by Joseph Badal
Then he tied two of the refilled scuba tanks and two breathing apparatuses to a nylon rope and carefully lowered them over the side of the boat, about three feet below the water’s surface. If his plan worked, this would be his ace-in-the-hole—Zoë’s and his escape route.
John sat in a corner of the wheelhouse and tried to sleep. But he was too tense, waiting there on a boat loaded with enough explosives to blow him and the boat to smithereens. He wondered what Zoë’s thoughts were at that moment—if she was still alive. The thought of her in pain, or dead, was unbearable. He tried to force himself to concentrate on a variety of different scenarios that might occur when Leidner’s man boarded the Penelope, but his thoughts switched back to Zoë.
MAY 10
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Leidner sat on the cushioned bench built along the inside of the yacht’s stern. He wore knife-sharp gray slacks and a white sweater over a light-blue oxford shirt. He looked like just another tourist who waited for the sun to come up. He heard footsteps and turned in the direction of the sounds.
Theo stepped up to where Leidner sat. “We are ready, Herr Leidner,” she said.
“Sehr gute, Theo. Bring her to me.”
Theo looked back at the two men who held the Greek woman’s arms. She beckoned them forward.
Tomas and Peter dragged Zoë Vangelos by the arms. They stopped under the beam of a deck light. All she wore was a white bathrobe that hung open.
“I see you have her dressed and ready to travel,” Leidner said as he eyed the woman’s battered face and bruised body. A momentary smile creased his lips. “It appears she had a rough night.”
“Ja, mein Herr,” Theo said. She looked disdainfully at the Greek woman. “But there isn’t much left of her.” She tapped the side of her head with a finger. “You know . . . she’s seems quite out of her head.”
“Yes, my dear. But that won’t make one bit of difference when we are finished with Mr. Hammond. Sanity is only important to the living.” He chuckled, then suddenly changed his tone. “Get her aboard the boat.”
Tomas dragged Zoë back up the deck to the stairway down to a double decked fishing craft tied to the side of the yacht. A sleek speedboat was also tied to the yacht. He hefted Zoë onto his shoulder and carried her down the steps to the fishing boat. He and Peter laid her on the bench on the lower level, under the canvas canopy.
Theo stood next to Leidner at the yacht’s rail and looked down at the two men. In a voice pregnant with threat, she said, “Get that map. Then slit Hammond’s throat, and”—pointing at Zoë—“her’s, too. I want both of them at the bottom of the sea.”
Peter climbed to the upper deck, stepped to the fishing boat’s controls, and turned the ignition key. The twin inboard engines roared to life, churning the water at the rear of the boat. He backed it away from the yacht, and pushed the throttle forward, guiding the craft southward, toward the Penelope’s location.
Tomas came over and stood next to Peter. “What the hell did you do to the woman?” he asked. “She seems catatonic.”
Peter shrugged. “Nothing that you probably didn’t do,” he answered. “You know these Mediterranean types. They get raped and their menfolk turn on them, as though it was all their fault.” Peter laughed.
Tomas looked back over his shoulder at Zoë. “That woman’s got bigger balls than most men. She never told us a thing. That’s the kind of woman I’d love to meet some day. Under different circumstances, of course.”
“Bullshit!” Peter said. “A woman like that would make your life a living hell. You need some simpering little trollop who tells you about fifty times a day what a big, brave macho man you are.”
Tomas punched Peter on the arm, then walked to the steps leading to the lower deck. “Right as always, Peter. You know me better than I know myself.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Pain seemed to sear every nerve ending in her body. Zoë’s brain screamed from the agony she felt. Her eyes were swollen shut. Nausea overwhelmed her. But as bad as the pain was, it was the shame she couldn’t endure. Despite the pain and shame, the motion of the boat as it surged through the water had an almost calming effect on her. Since she was a child, the sea had acted as a palliative for her. If she were sick or worried about something, things would always seem better once she boarded a boat and moved over the water. But the effect this time was different. She felt calm, but not better. She couldn’t rid herself of the shame. With a sudden clarity of thought, she saw the sea as a way to purify herself.
