A raindrop hit Paul’s ear. Ava was oblivious, watching waves grow into whitecaps.
“Hey,” Paul said, touching her forearm, “let’s get inside before all the chairs are taken.”
“That sounds good.”
She looked queasy. Maybe she was nervous about the weather. Or maybe she was getting seasick. They went into the lounge but couldn’t find two seats together. Frustrated, Ava looked to Paul for guidance.
“Here.” He directed her to an available place. “You sit. I’ll see if they have hot cocoa.”
Her expression implied that cocoa didn’t appeal.
“What about some proper grog?” He did his best impression of a bandy-legged pirate. Ava managed a weak smile.
“Maybe bottled water?”
“Aye, aye.”
He saluted, executed an about-face, and crossed the rolling deck to the bar. He spied the cocktail waitress, a slender Italian brunette in skimpy white shorts and a tube top. Paul thought she must be freezing. He estimated her age to be twenty. She watched him approach with undisguised interest. “Ciao, bella,” he said. “May I see your menu?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but instead the world turned upside down. Paul experienced a bizarre sensation of weightlessness until his head slammed into the unforgiving metal ceiling. Then the lights went out.
It seemed as though a long time elapsed before he regained consciousness. When Paul opened his eyes, the ship was aflame. The club lounge was a shattered waste of broken glass and twisted steel, and it was eerily silent. Through acrid smoke, he saw wrecked furniture and motionless bodies strewn about. Abruptly, his mind focused. A single, urgent need consumed him: Find Ava.
He tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t work. Plan B: He grabbed a dented stanchion, yanked himself upright, and found the young waitress. She was in shock, holding a paper napkin against her bloody scalp and staring into space.
“Hey!” Paul tried to yell. “Get up! Get to the lifeboats!” She didn’t move. It seemed his voice didn’t work, either. Then the girl snapped back to reality. Bursting into tears, she grabbed Paul’s hand and began mouthing words, but he heard nothing. At that point, Paul realized that he’d been deafened.
After gently extricating himself from her grasp, he climbed, hand over hand, back to where he’d left Ava. The seat no longer existed—it had been replaced by a tangle of smoldering debris. Somewhere, down in his gut, an inconceivable, poisonous, fatal query stirred: Is she dead? He weakened. Then, with fury, he banished the question from his mind. He had no time for it.
At this point, Paul began shouting—though he was unaware of any sound coming from his mouth. He might have screamed Ava’s name or cursed fate or even roared like a lion; it was a mystery to him. All he perceived was blood pounding in his temples. He dived through the shattered window and wriggled out onto the hull, seeking a high point from which to reconnoiter. He began climbing. Soon he could survey the catastrophe’s full extent.
The Maria Dolores was a total loss. Hundreds must be dead. Valiant crewmen were helping survivors escape, filling lifeboats and lowering them from enormous davits. An officer waved and probably shouted instructions. Paul ignored him. He prayed that Ava was safe aboard a lifeboat, but somehow he knew she wasn’t. He’d climbed rather high before he realized how slick the rain made the metal hull. Paul missed a handhold and began to slide. The instinctual terror of falling generated a blast of adrenaline, shocking his leg muscles into action. Kicking and groping, he arrested his descent by snagging a cable and pushing the toe of his boot through a broken porthole. The storm had grown, and Paul guessed this precarious perch was the best vantage point he’d attain. Using his free hand to shield his eyes from the rain, he scanned left and right. He saw several corpses, including the dismembered body of a young woman. His heart stopped. For a two-second eternity, he wasn’t sure. Finally, he exhaled. Not Ava.
The sinking ship lurched violently. Something fluttering by caught his attention. It was a woman—falling. The unexpected jolt had pitched her overboard. Clinging to the cable, Paul saw her splash into the churning sea. He concentrated on the spot, watching for any movement. When the woman finally surfaced, Paul realized with horror that she wasn’t swimming. Was she dead or just unconscious? In a few minutes it wouldn’t matter. Paul had to decide. Was it Ava? He strained for a better perspective, but in the storm, and from this distance, he’d never be sure. He closed his eyes and replayed his memory. Someone had fallen. He slowed it, trying to view the action frame by frame, like a football slo-mo. What had grabbed his attention? What had he seen? Something fluttering. What? Hair. Long hair. Beautiful long hair.
