The Last Second

by Catherine Coulter

  Alys said, “Very well. I’ll tell the pilots to stand down.”

  She’d accepted the lie without blinking. No way she could know, Nevaeh was always so careful, but something about Alys’s smooth, perfectly blank face—no, she was being paranoid. Alys didn’t have the chops for betrayal.

  “Thank you, Alys. That is all.”

  With a nod, Alys withdrew.

  One of Kiera’s eyebrows shot up. “Quints? Is that what you told the board?”

  “I did, and they believed me. We needed a cover, now we have one. I’ve bought us time. No one will miss us until it’s too late.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Holy Grail is a vessel that serves as an important motif in Arthurian Legend. Different traditions describe it as a cup, dish or stone with miraculous powers that provide happiness, eternal youth or sustenance in infinite abundance. The term “holy grail” is often used to denote an object or goal that is sought after for its great significance.

  —Wikipedia

  The Griffon

  Strait of Malacca

  Off the Coast of Sumatra

  Jean-Pierre stood on the marine deck with his feet braced shoulder-width apart and his arms crossed, his heart pounding, hoping, praying as he’d never before prayed in his life, trying to contain his excitement. He’d retrofitted this entire lower deck, a fifty-foot square, to be the salvage and recovery area for his dives. And now he was watching the retractable crane, its huge winch turning with a metallic groan, pulling a thick steel cable from the water. Would the cable hold? It was as if there was a monstrous fish on the other end of the line. The ballast at the bow of the yacht 350 feet away kept the boat steady, but Jean-Pierre could feel the stern list slightly toward the sea. Whatever they were bringing up was very heavy, as Cesar had said.

  The winch suddenly caught with a metallic twang, and Cesar shouted, “Stand back, stand back.” He spoke into a walkie-talkie, “Try again. Go slower this time. Finesse it, lads.”

  The winch groaned with effort, and the massive yacht swayed a bit, but the coil of metal rolled onto the cylinder, slowly, slowly. The surface of the water grew dark and broke.

  A huge sphere rose from the depths. It was large enough for a man to step inside, black, made of what indeed seemed to be iron, just as Cesar had believed, rusted to the point of looking like snakeskin, flakes falling in the water drops onto The Griffon’s deck. The crane’s arm swung with a great metallic screech, and the sphere was guided into place between a quickly assembled set of bolted-down sawhorses.

  Jean-Pierre walked slowly to the huge container that looked like an elongated ball. He gently ran his hand over the metal. Yes, it was iron. Very curious. He estimated the sphere to be ten feet high, perhaps eight feet wide, its surface pocked and scarred. He gave it a slight push. Nothing. It had to weigh a ton. Where had it come from? Who had built it? And why? Why in heaven’s name would the Holy Grail be inside?

  Cesar said, “Do you want us to document everything first? Even though it might not be the Holy Grail, it’s an amazing find and we can get it all on camera. We might be making history here, boss. We can upload this and the world can watch with us as we discover what’s inside the sphere.”

  Broussard immediately shook his head. “As you said, we’re not certain the Holy Grail is inside, but if it is, the last thing we want to do is announce it to the world. Remember the pirates. I don’t want to take any chances with its safety. No, we will keep it quiet, only amongst ourselves, all right?”

  A team member came running up. “Sir, we can’t go live even if we wanted to. Something is interfering with the signal. Our Wi-Fi is down, ship-wide.”

  Jean-Pierre said, “Is it possible the stone has its own electromagnetic field? Incredible.”

  Cesar said, “I can still videotape, sir, even if it won’t broadcast. For our use only. Is that all right?”

  “No.” He looked Cesar right in the eye. “Right now, record nothing.”

  He wanted no word to get out. “It is time to open it up,” he said. “It’s time to know.”

  While he waited for Cesar’s team to construct a makeshift scaffolding so he could see the top of the sphere, he ran his hands over the scarred surface. He felt the container vibrate ever so slightly against his palms. Yes, the Grail was inside, speaking to him, and it was powerful and strange, and he knew, knew to his soul, that at last he’d found it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Broussard climbed the ladder, his hand always on the surface of the sphere, feeling it vibrate, feeling its odd warmth. Was it somehow communicating to him? Or did he want it so badly he was imagining it? He searched for a hatch of some sort and found it at the very top. He shouted, “I’ve found the opening. Bring me a crowbar.”

