The cars drew up at a chain-link gate to one side of the building, and Garsten said something to an attendant in the box. The windows of the Lincoln were tinted one-way, making it pointless for Michelle to have tried attracting attention. The gate opened, and they drove through a short access road to a quay running along the rear of the building. A maze of piers and jetties with boats at their moorings stretched away in both directions, masts swaying and lines flapping in the breeze that was building up. Immediately in front of them, a large, sleek motor yacht, easily the most impressive of all those in sight, was berthed stern shoreward, alongside one of the docking piers. A sign above the fishing cockpit looking down on the swim platform at the stern read: Princess Dolores.
The two cars parked among a scattering of other vehicles in slots along the service quay. Michelle’s guards ushered her out, and they joined Vanessa, Garsten, and Finnion from the Cadillac. Michelle remained mute, resigned to whatever lay ahead. It was clear that nothing she might have to say was going to alter anything, and her reserves of energy were at an ebb. They walked out along the dock, Vanessa and Garsten ahead, Finnion and Kyle following with Michelle between them, and the two spooks bringing up the rear. Finnion had a folder of documents that he had brought from Microbotics. One of the escorts behind was carrying a large leather briefcase that Garsten had taken from the Cadillac.
A gangplank led up from the dock to the fore part of the vessel, and a set of steps provided access amidships. There seemed to be some kind of consternation around the steps. A half dozen or so people were standing around on the dock, with much hand-waving going on, and raised voices; more figures, similarly excited, were visible above on the deck. As the arrivals approached, three girls who looked to Michelle like hookers—high-class and expensively turned out, to be sure, but none the less mistakable for that—came down the steps carrying shoulder purses and garment bags, preceded by a crew member in a white mess-jacket. Vanessa and Garsten led the way through without ceremony and began ascending to the boat. Snatches of words reached Michelle’s ears from either side as she and the others followed.
“What does he mean, it’s been canceled? We were invited. Tell him you want to talk to Martin right away.”
“What kind of emergency? . . .”
“Of course it’s not the weather. We don’t have to go anywhere. . . .”
Michelle recognized Payne straight away when he reached the deck: yellow hair and bronzed features, wearing navy dungarees and a buff duffel jacket. He was with a dark-skinned, mustached man who looked like the captain, talking to some people standing in a semicircle, but excused himself when he saw Garsten and Vanessa. His eyes moved to Michelle and assessed her silently for a moment. Vanessa moved forward and murmured something to him that Michelle didn’t catch. On the quay below, the hookers were getting into a red BMW.
“Later,” Michelle heard Payne say. “First I need an update from you and Phil.” He started to turn away, but caught Michelle’s eye in the process. Michelle still didn’t think it would do much good, but this was the time to try, if only for form’s sake. Here was the boss, after all.
“Martin Payne, isn’t it?” she said. He stopped and looked back. “Look, I’m not alone in this. You have to know that what you’re doing is crazy. Why are you doing this? You’ve run up enough charges already to risk going away for a while, regardless of anything we’ve done. It’s not making sense. Why let it get any worse?”
He seemed to only half hear, as if distracted by more pressing things. “Put her down in the salon with your two guys and keep everybody else out,” he told Finnion. Then, nodding at Michelle, “I’ll talk to you in a minute.”
“What do you want me for?” she demanded, unable to prevent her voice from rising as Finnion took her elbow.
“Come on, you heard the man,” Finnion said, guiding her firmly.