Since he couldn’t go up and over the rail without being seen, Kurt moved quickly toward the stern. He knew there were several hatches there, one of which had been wide open shortly before departure as the crew took on supplies.
He moved toward it, traveling like a crab, until he found it. Considering how close it lay to the waterline, Kurt wasn’t surprised to find it battened down tight. He looked around, noticed a crack of light up higher on the hull and farther aft.
He reached it quickly, peeked around the edge, and, seeing no one inside, swung around and dropped in.
He was in a small workspace connected to the engine room. It was cramped, hot, and loud. He’d covered a few feet when a figure in white coveralls appeared. The man wore a bulky headset to protect his hearing from the whining engines and didn’t notice Kurt or hear him coming.
Shock and confusion registered on the crewman’s face as Kurt got his attention with the Beretta and waved a finger to dissuade him from trying anything. That done, Kurt pulled off the headset.
“You speak English?”
The man nodded.
“Are there any prisoners on board this yacht?”
The man seemed confused by the question. “Prisoners?”
“Anyone being held against their will,” Kurt explained. “I’m looking for a blond American woman.”
“No,” the man said, shaking his head. “I just run the turbines.”
It made sense. The poor guy was just a sailor. But he had to know his ship.
Kurt walked him to an electrical schematic of the ship’s wiring on which the demarcations for hallways, berths, and common areas were laid out.
“Rene Acosta,” Kurt said. “Which cabin is his?”
The man hesitated.
Kurt pulled back the hammer on the Beretta.
“First cabin,” the man said. “Accommodations deck, forward.”
Kurt studied the diagram. By the look of it, that cabin was the largest on the ship, it made sense it was Acosta’s.
Kurt dragged the man to a storage room, shoved him inside, and took out a small syringe. He jabbed it into the man’s thigh and watched as his eyes rolled quickly. In a second he was out cold.
“Sleep tight,” Kurt said, tossing the syringe away.
In a minute, Kurt had the crewman’s coveralls on. They covered his wet suit and electromechanical gear but not his hair. He spotted a red skullcap on a peg and added that to his ensemble. With the cap pulled down snugly over his silver hair, Kurt headed down the hall toward the bow, where Acosta’s cabin sat at the end of the central gangway.
Kurt found the door locked and was able to pry it open using a knife. He slipped inside and began his search. He’d been there all of five minutes when he heard a hand on the doorknob.
With surprising grace—considering the bulky equipment and the layers he was wearing—Kurt moved to the bathroom and crouched behind the curved glass block of Acosta’s walk-in shower.
Clutching the Beretta again, he prepared himself for a fight. If he was lucky enough to find Acosta entering, he’d get some answers from the man himself.
The cabin door opened briefly and then latched softly. To Kurt’s surprise, no lights came on. Muted footfalls on the plush carpet traveled slowly from the main door to the desk where Kurt had been rifling through Acosta’s things.
The squeak of a chair told him someone had taken a seat, but the room remained dark until it was partially illuminated by a soft blue glow, easily recognizable as the light from a computer screen.
Kurt heard typing and then fin
ally a woman’s voice. “Rene,” the voice said scornfully, “did you really think my own security system would stop me.”
It was a rhetorical question. There was no one there to answer, and Kurt’s curiosity began to get the better of him.
He moved to a new spot where he could see.