  Cesar scrambled up the ladder with the crowbar.

  “Help me wedge it into the crack here.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t a latch to let it open without forcing it?”

  Jean-Pierre said, “This is the latch. It rusted off and all that’s left is this small indentation in the metal. Maybe the metal isn’t iron, it seems to be softer.” Could it be an asteroid? What a strange thought, but it made sense, some called the Grail the Heaven Stone, after all.

  “Cesar, put the crowbar there.”

  Jean-Pierre noticed Grant Thornton, the team leader from Blue Mountain, had followed them up the scaffolding. Broussard found him intelligent and focused, worked well with both his team and the crew. He wasn’t watching the latch of the sphere. No, his back was to them and he was looking for any possible trouble. Good, Thornton was doing his job. Jean-Pierre had hired the security team because he knew the moment word got out about his discoveries here in Malacca, with or without an announcement, the waters would be overrun with pirates, with media, with the local governments of Malaysia, India, and the Philippines, all of whom claimed salvage rights to the missing Flor de la Mar. Another reason to say nothing, to keep this private for as long as possible. Jean-Pierre intended to retrieve the Grail, sail away, and fly to Paris.

  Cesar was grunting and sweating, trying to force the latch open. Jean-Pierre gave the crowbar a turn, but no go. And then he had an extraordinary thought. He didn’t question it, simply knelt over the sphere and laid his splayed hands on the latch. The words came without thought, his voice a soft whisper. “I mean you no harm. I am a disciple. I’ve sought you for three years to save the life of a human being more important to me than life itself. She is worthy of you and I am her messenger.”

  Nothing happened, but Broussard didn’t move, still kept his head bowed, his hands on the latch. Cesar started to speak when a small crack appeared at the missing latch.

  Cesar raised the crowbar, but Jean-Pierre grabbed his hand. “No, let it open itself for me. It will. Watch.”

  Cesar’s voice shook. “You’re acting like this thing is alive. Sir, it can’t be.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Cesar started to back away. Thornton grabbed Cesar’s arm before he tripped and fell off the scaffolding. “Easy, mate.”

  The crack was widening and Broussard stared into a small opening at the top of the sphere. He and Thornton watched the opening grow wider until Jean-Pierre could fit an arm inside, and then his head and torso.

  “Give me a torch.”

  Cesar handed over a Maglite.

  “Now, hold me.”

  Both Cesar and Grant Thornton grabbed hold of Jean-Pierre’s ankles as he leaned downward into the black sphere. Cesar said, “Be careful, sir, you have no idea what’s in there. It could be dangerous.”

  Grant didn’t know what to think, but whatever this turned out to be, it was scary. He’d heard Broussard speak to the damned sphere, actually heard him, and he’d seen it open with his own eyes. By itself, as if something magical inside was responding to Broussard’s words. The Holy Grail? He’d heard the men talking about it, knew that was Broussard’s goal. Grant, like most of the crew, doubted its existence, considered it nothing more than a grand legend, bu
t still they all wondered, waited.

  Jean-Pierre’s voice echoed back up to him. “The Grail will not hurt me. You can let me go, Cesar, Thornton. There’s a platform inside.”

  “What do you see?” Cesar called down. “Is it the Holy Grail?”

  Inside the sphere, Jean-Pierre’s Maglite lightened the blackness. It was completely dry. The vibrations were stronger now, a steady hum. He saw six metal lines leading to the center of the sphere, where a one-foot-square box was anchored in midair. When he touched the box, he could swear it sighed.

  There was no give in the metal lines. He set down the Maglite. At his touch, the tension went out of the wires, they retracted, and the box fell free into his hands.

  Broussard realized the interior of the sphere was glowing a dark green and pulsing now, gently, rhythmically. He wasn’t afraid. He was in awe. The warmth, the vibrations were stronger than ever.