With great effort, she tried to open her eyes. Something seemed to be sealing her eyelids and she slowly moved a hand and touched her face. She laid a finger on her left eye and immediately jerked it away when an electric shock shot through her. A moan escaped her lips. She touched her other eye; it was swollen and crusty, but the pain was bearable. She pried at the lid and was able to open it no more than a slit.
She slowly rolled from her back to her side, suppressing the cries of pain that movement wanted to rip from her throat. First, she looked to her left, then slowly turned her head to the right. There she saw through blurred vision a man’s back several meters away. She heard two male voices, but she couldn’t see the second man. His voice seemed to come from above. Zoë struggled to place her elbow beneath her and propped herself up off the cushioned bench. She gritted her teeth against the pain and pushed herself to a half-sitting position. Then she lowered her legs to the deck and gingerly pushed off the bench. She came to a stooped posture, tested her legs, and found she could just support herself. She took one tentative step, then another, and staggered to the three-foot-high rail along the stern. It took a beat for her to catch her breath, then she placed her hands on the top of the rail, lifted one leg over it, and balanced precariously on it. One foot dragged in the boat’s wake; the other was planted falteringly on the deck.
She heard a man’s voice shout, “Peter, behind you!” She ignored the voice, said a silent prayer of forgiveness to God for the sin she was about to commit, closed her eyes, and leaned over the side of the boat.
The collision with the water shocked Zoë. Her body convulsed with excruciating pain, but then the warm water enveloped her, like a seductive cloak of comfort, and she suddenly found peace. She drifted down into the welcoming arms of the sea. Her father’s face came to her and smiled. Zoë smiled back. Baba, she thought, please forgive me. She saw him reach a hand out to her and she extended her fingers to take his hand in her’s.
Tomas dove headfirst off the fishing boat’s upper deck, cut the water like a knife, and kicked with all the power he had. In the crystal-clear water, he quickly saw the woman sink toward the sea floor. He knew if he didn’t get to her quickly, she would be too deep for him to reach her. He kicked even harder and closed the distance between them. Ten meters, then five, then just one more. His lungs were near to bursting. He had only seconds before he would have to reverse direction and kick to the surface.
Then the woman raised one arm, as though to stretch it toward him. He couldn’t believe her expression. Her smile was angelic. No panic, no fear. He scissored his legs one more time, propelled himself downward, and reached out with his arm. Their fingers touched for a brief moment, separated, then touched again. Tomas made a desperate effort to take her hand in his. He gripped her thumb in his fingers and circled her wrist with his other hand. Then he turned back toward the surface and kicked while he felt the last of the air in his lungs escape through his nostrils.
Tomas clutched the woman in his arms, slashed at the water with his legs, strained to keep his mouth closed, and tried with all his might not to succumb to the urge to breathe in. The first rays of dawn had begun to light the surface of the sea and the outline of the fishing boat was visible off to his left. Its propellers turned lazily; the noise of its engines seemed to beckon him.
Tomas gulped like a fish when his head broke the surface. He gasped for breath while
he turned toward the boat. The woman felt like a dead weight. She neither moved, nor appeared to breath. Leidner will kill me, he thought, while he struggled to stay afloat.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Nick located the dive boat John had hired. All the equipment had already been stowed aboard. With the help of a couple of his father’s old fisherman friends, Paulus Zacharias and Antonio Karamilas, he took the craft out of the harbor and cruised up the coast until he spotted one of the few still-standing pillars of the Heraion. The massive white column stood like a beacon to the past, clearly visible from the sea. Nick could no longer see the mole at Pythagorio, but he had a clear shot of Mount Kastri, where the Evpalini Tunnel was located.