Ava.
Paul shifted his weight and gauged the distance: about fifteen meters. Taking a deep breath, he released the cable and jumped. Falling fast, he somersaulted once and extended his body. By gyrating his arms, Paul managed to stay upright and hit the surface feetfirst. He plunged and lost all sense of direction. Then, mastering his fear, he exhaled and followed the bubbles. When he broke the surface, a wave caught him in the face, blasting saltwater into his mouth. Fluid rushed up his sinus cavities. He felt as though he was drowning. Thankfully, his second inhalation was mostly air and he began to tread water.
Paul searched for Ava, but he saw nothing. Stay calm! Taking bearings from the rapidly sinking catamaran, he reckoned she was to his north. He began swimming, keeping his face above water. A monstrous wave swamped him, and briefly he was lost. Fighting off panic, he oriented himself and kicked even harder. When a second wave lifted him he used the opportunity to survey the area. There—he saw her! In that moment, though, she slipped helplessly beneath the water.
Without pausing to breathe, Paul lowered his head, and with a furious stroke propelled himself like a torpedo through the waves. It was the fastest way. At camp, when he was ten, he’d won the fifty-meter freestyle using this tactic. Push, he told himself. She’s close. A few strokes more. He accepted the heat building in his lungs. By forcibly exhaling, he squeezed out some toxic CO2, buying precious seconds, but now his respiratory system moved into rebellion, demanding oxygen. It was impossible. He wasn’t fast enough. It was getting too dark to see . . .
Ava! Underwater, he caught a glimmer of a white dress. He surfaced, sucked in all the air he could hold, and dived. As he kicked down, he tried to dislodge his heavy hiking boots, but they were laced up tight. Wait. What was that? A limp body.
Ava!
He wanted to scream her name. She looked terrible. Her eyes were shut. Her skin was a ghastly green. No bubbles came from her mouth or nose. Fear beset him. This was a lost cause. He’d arrived too late. It was her time. Just let go. Couldn’t he accept the obvious?
No. He kicked down and grabbed the hem of her dress. Taking a fistful of material, he pulled her toward the surface. God, she was heavy! He kicked harder and swam with his free arm, but it was no use. He felt the current dragging them down. The surface was so distant. It was getting farther, growing darker. Paul’s lungs were burning, even worse than before. Then he realized—the backpack! She was wearing that damn heavy backpack! He pulled the hunting knife from his belt and dragged its sharp edge against the straps. They cut easily. As he watched the pack disappear, he thought, “If we survive, she’ll kill me.”
Thus lightened, he made better progress. Each kick drew him closer to the surface. His lungs were screaming now, and he’d begun to have strange thoughts. His vision was failing, as was his ability to reason. Desperate, he urged his muscles to fight. Become a machine, he commanded. No wasted motion. Just kick and pull. Kick, kick, pull! A few hard kicks. Just a few more. Pull! Ten more. Don’t quit. Five more. Don’t quit. Three more. Pull!
Gasping, he broke the surface. He savored one delicious breath, then, against every vital instinct, he dived back under. Swimming behind Ava, Paul wedged his hands into her armpits and kicked. When they emerged from the sea, he rolled her onto his chest, lifting her mouth and nostrils into the air. Was she breathing? He could
n’t tell. He fought to keep her head above water. Fluid drained from her nose. How long had she been under? It seemed like hours, but it must have been less than a minute. Seventy seconds max. Come on, Ava!
His energy was failing. He hoped his head wasn’t bleeding much. From the Discovery Channel, he knew the Mediterranean was home to forty-five species of shark, including the great white. Paul looked around. No dorsal fins yet, but he didn’t see any flotsam either. How long could he tread water? Floating on his back, he clutched Ava to his chest. Between strokes he reached his fingers into her mouth and forced it open wide. Then he felt something. She coughed. Alive! He felt a rush of energy. He could swim for hours. Days, even! Her body wrenched with a spasm as she spat up water. Ava inhaled. Then she vomited. Her face rolled to one side and she began shuddering with dry heaves. Paul elevated her head and fought to keep it above the surface. They maintained that position for several minutes.
