"It's colder out here than I thought," Walter said as he stepped off of the helicopter and onto the landing pad on the USCGC Stratton. "I should have brought him a sweater."
"If Peter's cold, I'm sure the coast guard will have something for him," Astrid assured him.
Astrid's comment did not assure Agent Grant, however. Olivia heard him let out a sigh of disgust. He was not charmed by Walter's eccentricities, nor by his clear concern for the wellbeing of his son. A petty part of Olivia delighted in her fellow agent's exasperation.
Before Grant could express that exasperation any further, a middle-aged woman in a crisp coast guard uniform approached them. "Agent Broyles?" she asked, her eyes fixing on the tall lead agent.
"Captain Ryland," he replied with a polite nod and a firm handshake. "This is Agent Dunham, Agent Grant, Agent Farnsworth, and Doctor Walter Bishop."
"Bishop?" the captain asked. "Relation of the victim?"
"I am his father," Walter said. "And I would appreciate it if you could arrange for a blanket for Peter once you find him. And for me now. It's much colder on this boat than I anticipated."
"You'll have to excuse Doctor Bishop," Agent Broyles said, a touch of annoyance in his voice. "I'm sure you can understand his concern."
"Of course," Captain Ryland said, sounding amused. "But I didn't realize the family of victims usually accompanied the FBI in investigations."
"Doctor Bishop is a brilliant scientist and well respected member of my team," Broyles said in a tone of voice that did not invite questions.
"Then I'm honored to have him abroad," Captain Ryland said in a friendly tone without a touch of sarcasm.
From that exchange, Olivia got the impression that Captain Ryland, though a very gracious person liked the niceties of life. The Captain would not be offended by Broyles's curtness, Grant's demands, or even Walter's eccentricities, but she would be pleased if someone made the effort to be polite on top of being efficient and official. "Captain," Olivia said, stepping forward and smiling at the other woman. "Thank you for your assistance in this case."
"It's always a pleasure to help another agency," the captain said returning Olivia's smile. "If y'all will follow me to the bridge, I think you'll find it a little warmer."
Once they were in the bridge, Captain Ryland directed them to a large screen displaying a nautical map of the northeast coastline with two dots moving across it.
"This is us," she said, indicating the larger blue dot with a gold center just off New York's coast. "And this is the Flaxmann," she said pointing to a red dot to the east. "She's going southeast at about 14 knots, heading to the Cape of Good Hope."
"And how fast are we going?" Grant asked.
"I just told the skipper to take us to twenty knots," Ryland said. "We should overtake them in about forty minutes."
"And then what will the procedure be?" Grant asked.
"Your investigation, your lead," Ryland said. "We'll facilitate you as much as we can. What do you think you'll need?"
"We'll need to search the Flaxmann," Broyles said. "And interview its crew."
"Well, that will be a job," Ryland said. "I'll get my Commander to organize search teams. I assume you'll want to be doing the interviews."
"Yes," Grant said. "I have a list of crewmembers who may have had contact with our suspect. We'll start with them."
"Suspect?" Ryland said. "I thought we were looking for shanghaied defense contractor."
"He might just be AWOL," Grant said. "And in league with an escaped criminal."
"I would appreciate it, Agent Grant, if you would cease from maligning my son's character in front of the pretty coast guard captain," Walter snapped.
"We would also like to request the assistance of some medical personnel," Broyles said. "Doctor Bishop and Agent Farnsworth will need to collect blood samples from the Flaxmann's crew for analysis."
"Blood samples," Ryland asked, obviously confused. "The warrant didn't say anything about that."
"We won't force a blood sample from anyone," Olivia assured the captain.
"Why not?" Walter interjected. "Do you think the shape shifter will give his blood willingly when he knows it will give him away?"
"Shape shifter?" Captain Ryland asked, glancing for agent to agent skeptically.
"Doctor Bishop's theories are not being taken seriously by the FBI," Agent Grant said, glaring at the old man.
"The present circumstances would seem to indicate that it is your theories, young man, which are not being taken seriously," Walter replied cuttingly.
"Captain," Olivia said quickly, before Grant could get in a reply. "I don't suppose there is there a nice, out of the way place for Walter to wait?"
"How about the commons?" Captain Ryland offered. "They got a little coffee bar area. One of the perks of a state-of-the-art ship."
"That would be perfectly adequate if the coffee bar served snacks," Walter said with all seriousness. "Preferably muffins."
"I think we can set you up," Captain Ryland said sending Olivia an amused glance. Olivia smiled gratefully back.
~B~R~E~A~K~
Peter walked carefully through the dimly lit halls of the ship. He'd decided to risk being caught and the prospect of a transatlantic trip on bread and water simply because he could not bear the idea of letting Big Eddie manipulate him into imprisoning himself. Besides, if he was going to make a transponder to broadcast an S.O.S. he really did need something to solder with.