After he cut the engine, he took the range finder from its box and concentrated on what he’d been shown about its operation. After a frustrating hour, he finally remembered all the steps he needed to go through. Nick consulted the map John had given him and took measurements with the instrument, until he decided he had a pretty good idea where the black mark on John’s map should match up with the location where the Sabiya had sunk—assuming John’s theory was correct. This process took another two-and-a-half hours.
After he moved the dive boat almost a mile farther from shore, Nick recomputed the distance with the range finder, backed the boat one hundred meters closer to shore, and then dropped anchor.
“Paulus,” Nick said, “help me get into this dive gear. Antonio, I want you to keep an eye out for anyone who comes toward us.” He handed Antonio a shotgun. “Anyone tries to board us, you shoot. Understand?”
Antonio had been on Cyprus in 1974 when the Turkish Army invaded the island. Nick had heard he’d killed many Turks before he escaped the island. The sixty-six-year-old’s eyes seemed to light up at the possibility of shooting someone again.
“Do you expect anyone in particular?” Antonio asked. “Turks, maybe?”
Nick couldn’t help but smile. “You never know. Remember, shoot first, ask questions later.”
“Just like Dirty Harry,” the old man said with a smile. “Make my day!”
Nick patted the old man on the back and walked over to where Paulus checked the diving gear.
“What the hell are we up to, Nick?” Paulus said. “There’s nothing of value out here. The sponges were all harvested years ago and the reef will rip fishing nets to shreds.”
Nick hadn’t told the two men much of anything. He’d said he wanted to check on something. Both Paulus and Antonio were retired so they had nothing better to do, except maybe sit in some taverna, drink coffee, and argue about politics. So they’d leaped at the chance to take a boat ride. The last thing Nick wanted was for the two men to return to their villages and talk about the crazy Nick Vangelos and his dreams of sunken ships. The word would be all over the island within twenty-four hours. If this turned out to be a fool’s errand, he would be branded for life. The local laughing stock.
After he donned scuba equipment, Nick dropped over the side of the boat. He didn’t like to dive alone, but he had no alternative. Besides, as far as he knew, his father had found the Sabiya while solo diving. If a man his father’s age could do it, then he sure as hell ought to be able to.
Nick swam in slow, ever-widening circles. He looked intently for any sign of wreckage. He couldn’t imagine a ship being down here all these years. Sponge divers had worked the reef for centuries, and they’d continued to harvest sponges from the area since World War Two. Up until the sponges petered out a couple years back. Nick was not optimistic.
The reef formed a meandering line that closely paralleled the coast. It extended for about two hundred meters. Nick started at the north end of the coral and rock formation, then swam south along the reef’s starboard side. He then turned and swam north along the leeward side. Nothing. He checked the gauge on his breathing apparatus. He’d go for another fifteen minutes, then he’d have to surface.
After he returned to the end of the reef, Nick kicked upward, to try to get another aerial view. Perhaps there was something beyond the reef. Again, he saw nothing but fish, plants, white sand, and the multi-colored reef. Exasperated, he twisted to try to sight the hull of the dive boat. After he turned, he noticed the slash of an ancient lava flow in the distance. He knew the black stripe of lava ran from the top of the now-defunct volcano far above the shore, down to the shoreline, and then about a mile out to sea. The lava had never been of any interest to the local fishermen. For some reason—perhaps the sulfur content of the lava—sponges never grew there and fish generally avoided it.
What the hell! Nick thought. He again looked at his air gauge, then set out in the direction of the lava formation.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Peter swung the fishing boat around and bore down on Tomas and the woman where they bobbed in the water. He cut the engines and drifted ten feet from them. He tossed a life preserver tied to the end of a rope to Tomas, and when Tomas hooked an arm in it, Peter towed them to the boat. After he hefted the woman’s limp body on board, he helped Tomas into the boat. While his partner lay on the deck and gasped for breath, Peter gave the woman artificial respiration.
Come on, he thought while he worked on her. Don’t be dead. Peter knew that Leidner’s plan wouldn’t be worth a damn if they showed up for the meeting with Hammond with a dead Zoë Vangelos. And he knew with absolute certainty that Leidner would have Theo Burger kill him and Tomas if they showed up without the map.
