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  Mansfield handed him his phony French passport with several hundred-pound banknotes protruding from the cover. “I presume this will suffice?”

  The boatman’s eyes grew wide. “The keys are in the ignition. Just have it back before it gets dark. Cheers.” He watched with curiosity as the attractive, nicely dressed couple sprinted to the boat and roared off into the Thames.

  44

  The trawler had followed the meandering path of the Thames through west London and reached a northerly turn near Battersea Park when the pursuing speedboat raced into view. Dirk was the first to spot it, recognizing Mansfield and Martina in the front seats. “Can you drop us somewhere quick?” he asked the old man.

  “There’s nothing close ahead. We just passed St. George Wharf a bit ago,” he said. “Do you want to go back?”

  Dirk eyed the closing speedboat. “No, let’s just keep on.”

  The sedate old Thames grew busy as they neared central London, the waterway bustling with tourist boats and the occasional small barge. The First Attempt held to the center of the river to avoid the growing traffic, the old man holding a steady hand on the wheel. While he was looking ahead, Dirk and Summer stared out the rear window at the approaching boat.

  Mansfield brought his boat alongside the First Attempt’s starboard beam and slowed to match speeds. He tapped his horn to get the old man’s attention, then drew his hand horizontally beneath his chin.

  “This fellow seems to want me to stop,” he said. “Is he the one who tried to kill you?”

  Summer gave him an earnest look and nodded.

  The old man smiled and waved at Mansfield, then turned away, keeping the throttle set at full.

  Mansfield moved in tighter and displayed a pistol beneath his jacket.

  The old man repeated his wave and smile.

  “I believe he may use that piece.” He looked to Summer and stepped away from the window. “You might want to keep your head down.”

  Mansfield didn’t shoot but dropped behind the First Attempt, then eased up to its port flank. Martina stood on her seat cushion and reached for the trawler’s rail.

  “The woman is trying to climb aboard,” Summer said.

  Dirk scanned the pilothouse and spotted a half-empty wine bottle on a wall rack. He grabbed the bottle by the neck, stepped out of the doorway, and tossed it rearward. The bottle skidded across the deck and struck Martina in the chest. More startled than injured, she fell back into the boat.

  Mansfield replied by pumping three shots from his Beretta into the wheelhouse as Dirk dove for cover.

  “I think you got them angry now,” the old man said, wheeling the trawler to port.

  “They weren’t too happy to begin with,” Summer said.

  Rising to his feet, Dirk scanned the river ahead. There was a pier a half mile downstream, but until then shore access was nonexistent. On the river itself, a small barge was approaching along the shoreline, while ahead a triple-decked tourist boat cruised slowly off their starboard bow.

  He had to catch his balance as the old man spun the wheel hard over, sending the boat careening. A second later, he reversed the helm and the boat swerved back. He was trying to dodge the speedboat as it attempted another boarding.

  “If you can get us alongside that tour boat,” Dirk said, “we’ll get out of your hair.”

  “I can try.”

  The old sailor continued corkscrewing his trawler, tormenting Mansfield’s attempts to transfer a now cautious Martina aboard. “When I give the word,” he said, “slip in front of the wheelhouse and stay low.” He swung the trawler in a hard turn to starboard and held the wheel until the side doorway was out of view of the speedboat. “Now!” he yelled.

  Dirk and Summer bolted out the door and crouched on the bow as the boat heeled back to port. A few seconds later, the First Attempt caught up with the tour boat.

  The old man could see that the tourist boat’s rear deck offered the easiest point of access, so he pulled parallel, then rapped on the windscreen to alert Dirk and Summer.

  As the speedboat approached on his port flank, the old man swung the trawler hard right until it slapped the side of the tour boat.

  Dirk and Summer leaped without hesitation and scampered up and over the side of the tour boat, blocked from Mansfield’s view by the First Attempt.

  “Sorry for the troubles, but thanks for the lift,” Dirk called out.

