International Incident

  International Incident

  Melissa F. Miller

  Brown Street Books

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Thank You!

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Melissa F. Miller

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Brown Street Books.

  For more information about the author,

  please visit www.melissafmiller.com.

  Brown Street Books eBook ISBN: 978-1-940759-18-0

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to everyone involved in the production of this book, in particular, my phenomenal editing and design team. I would also be remiss if I didn’t thank my husband and children. As I was writing this book, we reached a milestone: now every member of the family, from the youngest to the oldest, has the requisite skill set and motor control to deliver to Mom and her muse a much-needed cup of coffee. Thanks, kiddos.

  For Trevor

  If you have an opportunity to accomplish something that will make things better for someone coming behind you, and you don’t do that, you are wasting your time on this earth.

  — Roberto Clemente

  (1934—1972)

  1

  Tumpat, Malaysia

  Mina lowered her head and kept her eyes fixed on the dusty ground, staring hard at a point just in front of her bare feet. She concentrated on not shaking.

  This is it, she thought. The last hurdle.

  She had cut her long, thick hair very short, cropping it close to her skull, and had stolen the neighbor boy’s clothes from the line outside his hut just before leaving her village. The baggy shorts and thin, worn T-shirt hung on her frame. She just had to trust they obscured what curves she had. But still, she thought it best to blend into the crowd as much as possible, avoiding any close scrutiny.

  The man from the manning agency barked his orders quickly, first in Malay and then again in Burmese, for the benefit of the somber men who huddled together off to the side, apart from the Malaysians. The instructions were deceptively simple. They were to line up to have their teeth and hands inspected. Then they would be separated into two groups: those who would be rejected and those who would have the good fortune to move on to staff fishing boats leaving from Songkhla, across the border in Thailand, in the coming days and weeks.

  Before she shuffled into line, Mina took a long, centering breath. She had to get a spot on a boat. There was no money left. Her younger sisters’ bellies were empty, and their father was too sick to work—closer now to joining her mother in death than to life. She had two options. The better of the two, by far, was to trick her way into a position on a male-only fishing crew, which the men in the village spoke of with open awe. The fishing crews made unimaginable sums, or so she’d heard.

  If she was rejected from the crew, the other option was grim. She would have to make her way back to the village and grow her hair long again, then trade her tattered boys’ clothing for a tight-fitting dress and heavy makeup and head for Kuala Lumpur to find work in “guest relations” at one of the clubs, satisfying the physical urges of tourists. A cold shiver of disgust ran along her spine and she stiffened as she fell into line behind the tall, talkative man from the bus.

  She watched from under her eyelids as the agent for the labor company walked along the line. Most people were sent to the left to await the truck to take them to the port city in Thailand. A few were cast off to the right. Most were muttering softly, cursing their luck.

  One old man, turned away—likely because he looked too frail to do the work—was weeping, begging, and waving bills. “I have the staffing fee. I have the fee,” he shouted.

  The agency man snapped his fingers and called the old man over. He fanned out the money and counted it, then nodded and jerked a thumb to the group to the left.

  Mina hid a smile. She’d heard that most workers didn’t have the staffing fee. This, in itself, was not a problem. The agency would front the money, and the crew member could work it off. But her father had given her his blessing to take what little money remained in the blue and white porcelain bowl that sat near his sleeping mat. She had the fee. She could buy her spot.

  You can do this, she assured herself as she straightened her spine trying to project an air of vigor and strength. You’ve got this.

  * * *

  Port of Singapore, Cruise Centre

  “You’ve got this,” Connelly whispered in Sasha’s ear, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze as they walked up the gangway track to board The Water Lily.

  Sasha met her husband’s concerned eyes and gave him a wobbly smile. “I know.”

  The rational part of her brain recognized that it was ludicrous to need a pep talk to embark on an eight-day, seven-night cruise through exotic locations in Southeast Asia, but rationality couldn’t trump the reality: she missed her babies. And something behind Connelly’s smile made her think he missed them just as much as she did. After all, the cruise hadn’t been his idea, either.

  The vacation had been a gift. A surprise arranged by Sasha’s legal partners, purportedly because McCandless and Volmer, PC had just finished a phenomenal fiscal year. But Sasha knew Will Volmer well enough to know that his idea of a year-end bonus was a basket of fruit. Maybe a ham. Assuredly not a luxury cruise—and definitely not one that included international airfare for two, no less. No, the trip had Naya’s fingerprints all over it—Naya had not only cleared Sasha’s trial calendar, she’d arranged for Sasha’s parents to babysit Finn and Fiona for the duration of the cruise. She herself was taking care of the cat and dog.