Peter was not unfamiliar with cargo ships. They almost always needed bright engineers and almost never called your references. It was a good way to get from here to there if you didn't have enough money, or if you didn't want your name to show up on a manifest of any kind. Granted, he'd broken a few contracts when he did not return from shore leave, but he consoled his conscience with the knowledge that he'd always left the ship in better shape than he found it.
As Peter walked through the halls, it became clear to him he was on one of the higher decks, which were reserved for crew quarters. All the quarters around his little room were empty; however, which meant the ship was running on a light crew. That wasn't surprising, as the ship appeared to be at least twenty years old. Computers and robots had, undoubtedly, made some of the jobs redundant. All the better, Peter reasoned, fewer people to find him.
All the mechanical equipment, including soldering tools, would be in a supply closet off the engine room. There were bound to be people around there, as no amount of robots or computers would ever be able to replace a sharp engineer, so Peter would have to be careful. Shift changes would be, by far, the most dangerous time to hang around. People would be coming and going – getting or putting away their tools and supplies. During the middle of a shift would be the safest time to raid the supply closet, but he would always run the risk of an engineer coming in to get something he'd run out of, or a tool that he'd forgotten to grab. Unfortunately for Peter, there would always be someone on shift, and a shift change would never be more than two hours away. His first goal was to find a place to hide near the supply closet. With any luck, it would only take him a few hours to observe the shift change, run into the closet, get what he needed, and sneak back to his room.
The engine room was easy to find and the supply closet was conveniently labeled. Peter could hear people on the inside, laughing. It seemed that he happened to venture out in the middle of a shift change, or the engineers on this ship had a lax work ethic. In either event, it was bad news for him.
He looked around for a place to hide. If a man really wanted to hide – to disappear from site for long periods of time – there was no better place than a ship. It was full of nooks and crannies, almost all of which had solid doors that a man could disappear into. But if a man just wanted to be inconspicuous for a few minutes while waiting for a group to pass, there was no worse place than a ship. Every opening was covered by a door, usually a heavy door with no window, that would squeak on its hinge and draw attention to itself if it was left open a crack.
Before Peter could find so much as a door that was not locked, the door to the supply closet swung open and three large men walked out, laughing heartily. The laughter stopped, however, when they saw Peter.
"Who the hell are you?" a large man with wide shoulders, a thick, bushy black beard, and totally bald head demanded. He was wearing a pair of oil-stained overalls and a white undershirt, which displayed numerous tattoos on his skin. Peter knew the type, a professional seaman – not someone Peter wanted to cross.
The other two men were only slightly less intimidating. There was a younger man carrying a tool chest. He was clean-shaven with a buzz cut and had on jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel shirt over it, all of them dirty. While he was not as large as the bald man, he was more muscular, and just as tattooed. The third man was the least intimidating physically; he appeared to be in his mid-sixties – clearly strong for his age, but also overweight. A web of red veins was visible on his nose and cheeks, indicating he was recently, if not currently drunk. But the chevrons on his company shirt identified him as the captain, the man who could save Peter, or starve him.
"My name's Peter Bishop," Peter said quickly, tapping into and emphasizing the fear and desperation he felt. He needed their empathy or, failing that, he needed them to be so disgusted with him that they would not think for a moment he was capable of conning anyone. "I was working in Boston, in my lab, and something happened. I woke up here. Please, you've got to contact the coast guard, or someone."
"You're saying you were shanghaied?" the bald man asked with a disbelieving scoff.
"There was a man," Peter continued. "A small man in a turban. He said he helped a gangster named Big Eddie kidnap me."
"A man with a turban?" The captain asked.
"Singh," the younger man suggested. "He's small, always wears a turban."
"And he's the last one in this ship who'd get mixed up with doc scum," The Captain retorted. "Whoever the hell you are, and whyever you made it onto my ship, you will regret it."
"Believe me, I don't want to be here," Peter said. "If you just contact the authorities, they're probably looking for me."
"Like we have time for that," the Captain growled. "McCullin, take the stowaway to the white room and lock the door." Turning to Peter he said, "I'll think about you later."
"Yes sir," the young man said, handing the tools to the older man before stepping forward and grabbing Peter's arm gruffly. Peter didn't resist, allowing the young man to pull him down the hall, push him up two narrow flights of steps, and into another long hall.
"What do you think your captain will do?" Peter asked, letting his veneer of fear and panic slip. The man, McCullin, was obviously too young to have any real authority on the ship, so there was no need to engender his pity. Moreover, he struck Peter as a man who was likely to abuse people if he could get away with it. While Peter thought that he could probably hold his own if young thug decided to start something, he figured it would be best to avoid that situation altogether.
