Corfe waited a half minute, then moved cautiously across the floor and widened the gap till he could see out. He was looking along the corridor leading aft to the engine compartment. In the other direction, a short flight of steps led up to the salon. There was no sign of anyone nearby. He wasn’t sure what he planned to do, but he needed to move the mec to a place where it would be less conspicuous. He walked it out of the bathroom, across the nearest stretch of passage, into the dark space beneath the stairs. Then he deactivated it, exited from coupler space, and was instantly back in the van. He took his personal phone from his pocket and called a number in Seattle Police Department headquarters.
“Hello, Lieutenant Shelvy? This is Doug Corfe again. I’m the guy who was there earlier, about the woman who had been abducted—the one I thought was at the lawyer’s office.”
“Yeah. I just heard the reports.” Lieutenant Shelvy didn’t sound very amused today.
“Look, I know that I’ve given you guys the runaround, and I know how this must sound, but you have to believe me. I do know where she is this time.”
“Surprise me.”
“She’s on his yacht, Martin Payne’s yacht: the Princess Dolores. It’s at the Shoals club on Lake Union.” There was an ominous silence. Corfe got nervous, and his mouth went onto automatic. “I mean, I’ve just been there. I saw her there myself not five minutes ago.”
“You were on Martin Payne’s yacht, Mr. Corfe?”
“That’s right. . . . Well, not exactly on it myself, but—”
“Don’t tell me. You sent one of those little machines there, the same ones that weren’t in Phillip Garsten’s office, right?”
“Yes, exactly. Except I didn’t—”
“Mr. Corfe, if I hear one more word about this, you will be arrested and charged with obstructing the police. There will be no further warning.” The line went dead.
Corfe called Eric and updated him on the situation. “You’ve got to stall things and stop that boat from sailing,” Eric said.
“How?”
“Figure out something, Doug.”
Corfe cleared down and stared at the console, thinking. The only way he could see of influencing anything that happened on the yacht was via the mecs. He recoupled to the system and activated another of the ones still inside the leather briefcase, and peered out. He was in shadow. Michelle had gotten the message and put her coat down over the bag. Corfe ran an inventory. In addition to the mec already free below the table and the larger telebot under the stairs, he had another telebot, five smaller Neurodyne models, the Keyboard Emulator, and the experimental acoustic model. Also, there was the almost run-down one that Kevin had left up on the cabinet, which was also acoustic. Corfe began moving them out to spread them around better.
Somebody else from police headquarters called Finnion a few minutes later. The tone was low and confidential. “Andy, it’s Gus. Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but your boss’s name has been buzzing all day here. Whatever it is, you guys had better cool it. Just a friendly word of advice, huh? Be careful, understand?” Finnion passed the word to Payne.
“Get everybody except Vic, Norbert, and the rest who are staying, off the boat now,” Payne instructed Michaelis Ellipulos, the captain. “We’re sailing as soon as you’re ready.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Wrapped in a heavy, hooded overjacket, Vanessa stood to one side of the bridge of the Princess Dolores, tight-lipped and saying nothing. Payne was pacing restlessly in front of the chart table to the rear, periodically checking his watch and sending nervous glances toward the shore. Ollie and Royal had stopped answering the phone. The conclusion had to be that something had gone wrong in Tacoma. After a quick conference, Payne had agreed they couldn’t wait any longer. Now they had switched over from shore-based power to the ship’s generators; the gangplank and the steps were up. But they still weren’t moving.
Victor Bazhin appeared on the foredeck below. “Hey, Martin, what’s going on?” he called up. “I thought we were supposed to be pulling out. Nothing’s happening.”