One Minute Out Page 26

  With my head back above the waterline, I get her to hand me the backpack, and I put it on my chest with the straps over my shoulders.

  “Go,” I say. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”

  Five minutes later I am bobbing alone in the dark water, making little corrections with my fins as a very mild current tries to pull me offline from the oncoming vessel.

  My plan is as simple as it is crazy, but as I told Talyssa, I’ve done something similar before. When the boat comes level with me I will fin as hard as I can towards it, then throw the grappling hook at the metal railings alongside the sea stairs at the rear. I’ll be lashed to the line, and then I’ll use it to pull myself through the yacht’s wake to the stairs.

  That’s the plan, anyway. But it will only work if I can get close enough to throw, and if I can get high enough in the water to throw, and if I snag the hook on the rail, and if there isn’t anyone standing right there to stop me.

  Easy day, Gentry. You got this.

  If there is anyone down on the lower deck by the sea stairs, this plan won’t work at all. I’m not shooting someone from the water and then just climbing on board and fighting it out, as cool as that would be, so this plan of mine is conditional on what I see in a one- or two-second look at the stern, as well as the execution of my throw.

  Getting into position will be tough. I can’t be right in front of La Primarosa when it passes or it will either run me down or suck me down. Instead I try to plant myself about fifty feet east of where it will pass.

  One thing’s for sure: I’ll only get one chance at this, and failure means those women sail off to Italy or Slovenia or somewhere else in Croatia, while Talyssa and I motor back to shore, miles from town, with no earthly idea what to do next.

  But I can’t think about the prospect of failure because La Primarosa is just a few hundred yards away now. I commit myself to my objective, put all my energy and focus into it, and prepare to move.

  The freediving fins I’m wearing have more than twice the surface area of regular swim fins, and this, along with decades improving my finning technique, allows me to move like a torpedo through the water. I dive just a few feet, then begin working my legs as hard as I can, and I close on the path of the vessel.

  I can’t see anything below the waves without my light, but using it now would tie up a hand I need for something else, so I just have to estimate how far away I am by my speed in the water and the loud humming noise coming from the one-hundred-fifty-foot-long vessel.

  I surface, blow out my snorkel, and look up. The bow of the Primarosa is more or less where I’d hoped to find it, fifty feet in front of me to the west. The speed of the vessel up close is frightening, and the white caps of the bow wake along the hull are intimidating, because I’ll be swimming right through that in seconds.

  I don’t dive this time, I just lower my head, breathe through my snorkel, and kick like my life depends on it. My heart pumps wildly, thanks to the adrenaline and epinephrine and cortisone from the fear, excitement, exertion, and desperation.

  And as I kick, I have the weird presence of mind to realize something in this moment.

  I fucking hate to admit it, but I live for this shit.

  Just then I feel the wake hit me, knocking me back to the left as the vessel churns the sea, heading to my right.

  Six seconds later I arch my back and my head surfaces; I kick as hard as I can while vertical, lifting my upper torso out of the water. The stern of the boat is close enough but already past me, and I realize I should have surfaced a couple seconds earlier for an easier throw.

  From my imperfect view I see no one on the lower deck by the sea stairs so, while still kicking to keep my arms above the water and fighting the incredible wake, I swing my right hand over my head, hurling the four-pound metal utility anchor up and over the stern railing. The rubber coating I sprayed on the tongs masks any metal-on-metal noise, and I’m hoping the sound of the engine hides the clunking of the instrument when it hits the deck and again when it catches on the rail.

  I quickly wrap my wrist and forearm in the rope and hope like hell that I am yanked along in the water.

  I’m violently jerked and towed behind the yacht. I pull myself handover hand up the rope through the foamy wake, using all the strength in my arms, legs, and back to do so. The mask is ripped off my eyes by the force of the water, but it slides down onto my neck and not over my head. I gulp a mouthful of seawater and fight the incredible drag of the small pack on my chest trying to haul me under the surface.

  This? This is not the shit I live for.

  But I keep pulling, and soon I take a hand off the rope and reach up to the sea stairs, looking for something to grab on to. I’m weakening by the second from exhaustion and the need to suck in a breath of air, impossible in the heavy wake of the megayacht.

  A small tie-down is positioned just to the right of the water entry of the sea stairs, and my fingers take it in a death grip. I let go of the rope with my left hand now, wrap it over my clenched right hand, and, like I’m freeclimbing a sheer wall, I pull myself out of the water and onto the lower stairs.

  I fight the urge to vomit and to cough up a large volume of the Adriatic Sea and to collapse down onto the deck, because I haven’t cleared the area around me yet. Barely able to function, I pull the suppressed G19, rise onto my knees, and, still with the massive fins on my feet, I scan the rear portion of the lower deck over the top of the stairs.

  The area is clear.

  I drop back onto the lower stairs, out of view from the deck, and take a few seconds to recover from the exhausting swim. I gag out seawater for a few seconds, and this makes me feel a lot better. Finally, I remove my fins and fold them till they fit in the pack. Taking off my mask and snorkel, I shove these in, as well.

