Cruise: A Thriller Read online

  I’m still alive, Heleen thought. Just when she’d thought all was lost, her plan succeeded at the last possible moment. She could feel her willpower increase by the second. She was not going to die in this godforsaken remote place. She was not going to give him the satisfaction.

  35

  Heleen continued to let herself be dragged along by the ship. To achieve the most streamlined position, she kept her body straight. She tried to keep her legs as close as possible to the hull in order to reduce the resistance of the water as much as possible. Her toes tapped against the metal regularly.

  Miraculously, her plan had worked. Frank had found her windbreaker in the water and was under the impression that she had lost her battle with the Mediterranean. During her quick prayer, in which she begged God to not let Frank make another round on the ship, he moved around on the back of the ship for a moment but then had thankfully revved up the boat engines again and headed straight toward the coast.

  The first set of waves that gushed over her felt like she was in a swimming pool in a tropical paradise resort. The relief that came with her miraculous escape had given her another much needed shot of adrenaline, which now flowed through her veins. Despite the circumstances, she felt lighter. After all, each new wave brought her closer to land.

  However, her excitement was short-lived. The Mediterranean suddenly changed. The waves were higher, which made the water that hit her feel like harsh slaps in the face. Because she had been in the water for a relatively long time, the first signs of hypothermia were beginning to show. The water temperature suddenly seemed a lot lower and because of the constant pounding of the ship on the waves her muscles were beginning to give out.

  Occasionally, she lifted her head and saw the coast lights in the distance. They were neon lights, but she could not manage to find the flashing red lights. In this kind of rough sea it was impossible to determine how far she really was from the coast.

  To shift her attention away from the difficult position she found herself in, she began to look for some form of distraction. After all, a strong spirit could accomplish miracles. While she was dragged along through the water like a rag doll, she decided to focus all her rage on to Frank.

  You bastard, you motherfucker! She bit her lip against the pain and her raging emotions.

  After weathering another big splash and series of drops, she cast a quick glance at the coastline. Was it an optical illusion, or were the lights really brighter? Were they actually closer? She felt another adrenaline rush caused by the glimmer of hope. Heleen pulled up her leg and forced her numb fingers to hold on to the rope.

  What are people going to say about you when they hear what you did, you bastard? What about your sister? Will she still adore you when she finally hears the truth? I don’t think so! What about the people at work? They will piss on you. So will my family, friends, and colleagues. You will pay. The only one who will still welcome you is your Spanish whore.

  Her body slowly began to refuse to do what her mind was asking. Her grip on the rope was slacking. Total exhaustion hijacked her body. Within the next few seconds, the rope would slip from her fingers.

  When the wave hit the bow, she let go. At the same time she took a deep breath and pushed off. The darkness surrounded her. She still managed to make four strokes with great difficulty and was able to get her head above water. The ship had passed her by. She saw Frank’s outline behind the wheel. He looked straight ahead.

  Now that she was floating gently on the waves, she could clearly see that the coastline was not as far away from her as it had seemed. From this position, it was difficult to determine it exactly, but the distance seemed reasonable. I can do it, Heleen thought. She had to do it. She rested for a moment, then drew new strength from a source that she had never accessed before or known existed. Then she swam as controlled as possible straight toward the coast.

  Chilled down to the bone, she washed up on the Blanes beach. She crawled through the sand, which felt like satin. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She had made it!

  Lying there in the sand, she first tried to control her breathing and then did a few exercises to remove the cramps in her leg muscles. After a while, she stood up carefully and staggered to the promenade.

  When she stumbled past the parked vehicles, she remembered her own car. The car keys were still in her purse, which was still in Frank’s house. That, too, had been a part of his plan. They would probably park her car somewhere by the water. Single woman in a crazy mood goes for a swim late at night and gets into trouble. No one would see how she had drowned. Her body would wash up a few days later. Very plausible. …

  The blue rooftop light of a patrolling police car appeared in her peripheral vision. She stepped onto the road and spread her arms. The officers immediately assessed the situation well and supported her. She sat in the backseat of the police car and began to tremble uncontrollably.

  After catching her breath with some hot coffee and a warm blanket, she told the officers in English what had happened to her. The agents took her seriously and immediately put a prosecutor on the case. After a short telephone conversation with the man who also treated her with the utmost respect, he immediately requested a search and arrest warrant from a judge.

  Two hours later, an arrest team placed Frank and Romina in handcuffs.

  Part 5

  One year later

  36

  Heleen took a sip of her orange juice. It tasted so delicious. There was nothing like fresh-squeezed orange juice. The juice came from her own orchard, which made it even better. Handpicked, squeezed, and consumed. There really was nothing more enjoyable.

  From her patio she had a panoramic view of the hills and the Mediterranean Sea behind them. The rolling landscape ran into a tight, azure-blue mirror that reflected the smiling sun in countless places. The birds sang cheerfully in the treetops. This was her favorite spot. She spent hours here every day and never got bored.

