Roshaan
Still no answer. Her brain races. If no one’s inside, she could slip in, pull the Calliope bug, be gone. Two birds, one stone.
Silence.
She swipes her master key and pushes the door open.
A smell hits her. Body odor—stale perspiration. The boozy stench of a bender. Alarms begin to sound in her mind. She moves forward cautiously, then recoils sharply.
Patrick McGregor is sprawled on his back on the bed.
A dirty, sweaty wreck of a man. Blood streaks his torn shirt, and his hand is cut.
His left knee below the hem of his Bermuda shorts is grazed and oozing blood between bits of dirt and gravel.
Bruises are forming on his face, and his left eye is puffy.
Either he fell badly, or he was beaten up in some kind of altercation.
Roshaan’s gaze flicks to the bug she fastened to the top of the TV screen that faces the bed. She makes a snap decision that goes against every grain in her body.
Before ascertaining whether Patrick McGregor is okay—before calling for medics if he’s not—she moves directly to the hidden cam.
As she reaches the TV, he groans and stirs on the bed. She freezes, glances over her shoulder. He moans again, but does not open his eyes.
Quickly, she pries the bug loose. Feeling the tiny, warm weight of it in her palm, she’s about to slip it into her pocket when her guest moans again. He opens his eyes, winces.
“What in the fuck? What’re you doing in here?”
“Mr. McGregor? Are you all right?” She slips the bug into the pocket of her fitted dress.
He scrunches his eyes again and places his hand on his forehead. “What do you want?”
“I—I came in to do a wellness check. There was no reply when I knocked, so I entered. The ship is leaving port as we speak, and your partner, Lady Fairfax, has not scanned back into our system. Do you know where she is?”
He just groans and pushes hair off his brow. Roshaan is about to call medics when he mutters, “Christ. I feel like shit.” He struggles into a sitting position, leans against the headboard. “She’s not coming back.”
“Excuse me?”
“Arra wanted to stay on Crete. She’s quit the cruise.”
“Sir, we’ll need to verify from her directly that—”
“Fill your boots, Roshaan. Call her. You have her phone number, right? She’s not coming back. We’re done. Now can you please leave?”
She casts a fast glance around the mess in the room. Arrabella’s suitcases are still there, open, women’s clothes bulging out. Her cosmetics are scattered over the desk. Her black sun hat is next to Patrick on the bed. It looks as though it’s been squashed.
“If it’s all right with you, security will need to ask you a few questions, just to confirm—”
“I said it’s fine. Whatever. Please go. Now.”
“I’ll send someone from security up to your suite, then. Meanwhile they’ll attempt to contact her directly. Her passport will have been left with the Souda port authorities—”
“Just the fuck leave. Okay? She’s gone.”
Roshaan exits the suite, shutting the Calliope door quietly behind her. Blood thumps in her ears.
She contacts Maxine, updates her, and asks her to handle security. “I have an urgent matter with one of my other elites that requires immediate attention.” It’s a lie—another move against her grain.
She kills the call before Maxine can object, or even ask what’s going on, and she hurries to the next closest suite—Hendrick Lodewijk’s.
She isn’t sure which will be worse—security coming up here now and stumbling across the bugs.
Or Avi Galev.