"He'll find out what really happened," McCullin said. "And, whoever helped you, he'll get punished."
"No one helped me," Peter said. "I was abducted against my will."
"Right," he laughed. "Why?"
"It's complicated," Peter said, feeling that it was unwise to bring up shape shifters and parallel universes.
"Oh, that's a great explanation," McCullin said sarcastically. "You'd better think of something soon, else the Captain'll bust your head."
"Bust my head?" Peter asked. "Figuratively or literally?"
The young man didn't answer. Instead he opened a nondescript door in the middle of the hallway and said, "Get in."
"Is this the white room?" Peter asked.
"Yeah."
"Why do you call it that?"
"Because there's nothin' in it but the white walls," McCullin answered.
"Apt," Peter commented. Before he could say anything else a cracking announcement was broadcasts over the ship's speaker system.
"Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge."
"Get in there," McCullin said, pushing Peter suddenly and roughly, knocking him off balance and tripping into the dark room. Before Peter could quite catch his footing, the door closed. In the thick, impenetrable darkness, Peter could hear the lock click into place. He felt his way to a wall and eventually found the light switch. As McCullin had said, there was nothing in the room but white walls.
Peter sighed, leaned against the featureless wall, and slid down so he was sitting. He'd bet his limited freedom, his ability to defy Eddie's plans, against his chance of contacting help, and he'd lost both. All he had left was the hope that Olivia would find him.
But that, Peter had to admit, was hardly nothing.
~B~R~E~A~K~
"All our paperwork was properly filed," Captain Sumter said, glaring at Captain Ryland and the group of law enforcement agents she lead. "Up to code, employment status cleared, tariffs paid – hell, even got the damn cat her shots." He said, nodding towards a fat calico that was sleeping in a patch of sun on the far side of the bridge.
"Believe it or not, Captain," Captain Ryland said. "I am not here to check up on your veterinary records. We are looking for two persons of interest who disappeared from Boston last night. One of them has close ties to the shipping community and, accordingly, we are searching every ship they may have escaped on."
"These persons, are they criminals?" Captain Sumter asked, looking interested.
"Yes," Agent Grant snapped before Ryland could answer.
"Reward?" Sumter asked. He sounded hopeful.
"Well, there is the good feeling you get for helping your country," Captain Ryland said. "Also, time is money. So you can consider all of your time we don't have to waist with a full search as a reward."
That argument seemed to convince Captain Sumter. "I found a stowaway just before you hailed us. He's locked up downstairs."
"Can you describe him?" Olivia asked eagerly.
"Oh, hell, I don't know," the grubby captain muttered. "White. Brown hair. Clean cut. Looked 'bout thirty."
"It's Peter," Olivia said, unable to keep the relief from her voice. But, a glare from Agent Grant reminded her of her company and she quickly added, "Peter Bishop, one of the men we're looking for. We'd like to see him right away."
"Singh," the captain barked. A slight man wearing a neat company shirt and a dark red turban stepped forward.
"Their guy's in the white room. Show them down, OK?"
"Yes sir," the man said placidly. Turning to Olivia, he said "Will you follow me, please?"
Olivia and Agent Grant followed the man to a door at the back of the bridge. As they were walking away, she could hear Ryland and Broyles continue talking with the captain.
"Is that it, then?" Sumter said.
"I'm afraid not," Broyles informed him. "We'll need to see everyone on your ship. We would particularly like blood samples from everyone on board."
"You're kidding!" Sumter spat.
"I need to make it clear that that is not covered under the warrant," Captain Ryland said. "However, if you're men have nothing to hide, they should not mind."
The door behind them was closed and Olivia did not hear the rest of that conversation.
Their guide led them down two flights of stairs and through a long hall. At a nondescript door, he stopped. "The Captain said the man you are looking for is in here."
"Open the door, please," Olivia said.
"Do you think the man is dangerous?" the man asked, hesitating as his hand reached the door latch.
"No," Olivia said flatly.
"Could be," Grant answered a split second after her.
"I see," the man said, looking from one agent to the other. Olivia could see he was trying to decide whom to trust. He was also noting the Kevlar vests under their windbreakers and the guns strapped to their belts.
Slowly, he unlocked the door and opened it. Olivia's heart jumped into her throat and she could not keep herself from smiling when she saw Peter, disheveled but unharmed, standing alone in the small empty room.
"Olivia?" He asked breathlessly. He sounded as relived to see her as she felt to see him.
"Peter!" she said, ignoring procedure and decorum and the undoubted disapproval of Agent Grant as she went into the room and embraced him.
She felt his arms wrap around her and for a second there was the familiar, reassuring pressure. But, before she could relax into it and believe with every fiber in her body that the man she loved was safe, she was pushed forcibly away.
She stumbled backwards and Peter stepped backwards, leveling her side arm and pointing it at her head.