  I’m head to toe in a hooded black wetsuit, with black neoprene boots and a black pack on my chest, which I shift around to my back after retrieving my knife from it.

  The blade and the pistol go in the utility pocket on my right thigh, and then I begin climbing the sea stairs again. I only make it a couple of feet before I drop back down, because a man in a short-sleeved black shirt is walking by from my right to my left. Luckily, I saw him before he saw me, but I nevertheless draw my blade and prepare to launch myself up the three remaining steps to shove it into his windpipe if he comes over here and peers down on me.

  Thirty seconds later I chance another glance and find the deck clear of hostiles, so I move up the stairs towards the rear door to the saloon.

  My objective is the master stateroom, at the top of a staircase out of the saloon on the bridge deck and then down a hall, aft. I don’t know who is in this room, but I’m certain that whoever the big cheese on board is, they are going to get the best cabin.

  I make it up to the windows into the saloon and then duck down, crawling behind a little rear-deck bar area to get a view into the well-lit room. Right across from me is the diving deck. Several scuba tanks, buoyancy control vests, hoses, and other equipment are fixed by bungee cord to racks along the bulkhead.

  I rise up on my knees but lower back down out of view as a slight list to port becomes apparent. It takes me only an instant to realize the boat is turning to starboard. Seconds later it begins to slow.

  Are we heading in to land? Pulling my phone out of my pack, I take it from its waterproof case and turn on the GPS. It takes a minute to catch the satellite, but when it does it shows that I’m a couple miles off the coast of the Croatian city of Rovinj.

  Shit, I think. Talyssa wasn’t exactly right, but she was close. La Primarosa was coming to northern Croatia, but to a smaller port than Pula for some reason, probably because I spooked them into changing their plans.

  Thinking over my next move, I decide to take advantage of the opportunity the nearby diving deck affords me. I shoot across the aft portion of the lower deck crawling on my hands
and knees under the windows to the saloon, and I grab the first scuba tank in the rack. Working in the dark I strap a vestlike buoyancy control device to it, and then I attach the regulator and BCD inflator hose to the tank itself.

  I grab a few kilos of lead weights and drop them in pockets in the vest to help me sink below the surface.

  Now I open the tank valve and check to make sure it’s full, test the regulator and emergency regulator by sucking air from them both, and then screw the valve shut again. I move the entire rig into the corner and throw a towel over it.

  I crawl back over behind the little bar, knowing that’s the best hiding place here on the aft deck, unless, of course, some jackass decides to come out to make piña coladas.

  But as I rise, I check the saloon again and see a man moving up the circular staircase on the far side, thirty feet or so from me. He’s wearing a black polo and carrying a small submachine gun on his chest.

  I duck back down to cover but keep my eyes looking through the glass.

  Right behind the armed man I see a woman. She is young with short blond hair. I don’t know who she is, but when she is followed by more women and girls, and they, in turn, are followed by a second armed man, I know exactly who they are.

  A total of eight sex trafficking victims walk across the saloon and towards the port-side hatch to the main deck. The lighting in the saloon is good, so I’m able to look over the faces, but of the eight women I see, I don’t see anyone who looks even remotely like the picture I saw of Talyssa’s sister.

  They are dressed in warm-up pants and yoga pants and T-shirts and sweatshirts; it appears their captors are treating them a lot better here than they’d been treated in Mostar.

  At first I can’t figure out where they are going, but the mystery about where the women are headed is solved thirty seconds later when I hear voices and then footsteps across the aft deck on the other side of the little bar. The women round the stern of the vessel, then head on to the starboard side, where they disappear, moving along together towards the bow.

  When the entourage comes back around a second time a couple of minutes later, I understand. The women are being walked around up here for some air and exercise.

  I wait for them to pass a third time, but before a fourth trip around the deck I see the girls walked back into the saloon and led back down the stairs belowdecks.

  I like my hiding place, but it’s not going to get me anything I need, unless some guy who looks like a sex-smuggling mastermind happens to walk by alone on the aft deck. I decide again I have to go for the master stateroom, which means the staircase that runs up the brightly lit saloon thirty feet away, but before I can move, I see motion through the window again. Another group of women, seven this time, are brought up and walked through the port-side hatch.

  These girls are being escorted around the deck, just like the first group, obviously as a form of exercise.

  Shit. I can’t go anywhere right now.

  Eventually these ladies are taken back belowdecks, and six more come up. They travel the same slow, monotonous route around the deck.

  I’ve looked at every single woman, and none of them look like Roxana.

  After the last group goes down, the engines of La Primarosa begin to slow more, then it sounds as if they are being powered back to neutral. Boat crew and armed men in suits walk around in the saloon, so I’m still stuck where I am.

  Soon I hear the voices of crew members over a walkie-talkie at the stern, and I imagine men standing back there, lowering the tender into the water.

  Almost on cue, the tender’s outboards start up and I hear it rumble around to the port side.

  I worry that they are going to start loading up the women to take them to shore, but instead I see a tall bald-headed Caucasian man in dark clothing coming down the stairs, with three armed men at his heels. All three head out the port-side saloon hatch.

