The Tahitian Pearl: A John Otter Novel (John Otter Novels Book 2) Read online

  "And you are in the right area?" The Sheikh asked again.

  Angel bit his tongue. Stupid rich people had no understanding. Like he would make a mistake. He flew sorties in Vietnam, through napalm smoke, and still he got his bombs on target. Angel stopped. He knew he would say none of it. After all, stupid rich folks were his meal ticket.

  "I spotted a jet ski from the yacht. Destroyed, so this is where the attack took place. Just nothing left of your friend I'm afraid."

  "Very well," the Sheikh said.

  Angel suddenly felt the need to reassure his client that he had done his best. "I promise you, I would have seen it, sir. The sky is completely clear, and the sea is calm. I can even see a ship at least ten miles from me, so there is no way I would have missed it."

  "A ship? What ship?"

  Angel was surprised by his reaction. "I don't know just some large ship traveling towards the coast."

  "Follow that ship, I must have the name of it."

  "Why?" Angel began.

  "Because I'm paying you for it. Now get me that name!"

  "Fine, but it will be extra. I'm running low on fuel as it is."

  "Very well, call me when you have the name." And the phone line went dead.

  Fucking rich people, Angel thought as he tilted the plane's controls towards the trail of smoke from the ship's stack and went after it.

  Chapter 54

  John flat-lined twice on the operating table, as they struggled to get 2 liters of blood back into his body and close his shoulder wound. The tissue had been severely damaged by the high kinetic energy of the AK-47 round, but he was lucky. The round had missed bone and had exited with a relatively small entry and exit profile. Cosmetically, the wound was small, no more than a quarter on his front. The doctor onboard had stabilized John and transferred him to a recovery room.

  The doctor placed the call as instructed. "This is Dr. Harrod, Enterprise."

  "John, how is he?" Alexi asked.

  "Stabilized. He's not out of the woods yet. He flatlined on my table twice, but we got him back. He has lost a lot of blood. The tissue damage was bad. If he makes it through the night, he'll make a full recovery."

  "This is good news. If there is anything I can do, please let me know."

  "Mr. Alexi, you did everything right. Without the quick life flight, the first aid he received, and having his medical file and blood type, he'd be dead already."

  "Thank you. Please keep me updated on his progress."

  "Of course," the doctor said and hung up.

  Alexi rang the bell in Ingrid's cabin, and she opened the door less than a minute later. She had obviously been waiting for the update.

  "John is stabilized. He will make it," Alexi began to say, but his voice faltered. "I knew he was a fighter," Alexi said as a wave of emotion passed over him. Ingrid rushed to her adoptive father and hugged him. She felt him muffling tears and she understood how hard it was for him to show emotion. Maybe it was where she got it from. She knew he cared for John. She had found out that she also did. Why it had taken him getting shot to realize this, she couldn't understand.

  "Lexi, it's alright. He is ok. It wasn't your fault."

  She felt Alexi stiffen. The emotion washed away, and she felt him grow hard again in her arms. She loosened her grip and pulled back, standing once more.

  "Alexi, it was a pirate attack. It wasn't your fault."

  Alexi broke his eye contact with her and looked down into the palms of his old hands. "I might not be blameless."

  Ingrid slumped into a chair. She reached out a hand and tilted Alexi’s face up until he met her eyes. "Tell me father, what have you done?" She asked.

  Chapter 55

  Abdul was dragged up the Tsung Tao’s gangway by two burly men, his ankles smashing painfully on each step as they lifted him by his shoulders. His face was already becoming cached with drying blood from his broken nose, and he was in a significant amount of pain. His head throbbed and he was forced to suck air through his mouth, like an obese man exerting himself on a flight of steps. The men around him were speaking rapidly in a language he didn't recognize.

