Chapel stayed low, hiding behind a weathered wooden fence as he peered into the dark, looking for the numbers painted on every slip. He kept a pistol in his hand, ready to shoot the moment Favorov lifted his head.
Slip thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two—there. Chapel crouched down behind a bollard streaked with seagull droppings and tried to get a good look at the boat. It was a long, sleek craft, its white hull clean of barnacles, its deck in good order. Its sails were furled tightly against its high mast. The name of the ship was painted on the back:
PHAEDRA
SOUTHAMPTON NY
At first it looked like no one was aboard the boat, and Chapel thought maybe he’d beaten Favorov to the marina. But then he heard a low rumbling noise and saw white bubbles come streaming up from the boat’s bow. Slowly, but steadily gaining speed, the boat started to edge out of its slip on its bow thrusters, headed for open ocean.
For the second time that night Chapel was stuck on dry land, watching his quarry get away by water.
“Angel, get the Coast Guard headed for my position.”
“Most of the local units are still tied up with the yacht,” she replied. “They’re at least twenty minutes away. I’ll try to call in some police boats—”
“Yeah,” Chapel said. He was already running for the dock. “You do that.”
He couldn’t make the jump to the sailboat, he knew. The boat was already ten yards out of its slip by the time he reached the dock.
But he wasn’t going to let Favorov get away. Not this time.
37.
Chapel’s miraculous artificial arm had one major design flaw—it couldn’t be immersed in water. The silicone flesh over the robotics couldn’t be made watertight.
He reached up with his good arm and slipped the catches that released it from his shoulder. Automatically it powered down. He placed it gently on top of an old oil drum and then he dove into the icy water of the slip.
Before he’d lost the arm, Chapel had been an excellent swimmer. Growing up in Florida, he’d spent countless hours in the canals and swimming in the ocean until his mother had joked he was half fish. After he lost his arm in Afghanistan he’d had to learn all over again how to maneuver in the water with an asymmetrical body and only one arm with which to stroke. He would never be as fast as he was when he’d been a kid.
Add to that his recent injuries—the salt water burned his lower chest where he’d been shot, and stung his thigh where Daniel had stabbed him—and fatigue and shock and everything else.
But he would be damned if he wasn’t going to catch the sailboat. He pushed forward as hard as he could, his head breaking the water only so he could make sure he was swimming in the right direction. He felt his earpiece slip away and float off, and knew he’d lost Angel, but he didn’t slow down to try to grab the thing.
Forcing himself through the exhaustion, through the shock of the cold water, through the darkness, he watched as the boat slipped further and further out of reach. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Favorov had heard him thrashing around behind the boat and had come out to shoot him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his overworked body just gave up, if cramps had seized him and he’d drowned on the spot. But he kept going, even though it seemed he was making no headway at all.
And then the miracle occurred. The one he’d been counting on. His hand brushed against something fibrous and he grabbed at it, praying it was what he thought it was. Instantly he felt himself tugged along, dragged through the water behind the boat. He stopped kicking his legs—he didn’t need to work so hard anymore.
When Favorov had left the slip he hadn’t bothered to stow the painter that had held the boat to the dock. He hadn’t even removed it properly—judging by the frayed end of the line Chapel now held, he’d just cut through the thin cord to save time. Now it was slack in the water, dragged along behind the boat. Now Chapel had it in his hand.
It wasn’t easy to pull himself up that line with just one hand. Chapel tried to get his legs around the thin rope but it was made of slick nylon and he couldn’t get enough purchase. In the end he grabbed it with his teeth. The boat tried to rip his molars out of his head but it let him reach forward and grab another arm’s length of the line and haul himself forward, just a little.
It helped when Favorov cut out the bow thrusters and went to raise his sails. The ship slowed in the water, carried along by nothing but the current, and Chapel was able to pull himself along much easier. Eventually his head hit the stern of the sailboat with a nasty thunk. He was less worried about a new head injury than he was about the noise he’d made. When no one came back to see what had created that noise, much less to shoot at it, Chapel pulled his head fully above the water and just breathed for a moment.
To his left a short ladder hung down from the rail of the boat, put there so that swimmers could climb back on board without help. Chapel swung himself around and kicked until he got a foot in the bottom rung of the ladder. Moving as fast as he could, he dragged himself up and over the rail. No lights showed anywhere on the boat, but he could make out Favorov’s silhouette up on top of the cabin, where the Russian was wrestling with the sails. Chapel froze in place, desperately hoping he hadn’t been seen. He waited a full minute before rolling himself behind a storage locker where he could just rest for a while out of sight.
Overhead a billion stars showed, dancing as Chapel’s heart raced and even his eyeballs seemed to throb with exhaustion. He had very little energy left, very little time before his body was just going to quit in protest. He’d pushed himself too far and adrenaline could only help so much.
He had to keep moving, though. The temptation to just lie there until he had his breath back, until he could recover, was just too great. It was possible he would just fall asleep right there, and not wake up until Favorov discovered him—and then, presumably, he would never wake up at all.
38.