  A minute later I hear the tender leaving the yacht, and then the quiet returns.

  The women have been given exercise and then they were taken back below, so the only thing I can assume is that the men who boarded the tender are heading to land to pick up supplies, or perhaps even more women.

  I decide to wait here another few minutes, and then to make my way for the stairs.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Kostas Kostopoulos had readied his quarters, showered and dressed himself, taken his pills, and sprayed on copious amounts of cologne.

  He put on a red silk robe, leaving it open enough to reveal a hairy chest and a thin gold chain. He fingered the rings he kept on six of his fingers, and he slicked back his thin silver mane.

  And when he heard the tender rumble away from the port side of his megayacht, he looked in the mirror and pronounced himself ready.

  He walked over to the little built-in nightstand next to his king-sized bed and pressed a button on a console, and the lock in the door to the upper-deck passageway clicked open. He called out to his bodyguard.

  “Anton. Come.”

  A muscular, bearded Greek stepped up to the open doorway from where he’d been positioned at the top of the stairs. “Sir?”

  “The product being held alone in VIP stateroom number four. Bring it to me.”

  The younger man masked a smile. “Right away, sir.”

  Now the seventy-two-year-old reached into a drawer and retrieved a fistful of silk scarves of different colors. He tossed them around on the bed and on the floor haphazardly, then picked a few back up and placed them more methodically around the room.

  Jaco Verdoorn had told Kostopoulos that Riesling wanted him to take one of the women from below into his bed. He did this with regularity—it was the only reason he traveled personally with the merchandise to market—but tonight was the first time he’d been asked to defile one of the special-handling items.

  Kostas was reluctant at first; he knew the Director himself would be on the yacht in just hours, and he did not want to do anything to bring on the powerful man’s ire. But when Verdoorn explained they’d been having trouble with Maja, and the psychologist on board felt she’d get through to her more easily if she managed to form a bond with her after helping her cope with true trauma, then the Greek saw this as his one opportunity to sample the wares going directly to the man in charge of the entire Consortium himself.

  And even though the past several days had been some of the most difficult in the Balkan pipeline with the attacks by the American assassin known as the Gray Man, now that he was out on the water, away from the Balkans, Kostopoulos felt a reversal of fortunes coming his way. As he waited in his master stateroom for the most beautiful and desirable woman in this or perhaps any other shipment to come up and fulfill all his prurient desires, he found himself amazed that he’d managed to get so fucking lucky in life.

  * * *

  • • •

  I stretch my hamstrings and then my IT bands behind the bar. The cold of the water, even with my wetsuit on, tightens my muscles and lessens my ability for explosive movement, but the stretching helps me counter this somewhat.

  And it’s not like I have much else to do. I’ve been back here for a half hour now; the tender motored off ten minutes ago, and even though it is a thousand yards or so to the marina in Rovinj, I can’t be sure the rigid-hulled rubber inflatable boat won’t return soon.

  I tell myself I’ve got to get on with it.

  But as I prepare to move, I see yet another figure in the saloon. This time it’s a muscular, bald-headed man with a beard, wearing a polo and a Brügger and Thomet submachine gun over his shoulder, descending the circular stairs. He arrives on the main deck and immediately continues down to the lower deck.

  Something tells me to wait, and I do, but only for a minute. Then I see a woman ascend from below, followed by the bearded man, who holds a hand on her shoulder from behind.

  As she continues up the stairs, I fo
cus on her carefully, curious as to why this one, who is being treated like a captive, is being escorted alone.

  I get a good look at her face as she steps onto the main deck before turning on the staircase to go up to the upper decks.

  Oh my God.

  It’s Roxana.

  Talyssa’s sister is very much alive.

  My heart begins pounding now. I count my blessings she isn’t being held with the others, and I realize there just may be a chance I can get her out of here. It will probably mean killing at least one guard and maybe more and then a fast getaway, but considering what these assholes are up to, I see that as a feature of this plan, not a glitch.

  They climb to the upper deck, disappearing from my view. I want to follow them now, but the sound of a walkie-talkie nearby holds me in my hiding place tucked behind the little bar.

  * * *

  • • •

  Roxana had been told to dress for dinner earlier in the evening, and fine clothes were brought to her by the staff. She dressed in white slacks and a sleeveless black top, expecting that she and Dr. Claudia would be having another session.

  She was led from her cabin, past a pair of armed guards in the foyer, up the stairs, and all the way to the upper deck. Here she could see an open door to the bridge, and an open door to a large stateroom.

  The guard directed her aft towards the stateroom, and then he all but pushed her inside before closing the door.

  Here an older man, wearing a red robe and leaning against a chair in a sitting area just a couple steps away from her, smiled and beckoned her to come closer.

  His tan, hairy chest was exposed, and Roxana thought she might be sick.

  “Good evening,” he said in English.

  She looked around and saw several silk scarves lying around the room. On the bed, on the floor in front of it, on the two chairs. She did not know what they were for, and she did not know why she was here.