over the counter will do much more than blunt the sensation, but she takes them anyway.

  Then I begin preparing equipment. I’ve bought a small utility anchor and fifty feet of ultralight braided anchor line, and I attach these, then pull a can of spray-on rubber coating out of the bag from the hardware store. I apply this all over the four-pound anchor, using the entire can and covering it completely with the quick-drying black rubber compound.

  I put the line and the anchor in a black backpack and stage it by the door.

  I also assemble my scuba equipment, clean my pistol, and take care of other small details.

  Then Talyssa and I both set the alarms on our phones to go off in four hours. The plan is to wake up at eight p.m., and to be down at the speedboat ready to go by nine.

  Talyssa lies down fully clothed on one of the twin beds, while I pull a pillow and a comforter off the other and toss it in the bathroom, then lie down, unholster my Glock, and place it on the floor next to me.

  I pray for sleep, but I also pray that I won’t dream of the red room yet again.

  TWENTY-FIVE