First, before he got up, he checked his pockets. He hadn’t had time to secure his pistols, and all but one of them had fallen out in the water. He lifted the remaining handgun and checked its magazine—no easy feat with one hand, even in the best of times. The magazine was half full, with six bullets inside. It would have to be enough.
Slowly, careful of his wounds, Chapel rolled himself over onto his knees. He kept his head low, rising to a crouch, and scanned the back of the boat. To one side of him stood the big wheel that controlled the rudder. It had been lashed in place so it wouldn’t turn—freeing Favorov up to work the sails while the boat steered itself. Ahead of Chapel lay the low cabin, all dark glass and brass fittings. The door leading belowdecks was ajar, flapping back and forth in its frame. The single mast rose from the top of the cabin and a long boom stuck out from it at a right angle. The mast showed a fair amount of sail now—Favorov had been busy while Chapel caught his breath. The sailboat was flying along over the calm, dark sea, no doubt headed straight for international waters.
Chapel imagined it would be next to impossible for Angel to track the boat as long as its lights stayed off and she had only a rough idea of where it was. As much as he’d come to think of her as omniscient she was limited by what imaging and data sources she had, and she couldn’t work magic. A Coast Guard craft might spot the boat, even in the dark, but it would have to be close by. Scanning the horizon Chapel failed to see any lights that might indicate a boat within range. It was up to him to finish this, with no help.
Chapel padded forward toward the cabin, listening carefully for any sign that Favorov was inside. He could only hear water dripping off his own pants. As he got close to the door an errant breeze made it slam against its frame and then swing open again, vibrating, as if it were a pair of jaws snapping at him. Chapel reached out and grabbed the edge of the door to steady it.
Looking inside he could see only darkness. No—there was a single red light glowing in there, a tiny LED on a radio
console or something. He slipped inside the cabin and let his eyes adjust for a second.
The cabin was small and its ceiling was low, almost brushing the top of Chapel’s head. There wasn’t much room to maneuver inside. There was a narrow cot, a table where Favorov could take quick meals, and a ladder leading down to the hold. One wall was lined with instruments and gear, radios, controls for the boat’s electrical systems, a complicated GPS rig. Chapel held his breath. Nothing moved in the cabin—nothing stirred the air, no clothing rustled. He could smell diesel fuel and mildew, but not Favorov’s cologne. The cabin was empty.
He could lay an ambush there. Favorov would have to come inside eventually, and Chapel could be waiting for him, gun in his hand. It might take hours, though, and Chapel knew he was too exhausted for that. If he crouched down in the dark and just waited with no stimulation at all he would fall asleep. It couldn’t be helped.
He moved over to where he’d seen the tiny red light. It turned out to be a chart light, poised over a map of the Atlantic showing currents and islands for much of the American coastline. The red light was there so that Favorov could check the charts without ruining his night vision. Chapel lifted up the chart and saw others underneath, a whole sheaf of them. They covered the entire route to Cuba in minute detail.
He went to the ladder that led down to the hold and peered into the dark, but there was no light down there at all. By now the starlight coming in through the cabin’s windows was enough to see by, but the hold might have been a coal mine for as much as he could see down there.
Favorov could be down there. Maybe he knew Chapel was on board. Maybe he was down there lying in wait, ready to kill Chapel the moment he stuck his head down the ladder.
But no. Chapel doubted it. That would be a terrible tactical position for the Russian to take. There were no other exits from the hold, and in the dark Favorov would be as blind as Chapel. Favorov wouldn’t go down there while an enemy was on the boat, not unless he was out of options.
Chapel went back to the cabin’s door. Favorov had to be on the bow, he thought, up at the front of the boat, making sure the way forward was clear. He opened the door to the deck, feeling the skin on the back of his neck prickle as if he were being watched from behind. As if someone in the hold was just waiting for him to turn away so they could pounce on him. But that was just nerves. He was sure of it. He was just jumpy, and likely to do something stupid if he listened to the fight-or-flight signals his body was sending him. He opened the door and stepped back out into the night air.
The first thing he saw was that the wheel wasn’t lashed anymore. It spun freely, which meant the boat would just follow whatever current caught it. Maybe the lashing had just broken on its own, or maybe Favorov had removed the cord for some reason. Chapel took a step forward, his head down, his hand outstretched, holding his weapon in front of him where he could aim at anything that moved.
From behind his shoulder something long and hard smashed down and struck at his hand. Chapel felt the pain even before he felt the pistol fall out of his fingers.
39.
Chapel spun around to see his attacker, simultaneously dropping to one knee so he could reach down and scoop the weapon up again.
Favorov was up on top of the cabin, wielding a long boat hook on a pole. He swung it around again and smacked at Chapel’s hand before it could close on the gun.
“Leave that,” the Russian told him.
Chapel lifted his hand away, spreading the fingers to show that he was complying. He took a step back, away from the gun. He doubted Favorov could seriously wound him with the boat hook, but the Russian could probably knock him over with it—or knock him off the boat. Chapel was too tired to try swimming back on board.
