The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(24)

Broussard’s face was gray in the darkness. Grant heard him whisper, “Devi, my beautiful girl.” But his voice was strong when he called back to Cesar, “Do we have any means of letting search and rescue know where we are?”

Cesar shook his head. “A few flares, but they’ll need to be near enough to see them. Without the transponders, it’s going to be hard to locate us—and we’re adrift.”

They’d already moved another forty yards away from The Griffon. The waves were pushing them, the currents running fast.

Grant cracked open his satellite phone only to find it too wasn’t working.

Grant shot a look at Broussard. It had to be said. He called out, “We fear Devi was responsible. She’s dead, shot by her accomplices, we think. She drugged the food and drink. Did she manage to disable everything? Do you know?”

Broussard raised his head. The blind grief was still there, but now his eyes were hard, his brilliant brain focused. He held up the small thumb drive. “I think she set off a small EMP inside the electrical systems of the boat, and it wiped everything.”

Cesar said, “But why? I don’t understand. All of us liked her and, sir, she really liked you, everyone knew it.”

Grant called, “Perhaps she was forced to do this. My recollections are fuzzy at best, but I think I heard her say something about her sister. She thought she was going with them, whoever they are, and they killed her.”

Cesar looked stoic. “Well, whatever her motives, she nearly managed to kill us all. We won’t last too long out here. There’s a bad storm coming, a typhoon. I’d say we have twelve hours before we’re in trouble, and when the storm finally hits—no, let’s not worry about that now. We’ll be out of here long before it hits.”

Grant said, “There has to be some way to communicate. Aren’t you hooked into a satellite somewhere?”

Broussard nodded. “Of course we are. It will have marked our last transmission location and someone at the company will share that information when I miss my board meeting in the morning.”

The ship’s lead engineer, Eros, called from another boat, “I tried to get a distress call out when I woke up, sir. But nothing registered. I don’t think it worked.”

Broussard said, “You tried, Eros, and we are all grateful. Mr. Thornton tried as well. We will have faith the calls were heard and our rescuers are on their way to us now. Have you been able to chart our position?”

“I have, sir,” Eros said. “We’re two nautical miles from the last known location of The Griffon, and moving away from that position at approximate four kilometers per hour. I will continue triangulating. We have the stars to guide us until the typhoon gets close.”

“Excellent. Cesar, do we have rations and water?”

“We have water, sir, and the lifeboats have the usual—twenty food packs per person, enough to last five days. The ropes holding us all together are stout, so no one will break away.”

At Grant’s raised brow, Broussard said, “We always keep the lifeboats provisioned. The submersible also has food and water for five days. I like being prepared for the worst. If we have to, we can ride out the storm. Also, we can try to take the submersible to land. With luck, someone will start searching for us sooner rather than later.”

Grant thought Broussard sounded more confident than he felt. The aftereffects of the drug were making him nauseated, and the idea of being alone in a small submersible in the middle of the Indian Ocean with a storm bearing down didn’t make him feel much better.

“And if they don’t come for us?”

“Then we wait. And we pray.” He thought again of Emilie, how weak she’d sounded, but hopeful—she’d believed him utterly when he said that he would cure her. He couldn’t fail her, not now, not this close.

A huge metallic groan sounded behind them, and everyone turned to see The Griffon slide under the water.

Broussard cried out, couldn’t help it. Every man and woman stood frozen, staring in horror.

Now they were completely alone.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


T-MINUS 71 HOURS

The Hassler Hotel

Rome

July 25

Nicholas was drinking coffee and watching the news, enjoying the warm summer breeze flowing across their bed from the open terrace doors. Mike walked out of the bathroom, her hair in a towel. He gave her a grin and a wave.

“All right, Mike. One more day in Rome. You’ve seen the Vatican—hey, what’s this?”

At his tone, Mike focused on the television. A large red crawler ran along the base of the screen.

Breaking News: Jean-Pierre Broussard, head of Galactus Space Industries, missing; fears the tycoon’s megayacht, The Griffon, has sunk off the coast of Malaysia.

“Oh, bollocks.”

“Oh no, that’s the boat Grant is on, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He turned up the volume. The anchor was speaking with barely contained glee—now this was news that should show his face all over the world. One of the planet’s richest, most successful men, possibly dead? Missing at sea? It was a feast to last for days.

“—reports have been coming in that the ship went off the radar last night, and Broussard was reported missing this morning after failing to attend a scheduled board meeting. Authorities report there was a brief SOS call, but there have been no distress calls since. Authorities trying to contact the crew are receiving dead air, and the boat’s transponder, which should allow for emergency services to locate it, has not registered. Is it possible some sort of sabotage occurred or was the ship the target of pirates who are known to sail the waters in the area?”