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 coastguards 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 like 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. If 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, men went ahead at a slight angle to come alongside. A man dressed in a filthy green sweatshirt and jeans leapt nimbly across to the after-deck 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.
'Ifs 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 die 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.