  During the first few weeks after moving into the old villa, she had focused all her energy on the work that needed to be done in and around the house. She avoided the patio with the fantastic view as much as possible. She could manage only a quick look at the vast body of water. If she looked any longer, it became impossible to hold on to the free and peaceful feeling that it had given her initially. The light blue would fade into dark brown. The subtle lines of the rippling waves turned into wild and crazy waves that wanted to pull her into the deep, dark depths. To dispel all the horrible images of the past, she had to turn her head away.

  After about a month after she had established herself permanently in Spain she had dared to take on the confrontation with the water. She sat down on the patio. With her eyes fixed on the Mediterranean, she relived the most perilous and horrifying event in her life all over again. This time not in bits and pieces, but as a detailed account of exactly what happened that terrible night at sea.

  That awful experience had seeped into her blood and flowed through her entire ​​body.

  Only after spring moved into summer did she manage to stare carefreely at the Mediterranean without the shivers running up and down her body. She had the courage to look in the mirror again without a feeling of disgust coming over her. Since then, the patio was her favorite spot, where she went to let her thoughts be free.

  The misfortune had simply happened to her. It wasn’t her fault that she could not have children; no one in the world wanted to be mother more than her. Nobody.

  There were times when she managed to muster up some understanding for Frank’s behavior. He had acted in a moment of insanity, from a need to protect his child. The son she could never give him.

  Deep down inside, she had not wanted to admit that the love of her life was actually an evil bastard, a bastard who almost murdered her in cold blood.

  But now she was finally at the point where she could fully accept the truth.

  There was no sensible explanation that could justify any of Frank’s actions, or those of his
partner. She had become a victim of pure greed. Everything was planned and executed by the man she had trusted the most in life, had trusted from the depths of her soul.

  He was the perpetrator responsible for it all, and she was the unknowing victim. It was up to the courts now to judge on any possible mitigating circumstances.

  Heleen’s eyes moved from the swaying treetops back to the sea. She was satisfied. The first step toward happiness had been made. She lived in a lovely house in a fantastic climate, with warm summers and mild winters. The Mediterranean was at her doorstep. This huge pool of water had played an important role in her life. It was a former enemy that she had learned to embrace and now considered to be a good friend.

  37

  Heleen walked to the kitchen with her empty glass. In the living room she paused. She took in the atmosphere of the space. The combination of the nostalgic surroundings, the pleasant temperature, and gentle breeze that carried so many scents—it was all so typically Mediterranean. But her now-familiar surroundings still managed to surprise her every once in a while when they revealed new details that came with this way of life.

  The house was built on the side of a hill. It consisted of seven rooms, a kitchen, and two bathrooms. It had an orchard with oranges and lemons growing around the property. When she discovered this dream location, both the exterior of the property and the fruit trees were in a deplorable state. It looked more like an ancient ruin than the palace it was now starting to become.

  She thought back to the condition in which she had seen the house for the first time and smiled. Life sometimes had some strange and unexpected twists. How she had found this house was a great example of this.

  After that terrible night at sea, she had stayed in Blanes for another four days. The police had arranged a hotel for her, where she was staying at the expense of the Spanish government. Her handbag was found in the raid. Her car was returned to her. Fortunately, her suitcase had remained untouched in the trunk. The police were very friendly and extremely helpful. She could go where she wanted, as long as she kept her cell phone on hand. In a nice way, they tried to make it clear to her that they would appreciate it if she stayed a close by, in or around a thirty-kilometer radius around Blanes. When she decided to take a tour around the area on the second day, she stumbled upon what later would turn out to be her dream home. Although, that thought did not occur to her then. In fact, this little tour she took by car was quite a victory in itself to her. This was the place where she was almost killed. This seemed to be the last place on earth where she would want to settle down and spend the rest of her life.

  Yet, she had noticed the house, and it had left an impression on her. It radiated a kind of peace and tranquility and seemed to be a safe haven against the rough backdrop of the Mediterranean. Every time she glanced at the water, it seemed like the ripples in the sea smiled at her. As if to say, “Okay, so you managed to get away, but we’re still keeping an eye on you!” Of course, this was completely absurd, but somehow it rang true to her. It was rather frightening. But the house on the hill looked so completely unaffected by it all; the sea had no grip on it whatsoever. Then again, who would voluntarily live in a stronghold?

  During those four forced vacation days, her encounters with the authorities didn’t amount to very much. She was summoned to the police station three times. As she told her story over and over again, they did everything in their power to make her stay with them as comfortable as possible. They offered her coffee, cookies, and friendly faces with eyes overflowing with compassion. Only the people interchanged. One day she spoke in front of six people, and twenty-four hours later it was eight very interested people that she had never seen before. On the fourth day she had a brief conversation with the prosecutor. He reported that the interrogations were going smoothly. It was only a matter of time before the experienced detectives would get a confession out of Frank and Romina. Jorge Castellano had already confessed to his part in the plot in Nice. The only thing he had not given away was the location of the money. The prosecutor had given her a very self-assured look and claimed that he was very confident about his French colleagues’ abilities. Between now and the foreseeable future, he was certain that the money would surface. Should they not succeed, then the Spanish detectives would solve the case. Later, it would turn out that he had made a grave error of judgment on this point.

