Off Kilter Page 5

  “Sounds like you’re busy. Maybe I should call later.”

  “No, no. This is as good a time as any. I meant to call you to see how you’re doing.”

  Collin explained to Lukas what had just transpired.

  “I’m no expert on mental health issues, but it sounds to me like the pressure may be affecting you more than we expected. Maybe you need to get your mind on something else. You know, add some other sensory inputs. Try to distract yourself. Go somewhere crowded where there’s a lot of noise and lots of things to look at. Maybe watching a game on TV would help.”

  “Right,” said Collin. “I’ll find a busy sports bar or something.”

  “All right. Sounds good. Call me later, OK?” said Lukas.

  With darkness moving in, enveloping Munich in its chilly grasp, Collin found a teeming sports bar in the bustling downtown district—the kind with several television sets showing different games all at once. The choices were soccer, cricket, rugby, or the news. He settled into a seat near a television, where a dapper anchorman in a fashionable suit talked and smiled. The volume was too low to hear, but the words and pictures on the screen told enough of the story.

  He ate alone against the wall at the far end of the restaurant, hunched over his laptop, pecking away at the keys, recording not only the events of the day, but his reaction to them in his journal. He hoped this would provide insight into his meltdowns. As he typed, Collin nibbled on the uninspiring food and monitored the happenings on the TVs. As his eyes scanned the room, they inadvertently locked onto the face of a beautiful woman sitting at the bar with her girlfriend. Her long, silky, blond hair shone in the dim light of the bar. Her cheeks were slightly concave, and her skin was perfect. His gaze lingered on her face a bit too long, and she blushed and looked away. The two girls started giggling and whispering to one another. By the time they looked back, there was nothing but a plate and a few bills on the table.

  Collin was out on the street, hurrying to escape an uncomfortable situation.

  That face was so sweet, so pretty, so happy. It was hard not to dwell on it, but he couldn’t allow it. Her laugh was cute and genuine, and her eyes danced. All of it too much like Amy. He couldn’t stay; it was all wrong. Too many memories were already too close to the surface.

  Out in the cool night air, he turned his focus on the chill and the wind. He was heading east toward the subway when he noticed the sound of footsteps behind him on an otherwise desolate sidewalk. He turned a corner. So did the footsteps. He quickened his pace and checked his watch. The footsteps were still there. He crossed the street, and so did they, the soft thumping growing louder. The shadowy figure followed him into the subway terminal. Without stopping or looking left or right, Collin walked right onto the train in front of him just before the doors shut, nearly hitting him.

  He turned and looked through the window to see a large man nearly collide with the closing door. The man’s angry gaze was fixed on Collin. A thick finger jabbed at him against the dingy glass amidst a hail of snarling and cursing.

  Collin’s stomach rolled over, twisting into a knot, and his face went pale. His knees wobbled, so he sank into the nearest seat and buried his head in his hands, trying to shut everything out.

  It felt like the walls were closing in on him and there was nothing to stop them. The forces squeezing him were too powerful.

  As the train stopped at the next station, Collin pulled himself together, exited the train, and made his way to the street. He checked his surroundings, glanced at his watch, then headed toward the bus stop. The streets were damp and crowded; the air chilly. He switched back and forth between the bus and the train, looking out for anyone following him, until he was back at the hotel.

  Once in his room, he packed without delay, collecting the few personal items and clothes he traveled with, and checked out via the hotel TV. Pulling up a map on his phone, he charted his route.

  He was on an express train out of Munich less than forty minutes later. Next stop: Paris.

