It was only when they rounded the little island and she looked out to the southwest, nearly a kilometer in the distance, that she saw the yacht, well lit and dead ahead. The island had shielded her view before, but now she found the vessel before her magnificent.

As they approached the stern, she caught a glimpse of the name of the boat she was being delivered to. La Primarosa.

The tender pulled up alongside the yacht and a ladder was lowered, a line was tossed up to a man on deck, and the women were offloaded. Roxana was still climbing onto the main deck behind the others as the little boat with the inflatable hull turned away and began heading back to shore.

When the eight women in the group stood on the deck, they found themselves temporarily dazzled by the lights, and they squinted and held their hands to their eyes.

Roxana fought through the glare and looked around. It was a stunning vessel, unlike anything she’d ever seen. A teak deck polished to a soft glow. Glistening wood and brass, high-end electronics in the main saloon, and eight or so smartly dressed deck crew and interior staff members standing shoulder to shoulder near the entrance to the saloon. Several more men, all young, bearded, and wearing black polos and gray trousers, stood along the deck railing facing the saloon. Most had rifles around their necks.

These were the guards, Roxana knew, but to her this group looked different than the Albanians, and even more different than the South Africans she’d seen in the warehouse. They were all dark complected and tan, and her first impression was that they might be Greek.

The men looked straight ahead, which surprised Roxana. All the men along this pipeline she had seen had looked the girls up and down as if they were property, but these guards didn’t leer at all. She recognized that this crew was more professional than the Romanians, Serbians, and Albanians she had encountered in the past week.

Through the window into the saloon, Roxana saw an attractive woman in her forties wearing a black pantsuit rising confidently out of the spiral staircase to the main deck. She then walked out of the saloon and over to the new arrivals. She spoke to the group in English with what Maja took for an American accent. “Ladies. Welcome. My name is Claudia. We understand the first part of your journey was arduous, but we hope to make your time on board with us unforgettable. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

The stunned women followed Claudia back down the spiral staircase into the belly of the large vessel. In a corridor wide enough for two to move abreast, they passed another pair of suited men in their twenties with submachine guns on their chests.

As they continued down the corridor, Claudia stopped at two open doors facing each other. To the right, Roxana looked in and saw the first group of eight already packed into a stateroom. They sat on the king-sized bed, in the two chairs in the little sitting area, or on the carpeted floor. In the second room, across from the first, she saw an identical stateroom, although this one was empty.

“Ladies,” the American said. “These will be your quarters. Step in and make yourselves comfortable. Once we get everyone on board, food and drinks will be provided, and then everyone can get washed up.”

The confused women and girls began filing into the room, but as Roxana passed Claudia in the hallway, the American put her hand on the twenty-three-year-old’s shoulder. “Not you, Maja. You will be staying somewhere else. Follow me.”

The others looked at Roxana with malevolence as she followed Claudia farther down the corridor to the stateroom at the end of the hall. It was the same size as the other two, although it was empty.

The older woman turned around and smiled. “This will be your room.”

“My room?” She stepped inside slowly and saw a pair of designer jeans, a black turtleneck, and conservative underwear, all laid out for her on the bed. On a rolling hanger next to the bathroom were several zipped-up garment bags, and boxes of shoes were stacked in the corner.

“Yes, dear. You won’t be kept with the others.”

“But why not?” she asked, though she worried that she already knew.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said the woman. “I’ll have food sent in. You should take a shower. I’ll be back to speak with you before long.”

The American turned away and walked back up the hall; Roxana watched her go, then looked down at herself. She was filthy, wearing threadbare cotton pants and a shirt gray with grime given to her in Belgrade. Her long brown hair was tied up, but oily.

Here in the pristine surroundings of the stateroom she was so much more aware of her messy appearance than she’d been in the past week. She was exhausted; her body ached from pervasive stress, hard floors, and cramped conditions; but right now all she wanted to do was get clean. She closed the door to the stateroom—the two men halfway up the hallway never even looked her way—then stepped into the bathroom.

* * *

• • •

When I finally do get a view out into the mouth of the bay, it’s been twenty minutes since I’ve seen the yacht. I’d expected it to be right where I last saw it, but as I arrive at the far bank of the island I slow, my eyes locked to the distance. After a few moments I stop, fight to get my binos out of my pack, then bring them quickly to my eyes.

The yacht is there, but much farther out than before. It’s sailing to sea with a northwesterly heading, and it’s already too far away for me to make out any features, even with my binos.

“Son of a bitch.”

I am dejected and exhausted all at once, but then an idea strikes me. I pull out my phone, zoom in as far as I can, and take several pictures of the distant vessel.

And then I call Talyssa.

“Harry?”

“It’s me.”

Her voice instantly turns hopeful. “What did you find out at the President hotel?”

“I saw the girls.”

“Did you see . . . did you see Roxana?”

“I couldn’t make out any faces. I’m sorry, I was too far away. They were taken to a yacht offshore.”

“A yacht?”

“A big one. Where are you now?”

“According to my GPS, I’m in a little town called Stikovica. It’s on the coast just fifteen minutes north of Dubrovnik. I ran out of gas. I left the scooter in the woods and am sitting at a bus stop, waiting for morning so I can rent a car or get on a bus or . . . or . . . I don’t exactly know what I’m doing.”

I look to the GPS and see exactly where she is. The yacht will probably motor past her location within minutes, but it will likely be well out to sea, and she doesn’t have binoculars that would allow her a chance to get the name off it.

But she might still be able to help.