That murderous state of mind must have been what allowed him to catch up with the unibrow running from him as he reached the road. It must have been what allowed him to shoot him in the back as he passed, leaving him mortally wounded and screaming on the asphalt without giving him a second look. The only thing on his mind was going after the black Citroën, which was gaining speed.
Riley raised the guns. He didn’t aim, didn’t think if it was out of range, didn’t think about running out of ammo. He just ran and fired.
After the sixth or seventh bullet, the rear windshield broke in a shower of glass. The car soon started swerving until it went off the road into a ditch, its back wheels spinning in the air.
Riley reined in his madness, giving his burning lungs a chance to breathe. Though he felt his legs were about to give out, he kept walking toward the car, one step after another, as he checked the weapons and dropped the one that was already empty.
When he got to the car and looked through the back windshield, he could see Smith leaning over the steering wheel, apparently unconscious. He cautiously walked around the car. Gun raised, he opened the driver’s-side door and found Smith with his face covered in blood and an ugly bullet wound under his right shoulder blade. He looked stunned, but was still alive.
Riley grabbed him by his jacket and dragged him out onto the road. He looked less arrogant with his elegant suit in tatters, a gash in his face gushing blood. The exit wound from the bullet revealed a mix of torn flesh, bone chips, and the Egyptian cotton of his Harrods shirt.
After a few seconds, Smith opened his eyes and blinked like someone waking up from a long dream. He looked at Riley, who was breathing hard as he aimed the revolver at him.
“I can . . .” Smith mumbled, almost silently. “I can help you.”
Riley said nothing.
“I can tell my superiors I’ve eliminated you . . . all of you, and they’ll stop looking . . .” He coughed blood. “You and your people . . . just have to change your identities . . . and disappear till the war’s over.”
“What I want is for you to tell me why.”
Smith seemed not to understand.
“Why do you want to kill me and everyone I know?”
Smith coughed blood again. The bullet must have hit more than his shoulder. “I just follow orders. I do my duty like any soldier . . . You should understand.”
“And your duty includes hiding a Nazi plan to destroy one of your own cities and kill tens of thousands of your countrymen?”
Smith tried painfully to take a deep breath and finally shook his head slightly. “This situation . . . is far beyond your understanding,” he said with a sad smile, “and mine.”
“I understand you’ve all gone crazy or sold out to the Germans.”
Smith’s eyes were clouding over. The blood loss would soon make him pass out. “You haven’t understood anything, Captain Riley . . . You’re playing a game and you don’t even know the rules.”
“Explain them to me then.”
“I can’t . . .” he said, his voice fading. “But accept my proposition . . . and we all win. If not, my government will send someone in my place to kill you . . . and if he fails they’ll send another . . . and so on until you and your friends are dead . . .”
Riley looked thoughtful as he squatted down in front of him and took Smith’s gun from his holster. “You know what? I’m sure you’re right, and I’d love to accept your offer. Although there’s a little problem.”
“A . . . problem?”
“Yes. I don’t trust you.”
“I . . . give you my word that . . .”
Riley motioned for him to be quiet as he stood up. “Save your energy. You’re going to need it if you plan on living for the next few hours.”
“But . . . are you going to help me?”
Riley shook his head, slipping the guns in the back of his waistband. “Blood’s collecting in your lungs, and in less than an hour you’ll have drowned in your own fluids.”
“And you’ll”—more coughing, more blood—“leave me lying here, nothing else?”
“Of course not,” Riley said. “With your permission I’ll take your car, but in return I’ll leave you comfortably in the ditch so no one gets any ideas about saving you. Though with the light traffic on this road,” he added, looking around, “I don’t think that’d happen if you stayed a week.”
“You are . . . a son of a bitch.”
Riley smiled back, satisfied. “I have my days.”
Turning his back on him, he headed toward the two figures walking toward him on the road. A burly one in front, struggling with a thick branch as a walking stick. The other, a safe distance behind, much smaller, wearing a white haik, a pistol in her right hand.
42
True to his word, Riley left Smith and the unibrow in a ditch on the side of the highway. They were both alive and suffering incredible pain. After putting Muhammed in the cab of his truck so his family could recover the body, they got the Citroën back on the road and headed south.
Riley was at the wheel and Carmen in the passenger seat. She was turned around, pointing the pistol at Marco, who was stretched out in the backseat with a strip of the haik around his injured leg. He listened closely to Riley’s story of the last twenty-four hours. Shortly before they arrived at their destination, Marco seemed convinced there was no conspiracy against him and the reward for selling the machine to March would still be split equally among the crew, including him.
The sun was setting when they reached the outskirts of Larache. The former Phoenician city of Lixus was located by a magnificent bay and natural harbor. Over its long history it had been Arab, Portuguese, Spanish, and a haven for pirates. Since the establishment of the Spanish protectorate in 1911, it had become an important commercial center on the Atlantic coast, halfway between Casablanca and Tangier, opposite the mouth of the modest Loukkos River.