  Chapter Six

  London, England

  May 2

  The call came into Alastair Montgomery’s London office at four thirty on an otherwise ordinary Thursday, if there was such a thing anymore. Recent events had amped up the pressure. Alastair had just finished yet another meeting with the Chief of Investigations. They discussed, of course, the ongoing probe into recent cyber attacks on multinational corporations. Urgency was at a fever pitch, thanks to the shrill cries of the British press, not to mention Parliament. The increasing strain on him and his staff was becoming difficult to bear, and he expressed the need for more manpower but was once again politely denied. Interpol’s budget did not allow for hiring more investigators. Though only fifty-one years old, his thick hair had gone completely white, complementing his thin, wrinkle-free face. He sat facing the long window of his tiny office, twirling his pen between the fingers of one hand while loosening his tie with the other. His desk was cluttered with files and papers.

  When the phone rang, he practically barked into it. “Montgomery here.”

  “Section Chief Montgomery, my name is Reggie Crabtree, Special Agent in charge of the cyber terrorism task force for the FBI’s West Coast bureau. How do you do?”

  Oh, swell, now I’ve got the Americans making demands, too. “I’m quite busy, as it were. There’s been a load of activity over here in recent months, as you know. It’s keeping me and my team in the office late,” said Alastair with a huff.

  “I understand, so let me cut to the chase. I think we can help each other out. We have a lead on an organization that we believe was behind several, if not most, of the recent attacks on European and American banks. Who knows? Maybe with some cooperation, we can apprehend these suspects together. What do you say?”

  “It all sounds very intriguing, I must admit. What have you got?”

  “Ever hear of Pho Nam Penh and his Komodos out of Southeast Asia?” asked Reggie

  “We know the source of the RBS attack last week originated out of that region, yes. But Penh and his group cover their tracks extremely well, so as of yet, we have nothing solid to link them to any of these crimes,” said Alastair, the tone of his voice betraying his growing interest.

  “We have some photos of Mr. Penh with one of our own, a disassociated American who we believe has gotten himself ensnared in the Komodo syndicate, perhaps naively. We can’t confirm his level of involvement at this point, but we have our suspicions.”

  “And what are the bases of your suspicions, Agent Crabtree?”

  “We have photographic evidence that our man met with Pho Nam Penh in London just before the attack on RBS and with one of his top ranking lieutenants in Nassau, a week earlier.”

  “Yes, very intriguing.” Alastair nodded his head as if Reggie could see it. “Send over what you’ve got, and I’ll put one of my best guys on it. Maybe we can bring an end to the Komodos’ reign of chaos. Sure would make my life simpler.”

  * * * *

  South of Munich, Germany

  May 3

  Collin was lost in thought as the darkened countryside whizzed past the window on his left. He didn’t know if he was in Germany still or in France. And he didn’t care. The gentle swaying and clickety-clacking of the train lulled him into a contented stupor. He felt safer than he had for several days. He was sure no one was following him, and no one on this train cared what he was doing. The stress was working its way out of his system, so he allowed his eyelids to close and his head to rest against the seatback. Time to relax.

  At that moment, his phone rang. Only one person it could be. Lukas’s voice was strained with urgency. “Collin, you need to go straight to Le Bourget Airport when you get off the train.”

  Collin didn’t bother asking how Lukas knew he was on a train to Paris. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “The FBI just posted that picture of you and Pho Nam Penh on their Most Wanted board online. They’ve teamed up with Interpol,” said Lukas. “And that’s no
t the worst of it.”

  “It’s not? How can things get much worse?”

  “Interpol has taken a lot of heat for all of the recent cyber attacks. They need to show progress—you know how the European press can be. They’re broadcasting your picture all over the airwaves. I’m sure they’ll block all borders and do extensive searches, so we have no time to waste. You’ve got to get out of Europe ASAP. Even then, it’s going to be harder to hide now.”

  “Where shall I go?” asked Collin.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a private jet waiting for you at Le Bourget. My connections in Paris will see to it that you get out of there without problem. You’re going to the Cayman Islands, my friend.”

  “Awesome. Warm beaches, great scuba diving there, right? Sign me up.”

  “I’m afraid there’ll be no time for beaches or scuba. We’re not playing around here.”

  “Yeah, when was the last time I did any of that?”

  “I appreciate you keeping a good sense of humor, but I’m telling you, man, this is serious stuff. We’ve got to change tactics,” said Lukas.