  He was wondering how to open the box when a soft click echoed inside the sphere, and the box opened for him.

  He saw a black stone sitting on a tray of what looked like solid gold, the stone so small it would fit into his palm. He first ran his fingers along the edges, smooth, like glass, then he closed his hand around it. A sudden warmth filled him and he felt light, buoyant, his mind clear and strong. The pain in his right knee, which had always nagged him since an injury in the astronaut training program, was gone.

  It was even more. He felt energized, young, completely healthy, strong, virile. It was amazing. And holding the Grail, acknowledging the incredible power in his hand, he raised his face and prayed his thanks to heaven.

  Would the stone somehow speak to him? He waited, but there was nothing, simply the pleasant warmth and vibrations. He had questions, of course. Would the stone need to remain with Emilie to keep her well? Could he cut off a sliver of the stone for her to keep to ensure her continued health? He didn’t know. But he knew all would come clear, he mustn’t be impatient. And after Emilie was healed, what would he do? Could he use the Grail for the greater good? Was it possible to bring peace to the world using its power? But perhaps the stone only granted his single greatest desire, and selfishly, it wasn’t world peace. There was so much to think about, but only after he’d gotten the Grail to Emilie. He wondered then if after he presented her with the stone, he would once again be a middle-aged man with an aching knee, and continue on every man’s steady march to mortality.

  He called, “I’m coming out. Throw me a rope. Gather the crew. I wish to speak to them.”

  * * *

  Devi stood at the railing watching Jean-Pierre disappear inside the strange elongated metal sphere. All the men were talking, speculating, wondering what was happening inside. Some were afraid, others pacing with excitement, others holding their breaths, not wanting to believe, but—

  She watched Jean-Pierre climb out and stand tall on the scaffolding. He had a huge grin on his face. In his hands, he held an ugly black box that looked older than time itself. He looked ready to burst with excitement. She had the oddest feeling he somehow looked younger, stronger. But how could that be? He waved to her to join him. Then he yelled at the top of his lungs: “We found it! We’ve found the Holy Grail!”

  Her fingers trembled as she sent the text. No choice, no choice.

  He has it.

  Nevaeh’s reply came almost immediately.

  You know what to do. Your sister’s life depends on your actions now. We will be there soon.

  Devi knew what to do, yes. With a prayer for her sister Elina’s safety, she went to share in her lover’s celebration.

  CHAPTER TEN

  T-MINUS 86 HOURS

  The Griffon

  Strait of Malacca

  Off the Coast of Sumatra

  July 24

  The dinner menu was exquisite, planned by Jean-Pierre specifically to celebrate his success. A sherry-laden turtle soup, heaping trays of cold shrimp, crab, and lobster, plates filled with chunks of feta cheese, black olives, focaccia bread, and bowls of olive oil for dipping. Succulent lamb slowly turned on skewers with eggplant and tomatoes, Grand Marnier soufflés rose in the ovens.

  Devi, dressed in a flowing ocean-blue dress, her hair twisted into a knot on the top of her head, hurried toward the galley. She had one chance to save her sister Elina’s life, only one chance to disable the ship and all the men and women on it. Normally, the kitchen crew would have their meal in the galley before serving, and that would have been a problem for her. But tonight, they would join in the festivities—Jean-Pierre’s orders.

  She had no doubt she could deal handily with the crew. It was the security Jean-Pierre had hired that scared her. Two men, two women, all with watchful eyes and semiautomatic rifles slung across their chests. One in particular, their leader, Grant Thornton, a tall, dark-haired, good-looking man, seemed to follow her every move, and it wasn’t lust she felt from him. It was distrust. No, that was absurd, she was feeling so guilty about what she had to do she was projecting her feelings onto him. Still, she wanted to avoid him at all costs.

  Devi was quite aware she was beautiful, just as she knew the crew liked her, even though they knew she belonged to Broussard. She liked them, too, truth be told, which only increased her guilt.

  Focus, she had to focus. She had to make sure they all ate the feast.