  When Sasha had pointed out that Naya, as the firm’s junior partner, had worked just as many hours as Sasha had, Naya and Will had countered that no one else had put up their billable hours while parenting newborn twins. Sasha suspected that the babies were only part of the reasoning behind the gift. She and Connelly had had a difficult year, to put it mildly. She thought he still needed to deal with the fallout from having found his father. In any case, her hesitation about being singled out had faded somewhat when Naya rolled into the firm’s parking lot in a sparkling new Mercedes in place of her ancient Hond
a Civic.

  As Sasha handed her cruise card to the broadly smiling crew member at the top of the ramp and waited for the woman’s handheld scanner to beep, registering her card, she made a mental note to chat with Will about the firm’s finances. She hoped their year really had been that extraordinary and that Will wasn’t losing his well-deserved reputation for frugality.

  “Welcome aboard Mr. Connelly and Ms. McCandless-Connelly,” the woman—Julia, from Sweden, according to her name badge—said warmly as she handed back Connelly’s card. “We set sail in just about three hours. Please, explore the ship and pop into our welcoming reception in the cocktail lounge. I’ll have a porter deliver your bags to your suite when your rooms are ready.”

  “Fantastic,” Connelly said, as he tried to slip her a folded bill. As cruising rookies, they’d gotten an earful of advice from their cruising-enthusiast friends and relatives, all of which could be distilled into this one rule: when in doubt, tip.

  Julia apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. She recoiled and pulled her hand back as if the twenty were a spider. Connelly shot Sasha a questioning look, and she shrugged. She had no idea what the problem was.

  The hostess smoothed her face into a pleasant expression and leaned in close. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Connelly. I can’t accept a gratuity.”

  Connelly wrinkled his forehead in confusion.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Sasha said in an attempt to rescue her husband from what was quickly becoming an awkward social encounter.

  “If you don’t mind my inquiring, is this your first time cruising with us?” Julia asked.

  “It’s our first time cruising period,” Sasha told her.

  Understanding lit in the woman’s ice blue eyes. “Ah, I see. And you didn’t peruse our materials before selecting our cruise line for your maiden voyage?”

  “To be honest, no. The cruise was a gift.”

  “Oh, what a lovely gift! In that case, the two of you are in for quite a treat. Sacred Lotus differentiates itself from our competitors by offering a truly pampering, luxury experience where your every need is anticipated and your every wish fulfilled.”

  Even though Sasha harbored a strong suspicion that the words were taken directly from a marketing pamphlet, the hostess somehow managed to imbue them with such emotion and authenticity that they rang true. She found herself nodding along as Julia continued. “Part of that experience is having a full staff available to assist you without the expectation of receiving any gratuities. In fact, tips are strictly prohibited. Sacred Lotus compensates us very generously, I assure you.”

  “I see.” Connelly slid the twenty into his pocket with a sheepish grin.

  Julia smiled back at him. “It’s an understandable mistake. But the gratuities policy is only one of the ways in which we distinguish ourselves. We also offer all onboard amenities and activities at no extra fee. For instance, you can avail yourself of unlimited services at Chamomile and Chrysanthemum, our award-winning spa, take cooking classes with our master chef, or perhaps visit the pottery studio for lessons. We like to say both the horizons and your opportunities for adventure are limitless on The Water Lily.” She wrapped up her spiel then gestured toward the lounge, where several moneyed-looking couples were already circulating, champagne glasses in hand.

  “Just how good was last year?” Connelly murmured in Sasha’s ear.

  No kidding.

  As Sasha and Connelly headed toward the reception, the hostess called after them. “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Connelly?”

  They turned back to her. “Yes?”

  She trotted away from her station to meet them halfway between the ramp and the entrance to the lounge.

  “I’m afraid there’s one more thing I forgot to mention,” Julia said apologetically.

  “Oh?” Connelly said.

  “Yes, Sacred Lotus also prides itself on offering our guests a truly rejuvenating, relaxing experience. We promise to take you away from the troubles and nuisances of your daily life. To deliver on that promise, we need you to leave behind your responsibilities and worries. So, unlike our competitors, we do not offer unlimited free Internet access. We don’t even offer Internet access for an additional fee. We believe the ability to remove yourself from daily life is priceless, worth far more than constant contact is. We don’t want you to be checking your emails, answering questions from your stockbroker, or reading unsettling news. This is your escape, your respite. So I’m afraid you may not have realized that you are about to go off the grid, as it were.”

