‘The chart, cara. You can tell me about your love life later.’
Gemma pushed a button on a video screen mounted to Zen’s left It flickered and then settled into a discreet glow.
‘Il mio caro sposo was a boy-toy fanatic. If he’s talked me through this box of tricks once, he must have done it a dozen times. He just couldn’t get over the fact that I couldn’t get as excited about it as him.’
‘I’m not interested in video games! I want a chart to the waters we’re in, before we hit some reef and end up as dead as our stowaway.’
‘This is a chart. I mean, all the charts are on here. There’s a menu, but the default one – the one that’s showing now – will be the one you want. You jiggle this button here and then click this, and lo and behold a blob appears. That shows where we are. Then you move the cursor to where you want to go, like this, and click again. The dotted line shows you the course you’ve chosen.’
‘That one cuts across the tip of the peninsula.’
‘Then choose another. After that you press here, where it says “Set Course”, and then here, “Engage Automatic Pilot”. After that, it’s just a matter of deciding how fast you want to go and keeping an eye out for other boats. Would you like some coffee?
‘I’d love one. With a shot of grappa, if there is any.’
Of course there is. Tommaso was a complete bastard, but he didn’t cheap out. There’s everything. Microwave, Jacuzzi, satellite TV, sound-surround stereo, DVD player, computers with Internet access, and of course a fully stocked bar.’
She turned to leave. Zen stopped her with one finger placed just above her left breast.
‘Won’t he be angry when he finds out?’ he asked.
‘Finds out about what?’
‘That we’ve taken his boat without his permission.’
Gemma smiled radiantly and kissed him very briefly on the lips.
‘I certainly hope so,’ she said.
Zen throttled back, leaving just enough power to maintain steerage way, and studied the video screen more closely. It showed a detailed nautical chart of the Gulf of La Spezia, the white blob indicating their current position just off the coast at Portunciulla. He wiggled the button until the arrow lay over the entrance to the gulf to the south-west, then clicked the button Gemma had showed him. The dotted line reappeared. He inspected it closely. There were no marked rocks or other obstructions. He pressed the other two buttons. The dotted line became continuous, and the boat nudged round gently to starboard, then settled on the new course. ‘SSW 15.8’ read the display on the screen. Zen checked the compass. That was indeed the heading. He increased the engine power until the wavelets under the bow produced a healthy smacking sound, then settled back and lit a cigarette.
Gemma brought Zen his caffè corretto and seated herself in the other leather – clad stool in the cockpit.
‘Aren’t you having anything?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Actually, I think I might take a nap, if that’s all right with you. I’m pretty exhausted.’
As yet there was no sign of daybreak, but the jagged promontory to their right and the imposing mountain chain on the other side stood out velvet black in the incisive moonlight. All around, the undulating surface of the water stirred and shifted restlessly in continual permutations of some underlying pattern always alluded to but never stated. There were no other vessels in sight, and the only light was the insistent blinking of a lighthouse on the Isola del Tino at the very end of the peninsula.
‘Well, I’m going to lie down,’ said Gemma.
‘Sogni d’oro.’
Zen settled back into the comfortable chair, sipping his stiffened espresso, and watched the coastline slide past. Unlike Gemma, he didn’t feel tired at all, but exhilarated and about twenty years younger. They’d done it! He’d never really believed they would until now, but they had. The boat was at sea, Lessi’s body safely on board, and as far as he knew no paper trail behind them. Once they got into deeper water, he would detach one of the boat’s anchors, hitch it up to a spare rope, tie that around the corpse and heave the whole issue overboard. Then he’d toss the gun in after it, and they would be in the clear. No one could ever find out what had really happened.
Despite his apparent wakefulness, he must have dozed slightly, because he was summoned back to full consciousness by a beeping sound. At first he thought it was the secret communication device he had been given at the Ministry, but when he checked in his pocket the unit proved to be dormant. Then he realized that it was coming from the navigation screen on the ledge in front of him, signalling that they had arrived at the position previously entered.