  “Dude, you’re scaring me right now,” Collin admitted.

  “I know. I wish I had the luxury of being more jovial, but I’m extremely concerned about your safety.”

  “So what’s the game plan? I mean, beyond just going to the Caymans?”

  “I’m working on that. Hopefully I’ll have something for you by the time you land.”

  Collin gulped hard and checked his watch. “I don’t even know what time this train is due to arrive in Paris . . .”

  “You’ll be there about 6:21 a.m. That’s two and a half hours from now. Try to catch a few winks if you can.”

  “Yeah. Not sure about that.”

  * * * *

  George Town, Grand Cayman Island

  May 3

  Everything had gone smoothly to this point. He had exited the train, walked straight to the taxi stand, and made a bee line for Le Bourget Airport. When he got there, he was greeted by a short, stocky man named Jean Claude, who escorted him as if he were a dignitary straight to the waiting Learjet. Jean Claude raised the stairs to close the door as soon as Collin boarded the plane, and they were taxiing before he even sat down. Two well-dressed businessmen in expensive wool suits gave Collin perturbed glances as he made his way to the back of the plane. But he was on the plane, and they were on their way without a hitch. There were six passengers besides Collin.

  Collin was unable to sleep during the long flight. Once again, too many things on his mind. He was anxious to hear from Lukas to learn the new game plan, uncomfortable with his new branding as a wanted criminal. He wondered how he could stay safe with the international police hunting him. These unsettling concerns kept him alert until the pilot’s voice came over the speaker, announcing in French that they were making their final approach.

  Looking out the window as they descended, Collin surveyed what awaited him on the ground in George Town, Grand Cayman. As the plane neared touchdown, he could see Police cars racing down the runway, following the plane that landed just ahead of Collin’s.

  Collin’s plane never made it to the gate, instead emptying its passengers on the tarmac, where the confused businessmen collected their bags from the rear cargo hold of the plane as the copilot unloaded them. Since he had no luggage other than his backpack and computer bag, Collin was well on his way to the terminal when the sirens sped toward his plane. Four blue and white police sedans rushed in formation to intercept the bewildered passengers.

  By this time, Collin had merged with a group of anxious tourists, many of whom stood slack-jawed and gawking at all the commotion. He turned and watched in stunned horror as police cars screeched to a halt. Uniformed officers jumped out and began to surround the plane he had exited just moments before. He turned back toward the terminal and picked up his pace. He could hear howling and yelling behind him from his fellow travelers. Forcing himself to continue moving forward, Collin reached the glass door of the terminal, stealing a glance back to survey the scene. The small aircraft was a beehive of activity. The passengers and two pilots were visibly upset and agitated, their hands and arms waving in the air. Jean Claude looked toward the terminal and gave Collin an almost imperceptible hand motion to keep moving. The officers were encircling them and moving them like dogs herding sheep.

  He moved briskly through the airport. Most locals seemed unfazed by what they saw. To Collin, though, all this activity was bad news. It felt like he had stepped right into a waiting trap. He worked to control his breathing. Nothing on his phone yet, so he called Lukas. No answer.

  Collin wiped beads of sweat from his brow. He checked his phone as he walked, expecting a text or call from Lukas, instructing him where to go and what to do. He cursed under his breath but kept moving straight through the terminal to the curb, where a row of taxis was waiting. He stepped in front of a tourist couple and told the driver to take him to the Comfort Suites on the outside of town amid their protests.

  As the taxi hurriedly pulled away from the curb, Collin checked the back window. An exasperated police officer arrived at the curb a bit too late. The officer strained his eyes to make out the numbers on the cab and began talking into a radio.

  Fighting back the panic, Collin said, “Speed up, please. But don’t get in trouble.” He kept checking the back window, then scanning the scene in front of them. Soon the ocean was visible on their left. In the distance, he spotted the tops of the tall masts of sailing ships and changed the destination. Remembering his escape from Petaluma Marina on Rob Howell’s boat, he asked his cab driver, a kindly gentleman with more gray than black in his hair, to instead take him to the sailboat docks.

