Usual standard declarations about age, ownership etc. apply here.
Welcome back once again as the journey continues, with mysterious figures seeking to become involved in the lives of our boat dwellers as they try to understand their own situation. This chapter took longer to write as ... well Christmas and stuff. Winter and goodwill and so forth, and I have family, friends and even strangers who want to share my stores of liquor at New Year. Oh yeah -- Happy New Year, peoples!
But now, with a gently glowing fire in front of you, and a glass of your favourite in your hand, settle in and listen while I tell you more of my tale...
CHAPTER FOUR
The figure slipped through the deserted car park, keeping to the shadows. The area was dimly lit at that time of night, and a dark leather coat, black jeans and a midnight-blue knitted cap helped the figure to stay out of sight of any casual observer.
At the beach end of the car park, the figure slipped quietly up and over a diamond mesh fence, and dropped down into an area heavily populated with fishing nets, lobster pots, coils of rope and upturned dinghies and rowing boats. Nostrils flaring slightly at the scent that inevitably went with fishing paraphernalia, and moving quietly and slowly, the intruder made its way silently to a viewing point slightly above the small harbour.
This was the fifth night in a row that the figure had made the anonymous journey, familiarity with the route making progress easy and quick. A pair of binoculars was drawn from a pocket and the figure gazed in turn at every one of the boats floating in the harbour.
Most of them had been there for weeks, moored up for the season until warmer days came around again. The only new addition was a nice looking catamaran, its sails furled neatly as it bobbed up against one of the floating wooden piers that would rise and fall with the tide, making ingress to the yachts moored there easy at any time of the day or night. The yacht was lit up like a Christmas tree, and from the sounds of it there were a lot of people partying within the twin hulls. It appeared at regular intervals during the season, hosted a noisy party into the small hours, and then returned to a private mooring alongside a boathouse a little way up the coast the next day.
The watcher dismissed it, gave a sigh and swung the binoculars further around in its sweep, noting that a small fishing boat had disappeared, and a small dinghy had been left moored in its place at one of the buoys that dotted the harbour. At the end of the visual sweep the quay came into view. It was largely empty, as mooring fees were higher there, and only bigger boats ever took up any space alongside its concrete length.
The local pleasure steamer, which offered tourists an hour-long trip around the bay during the day, was the only inhabitant at that moment, and even that was silent and dark, the gloom in that area broken only a single, small security light on a pole illuminating it for the security camera on a neighbouring pole. Kids sometimes tried to get aboard the steamer during the night, but were always picked up by the security guards quartered in the small lighthouse at the end of the quay. They were inevitably ejected with threats of their parents being told, and it had become something of an ongoing game. The pair of night watchmen actually quite looked forward to foiling every renewed effort, as the camera pointed at the steamer actually had movement detection hardware attached which rang an alarm in their office, making their job easy. The kids didn't know about it and the guards felt it made them seem like Batman and Robin when they silently appeared out of the night to haul the kids off the boat. If nothing else, it passed the time.
Another almost silent sigh escaped from the figure as the binoculars were stowed back in a capacious pocket and the route retraced back to the car park and the town beyond. Tomorrow might be more fruitful -- or not. Either way, the watcher would be there.
*****
Seventy two miles from where the watcher was slipping silently into the shadows, a meeting was taking place.
The office was large and luxuriously appointed, dominated by a huge ebony and teak desk that had been polished to a shine that made it seem to glow from within its own darkness. Leather armchairs -- not matched, but each a handmade creation that screamed wealth and taste -- were scattered about, subtle lighting highlighting and isolating each from the others. The carpet was more a subtle blending of Middle Eastern rugs than a single piece, thick enough to ensure that the sound of footsteps was never heard in that room.
In contrast to the rest of the decor, the chair placed precisely in front of the desk was an old-fashioned, high-backed, wooden school-type chair, and despite the pleasantly cool temperature of the office, the thin man who occupied it at that moment was sweating like a pig, drops appearing at his bald temples and running down his pale, stubbled cheeks. His expensive grey suit had dark stains at the arm pits, and he suspected that the backs of his jacket and trouser legs would be dark with moisture as well.
The executive behind the desk leaned forward and placed his elbows on it, his hands clasped together. As he moved, his Westmancott suit seemed to flow around him, moving as if alive to ensure that it fit perfectly to its wearer at all times, allowing no unseemly bulges or creases.
"Mr Smith," the executive said. "Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice."
The voice was rich, a deep baritone with just enough traces of gravel within it to make it commanding. It seemed to perfectly match the handsome, craggy face and thick, well-groomed white hair.