  The old man stuck his head out the side window and waved. “No worries. But you do owe me a half bottle of Bordeaux.”

  He killed the throttle and let the tour boat slip ahead as the trawler drifted with the current. Mansfield caught the move late but slowed and pulled alongside and Martina easily jumped aboard.

  With gun drawn, she sprinted to the wheelhouse. In the doorway, she leveled her weapon at the old man as the dachshund erupted in a howling frenzy. “Where are they?”

  The old man smiled and said nothing. Martina looked over his shoulder and noticed the tour boat pulling ahead. She looked back at the old man and shook her head. “Today, you are lucky.” She aimed a kick at the barking dog and ran back to the speedboat.

  Mansfield stood at the wheel with an anxious look. “Well?”

  Martina pointed up the river. “They’re on the tour boat.”

  45

  The Sir Francis Drake was one of the larger boats to ply the Thames River tourist trade, covering the waterway from Kew Gardens in west London to Greenwich in the east. Featuring an indoor café and a topside bar, the triple-deck tour boat could seat a thousand sightseers. But on this cloudy summer weekday, she carried fewer than three hundred passengers.

  An inebriated holidaymaker from Yorkshire helped pull Summer onto the open stern deck.

  “Welcome aboard, love,” he said, giving her a lecherous gaze. “Join me for a drink?”

  Dirk was quick to intervene. “Come along, dear.” He took her by the arm that still clutched the blue binder and pulled her forward.

  Summer feigned disappointment for the drunk’s benefit. “Perhaps another time.”

  She followed her brother through a swinging door that led into the lower deck’s enclosed salon. They ignored a Private—Reserved for the McIntyre Company placard at the entrance and stepped down the main aisle. The bay was filled with workers from a local high-tech firm enjoying an excursion on the founder’s birthday. Well-dressed employees ate cake and drank beer and wine while looking out the window as the Palace of Westminster came into view. A hired photographer snapped a flash photo of Dirk and Summer as they tried to pass a standing throng and make for the forward stairwell.

  While everyone was looking forward out the portside window toward Big Ben, Dirk peered upriver. The First Attempt still drifted in the center of the river. But the speedboat was accelerating past her bow toward the tour boat.

  Summer hailed a passing busboy. “Can you tell me when the boat will stop next?”

  The busboy glanced out the window. “We should tie up to the London Bridge City Pier in about five minutes.”

  “And where will we exit the boat?”

  “The Lido, or second-deck level. I think it will be the portside gangway.”

  Summer considered the corporate group, then turned to her brother. “I have an idea. Get up to the top deck and make yourself seen by the speedboat. Then slip down to the Lido deck and meet me at the gangway when we dock.”

  Dirk nodded. “Save me a piece of cake.”

  “I had a beer in mind.”

  He ran up the forward staircase to the open top deck, then worked his way to the aft rail and watched the speedboat approach the side of the Drake.

  Martina made eye contact with him as she stood on the speedboat’s passenger seat. Mansfield bumped the boat against the Drake, and Martina leaped for its side rail.

  The drunken Yorkshireman was still there to grab her arm a
nd help her across the rail. “My heavens, a second angel from the deep. What’s your name, my lovely?”

  Martina’s answer was a knee to the groin that sent the man and his beer sprawling across the deck. By the time he regained his feet, Martina was scampering up the external stairwell. She stepped onto the upper level as the Drake sounded its horn.

  The deck vibrated beneath her feet as the tour boat briefly reversed power, slowing its approach to a wooden dock that extended into the river. Half of the seated tourists rose to their feet and crowded toward the stairs as a loudspeaker announced their arrival at London Bridge City Pier.

  Martina filtered her way through the crowd, searching for the tall dark-haired man, but Dirk was nowhere to be seen.