Ava was breathing, he was sure, but Paul was fading. He felt something stab his calf. Cramp! Jaw clenched, he battled to keep afloat. Rain fell in sheets now, as the storm whipped the sea into a frenzy. Saltwater stung his eyes and burned in his esophagus. He snorted and coughed. Ignore it! Just kick. Breathe and kick. A little longer . . .
Shrouded in silence, he saw a tunnel of light—a bright white glow shining down from the sky. It seemed to search for him. Paul was dazed. Is that God? Am I dying? He hugged Ava. If God wanted one of them, he had to take both. We’re a package deal, Lord. Take it or leave it.
The light was blinding now. It centered on him, and as though the jealous sea knew salvation was nigh, enormous waves began forcing the two under. Suddenly Paul felt hands on his arms. A powerful force took hold of him. He clung tightly to Ava, refusing to be separated from her. Then, miraculously, they began to rise from the water, ascending heavenward. The light was close now, almost close enough to touch. He reached out and realized that it was a searchlight suspended from a helicopter. As a rescue harness pulled them into the cabin, Paul rejoiced. They were saved!
Every iota of his energy spent, he released Ava and collapsed. Then, just before succumbing to exhaustion, Paul saw something that filled him with dread. It was the face of their savior: Simon DeMaj.
Gabe stared at the monitor. For a moment he experienced hysterical paralysis, limbs refusing to obey his mind’s instructions. Thus imprisoned, he felt compelled to reread the Associated Press wire report.
FERRY EXPLOSION DEATH TOLL NOW 513, GOVERNMENT CONFIRMS
VALLETTA, MALTA—At most 87 passengers and crew will survive last night’s suspected terrorist attack on the Maltese ferry Maria Dolores. According to Foreign Minister Dr. George Vella, many of the injured are being held in critical condition, including one young woman with both legs severed. Of the 22 patients at St. Philip’s Hospital, several experienced “massive trauma” from the shipwreck. Others were injured by falling or jumping into the water, said a hospital spokesman. The ferry’s captain, Benjamin Briggs, survived the incident. His condition is listed as critical.
Authorities believe the catamaran’s left engine exploded shortly after the vessel departed Valletta at 1820 GMT, with 600 souls aboard. Helicopters and rescue boats arrived on the scene within 30 minutes. Throughout the stormy night, emergency workers dumped water on the burning ship and rushed the injured to nearby hospitals. Among the survivors, “there were numerous injuries, including fractures and lacerations,” fire department spokesman Mario Testa told reporters. “There were a couple of people with amputations, legs and arms.” At least 10 victims were taken to Malta University Hospital, a surgeon there stated. Dr. Vella told a packed news conference that investigators suspect foul play and may officially classify the incident as an act of terrorism.
Throughout the night, recovery teams removed bodies from the restless sea, dark now save for the occasional blue flash of emergency lights. Malta’s newly elected prime minister, Joseph Muscat, cut short his holiday to supervise rescue efforts. Speaking at the airport, he said: “Our government will make every effort to support the families at this difficult moment as they receive news of the tragedy.”
Injured officer E. De Bono, who helped several passengers escape the sinking vessel, said it simply “exploded laterally. We heard a huge crash, and we saw a lot of smoke.” An American survivor reported that the ferry was going at a “pretty good clip” when he heard an “enormous crashing sound” and “felt a sharp jolt. Everybody then began running to grab life jackets.” A British passenger told the BBC: “The back end of the vessel opened like a sardine can.”
A spokesperson for Virtu, which operates the Maltese ferry to Italy, said the explosion ripped out the hull steel and windows all the way along the ship’s length.
No details of the deceased passengers’ nationalities or identities have been released. A local emergency service told the BBC that many children were among the victims.
The Australian-built catamaran entered service in 2005 and was used for short trips across the Mediterranean, according to marine navigation expert Captain S. A. Nelson. He added that Virtu has an excellent safety record. All ferry service remains suspended to and from Malta pending completion of the investigation.