“Impressive. You’re still alive,” Favorov said. “You must be half bull to keep going looking like you do. Is that a gunshot wound on your torso?”
Chapel ignored the question. “You’ve got a problem, here,” he said.
“Interesting,” Favorov told him. “I was about to suggest something similar.”
“You don’t have a firearm on you. If you did you would have just shot me. You’re holding your only weapon.”
“Handguns are so difficult to explain to customs officials, even where I’m going,” Favorov said.
“If you come down here,” Chapel said, “you’ll need to put that hook down so you can get to the pistol before I grab it. It’ll just take too long otherwise to climb down while trying to cover me. If you just stay up there, pointing that thing at me, the boat’s going to sail around in circles all night and not get any closer to Cuba.”
Favorov smiled. For the moment, it seemed, he was perfectly willing to maintain the impasse. “I don’t know how you followed me, Chapel. Did you put a tracking device on me while we dined?”
“No.”
The Russian nodded. “I imagine I would have noticed.” The nasty end of the boat hook hovered right in front of Chapel’s face. “So you tracked me with your satellites. I did not think they were so good.”
“Nope, no satellites,” Chapel said.
Favorov’s face wrinkled as if he were trying to solve a complicated math problem. “Hmm. Then how did you do it? How did you find me before I could even get away from the dock?”
“Fiona,” Chapel said. “Your wife.”
“She betrayed me? That stupid cow. But just smart enough to know I would take the Phaedra. I would say let this be a lesson to you, Chapel, except you won’t live long enough to make use of it. Never marry a beautiful woman. They are vipers, all of them.”
“She didn’t seem that way to me.”
Chapel hadn’t actually meant to taunt Favorov. He’d figured to keep the man talking, knowing that eventually, if the boat stayed in American waters, the Coast Guard would pick it up. It was a slim hope but better than nothing.
But now, as he watched Favorov’s face darken in anger, he thought maybe he had a better plan.
“She seemed pretty nice, honestly,” Chapel continued. Favorov squinted at him. “Really nice, if you catch my drift. When she begged me to let her go with her kids. She would have done anything to get away.”
“If you laid a hand on her—”
“What do you care, Favorov? She’s just a viper, right? What do you care if she got down on her knees and begged me to—”
“Shut up!” Favorov said. “She is mine! I won her fairly. I gave her everything she could have ever wanted!”
“Except for one thing,” Chapel said. He’d never been very good at sleazy innuendo. It just wasn’t his style. As angry as Favorov was, though, it wasn’t going to take much nuance. “One thing I was very happy to give her.”
Favorov’s hands kneaded the pole of the boat hook as if he wanted very much to stab it right through Chapel’s heart. He seemed too angry to speak.
“I’m talking about an orgasm,” Chapel pointed out, grinning wickedly.
With a bestial roar Favorov tossed the boat hook away and ran forward, leaping off the top of the cabin. Chapel hadn’t been expecting that. The Russian smashed into him, knocking them both down. Chapel’s head hit the fiberglass deck hard enough to make him see stars—especially considering it wasn’t his first head trauma of the night. For a split second he lost consciousness.
When he came to again, Favorov’s hands were wrapped around his throat.
40.
The Russian was twenty years older than Chapel, and he’d run to fat in his self-imposed exile, but still his fingers were like an iron vise as they dug into Chapel’s windpipe. His lungs were already empty and as he struggled to pull in any breath he could feel his wounds throbbing, feel fatigue pulling him down toward the deck as if gravity had suddenly been doubled.
The Russian’s eyes were bugging out of their sockets and his mouth was twisted in a horrible grimace as if he were the one being strangled. He
stared right into Chapel’s eyes and Chapel had no doubt that Favorov intended to murder him, right here, right now.
He had to fight back, but he felt no stronger than a wet kitten. He lifted his arm and tried to bash his fist into the side of Favorov’s head. The blow landed but the Russian barely flinched. The pressure on Chapel’s neck didn’t let up at all.
A red aura surrounded his vision and he knew that in another few seconds his lungs would just give out, that his body, starved for oxygen, would simply quit on him. He had never been closer to death than in that moment, never so certain that his life was over. Even the urge to fight back was leaving him, replaced by a strange calm, a sort of relief. He’d tried his best. He hadn’t given up, even when the odds kept stacking up against him. Director Hollingshead couldn’t have asked more of him, or of any man. He was going to die, but he was surprisingly okay with that.
He let his hand fall back. Before it struck the deck it brushed against his pocket and his knuckles rapped against something hard there. Something small and oblong. Not that it mattered, not in the slightest. He could feel his eyes rolling back in his head. He couldn’t see anything any more. Couldn’t hear anything.
What was that thing in his pocket? He couldn’t seem to remember. It was of no consequence, and it was hardly the time to think of such things. But somehow the question nagged him, as if it were the last thing he needed to figure out before he went to sleep. Before he died. What was it?
Tired as he was he didn’t want to expend the energy even to shove his hand in his pocket. He got a few fingers in there and had to rest for a moment. That was all right. There was plenty of time. The last few seconds of his life seemed to have stretched out almost infinitely long.
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