  Just like his colleagues had done, they had warned her during earlier conversations that a lot of media interest was sure to follow; he pointed out to her what the possible consequences would be of making certain comments to the press. In short, it meant that he couldn’t stop her from saying anything but urged her to remain silent to the press. The defendants’ lawyers would try to find anything and everything to place their clients in a better light. Because the whole thing had revolved around her, it was obvious that she was at the top of the media’s list.

  She had explained to the prosecutor that she had no intention of giving any interviews to anyone, a commitment that had seemed so obvious at the time. She had only been in contact with her mother and brother. They told her that the Dutch media had picked up the news item. Two national daily newspapers had published small articles about the arrest of a certain Frank E. in Blanes. No one would connect that to her ​​short stay in the South of France. Besides that, she only received one other call from Alex, who wanted to know how she was doing and when she was coming back. The expected phone calls from shocked relatives, acquaintances, and friends never came.

  Heleen continued on into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and poured herself another glass of orange juice. Then she took her time to walk back to the patio. Despite all of the care the authorities had given her, she had experienced those four days in Blanes last year as anticlimactic. She had expected American-style situations with reporters, camera crews, and overexcited detectives, but her adventures went completely unnoticed in the streets of Blanes. All the days had been the same. Her case was remarkable and had even been given a high priority, but it was simply just another case to the investigators. When their workdays were over, the police officers all went home and went on with their own lives. Deep in her heart, she had really hoped for a confrontation with Frank. Also with Romina, but Frank was obviously more important. She wanted to see him sitting in a cell, all alone, dressed in oversized orange jumpsuit. She would have nothing to say; she would simply smile sweetly and that would have said it all, more than words ever could. Unfortunately, she was never given the opportunity for that ultimate moment of revenge. The detective on the case had told her that a confrontation with Frank of any kind was not possible. Also, she was not able to find out anything about his whereabouts. That was solely the responsibility of the Justice Department, and therefore had nothing to do with her case.

  On her way back to the Netherlands, after Frank and Romina were arrested and the investigators no longer needed her, her mind felt overloaded. She informed her mother and brother about her return home shortly before her departure. She had immediately turned down their well-intended help and insisted that they should leave her alone for the first few days. There were certain things that were waiting to be taken care of as soon as possible. She also urged them again not to contact any third parties. She needed to have a few conversations and make a number of phone calls first. Much to her relief, both her mother and Jurgen agreed, though reluctantly.

  She had wondered what was waiting for her at home. Would it all end with just one article in the newspaper, or would the media still find it an interesting story? Was her street just as quiet as before or were there hordes of press and paparazzi waiting in front of her door? So far the Spanish press had left her alone. If those hot-tempered and sensationalist journalists did not find her interesting enough, she didn’t expect much from the cool and collected Dutch press. At most, there would be some part-time journalist from the local little newspaper sniffing around for a story.

  She had no way of knowing then that things would go very differentl
y, but now she could think back about that whole period and chuckle. Heleen walked to the patio. She sat back and sipped her juice.

  38

  The sun was going down. The big orange ball sank slowly behind the horizon. A purple glow slid across the Mediterranean. Heleen sighed. This was her favorite show. It was fascinating to see how each sunset knew its own nuances and how each night a unique color ensemble formed in the sky. A greater contrast with the southern Dutch landscape was hardly conceivable.

  A gentle gust of wind announced the beginning of another evening as the chirping of the crickets started up slowly. Her own rhythm had automatically adjusted to her surroundings lately. She got up early, as the sun was just coming up, took a nap during the scorching afternoons, and went to bed when the first stars lit up the sparkling sky.

  The heat lingered in and around the house, so she didn’t feel like eating a heavy meal. She went with a simple mixed salad of tomato, cucumber, lettuce, corn, a little dressing, and chopped onion—delicious, fresh, and healthy.

  While she put the ingredients together, she noticed a puddle of water in the sink. There was a large drop hanging at the tip of the faucet. It grew until it no longer seemed able to carry its own weight and it fell. A new drop would form and fall. Every three seconds a gentle tap would sound. Heleen checked to see if the valve was closed properly. It was, so there must be a leak somewhere. She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. No worries, tomorrow is another day.

  Mañana was the magic word in Spain. It helped to instantly smooth out any and all unexpected problems.

  She would never have suspected that she could ever think so casually about things; in the Netherlands, she would have immediately put this on a priority list. A leaky faucet? Call the plumber right away! Can you still come today, sir? This is really an urgent matter. Oh, you can’t come until tomorrow? Oh, God, that’s terrible because this drip irritates me to no end!