Page 118 of The New Girl

“I was planning to kill you and throw your body overboard.” Nikolai touched her swollen cheek. “Unfortunately for you, I’ve changed my mind.”

74

Rotterdam

Prime Minister Jonathan Lancaster granted permission for a single aircraft to depart London City Airport that evening. A Gulfstream G550, it touched down in Rotterdam at 12:25 a.m. King Saul Boulevard had arranged for a pair of Audi sedans to be waiting outside the terminal. Keller and Mikhail headed straight for the town of Hellevoetsluis, home of one of South Holland’s largest marinas. Gabriel asked Eli Lavon, who avoided boats whenever possible, to choose a second location.

“Do you know how long the Dutch coast is?”

“Four hundred and forty-one kilometers.”

Lavon looked up from his phone. “How do you possibly know that?”

“I checked while we were on the plane.”

Lavon looked down again and contemplated the map. “If I was at the helm...”

“Yes, Eli?”

“I wouldn’t try to get into a darkened marina.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d dump it on a beach somewhere.”

“Where?”

Lavon studied the phone as though it were the Torah.

“Where, Eli?” asked Gabriel, exasperated.

“Right here.” Lavon tapped the screen. “In Renesse.”

After making a single brief call with the Inmarsat phone, Nikolai had increased his speed to thirty knots. As a result, he reached the Dutch coast fifteen minutes earlier than the Garmin had originally forecast. His running lights were doused. He switched them on and instantly saw the flash of a torch on land.

Nikolai doused the running lights again, increased his speed to full, and waited for the bite of the sandy bottom. When it came, the boat lurched violently to a stop, with a pronounced starboard list. He killed the engine and poked his head down the companionway. The woman was struggling to gain footing on the sloped teak floor of the galley.

“You might have warned me,” she said.

“Let’s go.”

She clambered awkwardly up the companionway. Nikolai pulled her into the cockpit and shoved her toward the stern.

“In you go,” he said.

“Do you know how cold that water is?”

He aimed the Makarov at her head. “Get in.”

After first removing her shoes, she slid from the swim step and found her footing on the bottom. The water was level with her breasts.

“Walk,” commanded Nikolai.

“Where?”

He pointed toward the two men now standing at the tideline. “Don’t worry, they’re the least of your problems.”

Shivering, she started toward shore. Nikolai entered the water soundlessly and, holding the Makarov aloft, followed after her. The car, a Swedish-made sedan with Dutch registration, was parked in the public lot behind the dunes. Nikolai sat with her in the backseat, the gun against her ribs. As they passed through the sleeping seaside town, a single car approached from the opposite direction and flashed past them in a blur.