  She descended the forward stairwell and met a mob of tourists and McIntyre employees who crowded against the portside rail, waiting for the boat to dock. Near the front of the line, she spotted Dirk and Summer, both standing nearly a head taller than the elderly passengers around them. She retrieved her handheld radio and pressed it to her lips. “They are exiting the boat. Get to shore.”

  Mansfield was already scouring the pier for a place to tie up. He found an open berth and drove the speedboat alongside.

  A dockworker in a blue jumpsuit saw him approach and ran to the water’s edge. “I’m sorry, sir, but no private mooring is allowed. This pier is for licensed tourist boats only.”

  Mansfield ignored the man’s comments as he tied up the boat and climbed onto the dock.

  “I’m with Scotland Yard on a security matter,” he said. He reached into his pocket and extended to the man a hundred-pound note. “Can you watch my boat for a few minutes?”

  The dockworker looked up and down the pier to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then snatched the bill. “Glad to, sir. She’ll be waiting right here for you when you return.”

  Mansfield ran toward the Drake but was a few seconds too late. The gangway had already been extended and the initial throng of tourists had swarmed off. He spotted Martina near the back of the pack, trying to push through the line.

  Martina waved for him to join her. The remnants of the crowd were diverging, some exiting straight off the pier, while most followed a raised walkway along the river’s bank.

  He wormed his way beside her. “Where are they?”

  “Near the front,” she said, “but we have them now. They’re headed aboard the Belfast.”

  Mansfield looked ahead. The walkway fed into a ramp that extended over the water to a large gray warship. The HMS Belfast was a Royal Navy cruiser built in 1938 that had seen extensive action in World War II. Preserved as a museum, she was now permanently moored in the Thames, across the river from the Tower of London.

  At the ship’s entry ramp, Dirk stopped and turned to Summer. “You sure we want to board her?”

  She moved ahead. “We need to buy some time waiting for the tour boat.”

  They led the pack of tourists to the ship’s entrance, keeping tabs on Mansfield and Martina following behind. Boarding the old cruiser on her lower deck, they were given free rein to explore most of the ship’s inner workings. Summer and Dirk immediately headed aft, walking briskly to the quarter deck and crossing to the starboard rail. A ladder led up to an open hatchway to one of the ship’s triple-gun turrets. They climbed two levels and ducked inside. The breeches of three massive six-inch guns filled the circular turret. Peeking through a cutout on the opposite side, Summer could see Martina standing watch on the gangway.

  Dirk looked through another viewport as Mansfield pushed past some tourists to skirt around the aft base of the turret. “He’s on us.”

  “Let’s get forward and go as high up as we can.”

  “We’ll need to drop down before we can go up,” Dirk said.

  They scurried down a ladder and entered a bay leading forward, then passed through an exhibit of the ship’s laundry station, complete with a mannequin loading an industrial-sized washer. Dirk found a companionway out a side hatch and they descended several more levels, arriving at one of the Belfast’s twin engine rooms. They made their way forward as quickly as they could, maneuvering past a maze of pipes and machinery surrounding one of the ship’s boilers, as well as past a few slow-moving tourists.

  When they reached the forward-most bulkhead, they climbed up the nearest ladder. Dirk hesitated on the steps and peered down the passageway from where they had just come. At the far end of the engine room, Mansfield was hurrying through the bay.

  They continued the cat-and-mouse chase, pushing forward and higher through the ship. Dirk and Summer passed the crew’s mess on the lower deck before finally reaching the forward superstructure. From there, they clambered up several decks to the narrow confines of the Belfast’s bridge. Summer hesitated, checked her watch, then peered out the forward windows. A horn sounded ahead of the ship and she nodded. “That’s our tour boat, departing right on time. Let’s go up to the flybridge.”

  They climbed another level to the exposed flybridge, which offered a stunning view of the river and the Tower of London on the opposite bank. They stepped to the port side and briefly looked down at Martina, still guarding the gangway. Then they crossed the bridge to the starboard rail and gazed at the river.

