“Here you go, mate. Won’t have much time for this in the near future.”
Simon looked down at the fine crystal glass and then took it from his friend. He turned it in his hand, marveling at the rich, luminous color, thinking of his father. He looked back at Andrew and somehow managed to construct a smile. “Dad’s favorite,” he said. “Glenlivet 18.”
He took a slow sip, savoring the taste and the memory alike. The scotch blossomed like a lovely fire in his chest. He looked at Hayden, Andrew, Ryan, and Samantha and made himself smile. He was grateful to be here-with them, in this place, at this time.
He just didn’t know if they could endure the treacherous journey ahead. No one knew.
THE ISLAND OF CORSICA
Dockside
The brutal chill of the morning air was painful to Simon. He hunched down inside his coat and pressed his arms tight against his sides, trying to trap even a fraction of the heat from his body.
It was pointless. The constant breeze and the driving mist off the ocean cut right through him as he stepped away from the rental car and walked toward Slip 9, where a mid-sized yacht was waiting. Samantha slipped out of the passenger seat and joined him. The panel truck carrying Andrew, Hayden, and Ryan pulled in close behind.
They gathered in a tight group at the entrance to the dock.
“We have thirty-two hours. This boat will take us to Malta. From there we’ll travel on different routes to get to Santiago, Chile.” Ryan said. “We’ll meet at a warehouse in Valaparaiso-you’ll find the address in the packets you receive. And then-Port Williams. I’ve got it all set up; we’ll get the paperwork, tickets, and passports at the next stop. But just to reiterate: everyone has a separate route-everyone, this time, Sam. Even you.”
“I know,” she said.
“This is the last time,” Simon said to them. “We had to be all together for the hijacking. Next we’ll meet for the rendezvous. And after that-”
There was a deep, fuzzy roar from the yacht that Ryan had chartered. Simon turned and picked it out of the tangle of vessels at the far end of the dock. It was an older boat, over forty feet long, but still capable of making the journey to Malta safely, even swiftly.
Four men in heavy wool sweaters and scuffed black work boots swarmed off the yacht and hit the dock with a single thump. They looked at Simon’s team with identical expressions-a combination of amusement and disdain. Simon raised a hand to them, and the one in front nodded briefly.
“All right,” he said, low and hard. “As we said last night: no talk of the mission-none at all-while we’re on board. We don’t know who is listening; we don’t know who they report to.”
“Got it,” Andrew said. “Loose lips sink ships.”
“Quite literally,” Ryan agreed.
They were carrying an annoying amount of luggage this time-some of the primitive cyber-equipment had to come along if they hoped to maintain their remote control of the Munro, and beyond that, they had begun to collect the cold-weather clothing they knew they would be needing, sooner rather than later. All that gear was universally bulky and heavy.
The crew gave them poisonous looks when they saw the small mountain of suitcases, bags, and crates. They actually muttered curses under their breath when they realized how heavy some of the articles really were.
The sun rose as the last of the luggage was lifted on board, but the morning light brought no real heat with it. It was still achingly cold and quiet as the top of a mountain. All Simon could hear was the distant cry of seabirds and the constant, hollow slap of the Mediterranean Sea against the pylons of the dock.
Soon, he knew, the Munro would reach the Straits of Magellan. They needed to rendezvous with it before that happened, or all of this would be for nothing. They had to reach Santiago in thirty-two hours or they would never be able to reach the Munro on time.
The captain of the yacht-its name was obscured by barnacles and moss-was a fair-skinned Greek in his fifties with a charming smile and a gentlemanly demeanor. He shook hands with Ryan, kissed Samantha’s hand, and invited the team into the main cabin where he had prepared a light breakfast.
He murmured commands to the four-man crew as he led the team below. Before the last of them were fully below deck, the yacht had cast off and was chugging away from its mooring.
The captain puttered with his small cups for a moment. Then he turned and addressed Samantha-the only woman in the group. “You like the Greek coffee?” he asked in a thick Greek accent. He pointed to little espresso cups sitting on the table next to a platter of cut fruit.
“Yes,” she said, rather charmed in spite of herself. “Thank you.” He offered her a cup on a chipped saucer with undisguised pride, and she took it gratefully.
“Beautiful morning in the Mediterranean Ocean,” he said and awarded the rest of the team with cups of their own. “Beautiful day to come!”
After their meal, some of the team went topside, if only for the air. It was a brilliant morning; sunlight glinted off the chop as if there were mirrors floating in the sea.
The other members of the crew seemed to be of Mediterranean descent as well, and none of them spoke English-or claimed not to, at any rate. Still, conversation-even among the team members-was kept to a minimum. Most of them enjoyed the warmth of the sun for a few minutes, then found their way to the crew quarters and gratefully accepted the offer of a newly made bunk. They had already discussed this: their time aboard the yacht was a perfect opportunity to catch up on sleep before reaching Malta.
As he watched the others go below, Simon thought deeply about all that had happened last night and in the last two weeks. Although exhausted beyond what his body could bear, he could not sleep. Less than an hour after boarding, he found himself alone, restlessly pacing the deck-forward-aft, aft-forward-and thinking about geostationary satellites, datastreams, and Andrew’s gadgets.
What if they don’t really work? He asked himself. What if they stop working? They had agreed to travel separately on this last leg of the journey, but would that be enough? It was true: following individuals, with or without tech, was easier than following groups, but finding individuals in a sea of seven billion people was far more difficult.
At least that was the theory. And if he was wrong, someone, or many, could die. Max, he thought. Max, what the hell happened to you? I could have used you here. I don’t know if I can do this by myself.
“Excuse me.”
The voice was behind him. Simon turned to find the captain standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He had a package in his hand-something flat, wrapped in wax paper, like a parcel from a butcher shop.
“This is for you,” he said. “It was given to me by…well, it was given to me.”
He passed it over almost briskly, as if he was glad not to be touching it any more. Simon accepted it with a murmured “thank you,” and the captain fled, clearly happy to be finished with his chore. He passed Samantha as she climbed the steps from the crew quarters, rising gracefully out of the shadows like a weary naiad. He put the package in his pocket as she approached.
“Simon,” she said. Her voice was soft and betrayed her own exhaustion. But Simon turned away, not ready for conversation-not now.
“Simon,” she said again and put her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn back; he kept his eyes fixed on Corsica as the boat pulled away, deeper and deeper into the open sea. “I’m worried about you.”
He still did not turn to her. “Well, I’m worried about you, too,” he said.
She looked around the deck. The sailors were far from them, probably beyond earshot, but she was still careful with her words.
“I know I have been…a handful,” she said. “I probably will be again. And the irony isn’t lost on me: I chose this…destiny…and then came to regret it almost immediately.”