Peter blew air into the woman’s mouth, then pressed down on her chest. He repeated the process over and over again, until he wanted to collapse from exhaustion. Sweat dripped off him and his breathing became labored, while the seconds, then the minutes went by. Tomas now knelt beside him and exhorted him to bring her back. Peter wanted to tell him to shut up, but he didn’t have the breath. He’d just about decided to give up when the woman’s chest heaved and a gush of water poured from her mouth. She coughed spasmodically and didn’t stop for well over a minute.
Peter fell away from her, collapsed on the deck, and tried to get his breathing back to normal and his heart rate slowed. He looked over at the woman and realized that, although she now breathed, she was far from well. Her skin looked pallid and she shivered as though she were freezing. Shock, he thought. He watched Tomas lift her from the deck and place her back on the cushioned bench at the stern. Tomas draped a blanket over her, turned to the boat’s controls, and pushed the throttle forward.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
It was now 7:00 a.m. The sun began its assault on the horizon thirty minutes earlier. It had lit up the edge of the sea and then sent out fiery fingers of light that crept toward the Penelope, like molten lava flowing across the surface of the water.
John shaded his eyes with one hand and looked into the rising sun. For a brief moment he thought that only good could come on a day that began with such a spectacular sunrise. But that thought passed almost instantaneously. It was difficult to maintain any sense of optimism as long as Zoë was in Leidner’s hands.
With the sun in his eyes, John didn’t detect the approach of the double decked, sport fishing boat until he heard the roar of its twin inboard engines. Like a smart gunfighter, the boat had come in with the sun at its back. He’d told Leidner 10:00. It was only 7:00.
When the boat came within fifty yards of the Penelope, it circled twice. John saw a man on the boat’s upper deck eyeball him. A second man stood by the rail on the lower deck. Then John heard the sport boat’s engines cut. Momentum carried it to the Penelope’s side. John stood outside the wheelhouse, at the top of the stairs that ran down to the main deck. On the spot where Stavros Zantsos had died.
A powerfully built man of about thirty came on board the Penelope. He had the exaggerated build of a professional wrestler, but the face of an accountant. He peered at John over sunglasses with tiny lenses that, for some reason, made him appear even more sinister, and declared, “You are John Hammond!”
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He sounded like a character actor playing a Nazi agent in a World War II movie. John said, “Yes! And who are you?”
“My name is Peter Muther. I have been instructed to get a map from you.”
It was a bad sign, John thought, the man giving him his name. The obvious conclusion: He wasn’t worried about John being a witness. Dead men don’t testify.
“I don’t give a shit what your instructions are, Herr Muther,” John hissed. “Your boss and I had a deal. He would meet me here and I would hand over the map to him and him alone. But only after Zoë Vangelos had been returned to me. Where is he and where is she?”
Muther looked at John—a vacant, absolutely emotionless stare. “Now, now, Mr. Hammond, zer is no cause for excitement. My boss, as you put it, decided to change za plan a little. He sent me to get za map. And your friend is on my boat. Vy not go over and take a look?”
John went down the stairs to the main deck and walked around the man to the rail. The man on the fishing boat bent, lifted a blanket, and dropped it to the deck. Zoë lay naked on a bench. Her face and body battered. Her features were so distorted he almost didn’t recognize her. The sight of her made John’s heart ache; bile rose in his throat; rage flooded his mind. He couldn’t tell if she were alive. The man on the fishing boat replaced the blanket over her.
Zoë’s right eye suddenly opened a bit and she appeared to try to focus in John’s direction. Then she turned as though to hide her face and the movement caused her to sag toward the deck. The man pushed her roughly back against the bench. Zoë screamed.
John was about to go to Zoë’s aide, when he heard the one named Peter off to his side start to move. John quickly moved away along the rail, pulled the pistol from inside his windbreaker, and pointed it at Peter. “Tell your partner to come up on the boat! With the woman!”