Sabotage by Matt Cook Read Free Book Online

wondered if the look of belonging aboard a vessel like this would ever come. He’d never risen to warm slippers and foamy baths. His mornings had more often opened with gunfire and centipedes. An eighty-pound backpack was more familiar to him than a tuxedo, a soldier’s stridence more comfortable than a butler’s genteel courtesy. In Rove’s mind, luxury entailed an abdication of the very responsibility that had kept him alive. His instincts rejected it.
    He feared he’d grow restless during the first weeks of cruising. If he did, he could always abandon ship and fly home, he thought. Spas and massages, champagne fountains, tanning decks, scented steam baths, and infinity pools did little to excite him. Still, he walked the gangway with buoyancy in his stride, if only for the dive tour.
    An attractive blonde greeted him at the ship’s entrance.
    â€œWelcome aboard!” she said. “May I see your cruise pass?” He handed her a gold, wallet-sized card, one that had been given to him inside a thin metallic box imprinted with the Pearl logo. “This will be your door key, charge card, shore identification, and overall handy friend throughout your cruise. Don’t lose it! Now please look into the camera. Every passenger gets a picture. Perfect. Now, smile … Mr. Rove, we’re thrilled to have you aboard. Enjoy your one hundred twenty-five days of escape.”
    â€œThanks,” Rove said. “Which way to my quarters?”
    â€œMay I see your pass again, please?”
    He showed her the card. His weathered look didn’t fit the usual profile of a penthouse guest. Her politeness turned to genuine interest. “Forward end of deck fifteen,” she said. “You have yourself an excellent stay, Mr. Rove.”
    The entrance hall fed into a piazza-style grand atrium. Two cherry-carpeted staircases climbed in half-spirals around a central waterfall, cascades gushed in alcoves around the room, and lights that waxed and waned on the ceiling created a starry effect. A string quartet filled the ship’s spacious centerpiece with Pachelbel, whose repetitious Canon clashed against jazz chords emanating from a distant lounge. Painters displayed their works on the second of the atrium’s three levels, their easels and wall mountings lighted for viewing. Passengers greeted one another in the gathering area, taking drinks and hors d’oeuvres from waiters ambling with trays.
    â€œFoie gras mousse with quince marmalade en croûton ?”
    The French words did nothing to hide a Scandinavian inflection.
    Rove took in the assailing presence of the waiter. The man was a bulging tuxedo; Rove had to tilt his head back to see the malicious blue circles that were his eyes, and the sardonic line for a mouth that looked incapable of breaking its horizontal. The square of his face was almost geometrically precise, his blond hair drawn in a ponytail. The server’s body looked fit to wrestle any beast in the Serengeti.
    He carried a tray of canapés in one hand. There was a diamond ring flashing on his other hand. Rove watched as the man’s fingers, moving nimbly and without conscious direction, made the ring vanish from one finger and reappear on another.
    â€œYou’ll have to forgive my impoverished gastronomical heritage and deliver that in my native tongue,” Rove said.
    The server’s mouth remained flat.
    â€œDuck liver on bread,” he said.
    Rove detected an air of condescension.
    â€œI’ll take two.”
    The server looked down in a half-nod. His fingers began playing with the ring faster, almost twitching.
    â€œPretty piece of jewelry you have. You practice sleight of hand?”
    â€œA small hobby. Have a nice evening.”
    Biting into a savory topping, Rove nodded.
    He climbed the aft staircase and passed a library, eyeballing the interior chocolate suede walls and wine-red upholstery. Next to catch his notice was an expansive