Марк Грини - One Minute Out

As they continued down the corridor, Claudia stopped at two open doors facing each other. To the right, Roxana looked in and saw the first group of eight already packed into a stateroom. They sat on the king-sized bed, in the two chairs in the little sitting area, or on the carpeted floor. In the second room, across from the first, she saw an identical stateroom, although this one was empty.

“Ladies,” the American said. “These will be your quarters. Step in and make yourselves comfortable. Once we get everyone on board, food and drinks will be provided, and then everyone can get washed up.”

The confused women and girls began filing into the room, but as Roxana passed Claudia in the hallway, the American put her hand on the twenty-three-year-old’s shoulder. “Not you, Maja. You will be staying somewhere else. Follow me.”

The others looked at Roxana with malevolence as she followed Claudia farther down the corridor to the stateroom at the end of the hall. It was the same size as the other two, although it was empty.

The older woman turned around and smiled. “This will be your room.”

“ My room?” She stepped inside slowly and saw a pair of designer jeans, a black turtleneck, and conservative underwear, all laid out for her on the bed. On a rolling hanger next to the bathroom were several zipped-up garment bags, and boxes of shoes were stacked in the corner.

“Yes, dear. You won’t be kept with the others.”

“But why not?” she asked, though she worried that she already knew.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said the woman. “I’ll have food sent in. You should take a shower. I’ll be back to speak with you before long.”

The American turned away and walked back up the hall; Roxana watched her go, then looked down at herself. She was filthy, wearing threadbare cotton pants and a shirt gray with grime given to her in Belgrade. Her long brown hair was tied up, but oily.

Here in the pristine surroundings of the stateroom she was so much more aware of her messy appearance than she’d been in the past week. She was exhausted; her body ached from pervasive stress, hard floors, and cramped conditions; but right now all she wanted to do was get clean. She closed the door to the stateroom—the two men halfway up the hallway never even looked her way—then stepped into the bathroom.

• • •

When I finally do get a view out into the mouth of the bay, it’s been twenty minutes since I’ve seen the yacht. I’d expected it to be right where I last saw it, but as I arrive at the far bank of the island I slow, my eyes locked to the distance. After a few moments I stop, fight to get my binos out of my pack, then bring them quickly to my eyes.

The yacht is there, but much farther out than before. It’s sailing to sea with a northwesterly heading, and it’s already too far away for me to make out any features, even with my binos.

“Son of a bitch.”

I am dejected and exhausted all at once, but then an idea strikes me. I pull out my phone, zoom in as far as I can, and take several pictures of the distant vessel.

And then I call Talyssa.

“Harry?”

“It’s me.”

Her voice instantly turns hopeful. “What did you find out at the President hotel?”

“I saw the girls.”

“Did you see . . . did you see Roxana?”

“I couldn’t make out any faces. I’m sorry, I was too far away. They were taken to a yacht offshore.”

“A yacht ?”

“A big one. Where are you now?”

“According to my GPS, I’m in a little town called Stikovica. It’s on the coast just fifteen minutes north of Dubrovnik. I ran out of gas. I left the scooter in the woods and am sitting at a bus stop, waiting for morning so I can rent a car or get on a bus or . . . or . . . I don’t exactly know what I’m doing.”

I look to the GPS and see exactly where she is. The yacht will probably motor past her location within minutes, but it will likely be well out to sea, and she doesn’t have binoculars that would allow her a chance to get the name off it.

But she might still be able to help.

“If I send you a couple of images, can you lighten them so we can read the name of the vessel on the stern?”

“No problem. I can Bluetooth it to my laptop and do it from here.”

“Good.” I text her the pictures, then glance up at the lights of the distant boat, barely more than a pinprick now. I know the girls from the red room in Bosnia are on board, and I feel so utterly helpless watching them go.

She says, “I’ve got the images. This will take me a few minutes.”

That yacht is headed north, so even though I don’t know its name, who owns it, or where the hell it’s going, I’m going to haul ass to the north to be in position to intercept it.

I consider stealing a boat to go after it, but decide against it. A yacht that size probably cruises along at around fifteen to twenty knots; I can steal a car onshore and move three times that speed in the same direction.

Thirty minutes later I’ve boosted a Volkswagen Golf from a lot next to an apartment complex up the hill, and I’m negotiating my way out of Dubrovnik, being very careful to avoid any roads near where I tipped the van earlier, because there is no doubt they will be full of cops.

And I do my best to avoid cops, even when they aren’t also evil sex traffickers.

My phone rings, finally, and I snatch it up. “I thought you forgot about me.”

Talyssa says, “No . . . I just needed some time to—”

“Save it. I’m picking you up.”

“What?”

“I’m ten minutes from Stikovica. Tell me exactly where you are.”

She does so. I hang up and stomp the pedal down to the floor.

• • •

Talyssa Corbu is right where she said she’d be, standing near the train station. She climbs in with her pack, and then I floor it back onto the highway as the first hues of dawn appear to the east.

Before she says anything, she puts a couple of candy bars and a bag of chips in my lap and opens a bottled water for me. “The stores were still closed, but I found vending machines outside the station. I thought you might—”

I’ve already ripped into a chocolate bar and am wolfing it down. I put the water between my knees and unscrew the cap.

She finishes her sentence while staring at me. “—be a little hungry.”

Between bites I say, “I thought you said it would just take a few minutes to get the images lightened.”

“What? Oh . . . it didn’t take long at all.”

“You found the name of the vessel?”

“I found more than that.” For the first time since I met her, Talyssa is speaking with authority in her voice. “The ship is La Primarosa . I went to Vesselfinder.com, which is a website that displays a map with real-time marine traffic, along with other voyage information, using data uploaded from the vessels’ transponders to the AIS, the—”

I interrupt, because I know what AIS is. “The Automatic Identification Service.”

“Actually, it’s the Automatic Identification System .”

“Right,” I say. “But boats and ships turn off their transponders all the time. There is no way in hell a boat full of sex trafficking victims would be broadcasting their location—”

She interrupts me. “It is mandatory for vessels over three hundred tons, but they are allowed to turn it off in certain circumstances. Security threats being one of them. Sometimes wealthy people use their status to fly under the radar, so to speak, citing a safety issue to the passengers. If you have money, all you have to do is say you are worried about piracy, and they give you some latitude to turn it off.”

“So, like I said, the Primarosa is not reporting to AIS, is it?”