By now it was almost light, one of those long, slow, summer dawns full of promise. Zen picked a point at random on the chart, far out in the Ligurian Sea, then confirmed the course and clicked the autopilot button. The boat obediently bobbed round to the west and thudded forward into the slightly steeper seas. He checked the horizon. A few sets of navigation lights were showing out in the main sea lane, but all at a considerable distance. He rubbed the slight chill of dawn off his hands and went below.
Inside the saloon, Gemma was lying quietly asleep under a blanket on the row of seating opposite Lessi’s bundled body. They both looked very cosy. With the boat’s computer systems apparently doing all the work, Zen was strongly tempted to join them, but resisted the impulse. Instead he found the bag of groceries and took it into the spacious galley, where he made himself a salami roll. He then removed a couple of cans of beer from the fridge and made his way back to the cockpit.
And it was just as well he did, for around the time he finished the roll and the first can of beer, the engine’s reassuringly sexy murmur became raucous and intermittent, and shortly after that stopped altogether. The boat came to a halt, slurping and sloshing around at random in the shallow waves.
Zen grabbed the second can of beer and took a long pull. His knowledge of engines of any kind was strictly limited to knowing how to turn them on and off. This one had already turned itself off, though, and showed no inclination to start again no matter how many times he twisted the ignition key or pushed the starter button. He had no idea how to work the marine radio, either, still less what frequencies to use. Which left them adrift on a lee shore a couple of kilometres off the Tuscan coast, in water too shallow to risk disposing of Lessi’s corpse. Sooner or later it would turn up in a fishing net or washed up by the currents on a beach, and then the investigation would begin. If that ever happened, Zen had no illusions about how it would end. His only hope – their only hope – was to ensure that it never started in the first place.
He tried his mobile phone, but couldn’t get a signal. Using the Ministry’s much-vaunted emergency device was clearly out of the question. The same applied to putting out a Mayday call on the radio, even supposing he could get it to work. The coast-guards would eventually send someone out to tow them into port, but with Lessi’s body still aboard. But if he didn’t, they were bound to be spotted in the end by some passing boat or plane, with the same result. And if even that failed, the wind and waves would eventually carry the boat ashore.
Shallow water or not, then, the first priority was to get the murdered man overboard. He ferreted about in various drawers and cupboards until he found a heavy screwdriver that would serve as a marlinspike, then made his way out on deck. One of the vessels he had spotted earlier was a lot closer now. Not only that, but it seemed to be coming directly towards them. There wasn’t a moment to lose.
The twin anchors, of the modern plough design, were stowed inboard at the bow. Both were attached to lengths of neatly coiled chain. Neither showed any sign of ever having been used. If you couldn’t plug in the electrics and step ashore to restock the fridge, Tommaso wouldn’t have been interested. Zen inserted the screwdriver into the shackle holding one of the anchors to its chain and heaved, without the slightest effect. He looked up. The oncoming vessel was a lot closer now. It looked very much lik
e a coastguard cutter.
He moved over to the other anchor and twisted on the screwdriver with all his might. Finally the screw gave and reluctantly started to turn. Zen forced it round until it finally cleared the shackle, then pulled out the pin, releasing the anchor. Bending his knees, he gripped the anchor with both hands, lifted it with difficulty and began to make his way back aft. As he was negotiating the narrow passage between the saloon decking and the guard rail, a freak wave hit the port bow, causing the boat to corkscrew and sending him headlong on to the deck, falling on top of the anchor with a jolt that made him cry out.
He lay there, wondering if he had cracked his newly set ribs and then realizing that he could very easily have fallen overboard and drowned. I can’t do this alone, he thought. It’s all too difficult. I need help.
‘Do you need help?’