  The man who had hit him was obviously in charge and yelled loudly as he directed the men dragging Abdul. Abdul heard a plane and looked up in time to see an old seaplane fly by and he had a sinking feeling that was his ride. The leader shouted at his men who started dragging him faster before he spotted that Abdul was awake. The man picked up his pistol and flipped it over grabbing the barrel. He walked towards Abdul again with a vicious look on his face, before smashing the butt into the bridge of Abdul’s already broken nose again. Abdul was thrown back into darkness.

  When he awoke again, he was in the middle of a room, tied to a metal chair. It was a storage locker of some sort, crowded with paints and brushes and various tools. The light was cheap and hung from a single wire that seemed to be struggling under the swinging bulbs weight. Abdul was breathing entirely through his mouth now, his nose long since clogged up with coagulated blood and broken cartilage. He could taste something in his mouth besides the metallic taste of his own blood. It was solvent.

  Looking around the small room he saw more than a few cases of open paints and thinners and had no doubt that if he had the use of his nose, he would have smelled them. It was no matter, he thought. If he could get high on paint fumes, so much the better. Maybe then he could get relief from the blinding pain in his face.

  Abdul had no concept of the time, his watch long since removed from his arm by his captors. He didn't know how long he'd been passed out or when he had been rescued from the speedboat. He felt the loud clanging of the ship moving beneath him, but nothing else.

  It was a hot and humid night as Captain Bae walked down the deck towards the paint locker. He was trying to formulate a plan in his head on how to proceed with the prisoner. He was no interrogator, although he had experience on the receiving end. He needed to determine one thing only from the prisoner. Bae needed to know whether or not the man was a simple pirate. If so, he would be killed and thrown overboard with no further complications. Or whether or not he was after the yacht specifically for the same reason Bae was. That would complicate things.

  When Bae had received the orders to follow the yacht Ivana, his bosses in Pyongyang had not been specific as to the reason why. He knew that his superiors regarded him as a pawn in their games, a mere drone like most North Koreans were. As such, he was not expected to ask any questions. Most North Koreans had been successfully brainwashed and trained to simply move when told to, not thinking or considering the reasons they had been told to move. Captain Bae was different. His profession had given him the unique opportunity to travel around the world, and it had opened his eyes to possibilities.

  And Bae had his family back home to think about. They were in government housing, and his meager check from the intelligence services barely put food on the table. He knew if he failed, his son, mother and wife would be kicked out of the apartment and would be destitute. He had not been home in over a year. His son was 5 now and he would probably not even recognize Bae. The thought caused a palpable ache in Bae’s heart. He had to get back home. This mission was his one chance at a promotion, and a chance to get off the ship. It was his only way out. He steeled himself and thought of his next move.

  Bae knew there were only two possible motives for why the Ivana was being followed by the North Korean government. A person of importance to the country on the yacht or something of importance aboard the yacht.

  Captain Bae also sensed opportunity. He had the only link onboard to the information his country sought, in Abdul. If he merely brutalized the prisoner, which he would more than happily do, he risked killing him and losing his chance. No, he had to be careful. Coax the man into giving up the full story, then he could use that information to further his own personal ambitions. If there was a profit in it, he wanted to find it.

  Bae threw the nub of his cigar over the side and walked to the paint locker's rusted red door. He
pushed open the heavy steel door and there the man was, as he left him, strapped to the chair. He would try Mr. Nice Guy first. He closed the door behind himself and pulled up a chair.

  Abdul saw the man come in and flinched involuntarily. The man was heavy set, and Abdul had already felt his wrath. If only the man knew that Abdul would tell him anything he wanted to know without a beating. Well, he would tell the man carefully constructed lies. He had no loyalty to the Sheikh and would happily give him up to save his own skin. But what Abdul actually knew was very limited. He had been told to steal a case, kill a man, and that was pretty much it. He knew that if he was deemed useless before they arrived in port, he was dead. And Abdul wanted very much to be alive.

  Chapter 56

  John woke up in the Enterprise hospital bed groggy, suffering from a mild headache. His whole body hurt, and he could feel wads of padding covering his left shoulder. He tried to move his left fingers and felt bolts of pain smash into his head. That was a bad idea. John wasn't unused to pain. His various forays into extreme sports and mountain climbing had taught him several hard lessons that he had to learn in a hospital bed just like this one. But this was different, this time he was fairly sure he'd nearly bit the big one.