Gabe’s skin broke out in a cold sweat. Overwhelming nausea stirred within him. Finally able to move, he bolted from the chair, staggered to Jess’s bathroom, and vomited into the toilet. Then he rested, panting, with his forehead against the cool ceramic. Gabe felt his larynx constrict. Tears stung his eyes. He wanted to howl in anguish, but just a moan escaped his trembling lips. In shock, Gabe only gradually became aware of the telephone’s ring.
Sheik Ahmed was reading a newspaper account of the bombing. Paul and Ava were listed as “missing, presumed dead.” On one level, Ahmed was satisfied: He felt proud to have accomplished an important, difficult mission. On an instinctual level, though, he worried. He’d never favored this method of killing. Not for moral reasons—he had no scruples about sacrificing so-called innocent bystanders to advance his purpose. Rather, Ahmed disliked the technique’s imprecision. He’d prefer to have the Americans’ corpses in his trunk. Ahmed massaged his right arm as he visualized presenting the bodies to the master as trophies and as proof of the deed. Instead, he must rely on newspapers and television—notorious fabulists—for confirmation. Ahmed had loyal men watching every hospital. He’d bribed the petty bureaucrats, nurses, and clerks. By morning they’d provide a complete list of the injured. If either American had survived the shipwreck, the sheik would be happy to finish the job in person.
Paul was playing second base for the Red Sox. Jeter was at bat. He looked to his manager for a sign. Would he bunt? Something strange was afoot. Fans began singing a song Paul remembered from Casablanca, the one Victor Laszlo requests. The pitcher threw Jeter a hard slider. He ripped it into the gap. Then Paul was back in the water. Ava was sinking into darkness. He lunged but he couldn’t reach her hand. Struggling toward her, his legs seemed paralyzed. Then he noticed Ava’s eyes. They flipped open: lifeless.
“No!”
Paul woke in a clean, comfortable room. Its walls were decorated with bright Japanese prints, a dozen Technicolor waterfalls. Sunshine glowed through a window. He guessed it was about noon. Gradually, Paul remembered. Simon. He checked for his knife, but it was gone. Reaching to his chest, he felt Garagallo’s amulet under his shirt. At least they’d missed that. Paul tried to stand, but his head swam. He wondered if he was still deaf. As an experiment, he mumbled, “J’ai mal partout,” and was relieved when he could hear it. He touched his scalp and found that his hair was shaved down to a few centimeters. Paul’s face contorted with anger. What had Simon done? Confined him in a mental institution?
He wasn’t restrained, so Paul decided to escape. He found his wallet in the nightstand drawer. His boots were drying on a chair by the door. Quietly, he slid off the bed. Standing, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His legs felt sturdy, but when he took a step he grew dizzy. Fighting to stay balanced, Paul sh
ut his eyes, then inhaled and exhaled. The spell passed.
He padded across the room and tried the door. Unlocked. This must be a nice sanitarium, Paul reasoned, not a place for criminals. That would make things easier. He grabbed his boots, opened the door, exited the room, and crept down the hall. He should find inconspicuous clothes. No—steal an orderly’s uniform . . .
A door opened. Paul flattened himself against the wall, searching for a place to hide, but it was too late. Two men entered the hallway. The first wore a dirt-stained coverall and carried a sawed-off shotgun. The second was immaculate in a tropical-weight, double-breasted pinstripe. Paul recognized the man’s handmade shoes. He turned to face his adversary, and when their eyes met, Simon smiled.
Paul’s hands clenched into fists as he started toward his former employer, eager to repay him, in full, for his crimes. At the last second, a familiar voice begged Paul to stop. He turned toward the speaker. To Paul’s amazement, it was Ammon. The teenage smuggler stood between Sinan and Nick. Paul froze, baffled. His friends hurriedly told him that Simon wasn’t the real enemy. Sheik Ahmed had betrayed him too. Sensing that his old teammate wasn’t convinced, Nick explained, “Look, DeMaj just saved your life. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
Paul shook his head. “Even if you’re right, Nick, he ordered those guards to kill seven people. Some were just children. He’s a murderer.”
The Cana Mystery Page 22
