The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(32)

Her hands trembled, but her mind kicked into full gear. The Damocles was one of Paris Industries’ supertankers, carrying more than fifty million gallons of crude. Her father had shown her the blueprints over dinner a couple of years ago. Papa loved all watercraft, big and small, and he’d been proud of his latest addition to the Paris Industries fleet.

She handed Rif the note.

He leaned closer to Stavros. “Who left this envelope?”

“A young messenger boy. Not one of our regulars.” The old man’s brows knitted together. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Not at all. Do you think you could describe this boy to a sketch artist?” The messenger would’ve been paid a few euros for the delivery. It was doubtful they’d be able to identify who had hired him, but they had to try.

“Yes, of course. Remembering faces is part of my job.”

“We’ll have someone here shortly. I need to make a few calls. May we go up?”

“Of course. Sorry if I made a mistake.” Stavros’s face was pale.

Thea squeezed his hand. “Not at all. Please say a prayer for my father.” Stavros was a devout man with a large family—he understood her pain.

The hotel manager tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Absolutely. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to assist.”

“Thank you.”

Rif led the way to the elevator and remained silent on the ride up. Meanwhile, Thea activated the same GPS app that had allowed her to locate Papa’s yacht. The entire Paris Industries fleet had trackers accessible to Quantum employees, because Quantum provided the company’s security. She typed the supertanker’s name, her pulse throbbing in tune with the flashing red light on the screen.

They entered the suite, and she paced the spacious living room until the location pinged. She waved Rif into the bathroom and turned on the shower to shield their conversation as much as possible from any hidden mics. “The Damocles is nearby, in the Mediterranean Sea. Not exactly a pirate-rich environment. And why are we only finding out about this now?”

“Who would normally be contacted if there was an issue with one of the supertankers—Peter?”

“Not sure. He handles the insurance, but as head of security, Hakan should be the point person. Something’s wrong here. First we receive these strange texts in Latin with insinuated threats, and now a straightforward ransom demand. No proof of life, no negotiations. I’m not sure the messages came from the same person.”

“Maybe Christos was transferred to a new captor?” Rif’s black boots, combat pants, and unshaven look were incongruent with the lavish surroundings.

“Don’t think so. The Latin texts felt personal, revenge-oriented. Suddenly the kidnapper wants cash in unmarked bills? The people on the supertanker may not even have Papa. Could be a phantom demand.”

“And they left us no way to contact them, to negotiate,” he said.

“Or secure proof of life,” Thea said. “I’ll see if I can reach Magnusson, the captain of the Damocles.”

“Wouldn’t he have notified someone if he’d been boarded?”

“If the operators executed a surgical strike, there might not have been time. The ransom turnaround time is tight. If this note is from the real kidnapper, he’s not going to let a bunch of thugs on the deck handle ten million euros. We need to unveil the key player. I’m calling the Damocles’s bridge.”

Abductions varied in sophistication, from a basic express kidnapping—where a random hostage, often a professional or a tourist, was forced to withdraw money from an ATM—to an intricate, well-planned abduction of a VIP. This kidnapping—storming a well-protected yacht and possibly taking control of a supertanker—was as complex as any she’d seen.

She turned off the shower and searched the Paris Industries database for the number of the bridge. After she dialed, she set her cell to record the call while Rif texted Hakan for more information about the supertanker and its crew.

The phone rang and rang and rang. She was about to hang up and try again when someone picked up.

“Captain Magnusson speaking.” His voice was strong, but an underlying tension lingered in his tone.

“Thea Paris here, Captain. Has the Damocles been compromised?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid it has.”

She sensed his shame. Her heart plummeted. Some part of her had been hoping this ransom note was a misdirection.

“Has anyone been hurt?”

“Not so far.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you home to your family. I keep losing track—how many kids do you have now?” Magnusson was a savvy guy. He’d know what she was asking.

“Ten. That’s why I spend so much time at sea.”

Muffled voices sounded in the background. She couldn’t tell what language they were speaking.

“That’s quite a handful. Is my father on board?”

“Can’t say for sure. I’ve been forced to remain on the bridge since they boarded.”

“Can the kidnapper hear me?”

“Correct.”

“Please put him on.” She didn’t want to place Magnusson in the untenable position of risking his life for what might be useless information.