  Beside her, Sasha could feel Connelly eyeing her with some concern. She may not have done her usual level of research about the cruise line, but she’d known not to assume she’d have reliable email access. She’d told her parents and Will and Naya to contact Connelly in an emergency. For all Julia’s cult-like insistence on the value of cutting themselves off from the outside world, Sasha assumed the cruise ship’s systems couldn’t block whatever technology powered her husband’s government-issued Bat-phone.

  Julia was still looking at them with a worried expression.

  “Of course, I understand.” She flashed the woman a smile. “We do have infant twins, though. I assume when we’re docked, we’ll have some ability, however limited, to make phone calls?”

  Julia’s forehead relaxed. “Oh, yes,” she assured them. “Either through your phone carrier or ours, you will be able to check on your little angels when we’re not at sea. And, of course, in the event of a true emergency, a family member or the authorities could reach you through our captain’s communication system.”

  Sasha imagined navigating this part of the conversation was likely the nastiest part of the woman’s job. People felt obliged to be reachable. Rich, important people, who were clearly Sacred Lotus’s target demographic, believed they had to be accessible all the time.

  Not her. Nobody called up their lawyer to chitchat. If someone was trying to reach Sasha McCandless-Connelly, Esquire, they had a problem, a grievance, or a complaint. She was happy to let the world’s issues melt away for an entire week. As long as she could check in on Finn and Fiona and the pets, she was more than willing to sail off on a wave of blissful ignorance.

  Connelly nodded at the woman and put his hand on the small of Sasha’s back to pilot her toward the cocktail party. “Thanks for the head’s up, Julia. I hope we’ll see you around the ship.”

  2

  Mina felt the Vietnamese man watching her. Man was a bit of an overstatement, she corrected herself. He was more of a teenaged boy, about her age. She’d heard the others call him Binh.

  She kept her eyes on the fishing net she was mending and tried to control her heartbeat.

  Living on the boat was more stressful than she’d expected it to be. The crew shared cramped living quarters. They slept, during the day, in hammocks that hung haphazardly in the small room below deck where they also stored supplies and ate their meals. She passed her days in constant fear of being found out for a woman.

  She peeked up at Binh. He was still watching her with open curiosity on his face. Her hands began to shake, and the large, dirty needle passed into one of the open sores that had developed on her palms. She inhaled sharply and shook her hand as if that would take the sting away.

  Everyone on the crew had similar wounds. They never healed because they never dried out. The cuts filled with saltwater and fish slime and developed festering infections.

  Binh flicked his eyes around the cramped quarters, confirming that nobody was paying attention then, with a resigned sigh, he put aside the knife he was using to gut the small silver fish and returned the fish to the bucket. He walked softly on his bare feet; in a flash, he was crouched beside her, speaking in low Vietnamese.

  She shook her head and answered in her broken Thai, “No understand.”

  He gestured for her injured hand. She hesitated and gave him a long look. His brown eyes were sad and honest. They reminded her of her father despite the difference in age.

  He spoke
again. It sounded like he was trying to speak her language, but his Malay was so garbled, she couldn’t make it out. She knew what he wanted though.

  She held out her palm, still throbbing with pain and infection, and he took it in his own cool, slim hand. He bent his head low and turned her hand this way and that, inspecting the cut. With one smooth, fast motion he reached into a hidden pocket in his raggedy, dirty shorts and produced a small, round tin like a magician. He twisted it open and rubbed white balm over the wound. Her pain began to ease instantly. She made a small moue of surprise and looked up to meet his eyes.

  The tin had already vanished, no doubt stowed safely back in his secret hiding place.

  “Thank you,” she said first in Thai and then in Malay. She wished she knew Vietnamese. He’d shown her the first small kindness anyone on the ship had extended her and she wasn’t sure he understood her gratitude.

  He blinked then nodded. “Binh.” He smiled and pointed at his chest.

  “Omar,” she answered, giving her father’s name and trying to keep her voice low in a coarse, masculine whisper.

  He held her eyes for a long moment then said in unmistakable Thai, “Girl.”

  A shiver of shock ran through her body. She felt herself stiffen. She began to shake her head from side to side. No, no, no.

  Binh shook his own head and raised his hand. “I won’t tell.”

  Her head fell back against the rough wall and she went limp. She blinked back tears of relief. He was going to keep her secret. She managed a small smile and jabbed her thumb at her chest. “Mina.”

  He might have said something more, but just then the man who served as second-in-command to the captain clattered down the stairs and began banging on the walls with his stick. It was the signal that it was time to fish.