  The cab driver nodded his head as a wide grin covered his face. “Ah, yes. Sailing is good for the soul. You made a good choice, man.”

  The cab wove its way through neighborhoods and past shopping areas. Collin grew antsy. At last, he could see the boats in the marina and began to believe that they might make it there before the cops caught up to them. “Drop me off here, please.” The cab had not even come to a stop before Collin jumped out the door. As he did, Collin waved a one hundred dollar bill in front of the cab driver and asked him to avoid the airport for a while. With a knowing smile, the driver nodded and said, “Sure, man. Whatever the boss want.”

  Collin threw another twenty through the window and mouthed thanks as he yanked his bags over his shoulder and strode toward a group of men loitering on the docks. Near them a sign read: Explore the sea on a private luxury sail cruise.

  As he approached them, he asked which one of them was the captain. They all shrugged and looked at each other.

  “Can I charter a private cruise, please?”

  “Yeah, maybe. How many people in your group?” the oldest of them said.

  “Just me. I need a ride to Jamaica.”

  “When do you need that ride?” came the incredulous response. “We do mostly sunset cruises, you know.”

  “Like, now would be good,” said Collin as he glanced toward the road.

  After the chuckles died down, the leader of the group said, “I can do that, but it’s gonna cost you, man.”

  “How much?”

  “Well, I need to take my crew here. I can’t go that far without a good crew.”

  “Fine. How much?”

  “Well, that’s gonna be $20,000.”

  “Are you kidding? $20,000? Jamaica is not that far away. $10,000 and you got a deal.”

  “No way. It’s gonna take me and my crew more than two days to make that round trip. We need to get paid for such service.”

  The wailing of sirens fast approached. Collin tensed and turned away from the street. “I’ll give you 12,000 US dollars if we can leave right now and none of you breathes a word of this to anyone. You never saw me, you understand?”

  The sirens grew closer. Collin checked his watch and moved into the shade where the men were congregated. The man noted his movement
s with a raised eyebrow. “Make it $15,000 and you got a deal.”

  Screeching tires and blaring horns no more than a block away.

  “Fine. But can we go now?”

  The Captain eyed Collin warily. Collin shifted and squirmed as the noise from the approaching police cars grew louder. “I need time to reschedule tonight’s passengers. We can’t take off just like that.”

  Collin reached into his backpack and produced what looked like a thin brick made out of duct tape and tossed it to the Captain. “That’s $10,000. I’ll pay you the rest when we get there.”

  The Captain tore at the duct tape. A broad smile spread across his face. “Yeah, man. Get on the boat,” he said as he pointed to a beautiful sixty-foot schooner parked in a slip thirty yards away. One of the men hopped to his feet. He fumbled for a key card in his pocket and swiped it in front of an electronic reader to swing open the painted wrought iron gate for Collin.

  Collin practically ran down a grated, steel ramp and across a faux wood deck to the waiting boat, glancing over his shoulder as he went. The sirens approached and brakes screeched. Collin jumped aboard and ducked through the narrow passage into the quarters below decks.

  The Captain ordered his men to double time it and cast off now. One of the men gave the boat a mighty push and jumped onboard as the Captain started the engine and steered his way into the channel. As they backed away, a police officer came running toward the dock. By the time he reached the locked gate, the boat was swinging around. Determined to do his duty, the officer found a nearby maintenance worker to open the gate. The men on the boat busied themselves and pretended not to see him. They were already two hundred yards away with their back to the marina when the officer reached the end of the dock. The cop yelled and waved his arms above his head in vain and finally threw his hat on the ground in defeat.

  “Stay cool now,” barked the Captain. “No hasty maneuvers. Got it? We don’t want suspicions.” At the same time, he motioned nonchalantly for Collin to remain where he was.