Minotaur

35

Fiona turned off the main road and wove the Bentley through a maze of streets in a small seaside town, just a few dark stores and a couple of modest houses, really. As she neared the water she switched off the lights and pulled quietly up outside a ramshackle marina.

“This is it?” Chapel asked, disappointed. “I thought you really had something. But the Coast Guard already seized Favorov’s yacht. He isn’t leaving the country by sea, not tonight.”

Fiona looked over at him with an appraising stare, as if she were trying to decide whether he was making fun of her or not. “The yacht was never the real plan,” she said. “He knew perfectly well that as soon as he called it in it would be picked up. That was just a ruse.”

“So what are we doing here?” Chapel asked.

“You don’t have a lot of rich friends, do you, Jim? If you have a yacht you must own a sailboat too.”

Chapel felt his eyes going wide. “A sailboat? Where does he expect to go in a sailboat?”

“Cuba would be my guess. From there he can go anywhere.”

“But he would have to sail—by himself—across a thousands miles of the Atlantic Ocean,” Chapel pointed out.

“Ygor is an excellent sailor. He always talked about competing in the Americas Cup, but he had to keep his profile low. A straight run down the coast will be nothing to him. If he runs into a storm in the middle of the ocean he could be in real trouble—especially since he can’t afford to radio for help. But if the weather stays clear he’ll have no trouble making the crossing.”

She gestured at the boats lined up at the water’s edge.

“Slip thirty-three,” she said. “Assuming he didn’t get here before us.”