The Plaza de España, where they decided to leave the car, was the border that separated the new European-style city from the old medina. Under the afternoon sun, filtered by a sandy wind that painted the city in yellows and ochers, they headed toward Bab Behar, the port that marked the entrance to the walled city and opened into the peaceful little bazaar.
Despite being used to seeing Westerners around, many locals gawked at the three of them. It was uncommon to see a Western man holding hands with a Moroccan woman, especially since they were followed closely by a giant man who was limping and cursing as he tried to keep up.
“Why the hell are you walking so fast?” Marco said, gritting his teeth. “Is someone else after us?”
“We’re late,” Riley said, glancing at his watch.
“Late?” Carmen asked, having trouble walking in her slippers. “For what?”
“You’ll see.”
“Another one of your riddles?” she grumbled.
“No time for explanations. You’ll get it as soon as you see it.”
“No!” she shouted, stopping in the middle of the plaza, making a lot of people turn and look. “I’m tired of you dragging me around like a suitcase. Tired of being chased. Tired of being shot at . . . Damn it, Alex. Just ’cause I agreed to trust you doesn’t mean I’m going to follow you everywhere without asking any questions.”
The bored pedestrians in the plaza were shocked to hear an Arab woman talk like that to a man. They started to approach them out of curiosity, some whispering in disapproval.
“Listen,” Riley said kindly, stepping toward her. “I understand you’re tired of—”
“Oh, shut up!” she said, throwing her arms up. “You have no idea how I feel, so stop treating me like a stupid woman who needs a man to protect her.” She raised her voice, ignoring the growing number of onlookers. “Two days ago I was taking a hot bath with rose petals at this time . . . and now I’m running after you in this fucking city dressed like a bumpkin, dirty, tired, and starving.” She crossed her arms. “So this is it. I’m not taking another step until you tell me e
xactly what we’re doing in Larache and where we’re rushing to.”
Riley looked around and counted no fewer than thirty people circling around them, very interested in the conversation he was having with Carmen. She was indifferent to the spectators and stayed planted defiantly in the middle of the square with a frown. Meanwhile, Marco looked at them both like he had no idea what was going on. “Does this look like a good place to talk?” Riley asked.
Carmen looked around, undisturbed, and raised an eyebrow.
Riley sighed. “You’re like a spoiled little girl.”
“And you’re an arrogant moron.”
“Arrogant?” he said. “Where’s this coming from?”
Carmen pulled back the fabric that was covering her hair, further scandalizing the public, who must have thought they were watching improvised street theater. “Tell me, would you treat me like this if I were a man?”
Riley bit his lip and took a breath. “If you were a man, maybe I wouldn’t have come back to look for you.”
“If I were a man,” Carmen said, her eyes drilling into him, “no one would be trying to kill me.”
Riley, frustrated by her bullheadedness, was about to end the absurd discussion when a gap opened in the wall of people. Two Makhzen military policemen were pushing through, wearing turbans and colorful Moorish-style uniforms.
Riley and Carmen stopped talking immediately and with quiet hypocrisy held hands and quickly walked away.
43
Larache’s medina was similar to Tangier’s, with the same style of houses and serpentine streets. The uniformity of the women in haiks and men in djellabas was the same too, and it was also nestled at the foot of a gentle hill that receded into the sea.
The rhythm of daily life, however, was noticeably less agitated. The movement of people, animals, and merchandise was more peaceful. That peace was broken when a woman appeared with her head uncovered and her haik rolled up, rushing in bare feet, followed by a six-foot-five guy, limping and swearing like a sailor, and an outsider with amber eyes and a bruised face, shouting at them to hurry up.
“I’m going as fast as I can!” Carmen said.
“Turn right at the next corner!” Riley shouted.
People came to their doors and windows in shock to watch the spectacle, unaccustomed to such fuss and the clatter of hurried footsteps on the paving stones. Anyone following them would only have to trace the trail of surprised faces they were leaving behind.
Carmen turned at the corner and realized there was no way out. “Dead end! Just the sea!”
“I know, don’t stop!” Riley said.
They passed through the port gate between the wall of the medina and the Atlantic, turned left without slowing down, and rushed into a tearoom with a view of the bay. The customers were frightened by the loud interruption of their footsteps, the strangeness of the trio, and their shabby appearance—except for a big man in a wool cap sitting in the back, who jumped up and yelled “Alex!” with a big smile as he raised his hand.
“Jack!” Riley said with indescribable relief. He strode over and gave him a big hug. “So happy to see you, my friend!”
“Me too. I thought you’d never show.”
“Almost didn’t,” Riley said, out of breath. “The military police are on our heels.”
“The military police?” he said, taking a step back. “What’d you do now?”
“I swear it wasn’t my fault this time,” Riley said, motioning with his head. “At least not totally.”
Jack looked behind him and saw Carmen by the door and Marco watching the street. “Hi, Carmen.”
“Jack! What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said. Then to Riley: “I thought you were just going to warn her.”
“It got complicated. I’ll tell you all about it.”
“And Marovic? Where’d you find him?” He looked closer. “Is he injured?”
“Actually, he found us, but that’s another long story. We have to get the hell out of here before the cops find us.”
“I see . . . So I’m your rescue team, eh?”
