It was located in a less-trafficked, disused section of the harbor, surrounded by leaning tin shacks, vacant storage buildings whose outer walls were covered with graffiti and gray-black mildew, and decrepit marinas that looked ready to fall into the sea. It was a depressing, unwholesome sight, but it was also far away from the research flotilla, for which she was grateful. There was no chance of a reporter finding them here. Most of the press corps had indeed moved on to other parts of the world and other stories, leaving behind only a few stringers, all of whom were spending their time on the island, rather than at sea. Mindful of Paolo’s paranoid warning, she’d paid attention to her surroundings, making sure she wasn’t followed. Doing so had been disconcerting—but also exciting, like being in a spy movie. A warm wind blew in from the water, bringing with it the smell of rotten fish and salt. Sunlight reflected off the sea in brilliant red, orange, and yellow hues. Carrie sighed, trying to ignore the stench and enjoy the simple breeze on her skin.
