Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [117]
He was mulling a more discreet approach via the bay, capitalizing on the kayaks sitting on the beach at the hotel, when Bream stood up and locked the door to the cabin from outside.
Crouching behind a bush, Charlie watched the pilot straddle the starboard rail, thump onto the dock, and walk with purpose toward the parking lot. Possibly he was going to the little village to get lunch. Whatever he was doing, if it involved leaving the marina, he ought to be gone long enough for Charlie to gain access to the yacht. And it might be Charlie’s only chance.
With a silent prayer to the nameless divine entities he called upon when one of his horses took the lead in a race, Charlie started jogging toward the marina. He tried to think of himself as a Grand Hotel guest, entitled to romp wherever he damned well pleased, and he hoped he projected this air. Particularly to Captain Glenny.
Bream had been gone for a couple of minutes when Charlie reached the pier. He exchanged a friendly smile with a man on a catamaran, then ran—although not too fast for a jogger—toward the Campodonicos’ yacht.
There was no sign of anyone aboard. Charlie heard only the wind and the creaks of the yacht as it rose and fell in the water. Stepping onto the stern, he ought to have been nervous, but he felt something akin to exhilaration.
A few steps along the narrow side deck and he reached one of the slightly opened cabin windows. The glass slid all the way open with a gentle pull. He fit through, barely, tumbling onto a cream-colored carpet and into a corridor lined with enough framed maritime maps for a museum.
He followed it to a spacious dining room with a table for eight. The adjacent kitchen had all of the necessary appliances found in a luxury home. Except a washing machine.
Holding his breath, he tiptoed down a spiral staircase, with solid mahogany steps, to the lower deck. A television glowed in one of the staterooms, giving him a start, but no one was there. The two other staterooms contained only tall beds and built-in cabinets.
Still no washing machine or sign of one.
At the end of the corridor was a closet. Without expecting much, Charlie pulled open its bifold door to find a surprisingly compact laundry alcove with plenty of shelves, a foldout ironing board, and, alongside a modern dryer, a cheap, boxy Perriman Pristina, still spotted with muck from the cavern.
Eureka, he thought.
He reached to pull open the top-loading lid when he heard a bolt snap above-deck.
Fear hit him like a bullwhip.
The cabin door creaked open. He heard at least two sets of footsteps.
“How ’bout a cold beer, Steve?” Bream asked. “I got you the nonalcoholic stuff.”
“Very kind, thank you.” A low, raspy voice with a strong Middle Eastern accent. “But let us get on please with the business?”
“That’d be just fine,” said Bream, letting the door bang shut and tramping in the direction of the staircase. “All due respect.”
Charlie considered the staterooms, distinctly lacking in places to hide. Ducking beneath the ironing board, he stuffed himself into the ten-inch gap between the rear of the washing machine and the wall. He would have tripped over the washing machine’s tattered orange power cord, stretched into a wall socket, but there was no room to fall.
He sank to one knee. The space was dark and otherwise like the back of a clothes closet.
“While I’m thinking of it, you should have these, just in case you need to move the boat for whatever reason,” Bream said, jangling something. His leather sandals came into view at the base of the stairs.
Charlie held still, hoping the jackhammer that used to be his heart wouldn’t draw Bream’s attention.
Stepping into the lower deck’s corridor, Bream handed a set of keys back to Steve, a swarthy boar of a man,