The voice seemed to have come from everywhere and nowhere. Deafening, raucous and only just comprehensible, it was not a kind or a pleasant voice, but it was the voice of power. Zen raised himself up on one elbow and looked over the canvas screen at the base of the guard rail. A fishing boat of some kind was lying some ten metres off to port. A man on the bridge had a large yellow megaphone in his hand.
‘Do you need help?’ he repeated.
Zen got up quickly.
‘No, we’re fine, thanks,’ he yelled back, cupping a hand to his mouth. ‘Thanks all the same. Much appreciated.’
A sign from the man on the bridge indicated that he couldn’t hear. A moment later, the trawler reversed engines loudly, then went ahead at a slight angle to come alongside. A man dressed in a filthy green sweatshirt and jeans leapt nimbly across to the afterdeck of the motor boat.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.
Zen smiled largely.
‘Oh, nothing really. Just a little trouble with the engine. Once I’ve sorted out the gear I’ll anchor and take the appropriate action.’
The man looked at him incredulously.
‘How many metres of chain have you got?’
Zen, of course, hadn’t a clue.
‘Well…’ he began.
‘It’s over fifty metres to the bottom here. The hook would never hold. Where’s the motor? Let me take a look. It might be something quite simple.’
He turned and looked around, then strode into the main saloon where Gemma and Roberto Lessi lay stretched out opposite each other.
‘No, wait!’ Zen said feebly.
But it was too late. The man had found a recessed metal ring in one of the floorboards, and pulled it up to open a concealed hatchway down which he disappeared.
A door at the end of the saloon was open into a cabin with a large double bed. Zen went in, took a blanket from one of the closets and draped it quickly over Lessi’s corpse. A moment later the trawlerman returned.
‘Blockage in the fuel line,’ he said, wiping his hands on his sweatshirt. Often happens if the boat’s not used that much. It should be all right now.’
He looked around at the gaudy, vulgar luxury of the saloon.
‘Sleeping soundly, your friends.’
Zen laughed.
‘Yes, they are! We had a bit of a late night. So it’s all working normally?’
The man headed out on deck, then ran up the steps to the cockpit and pushed the ignition button. The engine fired immediately and settled into its previous regular throb. Zen took out his wallet.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘No, no, that’s all right. Law of the sea, isn’t it? We all help each other out. Never know when you might need it next.’
Nevertheless, he did not leave. Then Zen had an inspiration.
‘Did you have good fishing?’ he asked.
‘Not bad.’
‘Do you have a nice red mullet you could sell me?’
The man’s face creased in a broad smile.
‘We got some beauties. Hold on a moment.’
They went down to the afterdeck and he shouted something to one of the men on the trawler. A moment later, the other man reappeared and a large silvery-red object came flying through the air between the boats. Zen’s saviour caught it neatly and laid it out on the planking.
‘Still twitching,’ he remarked. ‘Only been out of the water an hour or so.’
‘How much?’
The man shrugged.
‘Whatever you think.’
Zen handed him a hundred-thousand-lire note.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It’ll make a magnificent lunch.’
‘Grazie a lei, e buon appetito,’ he called, jumping back to the fishing boat, which nudged ahead and continued on its course.
Zen put the fish away in the fridge, then returned to the cockpit, engaged forward gear and revved the engine slightly. The boat obediently swung round on to its former course. He sat back on the stool and lit a cigarette, feeling pretty smug. He’d sorted everything out. It was all going to be fine.
When he finished the cigarette, he remembered that the anchor was still lying unsecured on the foredeck and went out quickly to retrieve it. A distant drone attracted his attention. To the south, a big twin-rotor military helicopter was making its way up the coast. Zen bent down to pick up the anchor and then noticed a small rectangular black box lying just inside one of the scuppers. He recognized it immediately as the emergency communication device he had been given at the Ministry. It must have slipped out of his pocket when he fell. He bent and lifted it up, turning it to replace it. Only then did he notice that the red button on the front was glowing brightly.
