THIRTY-EIGHT
CROATIA
Kim kept a watch out the rear windows, pleased that the other lifeboat was far in the distance, occupied with a rescue. Even better, a fog had slithered in, swallowing everything in its path, offering excellent cover. That and the rain should mask their escape. They remained half a kilometer offshore, churning across the frothy bay. Neither he nor Hana seemed affected by motion sickness, though they should have been. The deck beneath his feet rose and fell with unsteady regularity.
“We need to know where we are,” he said to her.
They were definitely north of Zadar. He’d spotted the port city as they’d made their escape. Right now they were paralleling the mainland, protected to the west by barrier islands and rocky archipelagoes. The storm, though, had come from the east and was not abating. Thankfully, the shoreline remained visible. Hotels, resorts, and various other buildings lined the beaches, where surf roared up in a welter of foam.
The black satchel remained draped over his shoulder, sealed tight. He could not allow rain to harm anything inside. He needed time to examine everything, without any pressure. Heading straight for the airport or train station now appeared unwise. Malone was still out there, and he may have help. So a room at one of the seaside resorts he’d spotted seemed like an excellent respite.
Ahead, he spied more buildings clustered together.
And docks.
He pointed. “We’ll end our journey there.”
*
Malone felt the sea close over him, the cold water like a physical blow, taking his breath away, sucking strength from his muscles. He surfaced, the swells easily four to five feet high, and searched for Jelena.
But she was nowhere to be seen.
He sucked a breath and dove under, swimming hard. His clothes quickly became dangerous weight, but he kept going. Up and down he went, his eyes trying to find some sight of her in the rolling waves. He wondered if she might have been drugged. That seemed Kim’s preferred weapon. If so, there was no way she could swim.
Calm down, he told himself.
“Jelena. Jelena,” he yelled over the wind.
He kicked hard, kept himself afloat, and fought to control his panic. He’d learned in the navy about a sense of hopelessness associated with floating alone in a bobbing sea. A raging storm only added to that anxiety, and the cold numbed his legs, so he worked them harder. Fog had appeared out of nowhere. Visibility was down to maybe fifty feet. He hoped Howell had kept the wheel true, following his path into the water. If not, he could be swept away, just like Jelena.
Then the lifeboat appeared out of the mist, to his right.
“Here,” he yelled as loudly as he could.
Its rounded bow turned toward him, the windshield wipers still working hard. Cold water forced his eyeballs back in their sockets with a stabbing pain. Between strokes to keep himself afloat he thrust his arm in the air to draw more attention. Howell apparently saw him and eased close. This was not going to be easy. Howell appeared in the open hatch.
Their eyes met.
He shook his head.
“No. No,” Howell mouthed.
Shock filled the younger man’s face, then sadness.
He climbed inside. His muscles ached and he was breathing hard. Howell staggered to the other side of the enclosed cabin, a hand to his face, tears in his eyes.
Malone’s lungs kept grabbing deep breaths, the oxygen in his blood stabilizing. Cold chewed into his muscles and he still tasted the raw tang of salt water. Beneath the wood benches were surely blankets, and he found one and wrapped himself inside.
He glanced out the windows.
Nothing but fog.
Kim was gone.
*
Isabella had arrested plenty of people, but never had she been led away with her own hands bound behind her back. The local police had not been in a good mood, wrestling them both from the taxi, then quickly removing them from the scene. Luke Daniels had wisely kept his smart mouth shut, as had she. Whatever would be sorted out would not be done in the rain. She would need to speak with someone much higher on the authority pole—on both sides of the Atlantic.
They were transported back toward Zadar’s center and a four-story building that sat on the mainland, facing the old town peninsula. On the drive she saw that the ferry had arrived and docked, no more smoke emitting from it. They sat alone in the rear of the police car, two officers in the front seat.
“When we sort this out,” she whispered to Daniels, “you and I are parting ways.”
He threw her a glare. “And I thought we had somethin’ special.”
“That cocksure attitude is what let Kim get away.”
“Bad luck let Kim get away. I was givin’ it my best shot.”
She could only hope that Malone had been able to stop Kim. Those documents could not be lost.
The car was parked, but before the officers could exit a cell phone rang with a soft chime, like church bells. Both of their units had been confiscated after their arrest, but the one ringing was not hers.
“That would be me,” Daniels whispered.
The officer on the passenger side in the front answered the phone.
“Luke. Are you there?”
They could hear Malone thanks to the speaker being activated.
“Who is this?” the policeman asked.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Policija.”
*
Malone realized that the voice on the phone was not Luke Daniels, and though Croatian was not one of the languages he was particularly proficient at he caught the meaning.
Police.
He decided to throw a little weight around. “This is Cotton Malone. United States Justice Department. Do you have Agent Daniels and Agent Schaefer with you?”
*
Isabella heard what Malone said and saw that the officer had understood every word. The two policemen stared at each other, seemingly trying to decide how to reply. Finally, the officer holding the phone said, “We have them both. They are under arrest.”
“What charge?”