Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [108]
Falkoner came up. “Is that him?”
Esterhazy shook his head. “No. I don’t know who this person is.”
“We shall find out.” Falkoner stepped out onto the rear deck.
“Ahoy, the yacht!” said the man perched in the bow. He was dressed, overdressed even, in nautical fashion: navy blazer, cap, ascot.
“Hello,” Falkoner called out in a friendly voice.
“I’m a neighbor,” the man said. “I was admiring your yacht. Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all. Care to come aboard?”
“Delighted.” The man turned back to the Boat Basin employee manning the outboard. “Be sure to wait.”
The man nodded.
The yachtsman stepped onto the boarding platform at the rear of the yacht while Falkoner opened the stern transom to let him come aboard. Gaining the deck, the man smoothed down his blazer and extended his hand. “Name’s Betterton,” he said. “Ned Betterton.”
“I’m Falkoner.”
Esterhazy shook Betterton’s hand in turn, smiling but not offering his name. As he smiled, the scratches on his face stung. There wouldn’t be a repeat of that: Constance was locked in the hold, handcuffed, her mouth gagged and taped. And yet a chill ran through him as he recalled the expression on her face in the Upper East Side safe house. He’d noticed two things in that expression, as clear as he was alive: hatred—and mental clarity. This woman wasn’t the basket case he’d assumed. And her hatred of him was unsettling in its intensity and murderousness. He found himself not a little unnerved.
“I’m moored over there—” Betterton jerked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder—“and I thought I’d just stop over to wish you a pleasant evening. And—to be honest—I’m captivated by your yacht.”
“Very glad that you did,” replied Falkoner, with a brief glance at Esterhazy. “Would you care for a tour?”
Betterton nodded eagerly. “Thank you, yes.”
Esterhazy noticed his eyes were darting everywhere, taking everything in. He was surprised Falkoner had offered the man a tour—there was something vaguely phony about him. He didn’t look like a yachtsman, the blue blazer was of a cheap cut, and the man was wearing ersatz deck shoes of the landlubber kind.
They stepped into the beautifully appointed saloon, Falkoner launching into a description of the Vergeltung’s characteristics and notable features. Betterton listened with an almost child-like eagerness, still looking around as if committing everything to memory.
“How many people on board?” Betterton asked.
“We have a crew of eight. Then there’s me and my friend, here, who’s just visiting for a few days.” Falkoner smiled. “How about on your vessel?”
Betterton waved a hand. “A staff of three. Have you taken her out on any trips recently?”
“No. We’ve been moored here for several weeks.”
“And you’ve been on board the whole time? Seems a shame, even on such a beautiful vessel, with all of New York spread out before you!”
“Unfortunately, I’ve had no time for trips.”
They passed through the dining room and into the galley, where Falkoner brought out a copy of the evening’s dinner menu, praising the yacht’s chef as he did. Esterhazy followed silently, wondering where this was leading.
“Dover sole with truffle butter and a mousse of root vegetables,” Betterton said, looking at the menu. “You eat well.”
“Perhaps you’d care to share our dinner?” Falkoner asked.
“Thank you, but I’ve got another engagement.”
They continued down a corridor paneled in tamo ash. “Care to see the bridge?”
“Absolutely.”
They climbed a stairway to the upper deck and into the wheelhouse.
“This is Captain Joachim,” Falkoner said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Betterton said, peering around. “Very impressive.”
“I’m happy enough with it,” Falkoner replied. “You can’t beat the feeling of independence a yacht like this provides—as you must know yourself. The loran system on board is second to none.”
“I would imagine.”
“You have loran on your boat?”
“Naturally.”
“Marvelous invention.”
Esterhazy glanced at Falkoner. Loran? That old technology had long ago been superseded by GPS. All at once, Esterhazy understood