Mr Smith nodded quickly and forced a smile, nerves turning the expression into a horrible mixture of anxiety and subservience. He didn't try to say anything, which was a good thing, as his throat was so dry it felt as if he had a sponge lodged in it.
"How did this problem creep up on us so unexpectedly?" the executive asked, his tone kindly, but puzzled.
Mr Smith tried desperately to stop his right foot from bouncing his knee up and down -- a habit he had formed when nervous at school. "I... er, we... I didn't realise... and then..."
"Mr Smith," the executive interrupted, his rich voice still kindly, but now revealing impatience. "Perhaps I should simply ask questions. We might proceed a little more swiftly that way, yes?"
The executive opened up a folder, which he seemed to magically draw from mid-air. It certainly hadn't been on the desk up until then, Mr Smith thought wildly.
"You are one of our middle management staff, and are in fact second-in-charge of our ports operations in the south east, yes? However, eleven months ago you were seconded to a special project in addition to your other duties, yes?"
Mr Smith nodded hard, still not trusting his voice to make any sense.
"And this project was to ensure the viability of, and maintain the location of, our special assets in that area, yes?"
Mr Smith wished the executive would stop ending every question with the word 'yes'. It was not only annoying, it felt increasingly threatening.
"But that degenerated into a situation where half of the assets were prematurely written off, and the other half stolen or mislaid, yes? Which result would seem to be the very opposite of your mission statement, yes?"
Mr Smith nodded miserably. For a moment he wished he was married so he could beg for the chance to send a final message to a loved one.
"Our audit department is suggesting that we move to put in place a full assessment of our current and fixed assets and our cash flow in the area, and make cuts where necessary. In fact Mr Hashamura was almost insistent on this -- as is his right of course. I think you would agree that our auditors have to have a considerable amount of leeway in deciding their course of actions in order to keep everything running smoothly and correctly, yes?"
Mr Smith nodded again, although his face was now so white as to seem almost transparent. It wasn't fair to ask him to agree that the auditors should be sent in, he thought miserably. Especially not that weird bastard Hashamura. He enjoyed making cuts.
"You know, Mr Smith," the executive expanded. "The successful management of our company relies on one thing, the same thing as any other successful corporation; the correct and even inspirational management of our human resources, if you would indulge my describing it that way!
"And I would hate to think that our HR department failed so badly in their brief by appointing you to manage those assets. Assets that have been written off can be replaced of course, with careful selection and management. But we could not replace our loss of reputation as easily if word was to get out that we simply allow them to be misplaced, wasted, or purloined from us, yes? What would the shareholders think? I'm sure it would be nothing good, yes?"
Again, a nod.
"So Mr Smith, I suggest you return to your office and set to solving these problems; primarily finding our missing asset, and -- if it was stolen, and I suspect that will turn out to be the case -- it then needs to be returned and the miscreant who has carried out this theft punished to the full extent. This is your priority! I suspect that how you handle this matter will be reflected fully in your annual review, yes?"
The man called Mr Smith, which wasn't actually anything like his real name, felt a surge of ice-cold relief run down his body like a waterfall. "Yes sir! It will be my number one priority from now on, my only priority, to find the ... asset and return her."
The executive closed his eyes and grimaced for a moment at the man's momentary breach of office decorum. Then he smiled once again.
"Good man! To assist you, I will ask Mr Hashamura to divert some of his staff to your aid! Yes?"
The sweat returned in full.
*****
Wren gazed out into the dark that masked the steel-grey sea. She had delved into every crevice she could find and had discovered a pair of white dressing gowns folded neatly in a tiny upright cupboard that was deeper than it was wide. Wrapped up warmly against the chill of the autumn night air, she and Lachlan were quietly seated on the bridge, watching the rain on the bow by the glow of the lights on the bridge. The bridge had heating, but Lachlan had asked her to leave it off, uneasy about running things on whatever batteries the boat carried without the engine running to recharge them.
They both sat with mugs of coffee as they discussed the surprises the boat kept serving up.
"There has to be a way, but for the life of me I just can't find it," said Lachlan, his pleasantly rugged face now frowning as he thought. "We know the boat has two engines, or motors, or whatever boating people call them. There are two throttles here on the console, so that would make sense.
"But we apparently can't switch them on from here, which probably means they have to be primed and fuel lines turned on, coolant levels checked etcetera, before they can be started -- either from here or from a master switch at the engines themselves. But I can't find any way to get to them."