  She had three targets—the soup, the wine, and the water. Thankfully, Jean-Pierre was a wine connoisseur. He loved big, bold reds that needed to decant and breathe. The water would be in the butler’s pantry with the wine—easy enough to access. The soup was more problematic. She needed to distract the chef, a French graduate of Le Cordon Bleu named Lola. Jean-Pierre took her everywhere with him. Lola predated Devi by ten years, and would probably postdate her, as well. As far as Devi knew, Lola was the only crew aboard who didn’t like her, and she didn’t know why. Devi was always polite to her, always deferential, always complimented her cooking. It was as if Lola knew she wasn’t to be trusted. Well, she had a plan for Lola, too.

  Devi took a deep breath and walked into the galley, shoulders back, head high. She belonged there, had every right to check on things. She’d made a point of visiting the galley several times over the past few weeks so she wouldn’t draw notice being there tonight. The smells were redolent of garlic and onions and the tang of good sherry. She was so afraid she wanted to vomit. One false move could lead to failure and the bitch would kill Elina.

  Lola’s sous chef, Frederick, smiled at her, then turned back to the stove to stir his sauce. The other six people in the galley were much too busy with the final dinner preparations to do more than nod to her.

  Devi’s first stop was the butler’s pantry. As she expected, several decanters of wine alongside pitchers of both sparkling and still water stood waiting. There was so much of everything—it looked like preparations for the kind of party Jean-Pierre threw for his megarich friends, business moguls who came to the boat to talk deals or to celebrate, rather than a party for his crew. But again, this was a special celebration.

  No one was paying her any attention. Devi opened the bottle of ketamine and carefully counted out the drops as they fell into the open decanters and pitchers until all had been dosed.

  A server appeared in the doorway, and she quickly grabbed an empty wine bottle and examined the label. She smiled. “Hello, Andre, I’m not familiar with this wine. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

  Andre only shook his head, and fetched the cutlery he was looking for. He found this beautiful young Indian girl amazing and envied Monsieur Broussard his good luck. “Never,” he said, and rushed out.

  When she was alone again, she took a deep breath and retrieved another small bottle of ketamine from her bra.

  Devi walked into the galley, the bottle hidden in her hand, straight to Lola, who was ordering her crew around as if she were the master of The Griffon.

  Lola was sweating, but her uniform was as crisp and white as the moment she’d put it on. She saw Devi coming and narrowed her
eyes.

  “What? What’s the matter? He’s not changing the menu, is he?”

  Devi smiled. “No, of course not. I have a—okay, this is terribly embarrassing, but I—” She pointed toward her stomach, whispered, “Cramps. Early. I’m out of aspirin.”

  Lola rolled her eyes. “Surely the medic has some.”

  “The medic is celebrating early with most of the other crew at Monsieur Broussard’s spectacular find. Do you have any aspirin, Lola? Please? I’ll pay you.”

  Of course Devi knew Lola had aspirin, she always had aspirin. Lola waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, in my bag. On the third shelf.”

  “Thank you.” Devi made a beeline for the bag. Just as she put a hand on it, she slipped and went down, the bag spilling its contents all over the galley floor. Lola said several nasty words and came to help. Devi struggled to her feet.

  “I’m so sorry, I slipped, I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I’ve made such a mess.”

  Lola waved her away, tossed a couple of ripe curses at her head, and began picking up her belongings. Devi reached behind her and dumped the contents of the bottle into the turtle soup.

  A few seconds later, Lola shoved an aspirin bottle in her hand and said, “Get out of my galley before you make even more of a mess.”

  This time, Devi’s smile was genuine. “Thanks so much, Lola. Dinner smells delicious.”

  She didn’t start to breathe again until she was out in the hallway. She’d done it.

  Jean-Pierre was waiting for her when she returned to her own suite. She felt her heart slam into her chest—why was he here? But he simply whistled at her.

  “What a beautiful dress. You’ve been saving this one for a special occasion, yes?”

  She pinned a smile on her face and twirled the lovely blue silk skirt. “Yes. I’m glad you like it.”

  His dark eyes glittered. “I’d like you better out of it. Come here.”