Free The Abigail Affair by Timothy Frost Page A

and stood behind it. He picked up a cloth and started to polish glasses. A good bartender is never still.
    He continued to work on his plan later as he changed back into deckhand gear. Then he was busy finding “Ski-Pants” and getting ready to undock the yacht.
    After the rain in the night, the jetty below him steamed in the morning sun. Toby had to wait by a capstan and press a button, on command, to wind in a mooring rope. He looked up to the bridge and saw Scott behind the tinted window, talking into the VHF mic.
    From below his feet came a slight vibration as the engines started. A bell rang somewhere. A minute passed, then Toby nearly fell over as the ship’s horn let out a terrific blast. That was his cue. He pressed the red button, and the white mooring rope, as thick as his forearm, wound itself tidily in. It disappeared just as neatly into a hole in the deck. It turned into a thinner piece of rope, and then the end came aboard. Toby took his finger off the button and coiled up the loose end. He staggered slightly, like Popeye, as the vessel set off sideways away from the dock, and he looked over the side. Water churned up into white foam at both ends as the thrusters got traction. So that was what he had done when he played with the joysticks.
    Then it felt as if the jetty were sliding away beside him. It was like being on a stationary train when the adjacent train moves out of the station, and for a second you think you are moving. Toby’s stomach did another little cartwheel. He hoped he wasn’t going to be seasick. Surely not, on a yacht this size with gyroscopic stabilisers?
    The dock retreated. He stood to attention. He’d coped with the departure and knew he looked good in his clean, dry polo shirt. He was going to need the ship’s laundry soon. That would be a good pretext to approach Julia.
    The Amelia V turned around in her own length and nosed out of the harbour mouth towards the deep-blue Caribbean Sea. There seemed to be a lot of shallow water, tinged with brown and light green, which Toby knew meant reef. Red and green buoys slid past them on either side. A black bird with a pointed beak landed on the ship’s rail a few feet away from Toby and eyed him. It obviously wasn’t a seabird because it couldn’t keep its grip on the shiny rail as the ship rolled very slightly from side to side. Toby laughed out loud at the bird’s frantic efforts to cling on. It needed nailing to the rail, like the parrot in the Monty Python sketch. It couldn’t keep its footing and took off with an angry squawk.
    “Zot is so funny?” It was Ski-Pants, his deckhand superior, at his elbow, carrying a bucket. Why did these people keep creeping up on him?
    “Just laughing at the bird,” Toby said. “Where are we going today?”
    Ski-Pants snorted. “Here.” He handed Toby the bucket, which contained a tin of polish and a roll of gauze cloth. “This.” The man indicated the stainless-steel guardrail. “No laughing matter.”
    Toby said again, “Where are we heading?” but the thin-faced man turned his back and strode off. Toby tore off some cloth, applied a little polish, and began.
    The work was simple, but tedious. At least it gave him more time to think, and think he did. He pulled the brim of his crimson uniform yachting cap down to keep the sun off his face.
    “Are you enjoying your new life?” Toby jerked his head around. Another of the buggers had crept up on him—this time Walther, Krigov’s business partner, accomplice, whatever. He had taken off his jacket.
    “It’s been quite challenging so far, to be honest, sir,” Toby said. “Incidentally, what happened to Irina?”
    By way of answer, the Germanic-looking man tapped his nose. “A bit hung over. She’ll turn up. You’ll see.”
    “I thought I heard trouble,” Toby said warily.
    “Our Ivan is under a lot of pressure,” Walther said. “He has many deals to do. He has had some bad luck recently. He worries about his son, and his wife