It took him a moment to realize what had happened. The fall must have jarred the protective plastic cover loose, and then he had stepped on the device when he went aft to speak to the trawlerman. At which moment, at least fifteen minutes ago now, an all-points red-alert alarm call had gone out to the security services coded with the exact position of a boat carrying not just the indispensable Dottor Zen, supposedly menaced by an unknown but potentially deadly threat, but the bullet-ridden corpse of the late Roberto Lessi, late of the carabinieri’s elite ROS unit.
The helicopter was closer now, and heading straight towards the boat. Zen grabbed the black box and hurled it as far as he could into the sea. Please God the thing didn’t work underwater. He ran back to the cockpit and gunned the motor to its maximum power. The bow leapt up and a series of increasingly rapid smashing sounds from the oncoming waves made the entire hull shake. Everything not fastened down became mobile, pens and cigarettes and Zen’s coffee cup and plate spilling down off the ledge to the deck. Then the helicopter was on them, directly overhead now, the noise of its engines deafening. The boat bucked and shuddered as it slapped down the waves, turning the sea to either side into a creamy vector of foam.
‘What’s the hell’s going on?’
The voice was Gemma’s, but Zen did not turn. A moment later, she was in the cockpit with him.
‘What are you doing? You’re driving like a maniac!’
Zen could hear her clearly now, he realized, because the helicopter had gone, pursuing its unwavering course to the northwest. He watched it become small and insignificant, then throttled back and laughed abruptly.
‘Couldn’t help myself! The boy in me, you know. I just wanted to see how fast it would go.’
Gemma rolled her eyes.
‘I fell off the seating and banged my head on the table leg.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’
All was quiet and calm again now.
‘Apart from that, did you sleep well?’
‘Like a baby. Boats always put me to sleep.’
‘Always?’ Zen enquired with an arch look.
‘Well, almost always. How have things been here?’
‘Very quiet.’
‘You must be exhausted.’
‘Not really. I’m enjoying myself. I’d forgotten how much fun boats are. There’s always something that needs attention. Keeps you awake and alert.’
‘Don’t you want a rest? I’ll keep looko
ut and call you if anything happens.’
‘Not until we’ve disposed of our passenger.’
‘And when’s that going to be?’
Zen pointed to the video screen.
‘When we get here. I don’t know exactly how long that will be.’
Gemma pushed a button to one side of the screen and read the overlaid display.
‘About forty minutes, at the present speed.’
‘I can hold out till then. Particularly with another cup of coffee.’
‘I’ll make some.’
Forty-three minutes later the beeper on the navigational display sounded again, announcing that they had arrived at the reference point which Zen had selected. By then he had brought the anchor aft and unhitched one of the mooring lines from its cleat and rolled it up beside the anchor.
Even Tommaso’s state-of-the-art echo sounder couldn’t cope with the depth of water under the hull, returning only nonsensically shallow readings based on some passing shoal of fish, but according to the chart they were in a zone over three hundred metres deep. Zen cut the motor and scanned the sea around them, first with the naked eye and then the binoculars Gemma found for him. The Italian coast was a ghostly memory swathed in haze, and the only vessels in sight were two freighters and a ferry, all hull-down on the horizon.
They carried the corpse out of the saloon and laid it down on the aft decking, leaning up against the gunwale. It was stiff as a board by now, and much easier to handle. Zen climbed down the steps to the bathing deck suspended over the water aft, while Gemma levered up the other end of the body and tilted the whole thing over the edge while Zen took the weight and guided it down on to the plastic deck. He then returned for the anchor, while Gemma followed him down with the length of mooring line.
So close to the sea, the air smelt fresh and invigorating. Little wavelets splashed them from time to time as they wound the rope round and round the corpse at the neck and ankles. Zen then secured each end with a series of half-hitches and passed both through the eye of the anchor, before finishing off the job with a final set of knots and tying the two loose ends together in a reef knot. He rose, surveying his work.
And Then You Die Page 18