“So it seems.” Riley nodded and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Is everything ready?”
“We can leave whenever you want. I’ve got the skiff set up right now.”
“Then let’s not waste any more time.” Riley headed toward the door. “I’ve had enough of this damn dry land.”
Ten minutes later, under a perfect sunset, they were in the auxiliary launch approaching the starboard of the Pingarrón. Riddled with fist-sized holes, it was rocking lazily on the bay of Larache. The ship’s smokestack was half gone as if someone had taken a big bite out of it. There was a hut made of wood and tin where the bridge and helm should have been, along with cardboard patching up nearly all the portholes.
Carmen did a double take when she saw the name of the ship written in big white letters along the bow. “What the hell happened to your boat?” she asked over the noise of the motor.
“We had a run-in with a German submarine.”
Carmen’s mouth dropped. “I don’t believe it. The Nazis are after you too?”
“Not all of them, just one right now,” Riley said.
“Give us time,” Jack said with a reluctant smile.
Carmen looked from one to the other, worried. “Does this have something to do with what happened to us?”
“Well, strange as it may seem, I don’t think so.”
“Then why—”
“Later, Carmen,” he interrupted, putting a hand on her knee. “As soon as we get on board and start heading for open sea, I’ll answer as many questions as you want.”
It was already night when Riley, recently showered and finally in clean clothes, drank some coffee and looked out one of the little windows of the reconstructed bridge.
Made out of pieces stripped from other parts of the boat, the new wheelhouse was a fragile enclosure that would cover the helmsman and the navigation instruments, but the rushed nails and screws made clear that if a storm hit, water would come in at all the joints. Still, having it fixed in less than twenty-four hours without the proper materials was an achievement, and Riley felt proud of the crew at his command. One of them was by his side at the helm with her gaze on the horizon.
“Capitaine,” Julie sang. “We’re already twenty miles from the coast. Should we stay heading two-nine-five?”
Riley took a sip from his cup and looked at the compass. “No, I think we’re far enough to keep from being surprised in the middle of the night. Turn to zero-one-zero and set the engines for slow ahead. We’re in no rush to go anywhere.”
“As you wish, course zero-one-zero,” she said, turning the wheel to the right. “Oh, one more thing, Capitaine.”
“Yes?”
“I’m happy.” She smiled and turned slightly toward him. “We’re all happy to have you back on board.”
Riley nodded and put his hand on her shoulder with gratitude, then headed to the dining room.
Jack and the Germans were seated at the table. César was in the machine room; Carmen was showering; and Marco was resting in his cabin after Elsa had treated his leg. Luckily, the bullet had gone right through and missed his bones and major arteries.
Riley sat down with a slight groan and put the cup on the table. “Anyway, I’ve told you all my stories . . . So, Jack, how’s the ship?”
Jack scratched his beard. “Given the circumstances, we’ve been lucky, because the engine, fuel tank, and rudder are intact, so we have power and control of the ship. And as you can see, we rebuilt the bridge as best we could, so whoever’s at the helm won’t die of hypothermia.”
“I must say you’ve done a good job. What else?”
Jack shifted in his seat. “Well, the good news ends there. Everything else is broken or about to break. The radio’s destroyed. Though Helmut was able to make it so we could receive messages, we can’t send any. Also, the instrument panel blew up, so we don’t have
any indicators for pressure and oil temperature, a voltmeter, an ammeter, or a tachometer, which means poor César has to practically live in the engine room and control everything manually.”
“I see . . .”
“The hygrometer, barometer, and thermometer are kaput. The wind gauge flew off with the roof of the cabin, and the air compressor and crane motor are dead.”
“Got it . . .”
“And finally, I’m sure you’ve seen the holes all over the hull. They’re almost all on the starboard side, but some went through and made holes on the port. We’ve covered the gaps in the superstructure with cardboard and plugged the ones closest to the waterline with wood, but if we run into swells, water will come in, and I doubt the pumps will be enough.”
“Right . . .” Riley mumbled, rubbing his face in exhaustion. “Other than that everything’s good, right?”
“As far as the Pingarrón goes, yes,” Jack said with a bitter smile far from the one Riley was hoping to provoke.
“It’s okay,” Riley said, trying to sound unfazed. “When we get the money from March, we’ll have more than enough for whatever repairs, or for a new ship if we want.”
Jack nodded, but still looked ill at ease.
Riley looked at him closely. “What’s wrong, Jack?”
Jack seemed reluctant to speak. “You see, Alex . . .” He swallowed. “On the way from Tangier to Larache, Elsa and Helmut went through the Phobos documents like you’d asked and we found . . . Well, there are two more pages about that fucking Operation Apokalypse.”
“Learn anything interesting?”
Jack glanced at Kirchner and Elsa, who remained serious and silent. “More like . . . troubling,” he sighed. “Very troubling.”
“Stop beating around the bush, Jack. What do you want to tell me?”
Jack looked at Kirchner. “Captain Riley,” Kirchner said, clearing his throat, “I believe that, according to the new documents Ms. Weller and I found, we were mistaken about the nature of the operation.”
Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1) Page 27