  A nurse came into his room. He smiled at her as she brought in a plate of food and placed it on a rolling cart that had a tray over his bed. He didn't realize how hungry he was until he smelled what appeared to be turkey and red beans and rice.

  Without thinking he tried to sit up and almost blacked out from the pain in his shoulder.

  "Now, now, don't you move, sir," the nurse crooned.

  The portly nurse sat down on the side of the bed and began to mix the beans and rice together. She picked up a spoonful and he was almost sure she was going to make airplane noises as she brought it to his mouth. He felt fairly degraded, being spoon fed like a child, but he was hungry enough that he didn't give a shit. After the meal, John felt the familiar food coma settling in. That, coupled with a generous drip of morphine, made his situation almost bearable. He closed his heavy lids and went straight back to sleep.

  When John awoke again, what must have been several hours later, he was startled by a small man at the foot of his bed. The man was looking over Otter's clipboard with intensity. When he heard John move, the man turned and smiled a quick, easy smile. It was the least sincere smile John had ever seen.

  "Good morning Mr. Otter, how'd you sleep?" the man asked in a slightly southern accent.

  "Like shit," John lied, sitting up slowly testing the plateau of pain in his side. "Are you my doctor?" he asked as the man continued to look at him.

  The man smiled even wider. John couldn't appreciate what was so amusing to the man. The man was giving him the creeps.

  "No, John, although I did just have a chat with him. He'll be in to see you in a minute when we're finished."

  The man was small, encased in a black shirt and pants. He pulled a chair up to the bed and took a seat. He didn't lean forward nor back, just sat there in the middle of his chair with an easy neutral grace that looked incredibly uncomfortable. Everything about the man was calculated. The man pointed to John's chart hanging back on his bed and said with still another smile, "quite of lot of repairs you've had done over the years, Mr. Otter."

  "Lots of lessons learned the hard way, unfortunately," John said.

  "I bet you have to have at least one screw loose!" the man said to his own amusement. John did have four something screws in various arms and legs, but the joke fell flat. This man wanted something.

  "You didn't mention your name sir?" John said.

  "I'm an idiot. Mr. Clark is my name," the man said standing up and extending his hand. John tried to lift his right arm, but it caused his left to shoot with pain again and he gave up. Mr. Clark took his right hand and hit his own forehead, "Again, I'm an idiot, my apologies," he said sitting back down.

  "Not a problem. What can I do for you, Mr. Clark?" John asked.

  "I'm just here for your side of the story Mr. Otter. What happened? Who were the pirates? Pretty much anything you can tell me that caused you to be shot and flown aboard our ship would be helpful."

  Otter studied the man carefully. "Our ship? Do you work for the navy?"

  John saw an icy hue flash across the man's face, before it was instantly and quickly hidden. Mr. Clark didn't like to be questioned.

  "I work for the government, John. Now, please, start at the beginning".

  Chapter 57

  Alexi was just in the middle of telling Ingrid about knowing Abdul in the pirate boat, when the phone rang. Ingrid picked up the phone and listened as Captain Brown spoke.

  "No, captain, Alexi is asleep," she said, looking directly at Alexi. "Please ask him to call back later."

  Ingrid hung up the phone and Alexi looked at her expectantly. "An inspector named Pierre just called. He called before, during the attack. He wishes to speak with you urgently."

  "Inspector? From where?" Alexi asked.

  "Interpol," Ingrid said quietly. "Lexi, is this because you knew the pirates? How can they know that already?"

  Alexi waved his hand at her. "Please call Dmitry, my darling. I must speak to him.”

  Alexi got up with from the bed with difficulty. Ingrid resisted the urge to help him up. His arthritic knees were getting worse. But she knew how Alexi despised being helped.

  "Lexi, what is this all about?" Ingrid asked as she turned on the coffee machine then went and took a seat again on his large bed.