  Mansfield arrived less than a minute later. He approached them casually but somewhat out of breath. “Well, we could certainly have dispensed with the ship calisthenics.”

  “You could have sent your girlfriend,” Summer said.

  Mansfield smiled. “She’s not my girlfriend, but you are correct. She is probably in better shape than me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have the folder.”

  Summer held out her hands, both empty. “We don’t have it.”

  Mansfield frowned. “Yes, very clever to have hidden it somewhere on this ship.” He gazed around the flybridge, which was shared at the moment by a young family admiring the view. Mansfield turned back to Dirk and Summer, speaking in a low tone. “Siblings, aren’t you?” He addressed Summer. “When the family departs, I will shoot your brother unless you produce the folder. And if not, I will shoot you, too.” The calm coldness to his voice left no room for doubt.

  Summer watched as the family migrated to the stairwell after taking several pictures. “Who are you?” she said. “And why are you claiming the wreck of the Canterbury when it’s clearly a British ship? Is it the gold?”

  Mansfield laughed. “There’s no more gold aboard, so I have no interest in the ship now. My name is Viktor Mansfield, if you must know, and I will take that file, please.” He tilted his head toward the family, which was now descending the stairwell.

  “I didn’t hide it aboard the Belfast,” Summer said. “I left it on the tour boat.” She motioned toward the Drake, which was passing alongside the warship on its way to Greenwich. “If you look closely, you can just make it out on the lower aft deck.”

  Mansfield peered over the rail at the passing boat, focusing on its stern. A heavyset man leaned against a tall table drinking a beer, but the small open area was otherwise empty. Then he saw it. The blue binder sat on the center of one of the empty tables, weighted down by a pint of beer.

  “I wondered where my beer went,” Dirk said.

  Mansfield pulled his radio and called to Martina, in Russian, “Get the boat!” He turned to Dirk and Summer as an elderly couple stepped onto the flybridge. “It could be unfortunate for you if this is a trick.”

  “It isn’t,” Summer said.

  Mansfield nodded, trusting her body language that she was telling the truth. “I trust we shan’t meet again.” He turned and left the bridge.

  Summer sagged in relief as Dirk watched the Drake disappear under the Tower Bridge.

  He shook his head. “I can’t believe you gave it up without finding out what was in it.”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “We’ll find out everything that was in that binder toni
ght. But it’s going to cost us fifty pounds and another dinner at La Gavroche.”

  “La Gavroche again? Are you trying to break the bank?”

  Summer shrugged. “Sorry. It’s the only restaurant in London I know.”

  46

  The second meal at La Gavroche was just as delicious, and just as expensive, as the first. But the company was decidedly less captivating. Dirk had immediately recognized the photographer from the tour boat as he approached their table, underdressed and unkempt. For his part, the photographer was also disappointed, having expected a private dinner date with Summer.

  “Hi, Terrence. I’m glad you could join us,” she said. “I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Dirk.”

  The men reluctantly shook hands and took a seat on either side of Summer.

  “I . . . I thought we might be dining alone,” Terrence said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I see you brought the photographs. How did they come out?” Before he could answer, she plucked the large manila envelope from his hands and passed it to Dirk.

  “A moving boat wasn’t the best platform on which to photograph documents,” Terrence said, “but they came out fine, every page readable.”

  “That’s wonderful. Now, what would you like to eat?”

  Dirk and Summer hurried through their exquisite meals at high speed, and Terrence followed suit when the remaining conversation fell away. After skipping dessert, they bid farewell. Summer rewarded the photographer with a peck on the check, along with a fifty-pound note.

  “That was a bit cruel,” Dirk said as he hopped into a cab with Summer.

  “I think he was pretty well compensated for just taking a few photographs.”

  “True, but I don’t think it was quite the compensation he had in mind.”

  They refrained from opening the envelope until they arrived at Charles Trehorne’s residence. They found the historian drinking tea with Perlmutter, served by Trehorne’s vivacious wife, Rosella.