  Alexi sat at his office desk and stared at her. She was so beautiful. And, yet, so hard, like granite. She only softened around him, and he knew it. She was turning thirty next year and she had no one in her life besides him and Dmitry. Ingrid had been at his side since that day in the hotel, and he blamed himself for her being shut off emotionally as she was. He knew his lifestyle in those early years had been violent; but he had always protected her, as if she were his own _ more than his own. But here she was now, a woman, afraid to let anyone in who wasn't already hidden behind her protective shield. Alexi felt a crushing sadness for her, and for the way he felt he had failed her.

  Ingrid saw Alexi looking at her that way again. It was the way he looked at her the day she came to live with him as a child.

  She had gone back to live with her father shortly after that night in the hotel, but she despised him, for giving her up. Ingrid's father, the corrupt politician who had worked with Slava and other undesirable characters, had gotten himself killed. When he failed to deliver on one of his many promises to a gang of Turkish gun runners, they had strung him up to a tree and cut him open. She had returned to Alexi in shock, with nowhere else to go. Alexi was the only person who had been kind to her.

  She remembered how Alexi had found the group responsible for her father's death; and how he had hung them from the same tree to pay them back in kind. Then he had taken her under his wing. He was stern, but always fair. And she had gotten her tough emotional exterior by watching the grey-bearded man who was her hero. Now he was getting older. But his blue eyes, pierced into you, and there was iron resolve in them still. She tried to build herself in his image, whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not.

  Alexi broke his thoughts and made a mental note to have a talk with Ingrid about her future. She had followed him for too long. Alexi felt she needed to begin her own life. Perhaps in one of his business offices, somewhere she could meet someone. Maybe she could still be happy. Be what he had been only once in his life, with his only wife, Ivana. And he had thrown it away.

  "Ingrid, please get Dmitry," Alexi said.

  Ingrid swallowed her pride and got up. He trusted her, but he never told her the truth about what was really going on. He was always trying to protect her, to keep her safe, as if she was still the little girl in the hotel room about to be raped. It was always Dmitry. He always relied on Dmitry instead of her. She opened the door angrily. Dmitry was seated in the main salon when Ingrid came out.

 
"He wants to see you," she said without looking at him.

  Dmitry put down his paper and stood up. He walked into Alexi's master suite and closed the door. He saw Alexi sitting at his desk looking tired.

  “What is it, Alexi?" He asked as he sat down across from him at the oak table.

  "An inspector from Interpol is calling. It can't be about the pirate attack, he called the first time during the attack, so it must be regarding you retrieving the case. Tell me, Dmitry, when you delivered the money to Mr. Dubois, did anything happen I should know about?"

  Dmitry didn't waver a second. "Nothing at all. The lawyers drew up the papers, everything was legal."

  "Ok. Let’s call him back and find out what he's after."

  Chapter 58

  Pierre hung up the phone with frustration. The conversation with Alexi and Dmitry, the men of principle interest in the Mr. Louis Dubois murder case, had been pointless. They were guarded. Although they hadn't come right out and said it, they would not be cooperative. He got the distinct impression that they both already had known their facilitator was dead. Frances had warned Pierre to not get overly aggressive in his questioning, lest Alexi decide to get his formidable legal team involved.

  Frances walked out of his office and shouted, "get in here!"

  Pierre was in no mood for another interoffice squabble, so he got up from his desk and stepped into Frances' filthy office. Files were strewn everywhere along with food wrappers. It was slovenly, and Pierre despised the pigsty.

  "Look," Frances said, pointing at the television. There was a news story about a miraculous international effort that had been affected in order to save a crew member who had been injured during a vicious pirate attack. The yacht's name came up, and Pierre recognized it as the vessel he had noticed before at the Monaco show. A flattering portrait of Alexi, the billionaire tycoon, was flashed onto the screen. The report stated that he was fine, and the vessel was proceeding to port. The reporter was overly peppy and effusive about what a great story it was. Her name was Sandra something.